Cuba Straits

by Randy Wayne White

  All is brief as the moon’s reflection . . .

  Not if you were waiting on Maribel, it wasn’t.

  Sabina went to the window to see if the moon was up, but the tamarind tree blocked her view. She could see the pump, though, and . . . Damn it to hell, her sister had been right about that bucket. Sabina had left it out there. In the morning, Maribel would nag and gloat unless the bucket was found somewhere else.

  An idea popped into her head—what if the bucket was discovered in Maribel’s bedroom?

  That will teach her to doubt me.

  Cupping the candle, she went through the kitchen, unlocked the back door, and peered out. There was wind in the trees, no one around, and dark. She closed the door, then backtracked. When she stepped out onto the porch, she carried the candle in one hand, a machete in the other, and the mace canister was clipped to her pink-and-white pajamas, even though the canister felt empty.

  There has to be a little left, Sabina reasoned.

  The pump was midway between the rabbit hutch and the tamarind tree, the bucket in the sand nearby. When she stooped to get it, she dropped the machete. Then a gust of wind put the candle out. At the same instant, a strange, dizzying sensation swept over her. It caused her nostrils to flair, and she knew without knowing that someone was coming toward her, a man who had been hiding behind the tree.

  “Don’t scream,” his voice warned.

  Sabina couldn’t scream. It wasn’t like that afternoon, when she’d been angry. She had no air, couldn’t breathe, but managed to whisper, “What will you do if I run?”

  “You mean after I catch you?” the man replied. “That’s what I want you to see.”

  Ford didn’t get to the Hotel Plaza until late afternoon because he’d spent more time than expected in the stadium storage room. At least an hour waiting for the military cops to leave, then another hour listening to the old man.

  Lázaro Junco had been talkative. He had stories to tell about a room crammed with boxes and bins he called junk but that actually cataloged the history of Cuban baseball.

  As Ford discovered, the storage room wasn’t just the old man’s home, it was his prison.

  An interesting day, though—and profitable. In the hotel lobby, Ford overtipped key staff members and paid cash in advance for a room. All in euros, compliments of Anatol Kostikov.

  At the desk, he asked if Marta Esteban and daughters had checked in. “No,” the clerk said, but answered “Yes” to Ford’s other inquiries and requests.

  Suite 216, marble floor and ceiling fans, was up the stairs to the right. He wedged a chair under the doorknob, showered and changed, then carried Kostikov’s billfold to the balcony, where he snapped on surgical gloves. Driver’s license, credit cards, and a complicated ID in Russian, with a photo, a thumbprint, and a hologram, and another in Spanish, a third in Arabic.

  Ford created two piles: items of interest, items that were not.

  Under the billfold’s flap was emergency money: two five-hundred-euro bills. In another, a blister pack of Viagra tablets, a condom, and an address written on a napkin in a woman’s hand. Using Hotel Plaza stationery, Ford copied the address, before flipping through a stack of cards that included memberships in a cigar club in London and the International Association of Harley-Davidson Riders.

  Amusing. Even professional killers had hobbies.

  Hmm . . . Did the card suggest a link to the motorcycles from 1959?

  There was another potential link: contact information for a man who lived in the same rural province as Marta Esteban and the girls. Vernum Quick was the name, Noviate Santero written in a Cuban hand, and a phone number.

  A coincidence?

  Ford made notes. It would have been easier to photograph each item, but his phone would be the first thing confiscated if there was trouble. Paper was safer in this age of electronic spoor. When he was done, he wiped everything clean, and soon the billfold was exactly as he’d found it, including the hidden emergency money, but minus a wad of bills too obvious for a common thief not to find. More than two thousand in euros and pesos.

  The old man had refused to accept all of the money despite his bitterness toward Russians and the sad turn his life had taken. Lázaro hadn’t been a boxer, as Ford had guessed. He’d been one of Cuba’s best baseball players, a catcher and third baseman for the Havana Sugar Kings, but his dreams of a major league contract had ended with the Revolution.

