Trouble was, there was no motor on the boat. I assumed the Cubans had already taken it but searched the aft storage lockers anyway… and found a beat-up forty-horsepower Mercury outboard wrapped in plastic sheeting.
A spare motor. Anyone who owned a Grand Banks would have had something new and flashy on their runabout. But the old forty would do if I could get the thing started. Too much engine for a boat as light as the Avon, but I preferred to have it overpowered rather than underpowered.
I crab-walked the motor to the stern and screwed it tight to the little boat’s transom. Checked the oil plug and cowling before attaching the fuel line and lowering the boat into the water. I pumped the fuel-line bulb hard, pulled the choke, then yanked the starter rope.
It took me five or six tries, but when the carburetor was getting a steady flow of gas, the engine caught and held, gurgling, missing, blowing blue smoke out its exhaust. It probably had some water in the gas from condensation.
I ran the boat to shore, where Geis stood waiting.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. Quite a surprise—I’d done what I’d said I was going to do.
“We’re going to need fuel. There’s not much more than a pint in either one of these tanks.”
“Fuel, that’s always a problem. But we’ve got something a little more pressing than that. There’s a two-man coast guard outpost at the mouth of the harbor, the Guardia Frontera. We try to run past them without stopping, don’t have some official papers to show them, we’re going to have patrol boats after us.”
I’d already considered that. What I thought might work is that I’d swim back to the sailboat, cut the anchor line and raise the sails. Lash the rudder so the boat would sail north toward the mouth of the harbor, then dive overboard. Sooner or later, the men at the coast guard station would notice her and come out to investigate. With their attention diverted, we might be able to slip past them and out to sea.
But Geis said, “Yeah, but where we gonna get fuel once we leave Mariel?” He was looking at a coil of rope on the deck of the Avon. “I think I’ve got a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
He used the automatic rifle to gesture. “Put your hands out in front of you, let me tie you up. I’ll tell them you’re my prisoner, that I’m in a hurry.”
“They’re not going to believe that. If I were under arrest, you’d take me to Havana by car, not boat.”
Geis’s smile told me how naive I was. I watched him turn his head to look toward the abandoned naval academy, as he said, “See that cliff? Sometimes they take prisoners up there, sometimes they take them for boat rides. Depends on how important the person is and if he’s actually been arrested or not.” He laid his weapon across a log and came toward the Avon. “Now—you want to hand me that rope?”
There were four men at the Guardia Frontera outpost, not two. They had been sitting around in cane-back chairs but now stood as they noticed us approach. Their office was a one-room block building that sat out over the water on cement pilings, everything painted military green. A small patrol cruiser, gray with big white numbers, was bumpered off a pier that jutted away from the platform; some kind of high-bowed cutter with a 50-caliber machine gun was mounted forward and another aft near the red, white, and blue lone-star flag of Cuba.
Geis was sitting in the back of the inflatable, steering. He nudged me and whispered, “There’s the boat I’d like to take… only it would attract too much attention.” He didn’t seem to be joking, like he was actually thinking it over.
“That would be crazy.”
Small snort of laughter. “If you’d stayed in the business longer, you wouldn’t worry about little things like that.” Now he brought the Avon around, starboard side against a floating dock where a couple of dinghies and a dugout canoe were tied. He was already calling orders to the four men, bluffing it out in loud Spanish: “I’m going to need some gasoline right away. And a bottle of water. A couple of bottles, if you have it… yes, and some cigars, too. I’ll pay—for the cigars, I mean. Not for the gas. Come on! I’m in a hurry.”
He was so convincing that, for a moment, I thought Geis knew the men, that he’d given them orders before. One of them was already hustling toward a big gas storage tank that stood higher than the block building.
But no…
The officer in charge—he had red lieutenant’s bars sewn into his epaulets—wasn’t intimidated; not much, anyway. The officious type, with his uniform neatly pressed and an attitude, wearing a .45 in a webbed holster. He stood there with his hands on his hips; told his men to stop what they were doing—one was getting water for us now—before he asked Geis, “Who are you?”
“You don’t need to know who I am.” Geis was reaching into his back pocket; took out a laminated card. “All you need to know is this.”
I saw the lieutenant’s face blanch slightly as he read the card, then handed it back. I wondered what it said—probably something about the office of the president and please extend every courtesy to this man.… A typical clandestine device. But the guy still wasn’t going to allow himself to be bullied. “Then you must have your department telephone me and ask for these things. You will need a proper requisition. We can’t just hand gasoline out without the proper forms.”
A bureaucrat.
Geis, the MP5 slung over his shoulder with the barrel down, looking pissed off and bearish, threw a line around a cleat and stepped onto the dock. “Mister, I’m not going to stand here and repeat myself. I don’t have time. Get the gas, get the water—or I’m going to make a telephone call and have you arrested.”
In Cuba, that word—arrested—has so much weight because it has so many meanings. I was watching the lieutenant’s face and saw it jar him. “I’m not saying you can’t have what you need, please understand.” But then he regained his composure, adding, “As to the phone, it’s for official use only. I can’t allow unauthorized personnel to make or receive calls.”
