Lone Wolf #5: Havana Hit

by Barry, Mike

  “Yes,” he said, holding his hand out, then his arm extended so that Stevens walked into it and stopped. “What can be done for you?”

  “We’re here to see Raoul Delgado,” Stevens said.

  “Have you got a pass?”

  “No,” Stevens said, “we have no pass at all. We do have an appointment. He asked—”

  “Who is this gentleman with you?”

  “I’m his assistant,” Wulff said, “I assist Mr. Stevens.”

  The guard’s eyes flickered. “I’m afraid I do not understand that,” he said. “I will have to call up to Mr. Delgado to—”

  “It is not necessary,” Wulff said flatly. “We have an appointment.”

  “You may bery well have an appointment but there is no verification—”

  “This is our verification,” Wulff said. He took out a pistol and aimed it at the guard’s stomach. The man looked down at it and seemed to shrivel.

  “Keep quiet,” Wulff said. “Don’t say a word. I don’t want to draw any attention.”

  The guard seemed fascinated by the gun. There were two others in the lobby but they had their backs to them, seemed to be examining the walls. That was governmental efficiency for you. Still, at least they were English-speaking which was something. It made business easier to transact. Trust this government; they would, all of them, make English their second language. They knew where the money was.

  “Lead us to Delgado,” Wulff said. He held the gun close in against him with old practice. Anyone looking casually would not even see it. “I really would like you to lead us there,” he said. “Otherwise I’m going to have to kill you and that would draw a crowd.”

  The guard gulped. He appeared eighteen years old now, probably exactly what he was. “You’ll never manage this,” he said, “it’s impossible—”

  “Nothing’s impossible,” Wulff said. “Check him out,” he said to Stevens.

  Stevens had been looking at this with awe. Now, impassively enough, he stepped forward, ran his hands up and down the guard’s body. His eyes kindled with a little expression of pleasure and he reached into a side pants pocket, took out a small gun and drawing it against him like a professional, passed it to Wulff.

  “Keep it,” Wulff said. “Is it in working condition?” he asked the guard.

  “I don’t know,” the boy said. He was gasping, his cheeks turning greenish. “I’ve never used it.”

  “Well,” Stevens said, “we’ll just take our chances. Probably it fires backwards.”

  “No doubt,” said Wulff. “All right,” he said to the guard, “you’re going to escort us to Delgado’s office now.”

  “I’m what?”

  “You heard me. We want an escort.”

  “I can’t do that. I’ll be killed.”

  “That’s possible,” Wulff said.

  “It’s possible that we’ll all get killed,” Stevens said dryly. The activity seemed to have soldered him into courage; the man looked imperturbable now. “Life’s a temporary state at best. Get moving.”

  “I’ll get killed,” the guard said again, almost wonderingly. “But I don’t want to get killed. I want to live.”

  “Not at this rate,” Wulff said and prodded him gently in the buttocks with the pistol. The guard’s body yanked forward, then he moved into a slow, perilous walk. The two facing the wall did not even turn. They walked through the lobby: first the guard, then Wulff, Stevens in the rear, all toward a winding flight of stairs at the rear, then the guard stopped and turned. “You want the elevator?” he said. His eyes were shrouded as if he had just thought of something.

  “Not a chance,” said Wulff.

  “It’s two flights.”

  “Good. We need the exercise.”

  The guard sighed, turned again. As he did so he cast a longing, sidewise glance at the two by the wall; he seemed to think that they might take some notice of what was going on. A dart of sheer need flamed from him which Wulff intercepted, caught that bolt in the air and then the guard sighed, relaxed: the two were paying no attention whatsoever. Shaking his head the guard led them up the steps. Looking back, casting a quick sidelong glance at the guards as he trailed, Wulff had a sudden flare of understanding himself: it was quite likely that the guards did know what was happening, did suspect that something had gone wrong … but it made no difference. They were not going to pay attention because they simply wanted no part of it. It was a reasonable thing; it fitted in with everything that he had already come to know of Havana. These two guards were not going to get involved; it was not worth it to them. If Wulff and Stevens were assassins, if they had compelled the guard to lead them upstairs to deal with some official of the bureaucracy…. Well, if the guards could stay out of it they might well benefit. A change of order might be a promotion. That was about the only way you could make it in this kind of regime if you were at the bottom levels; hope that it would be changed over and that you might move upward in a purge.

