North of Havana

by Randy Wayne White

  “That yacht’s Fidel’s. He travels with a captain, a mate, and a cook. All three of them are working in the cemetery. Not a single goddamn security man with him.”

  Geis had his mouth close to my ear. I continued to watch through the binoculars.

  “It’s because of what Taino told him: You’ve got to go before the gods… no, you’ve got to stand before the gods with open hands and an open heart. Which means no weapons. Taino says the word, the Abakua, they’d hack him to pieces with their machetes. Jesus, what a setup. It’s like the guy’s asking to be put out of his misery.”

  I watched Castro say something to Taino. Watched Taino say something to his two fellow priests before he assumed a thoughtful pose. He was looking at the coconut husks as if the answer were in them. Castro said something else; used big hand gestures. He probably was not pleased that he had come so far to be coronated with the medallion of Yara Hatuey… but no medallion.

  Geis said, “We’ve got to move. I’ve got to account for Adolfo. For all I know, he’s off in the trees right now trying to figure which end of the rifle to aim. If he gets a shot off, Taino’ll have them chop up everyone around just to prove he wasn’t involved.”

  I said, “You’ve got the thermal scope. Use it.” Then looked to see that he already was.

  I checked the perimeter of the clearing. Saw what might have been one of the Abakua standing back in among shadows near the tree line. Saw a third now walking near the stone cottages.

  A guard?

  Then I saw another, smaller shape near the water but away from the docks… someone child sized—maybe Santiago—sitting on what appeared to be a broken plaster grotto. What was a kid doing there? The statue inside the grotto had been torn away, but the soft foundation remained. A place for the lepers to pray or maybe feed the birds.

  Birds…?

  I’d just seen some birds. As I swept the binoculars past the cottages, I’d seen white-crowned pigeons spooking from their roosting place among the trees, scattering high above the firelight.

  I took a last look at Castro—Why had the other men moved away, leaving him to stand alone in front of the fire?

  Separate, isolate, destroy.…

  I pushed the binoculars toward Geis. “You’re right, we need to move. I think Adolfo’s right below us.”

  I was pretty sure I knew where Dewey and Tomlinson were, too.

  21

  As we worked our way through the trees down the ridge, I heard what, at first, I thought were gunshots… then realized that they were the tentative beats of a drum.

  A rim-shot sound. Like a mallet striking a hollow log.

  Startled, Geis hissed, “Shit!” and began to run… then nearly stopped: “Oh.”

  He was about ten paces ahead of me. He headed downhill again, moving quickly but making very little noise. Kept my eyes on his back as the drumbeat continued… a drumbeat that soon marked the rhythm of a man’s deep voice; a voice with a singsong imperiousness: Nangare, Nangare, Nangare, Nangare, Nangare…

  A voice that was answered by other men’s voices in chorus: Nangoreo… Nangoreo… Nangoreo… Nangoreo… Nangoreo… Olorum Mafoiu… Olorum Mafoiu… Olorum Mafoiu.…

  Taino was leading his people in a chant.

  Or was that Castro’s lone voice?

  The ridge flattened toward the clearing. Mostly scruboak trees and pines through which I could now see the gray shapes of the cottages… could see the remains of the burned-out building and the fire beyond… could see that Castro remained alone in front of the fire, head tilted upward, palms out in some kind of ceremonial stance while, nearer to us, the chant continued: Nangoreo… Nangoreo… Nangoreo… Nangoreo… Jimaguas… Jimaguas… Jimaguas.…

  Geis had stopped abruptly. Stood there crouched, frozen.

  Why?

  He held his hand up, touched a finger to his eye—look—and pointed.

  Ahead of us, in a thicket of trees, stood a man. He had his back to us; was silhouetted by the fire. I could also see the silhouette of a rifle barrel extended over the limb of the tree against which the man was braced.

  Let my eyes focus on the silhouette… then refocus beyond the limb, some forty yards away—his target, Fidel Castro.

