Tomaso and Benilo looked at Yuri as if he’d lost his mind.
Defending Yuri, Sergio said. “This is a good decision. Pena is in a position to help us, and we can trust him as long as Gutierrez is kept out of it.”
Carrying a fresh pot of steaming coffee and flan, Maria Elena approached, followed by Pena who’d just arrived.
Pena called out, “I heard that. Not to worry.” He paused, awaiting Maria Elena’s departure. “Alfonso’s left Havana. Ordered to the Forteleza with his buddy, Cavuto.” Pena sat at the table and helped himself to the food he’d so often mocked Qui about. “The old fool still confides in me.”
“When the time comes, Jorge,” began Benilo. “You’ll make a great witness at his trial.”
“What makes you think he’ll get a trial?” Tomaso asked. “More likely he’ll simply disappear.”
Sergio shook his head, “We can’t let that happen. We need Gutierrez to rat out the others.”
Yuri frowned, “Exactly why we must pool our resources and work together.”
“In a perfect world, maybe…” Benilo piped in, “but, in Cuba, without Fidel on our side, we become the disappeareds.”
Tomaso cleared his throat and said, “Benilo and I have already made a grave decision to take the entire jigsaw puzzle to Fidel, so you men can stand back… That way you needn’t draw the attention of the SP or Fidel.”
Sergio immediately shouted, “No! I’m already in this to my neck. My family’s been threatened same as yours, Mr. Aguilera. And Tino killed. And now Pena tells me that they think they’ve killed me! Gutierrez told him so.”
Pena added, “The Sanabela was reportedly blown up, sir, but we’ve found no indication of an oil slick or remnants of a vessel that size.”
Tomaso announced, “I have it on good authority that Qui and the others are very much alive.”
Benilo added, “They arrived safely in Santiago and are now posing as tourists at Carnival just as they planned.”
“A priest there, an old friend, made the call,” finished Tomaso.
Unable to contain his joy at this news, Sergio shouted, “I knew she’d make it!” He turned to Yuri and pummeled the big Russian’s shoulder.
Yuri smiled in response, “All the more reason for us to stand united before Fidel against the SP.”
Pena, looking pensive, muttered, “Hmmm, Qui, Luis Estrada, that damned American, Cavuto Ruiz, Alfonso, and whoever sent them there… All in Santiago at once. Can’t be good. Something’s up. Time to chat with Colonel Emanuel Cordova.”
“You know someone there you trust?” asked Benilo.
“Cordova’s a good man, an honest man, hard to find these days. Besides, he owes me favors.” Pena smiled one of his rare smiles, and raising his fork, he vigorously nodded at Tomaso, saying, “Damn, the food’s as good as Qui claimed.”
Basilica del Cobre, same time
“What message did the Madonna give you?” asked JZ.
“A vision…two Madonnas…a watery grave, someplace dark and cold.”
“Whose grave?” Father Cevalos asked.
“I’m not sure… But it left me with a cold feeling.”
“A warning?” asked Pasqual.
“Yeah, maybe, something like that.”
“Perhaps symbolic?”
“Maybe that too.”
Cevalos added, “This is not the first time our Lady has inspired a vision.” Rubbing his hands briskly for warmth, he wrapped them around Qui’s hands and gently smiled at her, his eyes telegraphing that they’d shared something special. “The Lady has blessed us with something unique, Detective, something that cannot be ignored.” Turning to Gabriel, he added, “I think the truth is in order. What do you think?”
“I believe these two can be trusted.” Pasqual’s tone conveyed his conviction.
Hearing these words, Father Cevalos turned and beckoned them to follow him. Using another key, he unlocked a door which protested their intrusion by refusing to open. Silently, JZ lent his strength to the effort. They climbed another set of steps emerging into a dusty, spider web strewn, obviously unfrequented corridor that led to small padlocked door.
“The unadorned Virgin,” Qui said clearly. The others stared at her.
Cevalos opened the door, turned, and said, “She indeed speaks to you.”
