Cuba Straits

by Randy Wayne White

  Comrade, my ass, Tomlinson thought. Yet another soul bites the big green weenie.

  On a shelf was a stack of stuff: a cartoon of Uncle Sam with fangs like Dracula, Look magazines, 1960 to ’63, Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, LBJ on the covers . . . Oh, and the Buddhist monk who had set himself ablaze to protest U.S. involvement in Vietnam. Very heavy and sad, sad mojo. Time had stopped in this bomb shelter. All inhabitants had turned to dust.

  Stored in a box was happier news, the trophy from Figuerito’s photo: an ornate silver cup with seams like a baseball. Big; tarnished with a greenish black patina. Tomlinson lifted the trophy and read the inscription:

  INTERNATIONAL LEAGUE CHAMPIONS

  1959

  That was all. The name of the winning team hadn’t been added. Inside the cup was a Miami Herald clipping from the same year. Dateline: Havana, Cuba.

  During a game between the Havana Sugar Kings and Minneapolis Millers, a late-inning celebration degenerated into firecrackers and gunfire. Minnesota’s third-base coach, Frank Verdi, was struck, as was Leo Cardenas, the Sugar Kings’ shortstop. Neither was seriously injured, but three U.S.-born pitchers for the Kings fled the stadium and are still missing. The game and the series have been canceled according to . . .

  Tomlinson stopped reading when he heard the door to the next room open.

  “Figgy,” he said, turning. “Look what I found.” He hoisted the trophy.

  Figuerito grinned and made a fist as if he’d just sunk a long putt. “Now the old woman has done two good things.”

  “Yeah?” Tomlinson looked past him, seeing a woodstove and a table set with china for two. “Can I meet her?”

  “That’s the first good thing,” the shortstop replied. “You don’t have to. She’s dead. Now there’s no promise to break when I show you what I’ve been lying about.”

  Tomlinson was so untracked and confused—then fascinated by what awaited on the other side of the door—that he wasted several minutes gawking before he remembered to say, “Figgy, we’ve got to ditch the Santero’s cell phone. Or . . . how about we move our asses and hide?”

  Anatol Kostikov, leaving Marta’s house, watched flames in his rearview mirror and ruminated over a likely investigative tagline: Sex deviant sets fire to destroy evidence.

  Workable if he pitched the theory to the right Cuban official. Someone sloppy enough not to bother with DNA, or interviews, or details that had more to do with arson than sex crimes. The key was killing Vernum first; make it look like self-defense, then planting evidence enough to stifle an investigation. To hell with what anyone else thought or said. He was a senior Russian agent, by god, and Cuba, once again, was in his country’s debt.

  On the passenger seat was a bag. It contained all the evidence he needed. Under the seat was another pint of vodka. He needed that, too, plus a few more pills.

  The vodka went down with a nice burn.

  On the dashboard, the GPS tracker marked the location where Vernum’s phone had gone dead ten minutes earlier. The would-be spy was two kilometers away, if pursued on foot, five kilometers by road, but driving was still the only choice. Stupid to leave his Mercedes near a crime scene. Plus, along with stomach cramps, Anatol now had something else to worry about. He was bleeding. Not badly, but enough. A bullet had furrowed the fat on his left side when a pistol magically appeared in Marta’s hands. She’d shot him. Fired three times, eyes closed, before he’d slapped her to the ground.

  The Russian gulped from the bottle and watched the scene repeat itself in his head. The obnoxious brat screaming when he grabbed her, teeth snapping like an animal. Then the mother was there, her face ashen in the headlights, bringing her hands up, up, up, which should have been warning enough, but he had been complacent in a country that didn’t allow even Party members to own guns.

  It was his only excuse for what happened next. Those scenes, Anatol did not want to replay in his mind. Among the worst was later, when he tried to put a bullet in the woman’s skull, but the stolen Glock was loaded with dummies that wouldn’t fire because even cops weren’t trusted in this tropic shithole nation. The Latina and girls had bolted, while he rushed to pilfer a few bullets before they got to the trees. The scene had stayed with him, Marta’s expression of horror, and the burden of his own sloppiness.