Geis’s face was getting red. I wondered if that, too, was a device; part of his many acts. I watched him advance toward the lieutenant, as he said, “What I understand is that I have a prisoner and I’m in a hurry and you are interfering with my orders which come from the Maximum Leader himself.”
Maximum Leader—Castro’s title of preference.
But the officer wasn’t going to budge. His men were listening, judging him, judging his behavior. He said, “But I, too, have my orders. You come to me, you’re carrying an illegal weapon. You’re in a boat that I recognize; you’ve stolen it. You don’t offer your name or the nature of your business. You could be anyone. And you have no forms! But here’s what I will do. I will telephone my superior officer and he will say if you may have the things you need.”
Geis watched the officer disappear into the office before turning to me and saying in English, “If his boss has half a brain, we’ll get the gas. These people are scared of their own shadows. Mention arrested? They fall apart.”
I said, “I don’t like it. Let’s get out of here.” I didn’t, either. Didn’t like the contest of egos Geis had gotten into with the officer; didn’t like the way the three guardsmen were standing in a tight klatch, eyeing us. Two of them with side arms, their hands resting on the grips.
Geis was shaking his head. “Hey—it was your idea to take a boat. You going to give up so easily?”
“We can find fuel someplace else. Or find another boat. You don’t have access to a boat?”
“Three of them. Two back in Havana, another at Cojímar. But that would add thirty, forty miles to the trip. You want to take the time?” Geis seemed to be enjoying my uneasiness. Acting as if he could play it one way or another; didn’t matter to him. I didn’t like that either. All I wanted to do was get down the coast and try to find Dewey, but Geis was treating it as sport. He loved this sort of thing. It was his life. Everything else was just role-playing. These sorts of situations were probably the only time
he felt… real.
I said, “When we pull out of here, you and I need to have a talk.”
“Sure. Anything you say.” Still enjoying it, but something predatory in his tone now. “Before I untie your hands or after?” Then he looked away when he heard the lieutenant call, “Excuse me, sir.”
The lieutenant was standing in the doorway of the office, still holding the telephone. He put his hand over the mouthpiece as he said, “My captain says that we can give you fifteen liters of gasoline, but only if you promise to have your department send us a letter of requisition.”
“As soon as I get back to Havana,” Geis said. He gave me a private wink as he added, “You have my word on that.”
“But there may be a problem. The man with you—is he an American? My captain says that the police have been directed to find and detain a large American man who fits the description of your prisoner. It came in the bulletins this morning. Apparently he damaged his room at the Havana Libre and left without paying his bill.”
Geis had crossed the floating dock and was now going up the steps toward the office. “Is your captain a complete idiot? Tell him not to worry about it. This man was with me last night, he didn’t damage anything.”
The lieutenant said something into the phone, then put his hand over the mouthpiece again. Thought about it a moment, his expression changing, before he said, “My captain asks how do you know the damage occurred last night?”
Geis was still walking toward him. The three guardsmen were moving, too; spreading out a little, sensing trouble. They kept moving as Geis said, “The man’s already my prisoner. What the hell difference does it make when he damaged anything? Just get my goddamn gasoline so I can get out of here!” I noticed that Geis had changed his grip on the automatic rifle; had his hand on the trigger guard, the weapon still upside down and slung over his shoulder, but the barrel slightly higher now. A very subtle change. I thought: Jesus.
I watched the lieutenant say something into the phone, disappearing into the office as he did. Then he reappeared a few seconds later, his right hand pulling the .45 from its holster, crouching, his dark eyes very bright… and Geis shot him with a three-round burst without seeming to move the rifle, the lieutenant’s chest fluttering with black starbursts that launched him backwards into the room. I was still looking at the empty doorway as Geis continued to fire—down on one knee now—pivoting toward the three guardsmen whose bodies appeared momentarily electrified, one by one, as the rifle’s ambit swept across them, arms and legs flailing as if attempting flight, each man frozen for a microsecond in a wasted posture of defense, small clouds of red mist lingering in the air as they were thrown across the platform… then one of the men attempted to crawl toward the water until Geis shot him with another burst. The other two men lay contorted, still; appeared as if they were liquefying in the heat, melting into the crimson cement.
“Shit—forgot about one little detail.” Geis was standing now, talking to himself. I watched him sprint into the office, worried about something… then came out much more relaxed, unwrapping a fresh cigar. Tilted it into his mouth. Looked pleased. “It’s okay. No cause for alarm. He’d already hung up the phone.” He lit the cigar, then calmly took a fresh magazine from his satchel and punched it into the automatic rifle.
I thought: For a hotel bill?
At some time during the shooting, or maybe in the silence that followed, I had stepped from the boat to the dock. Had also ripped my wrists free of the rope. Couldn’t remember doing it. Looked at Geis standing among the bodies. He was smoking, looking at the sky, looking at the water; his little vacation time. “You’re insane. You really are, Geis. You’re nuts.”
He puffed on the cigar, gave me a private look. “Yeah, well, that’s what they said about Charles Manson.”
A joke?
He gave me a smile—of course it was a joke.