  The light was poor. I couldn’t see that it was Adolfo Santoya, but I knew it was he—the man I knew as Valdes, and liked—so I continued walking. I wanted to get in front of Geis. Wanted to grab Santoya from behind and talk some sense into him before Geis had the chance to use the knife I could now see him reaching to unsheathe. Heard Geis hiss at me as I passed him; felt him press something into my hand—the knife—and I carried it with me as I took my time, putting one slow stride in front of another, watching Santoya.

  But, as I drew closer, I noticed that there was something very strange about the way Santoya was standing. He seemed to sag there, his head thrown back. There was no movement; no nervous shifting or lifting of hands, no swatting of bugs… much too calm for an amateur to do what he planned to do.

  Now I put my hand up, telling Geis to stop. I stood there for a few seconds before I whispered, “Valdes.” The name he would associate with my voice.

  The man did not respond.

  I turned to Geis; touched my eye, then my chest—body heat. Waited until he had checked the area with the thermal monocular. Watched him hold up two fingers, his fist, then flash four fingers followed by five: two men, not moving, forty or fifty meters away. They were in the tree line to our right.

  Less carefully, I approached the man with the rifle. Said the name again—Valdes—and I knew that he was dead even before I touched his shoulder… then pulled on his shoulder, and his body came loose from the crotch of the tree in which his head was wedged, though his head remained.

  The tree had made a handy chopping block.

  His eyes still wide open, his face drained white, Adolfo Santoya remained staring at the man he had wanted to assassinate. One more Santoya from a family who had all been failures at that task. He had given up everything to help his country—an idealist—but he’d been caught by surprise from the rear.

  I took a quick look behind me; pure instinct mixed with horror.

  “Either one of the Abakua got overeager, or Taino’s got someone doing my work for me.” Geis was standing there. Waited—was he going to rob Adolfo, too? No. He hardly paid the corpse any attention, as he whispered, “This must mean Taino’s going to do it himself. He’s got no other reason to have Adolfo killed. Say the gods ordered him; get his priests to agree. Maybe that’s what this ceremony is about, only Fidel doesn’t know.”

  Meaning kill Castro. Geis’s attitude was: New target, same job.

  He said, “I’ll try to find some high ground, get a good field of fire. The moment he makes his move, I’ll open up. That’ll make my boss real happy.” He grinned, lifted Adolfo’s head by the hair, said, “This will, too”—before he dropped it on the ground.

  Just a good day all around.

  I had moved away from the tree, its odor. I said, “I’m going to check that cottage, the one with the light. If they’re in there, could you postpone whatever it is you’re going to do until I get them on the boat? We’ll try to sail out.”

  I knew that Geis was calculating my worth to him. Me, his alibi—but did he need an alibi now with Adolfo dead, a rifle nearby?

  Finally, he said, “What I’ll try to do is get things happening when you’re on the boat. A little diversion to give you some time. Call it professional courtesy.” Looked at Santoya’s corpse before he added, “But I don’t think you’re going to find them in the cottage. Or anywhere else.”

  He was wrong.

  With Geis covering me, I crossed from the trees to the cottage and peeked into the gun port–sized window.

  Tomlinson was there; he stood in the corner twisting a strand of long hair—an old nervous habit. Rita was there, too; she had her hands in her lap, sitting on the flo
or. And Dewey was sitting beside her… though, for a moment, I wanted to believe she was someone else. It was because of the way she looked; what they had done to Dewey’s face…

  Looking from side to side for the guards I knew were nearby, I removed the bar from the padlock hinge and shouldered the door open and closed it tight behind me. I stepped into the little room—probably a sleeping hut years ago—and it seemed that all I could see in the light of a single burning candle was Dewey. I saw her one good gray-blue eye open wide in terror, then in relief when she realized it was me; watched her comb a shaking hand through her blond hair, a familiar gesture that I found heartbreaking—let’s pretty ourselves up a little—and then she was on her feet and in my arms, her bruised and swollen face on my shoulder, crying uncontrollably, her body trembling beneath my fingers. She was wearing the tattered remains of the black dress she’d worn two nights before.