  Goddamn . . . disgraceful. In the same day, he had been robbed in a public restroom, then shot by a peasant female. Him, Anatol, the descendant of legendary Cossack warriors.

  To spare his reputation, if nothing else, he had to find Vernum. This time, do every little thing right. Place the evidence just so and cover his tracks. Once that was done, he was free to turn his attention to Fidel’s letters, then the CIA agent. If he was methodical—and his luck changed—he might even ship home an antique Harley or three when his job was done.

  Another gulp of vodka allowed him to linger on the lone masterstroke in this long, shitty day. After so many screwups, he had stepped back and rallied. The seasoned professional had asked himself a professional’s question: How would a sexual deviant kill three victims and cover his tracks?

  The resulting finesse was a nice touch he would share with that worm Vernum.

  The answer: burn them all alive.

  • • •

  ANATOL SKIRTED a cluster of trees, his eyes on the GPS tracker, while the house burned in the far, far distance. He was so intent on his quarry that had it not been for the scent of blood, he would have kept going up the hill, past a derelict chimney, then another sixty meters.

  Metallic iodine and brass. Distinctive, that odor, if the sample was large enough. Some of his most satisfying achievements were linked to the smell of blood, but it could also signal danger.

  He crouched and pocketed the tracker but not the pistol. Even though he had dimmed the LED screen, his vision required several seconds to adjust. Head tilted, he inhaled . . . moved a few steps; sniffed again, and followed his nose into the trees. A penlight came out and threw a red beam. On a blanket were cups, seashells, and a sunflower as if spread for a picnic. A couple of pumpkin-like vessels nearby. Then what looked like an empty garbage bag, but it wasn’t a bag—it was the goddamn stupid Santero.

  I can make this work, Anatol told himself. He believed that until he was standing over Vernum and saw how the would-be spy had died.

  Idiot. What brand of stupid sex deviant allowed himself to be wired to a tree so an even crazier sex deviant could cut off his cock? Closer inspection added to the puzzle. Vernum’s wrists showed abrasions, but his hands were free, and there were no defensive wounds. So . . . he had been unconscious during the assault, or—Anatol had to project himself into the mind of a sick deviant—or Vernum was such a masochist, he had welcomed his own mutilation.

  Either way, it would be tough to convince authorities that the murderer of two cops and an old man had, while taking a breather, parted with his own cock willingly.

  Shit.

  Profanity was better in Russian. He stomped away from the body, hissing, “Der’mo. Der’mo. Der’mo!” Then the finale: “Eto pizdets!”

  Total screwed-up madness. This sort of crap didn’t happen to Anatol Kostikov. Never had he experienced such a streak of bad luck.

  To hell with it. Vernum had to be the fall guy. There was no other way. If a senior Russian intelligence agent couldn’t fool these Caribbean hicks, who could?

  He stretched on surgical gloves. Then did a slow recon of the area in darkness. Insects and frogs cloaked the sound of his weight. He moved from tree to tree, knelt for long seconds in the weeds. In the distance, the saffron flicker of Marta’s house was useful. With only four bullets in his gun, a brighter backdrop made for better target acquisition.

  There was no target. Even so, Anatol returned to the corpse, thinking, Someone is out there.

  It was more than intuition. Vernum’s body was still warm.

  He popped the last of the wir
e bindings and went to work. The scenario was this: he had surprised the Cuban, who was with another sex deviant. They had bragged about assaulting some local girls and their mother. Because of his status with the embassy, Anatol had an obligation to Cuban law. They had argued. Vernum had shot him. As to how the idiot got his cock cut off, why ask a respected Russian agent? No goddamn idea—that must have happened after he’d left to seek medical attention.

  Into Vernum’s hand went the little Sig Sauer pistol taken from Marta. Fingerprints would register on the barrel even though the dead hand failed to grip it. Three brass casings were scattered nearby. He added subtle touches: a bit of hair from Marta’s brush, hair from the two girls. Then a swatch of cloth from the obnoxious brat’s pink-and-white pajamas, and a robe he had torn off the mother—this was just before the goddamn Glock had misfired. He spattered each with Vernum’s blood—just a little—then smeared footprints.