I knelt by one of the guardsmen and touched my fingers to his jugular. Dead. Heard Geis say, “Take their money, their weapons, anything else valuable you can find,” as I moved to the next man, then the third. Felt a frail pulse… then nothing. I was almost glad. Tell Geis that one was still alive, and he’d walk over and finish the job.
I said, “I think you’ve already robbed them of enough,” as I stepped into the office. The lieutenant was dead, too. All dead.
“Fine. I’ll do it; damn right I will. Can you believe that asshole? Said I couldn’t even use the phone. All over Cuba—hell, it was the same in Canada—you wait in some government line and the person you’re waiting to see always ends up being the same sort of jerk. The lieutenant, but with a different face.” Listened to him say, “Every fucking country I’ve been in, that’s the kind of asshole who screws up the works. Government paper-shufflers. Things would go a lot smoother, be a lot more profitable, if they just left it to people like you and me. People who can get things done.”
I was standing, looking up the dirt road that wound into the rain forest. There was a donkey tied in the shade of a mango tree, a couple of bicycles, and a rusted Lada painted military green. No one else around. The harbor was quiet, no activity, but a couple of boats out on the Gulf Stream. A sportfisherman trolling—had to be out of Marina Hemingway—and an oil tanker several miles out.
I said, “How are you going to explain this?”
Geis was collecting the side arms and ammunition in a pile. Money and cigars, he put in his pocket. Turned to me and said, “You know how much they had between them? Three dollars U.S., plus some bullshit Cuban pesos that no one even bothers using anymore.”
“These men are going to be relieved in a few hours. Tomorrow morning at the latest. How are you going to lie your way out of this one?”
He had gone from man to man, very quick and meticulous; also collected his wasted shell casings. “What do you mean lie? That’s the great thing about my job. It’s the only honest work around. If I’ve got a reason to do something, I do it. What? I’m supposed to stand there and let that idiot arrest you? I told him I was under direct orders of the Maximum Leader and he still gave me a hard time.”
“You explain it to Castro and he makes everything okay.”
“That’s about the size of it. He’s done it more than once. I’m involved with national security. That covers a lot of ground.”
“Then get him on the phone. Tell him. Tell him we don’t want every boat and plane in the country hunting for us, because that’s what’s going to happen if we don’t take care of it right now.”
Geis had the pistol belts over his arm, was carrying them down to the Zodiac. “I’d like to do that, Ford. I really would. But the thing is, the old man and I, we sort of had a falling-out about this Santería business. And I just don’t want him to know I’m on the job.”
Yeah, I was his cover; brought along to take the blame. No doubt about it now.
He said, “But that’ll change come tonight or tomorrow when he sees that I was right and he was wrong. After that, everything will be official again. The old man’s number-one guy. Until then, it’s just you and me. We’re on our own.”
Because there was nothing else I could do, I went and found a couple of jerry cans and filled them with gas. When I got back to the dock, Geis was standing at the front wall of the building. In blood, he’d written one large number, one large letter: 8A.
Said to me, “There? That make you feel any better? Let them think the revolutionaries did it.”
I started down the steps toward the Avon. Noticed that Geis was staring at the patrol boat. Told him, “If you take that, you’re going without me.”
“It’d be a lot faster. A lot more comfortable, too.”
Was he serious? No… Letting his playful side show; a man happy in his work. He said, “But I guess I should trust your superior aquatic skills. Hey—want to blow it up just for old times’ sake?”
I was in the skiff, transferring fuel. If I pulled away and left him, would
he shoot? Of course he would shoot.
He said, “I suppose you want to drive, too.”
“That’s right. I’m driving.” I capped a jerry can and started the outboard. As Geis stepped aboard, he held something out to me—the .45, an American-made Browning. The lieutenant, with his ego, had probably enjoyed flashing it around.
I hesitated—what the hell was Geis trying to prove?—then took the weapon. As I pulled away from the dock, I twisted the tiller throttle into neutral for a moment, listening. Up at the office, was the telephone ringing?
Geis seemed to hear something, too. He said, “If we’re going to go, let’s go.”
18
The northern coast of Cuba: bluffs and lowlands, gray and parrot green; a vectoring shoreline that is awash in the sea mass from which it rises. I ran the Avon as fast as I could make it go—forty, forty-five miles an hour—until the water changed beneath us; changed from a turbid brown to purple-black in shafts of clear sunlight, and I throttled back on hill-sized swells because I knew that Mariel was behind us.
The breeze was freshening out of the east, seas five to seven feet but not capping, the bulk of Cuba providing us wind-shadow.
“You want some advice, I’d stay way outside that reef line. You try to run between the shore and all that coral, you’ll kill the boat and probably kill us, too.”
I didn’t want Geis’s advice. But I did need his knowledge.
“You ever try it?”
“Hell no. But then I was always in a boat that made sense. Not in one of these little pieces of shit.” The guy was settled back, arms thrown over the rubber-hard tubes of the Avon as if it were a couch. Still enjoying himself.
“But you do know this section of coast. You’ll be able to point out La Esperanza when we get there.”
North of Havana Page 20