Solemnly they entered the small room, barely able to squeeze around the pedestal holding a locked box. Removing this final lock, Cevalos lifted the top revealing a carved wooden statue of a black woman holding a child. They lay on a velvet bed the color of the blue Santiago bay.
Looking through tearful eyes, Qui’s whisper filled the room. “The watery grave I saw…the real Madonna.”
The two priests nodded.
Quietly JZ said, “Too valuable for Her own good. From a security standpoint, this makes sense.”
“She works her miracles in mysterious ways,” said Father Cevalos. “I’ve seen it many, many times.”
Again they followed the tall priest through labyrinthine passageways. Stopping at the kitchen long enough to order sandwiches for everyone, Cevalos led them to the rectory where he brewed a pot of coffee. The rich aroma of coffee filled his personal quarters packed with mementos of a lifetime. On a nearby table sat a chessboard, the game unfinished.
Over small talk and coffee, Father Cevalos displayed a wide range of interests. His shelves filled with books on every imaginable topic, but especially cooking. Claiming it as a relaxing hobby, he conspiratorially added, “I’ve taught the church volunteers how to prepare meals.” The Father regaled his guests with tales of kitchen disasters. “Presentation is everything,” he finished just as the sandwiches arrived on colorful plates with linens. Accompanying the sandwiches was a tray of fresh-cut fruits, salads, chips, and salsa. The trays were festooned with fragrant herbs and colorful flowers.
“All fresh from our gardens,” said the church volunteer.
The visitors replied with a litany of ‘thank yous’ and ‘amens’ before they partook of the offering. The next minutes were spent enjoying the repast.
Taking another cup of coffee, Pasqual said, “Father Cevalos has been priest here since before the time of the revolution. If it’s to be known, he will know it. I trust him with my life.” The two priests stared at one another in silence until Cevalos nodded. The gesture hinted at a special bond between the priests.
“My friend,” began Father Pasqual, still looking at the other priest, “I have sad news. The lock from the Revolucion has come home.”
Not a man easily surprised, Father Francisco Cevalos raised both eyebrows.
Qui reached into the purse at her feet, withdrawing the black pouch containing the lock. As she placed the lock on the table before the priest, she asked, “When was the last time you saw this?”
The elder priest looked accusingly at Pasqual. “I had thought this nightmare over…years ago.”
Pasqual reached out to Cevalos, placed a hand on his arm, and calmly said, “We’ve known this day would come and now it is here.”
Qui added, “Fathers, Luis Estrada, my father Tomaso, Dr. Arturo Benilo-all of you know something about this lock you won’t talk about.” Qui’s angry tone filled the room. “This lock surfaced in a triple murder in Havana last Friday.” She began to pace. “Why? It’s an antique, not commonly available. It’s the same as the photo of a church door here in Santiago. Is there a connection, some message?” She stopped before the two priests. “I need answers.”
This was met with silence.
“Fathers, we were nearly killed by a bomb hidden aboard the Sanabela. Someone doesn’t want us to ask questions. Someone’s behind this. And I intend to find out who.”
Staring at the two priests, JZ broke the continued silence. “It’s time somebody talks.”
Cevalos took a deep breath and reluctantly replied, “It was a terrible thing that happened here at the outbreak of the Revolution. It can do no good to dredge it up.”
Pasqual added, “They are determined, Father.”
“All right… If you’re determined to unearth this…this terrible thing, follow me.” Cevalos led them out into the slanting afternoon sunlight toward a nearby stone and wood chapel. The sight of the small picturesque building, overgrown with bougainvillea and brilliant with red flowers, stunned Qui and JZ. Its double doors proved to be the real-life image depicted in Tomaso’s photograph, minus the fire damage.
Qui grabbed JZ’s arm her nails digging in as she said, “I knew we’d find answers here.”
“You were right all along, Qui” JZ commented. “You have the intuition of a first-rate detective.”
The priests each held open a door to the shaded, cool interior. “These doors have not been locked since. The lock you carry disappeared sometime after your father photographed it.”
As they entered the chapel, Father Cevalos turned to his young colleague. “Pasqual, you don’t have to come any farther with us. I can handle things from here. Go back to the basilica, make your next move on the chessboard.”