  Enough.

  He took out the GPS tracker and went up the hill. Stopped twice to grimace and clutch his side. The bullet wound was insignificant. The cramps had returned.

  • • •

  A BOMB SHELTER . . .

  Anatol recognized the construction immediately. A Type 4, Level 1-A Complete, designed by Russian engineers, then reassembled in Cuba. He wasn’t old enough to have served during that period, but he was old enough to remember, and to appreciate, similar shelters he had seen on the island and in what was becoming the New Soviet Union.

  Who knew? Maybe bomb shelters would be needed again.

  He started down the ramp, then dropped to a knee and waited, pistol ready. Someone was following him. He felt sure, even though he hadn’t seen or heard anything. On a night as dark as this, there were two possible explanations: he was either paranoid or there was someone out there wearing night vision. Not the cheap third-generation stuff either. CIA-quality.

  Yeah. To a thirty-year vet of clandestine services, the explanation felt right.

  Under any other circumstances, he would have called his contact at Cuban intelligence. The DGI could have a chopper here with an ops team hanging out the doors before the American escaped. But he couldn’t risk that. Not now, with Vernum lying out there, dead and dickless, and Marta’s house ablaze.

  A better idea was to drop everything and turn the tables. Hunt the hunter. He was, after all, the expert who had taught the world’s elite to track and kill. In his soul, in his marrow, that’s what he wanted to do. But there was another problem: the stomach cramps were worsening. The last time Vernum’s phone had pinged a signal was twenty-eight minutes ago. The ping had originated from here, the entrance of the shelter, but there was no guarantee the phone was somewhere inside.

  Vernum certainly was not.

  To hell with the phone. A Type 4 shelter contained everything four or fewer people needed to survive a nuclear attack. That included food, storage, sleeping cells, a kitchenette with woodstove—which was not a requirement in Cuba—and, of course, a chemical toilet with a septic tank.

  That’s what Anatol required, a toilet, and he required it soon.

  Three minutes he stood guard, which was less than protocol demanded, then slipped inside—but, first, removed the padlock and chain to reduce the risk of being trapped within. Clearing a room couldn’t be rushed, especially a room already lit by a kerosene lantern. Someone had been here, or was still here—Vernum’s killer or killers, judging from footprints. Bloody smudges suggested a person with small shoes had been accompanied by a man with feet almost thirty centimeters long. He peered around a concrete portal, then followed his pistol into an office area crammed with old military furniture and hardware.

  Fidel, he thought, or Raúl. This was one of their hideouts.

  It made sense. Their mistress Imelda Casanova lived nearby.

  Check under desk and table. Stop, listen, sniff the air. All clear, and the door to the next room was open wide. He repeated the process and entered the kitchenette, where the woodstove was still burning. But why on a balmy November night?

  Burning evidence, he decided.

  The stove could wait. The cramps could not.

  He carried the lantern to the next door and placed his ear against it. These prefab shelters were little more than sewage culverts designed to be dropped into three trenches that intersected. When the trenches were covered, occupants enjoyed the illusion of spaciousness because the tunnels branched into wings that could be sealed as private rooms. He had yet to reach one of those terminals. A moment later, he did. To his right, behind a vinyl curtain, was a cramped bathing area with a hand pump. In an adjoining stall was a Russian-made commode that resembled a wedding cake.

  Thank god.

  Training, though, demanded that the entire shelter first be secured. There were two doors here, both made of steel. One sealed an intersecting branch. The other continued along the length of the tunnel. He placed the lantern on the floor and chose the tangent branch. It opened into a dead-end room that was damp and smelled of mold. He thought it was empty until he retrieved the lamp. Inside was a religious shrine: sunflower and cane stalks tied into bundles, beads and cowrie shells, a statuette of the Virgin Mary on a ledge streaked with candy-colored wax from a thousand spent candles.