  Reasonable: it was all reasonable. They climbed one flight, then two, the guard offering no further resistance of any sort, only clambering upward numbly as if he were an actor following the rather obscure instructions of a director who he did not understand, but who made no difference to him anyway. At the second landing the guard stopped, his chest moving unevenly under his jacket, his young face beaten and now streaming sweat. He lifted a shaking finger and pointed down the hall.

  “No,” Wulff said. “You take us in there.”

  The guard shook his head. Some last vestige of resistance showed in soft pastel moving across his cheeks. “No,” he said. “I won’t do that.”

  Wulff showed him the pistol again. “Then I’ll have to kill you right here.”

  The guard looked up; the sweat had converted his face into a mirror in which Wulff thought that he might see himself. “No,” he said, “you wouldn’t do this.”

  “I wouldn’t? Try me.” There was no one in the corridor. The corridor was empty. The soft sounds of typing drifted down. Fluorescence winked.

  “I won’t,” the guard said again, with less assurance. “You know which office it is,” he said to Stevens.

  Stevens shrugged to show that he was out of it and nodded at Wulff. “It’s up to him,” he said. “I have nothing to do with it.”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “I know you don’t want to,” Wulff said. “You don’t want to lead us in there because you’ll be the first through the door and you’re afraid that Delgado has been alerted or is waiting anyway with a gun and as soon as someone walks in he’s going to shoot. You don’t want to die, do you?”

  “No,” the guard said weakly. “I don’t want to die.”

  “But you’re going to. One way or the other. You’re going to die in this hall or in Delgado’s office you see. You can have thirty seconds more of life if you listen to me. Otherwise you’ll die now.”

  “You wouldn’t kill me,” the guard said. “You wouldn’t be so foolish. A shot would draw attention. You don’t want any attention drawn to you now.” He put his hands down, backed away, slowly, down the steps. “You won’t shoot,” he said, “you won’t do it.” Confidence flooded into his face. “You won’t,” he said again.

  Wulff lifted the pistol and shot the guard in the throat. The guard made a sound like a frog and slowly, gracelessly, arced. His feet departed from the steps. Spouting blood he flew backwards, airborne for half a flight, then his body hit the landing. He spattered and began to roll, moving with increased speed down the steps and out of sight.

  Stevens looked at Wulff and said, “Did you have to do that?”

  “Yes, I had to do it.”

  “You’re going to get all of them—”

  “I’m going to get no one,” Wulff said. “No one at all if we won’t waste time.” He waved the gun at Stevens. “I don’t have the time,” he said. “Show me his office.”

  “All right,” Stevens said carefully. The nervousness that Wulff had not seen since yesterday had returne
d. His hand shaking, Stevens took out a handkerchief and wiped his face in short, trembling strokes. Then he turned and walked down the corridor.

  It was still empty. The typewriters sounded like silk in the thin space. The shot had been half-silenced by the guard’s croak; the guard’s croak, the kind of sound that a fat man might make clearing his throat, had not attracted any attention. Stevens led Wulff down the corridor. At the end light spilled out from a larger opening. Stevens pointed. “There,” he said, “that’s it.”

  “Good,” Wulff said, the pistol held comfortably. “Lead us in.”

  “Lead us in?” Stevens said, “I thought—”

  “You thought exactly right,” Wulff said, “you’re going to lead us in there. What do you think I went through all of this for? To let you go?”