  “It’s okay now, Dewey. We’re going to be okay. I’m going to get you out.” I tried to smile at her… a failed gesture of my own.

  I stood there as she held me, her body spasming, then felt her recoil away unexpectedly: her left eye swollen closed from someone’s fist, her lips and left ear the color of bloated grapes. It made it painful for her to speak. I listened helplessly as she sobbed, “How could you bring me to a place like this, Doc? You knew what it was like and you let me come anyway.” Confused by it all; she genuinely wanted to understand. “And I heard them say you’d killed someone here years ago. You never told me that, but you still brought me. You lied to me; you knew and you lied.”

  I pulled her back to me, whispering, “You’re right. I’m so sorry,” because I did know and I had been stupid, had let her convince me, and now it was something that we would have to live with—if we did live—and that would forever change our relationship, and our lives. Innocence cannot be lost; it can only be taken. My bad judgment had taken far too much from her; had taken it all.

  Tomlinson was approaching us, a scarecrow man with his baggy brown shirt and his hippie hair. I flashed him a warning glance—stay the hell away. There was no smile on his face now. Looking into his eyes was like looking into the windows of an abandoned house in a winter field. Yet there was a mildness about him and a disposition of serenity that I found infuriating. He looked at Rita before he said, “They did it to her because I finally had to tell them I couldn’t find what I was supposed to find. I tried, man; I really tried, but there was nothing I could do because it was our… karma. What? Let Castro’s twin spirit stay in power for another forty years? I chose the greater good, man. The greater good, believe me.” Then added the next more softly: “The worst thing, Doc, it’s your karma, too.”

  I wasn’t going to listen to it. Said, “We don’t have time for your bullshit Ping-Pong talk. All I want to know is who did this.”

  “It doesn’t matter who did it. It happened, it’s over.”

  If I hadn’t been holding Dewey, I would have swung him up against the wall. “It does matter, goddamn it! Now tell me.”

  Tomlinson’s painful expression said, yeah, to someone like myself it would matter. “It was Taino,” he said finally. “And maybe Molinas, too.”

  Dewey’s face was warm against my ear, and I heard her whisper: “Those bastards. It’s because I wouldn’t quit fighting. I never quit fighting.” Some anger in her voice now; that was good.

  I looked at Rita—still in jeans and black T-shirt. By tricking Tomlinson, she’d begun the whole rotten chain of events. I said to her, “You’re still here? Is it because you didn’t find what you were looking for? Or maybe you just missed your boat.”

  She eyed me steadily, no fear in her but there was some anger… or maybe just resolve. “I would have been long gone… but I stayed to help her. You know, someone to share the load when the men started getting drunk. Someone who doesn’t fight.” She was telling me something that was unexpected in light of all her lies; she told me something else when she took Dewey gently by the elbow and allowed me to free my arms. Her voice was different with Dewey. She said, “Are you okay?”

  I felt ridiculously close to tears when Dewey answered, “Well… shit, I don’t know. If the big bastard gets us out of here… and it’s not like I play golf with my face.”

  From outside, I heard a rustling sound, then an esophageal grunt. Geis was out there. Had he taken one of the guards? I glanced through the window—darkness; the drumming chants; nothing else. Geis had probably pulled the guard into the bushes and was robbing him.

  I help my palm up to Tomlinson—quiet. Yanked him to me and whispered in his ear. I was telling him that the four of us were going to work our way through the trees, back to his sailboat, and we were going to sail out of the bay, then motor and sail a crow-flies course to international waters—twelve miles and we would be safe. I was also telling him that, from now on, he would do exactly what I told him to do, no questions tolerated… but I stopped abruptly when I heard an incongruously polite tap at the door. Listened … and heard it again. A person tapping—may I come in?

  I pulled the .45 from my belt and waved everyone to the blind corner of the room as I slowly cracked the door… and there stood Lenny Geis. He had his black hood off, red May-berry hair and mustache glistening with sweat, and he was looking at me with a perplexed but slightly amused expression… a this-is-our-private-little-joke-expression… and I backed away as he shoved the MP5 rifle into my hands. I watched him take three robot steps into the room, twist, lose the support of his legs… and then he fell backward onto the dirt floor, landing in a way that drove a wooden shaft completely through his chest and pierced the black shirt he wore.