  A scrapbook and Lázaro’s broken fingers proved it.

  Junco’s RBI Beats U.S. Champs, Series Tied. The old man had beamed when he’d flipped to the headline. Easy after that to discuss the events of 1959 and the True World Series. Ford was eager but kept the questions light. It paid off. Lázaro, who had played in that final, unfinished game, knew details that few others could know, let alone discuss, including the three American pitchers who had ridden off on their Harleys rather than return to Havana.

  “Excellent teammates, but I admit some of us felt a certain resentment. We, the Cubans, were paid shit, while the gringo stars were treated like gods, yet it was difficult not to like those three. One, he was from New York, I think. Even in the shower, he smoked a cigar and had this trick—I don’t know how he did it—of making smoke come out of his ass. The others were big, like well-fed farm bulls. They would ride to the countryside and speak of growing corn and wheat instead of cane. Simpatico, you understand? With the peasants who got their hands dirty. They didn’t care if they had money bulging from their pockets or not, but those men, hah! They loved Cuban women and their shiny Harleys.”

  Lázaro had shared a secret then. “I will tell you something few know. Those beautiful motorcycles never left Cuba.” He had paused for effect. “And I know where they are.”

  Ford said, “I hope you’re not foolish enough to tell anyone. Including me.”

  “Why not? I’m not allowed to leave this goddamn place. Why not entrust what I know to a partner?”

  It was the first hint that the stadium was the old man’s prison. Ford had offered to help but reminded the man they were both thieves, which got a toothless smile.

  “They’re hidden in a mausoleum in a cemetery west of here,” Lázaro said. “A beautiful place, but I must admit this to you if we become partners: I’m not sure which mausoleum. And that cemetery is ten kilometers by ten kilometers, thousands of places those Harleys might be. True, I’ve heard of others who have searched without success. But I am a catcher, señor”—he had tapped a finger to his head—“Brains, that’s what makes us different. Oh, if I could spend some time in that place, I would soon figure it out.”

  Fun talking to the old guy, despite the military cops outside searching. If nothing else, Ford had learned that the story about the three Americans was widely known, which suggested that Rivera had been taken in by another treasure-hunting cliché.

  For an hour, Lázaro Junco’s bitterness was displaced by his memories until Ford mentioned Fidel.

  “Sooner or later,” he’d said, “I should have known. Every tourist asks the same goddamn questions. Which is why I avoid the stupid bastards. I hoped you might be different.”

  “I didn’t say I believed the story,” Ford replied. “There must be a few players alive who actually saw him throw or swing a bat. I’ve even heard there are films that prove he never played the game.”

  “Films?” A cynical grunt mimicking laughter. “There are no films. And if there were, they would have been destroyed long ago.”

  Ford took a gamble. “That’s not what I’ve been told.”

  That suspicious look again: Who are you?

  The old man also took a chance. “Do you know what would happen if a player, even a great infielder, whispered the truth about Fidel?” With wizened hands, a gesture to a room filled with boxes, a sink, and his cot. “He would spend the rest of his life in this shithole—but banned from ever walking on that field again .
. . or leaving through the gate.”

  • • •

  GO TO COJIMAR? Or drive west to check on the girls if they didn’t arrive at the hotel soon?

  Thinking about that, Ford went out on the balcony of his room. It overlooked a park that separated Old Havana from Chinatown and the squalor of a city that, for half a century, had been trapped in a vacuum and was still waiting to breathe. Lots of traffic—vintage cars and exhaust fumes—buildings painted in pastels now bleached to bone by a sun that was just setting.

  A black Mercedes-Benz with dark windows was an anomaly in a place like this. Ford noticed the car, watched it circle the park while pedestrians averted their eyes. A Mercedes symbolized power.

  On the east side of the park was a police vehicle that resembled an ambulance. The Mercedes pulled alongside and stopped. A back door opened, a man with his hands cuffed behind him was ejected, followed by two military cops in green.