  “No. I didn’t think so.”

  “Good. Get on in there.”

  “All right,” Stevens said. He ran his hands up and down his arms in a nervous, convulsive gesture, swallowed twice, then seemed to bring the various angles of his body together. “I never expected anything different,” he said, “I knew it would have to be this way.”

  “No philosophizing.”

  “I work for the highest bidder.”

  “That’s right. Now work for the highest bidder and walk on in there.”

  “Right,” said Stevens. “Right. Walk right in. Sit right down.” He strode out, Wulff behind him two paces, turned the corner and went into the crevice.

  Delgado, in a white jacket behind the desk, was holding a gun. His hand reached out as he saw Stevens. The first shot might have gone right in, but as he was still aiming, his eye caught Wulff behind and that small instant of confusion was just sufficient to jar the gun in his hand. The shot came out screaming and went into the wall above Wulff’s left shoulder. Wulff fired immediately but Delgado had kicked down below the desk, scrambling, and the second shot came viciously near Wulff’s left shoulder, the one that had been injured in Las Vegas. It had been in pretty good shape; he had not even been conscious of it until now but yanking his arm sent a small explosion of pain through it all over again and he spread-eagled on the floor, the gun extended before him, gasping.

  Delgado got off another shot. This one was aimed for Stevens again, but Stevens had scattered, scrambling toward the wall to the side and the shot failed, spattering into the carpet. Little filaments of dust came up. Wulff aimed through the filaments and fired again.

  Delgado screamed. He reared from his concealed position and there was the sound of wood shattering as he hurled himself into the desk in some complex agony. The agony had lifted him; now Wulff saw his head and shoulders convulsed across the desk. Weakly, Delgado extended the gun for another shot. Wulff put a bullet into the gun hand. The gun fell away like an overripe fruit.

  Stevens lifted his own pistol and bore in for the killing shot. Delgado whimpered, shook his head, raised his hand. “No,” he said.

  “No,” Wulff said to Stevens.

  Stevens, locked into the act of slow levelling did not even appear to hear him. Wulff got to the man from behind, put an arm around his stomach and restrained him. Stevens struggled, then dropped the gun.

  “Why?” he said, turning toward Wulff. “Why can’t I—”

  “No,” Wulff said, “not now.”

  “I want to kill him,” Stevens said. His face was red and filled with moisture. Wulff had never seen so much emotion on it. “He needs dying.”

  “Not now. Later.”

  “Please,” Delgado said. He was lying on the desk, his legs dangling toward the floor. Now and then he attempted to stand, but he skittered and whined. Blood fled down the panels of his body. “Don’t kill me.”

  Wulff hit the man across the face. The impact was satisfying; he could feel his palm drilling through toward bone. Delgado shrieked again. Wulff lifted his hand and then in a quick spasm of indifference stepped away. It made no difference. Once they were hurt, once you had made them vulnerable and brought them to the level of pain … once all this had happened, they were no longer the men who had brutalized you. The brutal parts of them were gone. There could never be, then, retribution, all of it was merely a turning of the wheel.

  “Let me kill him,” Stevens said. He was shaking. “I want to kill him.”

  “No point,” Wulff said. He turned, walked back quickly toward the open door and then, peering out gun in hand, checked the hallway. Empty, the purring of typewriters continuing. No one had paid any attention whatsoever. A tactic of revolutionary governments, he thought, everybody attending to his and her work. He closed the door, bolted it, and walked back toward Delgado. In pain but lucid, the man had gathered up his legs underneath, now lay across the desk curled like a paper toy.

  “Where’s the valise?” Wulff said.

  Delgado shook his head. He opened his mouth but no sound came out.

  “The valise,” Wulff said, “I want the valise. Tell me where it is.”

  Delgado tried to talk. Wulff could see the words forming in his throat, moving up then toward the mouth but they were blocked at the lips. His eyes were dark and fixed. He shook his head violently, stricken.