“No, Father, this is something I have to be part of,” Father Pasqual replied. “Just like Rita and the others.”
Cevalos calmly nodded understanding while Qui and JZ were left to puzzle over these last words.
They made a sharp turn just inside the vestibule and descended a spiraling stairwell. The stairs led into the dungeon-like basement. Reaching level ground, Cevalos turned on a switch illuminating a room full of discarded church paraphernalia, from candelabras to pews, the wall lined with dust-laden boxes of forgotten mementos. Approaching what appeared to be a retired confessional, Cevalos entered and deftly removed its back wall revealing a narrow corridor that only nature could create-an ancient limestone cavern. Turning back toward them, he smiled at the surprised expressions. “The Church keeps many secrets.”
Reaching into the cave, he withdrew flashlights, which he passed to the others. “Check your batteries. It’s been awhile.”
“Beginning to feel like I’m Alice in Wonderland,” Qui commented as she lit the flash and stepped into the cave ahead of the others.
“And I’m Buck Rogers,” muttered JZ bringing up the rear, the two priests having gone ahead of them.
“I must show you something.” Cevalos spoke over his shoulder as he marched onward down the corridor.
As they followed Cevalos deep into the upward slanting cavern, his words were swallowed in the dead space, eerily dropping off so that just a few feet away Qui and JZ struggled to hear them. The pitted limestone walls and floor created a space acoustically dead, so peculiarly quiet that Qui felt as if they were inside a tomb. Without the flashlights to indicate the size of the passages they walked through, Qui imagined it would feel claustrophobically small.
“The story I must tell you begins before the time of Fidel in the mid-fifties, when Batista’s men defiled and disgraced Cuba. Here in the mountains, there was as much support for the rebels as for the government. Occasionally, this came to violence.”
Qui stumbled over an especially rough passage, and JZ caught her fall, dropping his flashlight in the process, saying, “Careful, walls here are as dangerous as coral.” After ensuring Qui stood firmly on her feet, he knelt for his light and saw something reflected in the beam: toy-sized metal statues. Intrigued, he directed his light identifying them as cast-iron toy soldiers, whose painted features had remained distinct, their green uniforms reminding JZ of his boyhood collection of G. I Joes.
Pasqual gasped at what the beam revealed. “My lost soldiers!” He kneeled and gathered his long lost childhood mementos. “Never thought I’d see these again. Providence?”
“Yes, perhaps a sign,” JZ agreed. “First the Lady gives Qui a vision and now this.”
“A weird little sign, then,” commented Cevalos, lending Pasqual a hand up. “I came back afterwards to gather toys, but as you see, some were missed. Gabriel, I’m sorry.”
Confused, JZ asked, “Children? Down here in this black hole?”
Stretching, Father Cevalos, replied, “It’s the remainder of my story. Government soldiers claimed El Cobre gave refuge to the rebels. When they entered the village, they executed any men brave enough to stand against them-those who hadn’t run into the hills. At my urging, the women and children took sanctuary here in the chapel. I never thought soldiers would violate the sanctity of the church, but human nature being weak…
JZ muttered, “Sadly, little has changed in that regard.” His words were promptly absorbed by the limestone as if consumed by walls hungry for human expression.
Cevalos returned to his story as they continued through the cave. “The commander, over his men’s protests, ordered wholesale slaughter. The soldiers who dared refuse were themselves killed alongside the women and children they’d tried to save. The commander’s final order was to seal the doors with the lock you brought home. Then he set the chapel afire. This last fact I learned from Pasqual, because it occurred after I was knocked unconscious. When I came to amid the smoke, I gathered as many as I could to me, knowing of this escape route.”
JZ asked, “How many survived?”
“And how many killed?” asked Qui, angry she’d never learned of this incident in her country’s history. Not one mention of it in a single history text.
“Survivors?” replied Pasqual. “Myself, Rita, six other children, and Father Cevalos. Victims? My whole family, Rita’s family…everyone. All dead…our mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers…murdered.”