  His arms limp, his mouth open, he moved his eyes enough to see the serrated bone point on the end of the shaft—watched the surprise of that register—and then his eyes looked to me as he gasped, “An… arrow?“with an inflection that said, Can you believe this shit? then his eyes glazed over, two coals blinking out, and he lay still.

  Dewey was asking, “Lenny? Is that Lenny?” as I returned to the door—saw two figures in white standing among the trees. I turned and said to Tomlinson, “When I start shooting, stay here and count to sixty. Then go directly to your boat. Start the engine and get the hell out of here. Don’t stop, don’t hesitate, don’t wait for me.”

  I held my hand up when he tried to reply. “Don’t argue! I’ll meet you back in Dinkin’s Bay.”

  Then I turned and fired a burst of warning shots over the heads of the two figures in white; watched them scramble back into the trees. As I sprinted out the door, I heard Tomlinson call after me, “Find the boy! You need the boy!”

  One more lunacy from a man whom Dewey had once described as maybe the wisest person she knew…

  The chanting, the drumming, had stopped; I could feel the silence created by the unexpected gunshots as I ran toward the fire at the center of the clearing. Taino was still there, standing with Molinas, Orlando, and the two other priests… Castro, too, set off to the side but down on one knee as if he’d been ducking… and I knew that part of the reason they remained frozen was the shock of hearing shots and realizing that Castro had not been hit.

  When they noticed me coming, I slowed to a walk. I didn’t want to panic anyone. I wanted to communicate an air of being calm and in control. They’d run from a crazy man. Better off to take their chances running than stand there and be shot.

  I could feel their eyes watching me as I entered the perimeter of firelight. I had the automatic rifle in my left hand. It was aimed at Taino. I had the .45 Browning in my right. It was aimed at Castro. I saw Castro’s expression change, then change again—yes, he was afraid… and yes, he recognized me. He gave me a searing look; began to speak, but I interrupted loudly, though I did not yell. People in control never yell.

  I said, “No one talks but me—not a word! I’m here to make a deal.” I looked at Taino. He’d been backing away, trying to get Molinas and the others in front of him as a shield
. I motioned with the rifle—don’t move!—then said, “If anyone attacks me or tries to interfere with my friends, I’ll shoot Taino first, then I’ll open fire on the rest of you. You understand me?”

  I watched the priests nod. They understood; were frightened enough to agree to anything. Molinas, his nose still crooked, was nodding right along with them.

  I continued, “But if you do exactly as you’re told, the only person I’m going to shoot is him.” And I looked at Castro.

  There was a long, nervous silence. Were they supposed to answer? Did anyone have the courage to answer? Then everyone listened to Taino say agreeably, “May I speak?”

  I made Taino call all his people to him; made them approach the fire and put down their weapons. Then I ordered them to sit with their backs to me, no moving, no talking. And we sat there and waited in the silence of black sky and meteors.

  I had once loved silence, but not now. My wandering thoughts had a single destination, the reconstruction of a single lovely face… and so I did not allow my thoughts to wander. I kept them on business. Survival—that was now my only business.

  There were fifteen men in my little group, but I knew there was at least one, maybe two, of the Abakua missing.

  There was no bow and arrow among the little pile of cane knives.

  They were probably out there in the trees… or maybe working their way around to the water… watching me, awaiting their chance. Were I in their position, I would have been making similar moves.

  The missing Abakua worried me, because I knew what I was going to do; what I had to do, because I no longer had the inclination or the energy to resist it.

  I could remember Tomlinson’s words: Fighting your own nature—that’s your karma.

  Well… I don’t believe in karma. The realities of nature, however, cannot be argued, nor can the instincts that guide each and every successful species. Members of an animal community survive because, instinctually, they are accountable to the needs of their own species. Members that did not behave accountably could not survive—nor should they survive.