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere at all,” Wulff said. “Tell me where the valise is.”

  “I don’t—” Delgado said faintly and then choked. He hawked, gasped saliva, his body shaking. “I’m dying,” he said.

  “Soon enough. Where is it?”

  Again, Delgado said nothing. This time though there was no effort to speak. His eyes clouded over. Apparently he was attempting silence, now.

  “All right,” Wulff said, turning to Stevens who had been watching this impassively from one side of the room. “You wanted to hit him, hit him. Ask him to tell us where the stuff is.”

  “Right,” said Stevens. He seemed made cheerful by this. He walked over to the desk lightly, stood over the shrunken Delgado. Delgado flopped on the desk like a fish. “You know what I’m going to do now,” Stevens said.

  Delgado said nothing. He closed his eyes.

  “You thought I was a hired hand,” Stevens said, “a possession. You took away any pride I had.”

  He reached forward, dug two fingers into Delgado’s throat and pushed, gently, then with increasing force. Delgado’s eyes opened. They bulged.

  “But I’ve got a little left,” Stevens said. “Just a little. Tell this man where the valise is.”

  He removed his fingers and looked at them as if they were blood-smeared. “I could enjoy this,” he said, “I can do this all up and down your body. I’m going to take you apart, Delgado.”

  “All right,” Delgado said faintly. “I don’t have it.”

  “Sure you have it.”

  “No I don’t. You think that I’d have something like that in my possession?”

  “Yes,” Wulff said, “I do.”

  “Well I did. But now I don’t. When I knew about the plane going down I had to get rid of it.”

  “You had to get rid of it,” Stevens said. He hit Delgado open-handed across the mouth. “Sure you did. Who did you get rid of it to?” He hit the man again, his hand trembling. Wulff went behind Stevens and said, “Stop it now.”

  “Stop it?”

  “You’ll kill him,” Wulff said, “but not now. He has to talk.”

  “I gave it to DiStasio,” Delgado said. His eyes had become hopeful seeing Wulff. They looked trusting. Like a child fallen down a hole, he had seen his saviour and Wulff was going to get him out of this.

  “Who is DiStasio?” Wulff said.

  “You son of a bitch,” Stevens said to Delgado. “I know who DiStasio is. Why did you do it?”

  “I had to do it,” Delgado said. “I couldn’t hold onto it any longer. I knew that this was going to happen.”

  “Who’s DiStasio?” Wulff said. Stevens was hovering over Delgado. He poked Stevens in the ribs, hard. “I said, who is DiStasio?”

  “Intelligence,” Stevens said abstractly. He hit Delgado open-handed across the mouth a
gain. He could have been a surgeon performing an operation under Wulff’s supervision. “Intelligence division.”

  “I couldn’t handle it alone anymore,” Delgado said. “You see, I realized that I had been wrong about this. Nothing like this could be handled by oneself. I underestimated you Wulff,” he said. “I was wrong. Help me. You’ve got to help me.”

  “Intelligence division,” Stevens said again. He spat in Delgado’s face. “Sons of bitches, you’re all in it.”

  “Who is DiStasio?” Wulff said.

  “DiStasio is an intelligence chief,” Stevens said. “Delgado here probably got panicky and decided that he needed help right from the top. You got it, didn’t you?”

  Wulff thought he heard a thin scurrying in the hallway. He backed away, went to the door and was about to open it when some instinct told him to keep it closed. He tensed himself against the door listening. There were footsteps in the hall, picking up in volume and intensity. Intermixed were voices through the poor soundproofing.

  “I think the party’s over,” he said to Stevens. “They’re coming up after us.”

  “They found the guard.”

  “Of course they found the guard. What did we expect, that he’d just lie there?”

  “Well,” Stevens said, “you never know about those things. You know these south of the border countries.” He spat in Delgado’s face again. “How do you like it?” he said. “How do you like being spat on?”