“Smoke inhalation killed anyone left alive inside that inferno,” Cevalos added as they found themselves stepping from the cave onto a stone outcropping. They had traveled steadily upwards in a curved direction that now afforded them a view of the almost hidden lake far below them and the nearby church across the crevasse. “When we got out that night, we stood at this exact spot, watching the flames.”
“Not my brother! His eyes were fixed on the lake and the wavering lights.”
“Lights? What lights, Gabriel? You never mentioned lights before.”
“I saw lights that night…Alejandro called them ghosts.”
“Perhaps it was some of our men still making their way into the hills.”
JZ asked, “Did any of those men ever return?”
“None. Murdered by Batista’s soldiers…killed in the revolution…who knows? All eight children became orphans that night. All placed with other relatives…save two.”
“Two for the orphanage in Havana.” Staring out to sea, Pasqual added, “My big brother, Alejandro, and myself.”
Realizing what the words meant, Qui shuddered. “How old were you at the time?”
“Alejandro was five and I was, we think, three.”
“I’m sorry Father Pasqual,” said Qui. “My own mother died in childbirth, so I never knew her. I can only guess the ongoing nightmare this must’ve been for you.”
“Yes, horrible,” added JZ. “Accept my sincere regrets as well.”
“Thank you both. Too young to remember much, my memories are of my brother, the orphanage, Havana, and Father Cevalos, my almost-father who often came to visit, never forgetting holidays and our birthdays.” He smiled at them before adding, “It’s my brother who needs sympathy. Alejandro has never known peace… carries the nightmares to this day.”
Noting the lateness of the day, Cevalos suggested they begin the journey back. “Look, someone’s at the chapel waving. It’s that rouge Estrada. What’s he doing here?”
Shading her eyes, Qui confirmed it was Luis. “Rouge? He brought us here from Havana, and has proven invaluable.”
“Invaluable? Never heard him described as that,” replied Cevalos. “You must see a side of him I’m blind to. But be careful of that one.”
“I’ve known him long enough to realize he burns both ends of the candle, but he’s been straight with us.”
Father Pasqual shrugged and said, “Rita says the same thing about him, Francisco. Has to be some grace in the man.”
“Yes, the church tells us there’s grace in eve
ry man, but with Estrada, I’ve taken a wait and see attitude.”
“You question his morals…his loyalties…his black market dealings, I know. But the man loves life!”
“Life in the form of women and drink?”
“What can I say? There’re far worse sinners lurking in Santiago.”
“You’re referring to the gathering at the Forteleza, no doubt.”
Qui said, “Tell me more about the Forteleza…this gathering.”
Pasqual replied, “Take it up with Luis. He knows more than any of us about that infamous place.”
Father Cevalos indicated that the quickest route back was through the tunnel. He led the procession back, muttering something about the lateness of the hour to which Pasqual muttered, “I still have a sermon to prepare.”
“Yes, and your Santiagueros congregation is demanding, to say the least. How is the young Italian priest working out? Any help to you?”
And so their conversation went, rushing away from the ghosts of the past and the trouble brought by Qui to their sedate lives even as Pasqual clutched his recovered toys. Their demeanor recalled for Qui how the fishermen aboard Sanabela had gone back to business as usual amid the chaos-so typical of Cubanos. Life goes on in spite of government excess, SP provocations, and outright lies. People love, eat, marry, have children, grow old, tend to their private affairs, die…all under the cloud of Cuban politics. Just as Benilo had argued the night she met him. She smiled, missing her father’s confederate, and wondering what-if anything-his tests had turned up back in Havana. She felt Havana was a world away from Santiago. Where Havana was a tango, Santiago was the conga.
Following the two priests, Qui said softly to JZ, “We’re getting closer to the truth with every step.”
“I feel it, too.” JZ then asked, “I wonder if your vision at the Madonna is a premonition. If it has to do with all the blood spilled here? Not a watery grave but a fiery one, you know, torched churches and blackened corpses?”
“Maybe…”
Grabbing her hand in a show of guiding her through the darkness, JZ commented, “Visions are tricky, Qui. My cousin has visions. Sometimes reliable, sometimes not, sometimes true only after the fact, but always there’s an element of reality.”
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