  Ford went to the railing for a better view. The man in handcuffs was bald, wearing jeans . . . Christ, it was the same guy he’d seen washing his hands after robbing Kostikov. But now, along with prostate problems, his face had been beaten crooked, then bandaged. They’d done a sloppy job.

  Ford winced. I should’ve warned him, goddamn it.

  Maybe so. But nothing he could do now but watch and wonder who was at the wheel of the Mercedes. A massive shape within the tinted glass. The Russian, possibly, but the car pulled away, while one of the military cops led his prisoner to the sidewalk, not the ambulance. Not yet anyway. First, the cop pointed to a series of buildings, his hand moving clockwise while he lectured.

  Hotels, Ford realized, that’s what he was pointing out. Police were going to force the poor bastard to help search room to room for the man he’d seen exiting the toilet, a gringo wearing a green cap.

  Ford retreated and closed the doors. The baseball cap was in a stadium trash can, but he wasn’t going to wait around. There were hundreds of hotels in Havana. By midnight, when he was done meeting with Rivera, it might be safe to return—but only after checking with the Plaza security captain he’d overtipped, a smiling man named William.

  In a canvas briefcase, he packed everything but the clothes he wore: khaki slacks and a gray guayabera shirt that passed for formal wear in Cuba. He didn’t care about fashion. Guns were illegal in Cuba, so he wore the guayabera like a smock to hide the 9mm pistol holstered inside the back of his slacks. In an ankle holster was the mini 9mm Sig Sauer.

  He hadn’t made up his mind yet about the Soviet pistol. It lay on the counter, where he had fieldstripped and reassembled the odd-looking thing—a miniature stainless barrel with an oversized magazine. The grips were polished bronze like a 1960s cigarette case. Inside were six brass cartridges that looked more like tubes than 8mm bullets. The magazine had confirmed what he suspected—this was no ordinary pistol.

  Something else he realized: he was in a lot more trouble than he’d anticipated.

  During the Cold War, a Soviet armorer had designed a silent bullet, a slug propelled by an internal piston and lethal up to fifty meters. Building a gun to fit the odd cartridge came later and this was the newest version—a PSS Vul, with a six-round magazine.

  The Vul was truly soundless—or so Ford had read—hugely expensive to produce, and among the rarest weapons in the world.

  The Russians won’t stop until they get this back. Unless Kostikov is too embarrassed to admit he was pantsed in a public toilet. Or . . . unless he dies before the theft is reported.

  Both were attractive possibilities. Ego was the commonest of silent killers.

  Once again, he removed the magazine, shucked the slide, and tested the trigger—too much slack, then crisp at the end with a short reset. He did this a few times and experimented with the hammer, cocking and uncocking. When he felt comfortable, he seated the magazine but didn’t chamber a round. The Vul’s holster was wallet-sized, the trigger unprotected, so easily snagged. If the gun went off accidentally, how would he know unless he felt the impact and saw blood?

  Before leaving, he wrote a note to Marta on hotel stationery, then a second note on blank paper, both in Spanish:

  Seeking Señor Anatol Kostikov. A wallet containing cash and credit cards was found in the parking lot of the Grand Stadium after the game between Pinar del Río and the Industríales. Please apply in person with proof of ownership at [he left a blank space]. A small reward is not necessary but would be appreciated.

  Ford put the note in an envelope.

  Later, if he found a suitable ambush spot, and if the timing felt right, he would add the location.

  • • •

  IN THE LOBBY, he asked William, the security captain, “Where’s the dining room?” which gave them time alone in a corridor, where he slipped the man an envelope addressed to M. Esteban, plus another fifty euros. After whispering instructions, Ford exited through a side door.

  Havana at dusk: shod horses on asphalt, frangipani blossoms, diesel fumes. Never take the first cab. Or the second. He walked south on Paseo del Prado, a boulevard built for lovers and parades. Benches beneath trees, streetlights dimmed or broken, villas converted into tenements, where, high above, baby diapers, towels, hung from balustrades designed for debutantes and politicos.