  On a lower ledge were bottles of rum that had evaporated and cigars rotted to dust. Except for one bottle that was full, recently uncorked. A fresh cigar was balanced on the bottle’s lip. They sat apart above three loaves of concrete that appeared structural until he moved closer.

  No . . . they were tiny crypts, infant-sized. Long ago, names had been scrawled in wet cement. Anatol didn’t care. He was more interested in what lay at the foot of the graves: a stainless fillet knife streaked with fresh blood.

  Perfect. Fingerprints would validate his story.

  Santería. It fit with the murder of a Santero.

  • • •

  THE LAST ROOM he cleared was the largest. It was a double concrete cell, where an old woman gowned in white lay sleeping, he thought at first, but then realized she was dead. Candles, burning in sets of three, sat on abutting nightstands.

  Fidel’s mistress?

  On the walls, photos in ornate frames proved that, at the end at least, Raúl was the only Castro she had cared about.

  Good riddance, he thought. All of you. Burn in hell.

  The room stunk of lavender and old age. Woodsmoke added an acidic edge. His stomach churned. All he wanted to do was use the commode, complete his search for the letters, then get the hell out. Protocol, however, demanded the basics. He’d already checked the bed and behind curtains that served as closet space. All that was left was a grated bulkhead that, he guessed, housed pipes, pumps, and conduit required for survival underground.

  He took a last look at the old woman. Attractive, possibly . . . for a Cuban—six decades ago. Dusty sheets, no splattering of blood visible. This dried-up crone hadn’t killed the Santero, but details of her condition might be useful. He didn’t touch the corpse. He used his nose and eyes. Body fluids stain. Decomposition starts when the heart stops.

  Convinced, he hurried to the steel grating that was flanged like a door, but wider and lower. It was locked.

  Strange . . . No lock was visible. He rattled the bars and raised the lantern. Yellow light spangled the floor within. Anatol squatted. He pressed an eye to an open square . . . and, for the first time that day, he grinned, and marveled at his sudden good luck.

  “So beautiful,” he whispered. “So very, very . . . oh my god. You are mine.”

  Hypnotic, the graceful lines that greeted him: a duo of Harley-Davidson Sportsters from 1957 . . . possibly ’58. The year was unimportant. Same with the patinas of dust. Same with his mild, fleeting disappointment when he saw there were only two, not three, motorcycles. Otherwise, it was better than finding gold. Step back half a century and these machines were fresh from the showroom floor. Tires were flat, of c
ourse, but, my god, even the rubber looked pretty good.

  Dazed, he stood. Had someone been maintaining these fine machines? Apparently so. Vernum had lied to him from the start, the freak. After all, the Harleys were here, not hidden in the cemetery west of Havana. Either that or the old woman’s grandson had lied to everyone. That made sense. Figueroa Casanova, as a traitor, would be a shameless liar. Details were unimportant now. The Harleys were his—or would be after he snuck them aboard a troop transport disguised as a cruise liner.

  Anatol couldn’t take his eyes off those sweet, sweet classic lines. Pristine, the motorcycles leaned on kickstands with a gangster swagger. Spoke wheels, Sportster in italics cast in steel. Chrome everywhere: hydraulic forks and drums, swooping handlebars and headlamps. Fenders and fuel pod on the nearest bike were brilliant jet-stream blue. The other Sportster was red—candy-apple red of a hue that pained his heart and knotted his stomach.

  No . . . it was another goddamn cramp.

  He grunted, clutched his side, and groaned. Kostikov wasn’t a garrulous man. It was unlike him to speak to leather motorcycle upholstery, but he did, saying, “You would be ruined. I’ll get you out of here before she starts to stink.”

  Imelda Casanova had been dead for at least two days, probably longer. He had seen enough corpses to know.

  Running was risky, so he hurried through the tunnel, taking short, fast steps, until he was close to the commode and out of danger. His belt buckle required both hands. He placed the lantern, then the pistol, on the floor and closed the curtain. Once he was seated, stomach cramps took charge. Finally, when he was comfortable enough to retrieve the pistol, he had to snake an arm under the curtain to find the damn pistol.