  It was seven-fifteen. Almost three hours before he was to meet Rivera at a restaurant that was on the same street but closer to the sea. Ford considered returning to the stadium to check on the old man but knew, before deciding, that he would take a cab to Cojimar.

  Tomlinson is being watched, the general had warned.

  That was okay. Ford would do some watching of his own. And if he happened to see a black Mercedes . . . well, he would play that by ear. Send the cab away, pretend to be a tourist who was lost and didn’t know the language. Or a drunk looking for a good time with money to burn. There were many ways to convince a stranger, even a high-level assassin like Kostikov, to roll down a window or open a car door.

  If it didn’t happen, he would check on Tomlinson, then find Sabina, Maribel, and their mother. Hopefully, they were on their way to the hotel. If not, he would hire a cab, or take his boat and from a distance confirm they were safe.

  The name on the card in Kostikov’s wallet still bothered him: Vernum Quick. Coincidence and random intersectants were common, but less so if three links hinted at a possible triangle. The man lived in Plobacho, the village not far from where the girls lived. But how far?

  Ford crossed the Prado and stopped under a lamp. There were no detailed maps of Cuba available—the government didn’t allow it—so he had come prepared. From his bag he selected a print from Google Earth that showed the mountainous coastal region west of Havana. Tiny Plobacho wasn’t visible, but he found the Espinar River to the west. He used a knuckle to measure. By road, the village was about three miles from the remote hillside where Marta Esteban lived. A comforting distance, but she and her daughters no doubt frequented the village tiendas. Also, Vernum Quick was a Noviate Santero—a “Novice Priest.” That increased the odds of interaction.

  He did some other calculations. By boat, as he knew, the mouth of the river was a little over twenty miles from Marina Hemingway. By taxi, Plobacho, which was inland and a mile east of the river, was—he used his knuckle again—a hell of a lot farther because there were so few roads in the region, most of them unpaved. Say . . . an extra fifteen miles.

  Ford put the maps away and continued south toward the sea. In his right pocket, the Vul silent pistol was an uncertain asset. He’d never fired the damn thing, and Russia wasn’t known for quality control. That was okay, too. He had the Sig P226, which had never failed him, and a threaded sound suppressor in the briefcase—a Maxpedition tactical bag designed for quick weapon access. On his ankle, the little 9mm Sig pocket pistol.

  Surprise was on his side.

  On the street, an antique Chrysler slowed to a stop—exactly the kind of car a
tourist would choose. “Are you interested in a tour of Havana?” the driver asked. “I’m a licensed guide. Or a beautiful woman? I know a place that has food and music and the most beautiful women in the Caribbean.”

  Ford negotiated a price to Cojimar and got in the back.

  The driver said the trip would take an hour or less, but twenty minutes later they were still on the Prado, stuck in traffic, with no way to turn around.

  “There must have been an accident, señor.”

  Ford felt a welling uneasiness. They were only a block or two from the place he was supposed to meet Rivera, an old mansion with a restaurant and apartments. “I don’t see police lights.”

  “Sometimes that is the way in Havana, señor.”

  “Do you have a phone? A radio, maybe? A friend of mine lives not far from here and, well, his health isn’t good. Would an ambulance use flashing lights?”

  “You are worried.”

  “A little. He’s an old friend.”

  “What is the name of this place?”

  “La Científico,” Ford replied, “but that might be the name of the restaurant, not the apartment building.”

  “It is the same, señor.” The driver put the Chrysler in park. “When traffic is like this, it is better to shut off the engine and relax. I will check for you. Would you like a beer?”

  They both got out and weaved their way through traffic while horns blared, no cars moving in either direction. Ahead, a crowd had gathered outside a four-story building of marble and stone, a house befitting Cuba’s second president. On the balcony were tables and a patio bar—the restaurant. People had gathered at the railing. Ford knew from the way they reacted when they looked down that a body, or someone badly injured, was on the sidewalk below.

  The driver said, “Wait here, please,” and pushed his way through the crowd. Seconds later, he was back. “Police have ordered people to disperse. And not just any police. They are wearing suits, not uniforms. We should leave.”