by Philip Kerr
I started to speak, but he closed his eyes as if he wouldn’t hear of being contradicted, and patted the briefcase on his lap. “No, really. I know quite a bit about you. It’s all in here. I have a copy of the CIA’s file on you, Gunther. You see, it’s not just Cuba where there’s a new spirit of cooperation with the United States. It’s Argentina, too. The CIA is just as keen to prevent the growth of communism in that country as it is here in Cuba. Because the Argentines have their own rebels, just as we do. Why, only last year the communists exploded two bombs in the main square of Buenos Aires, killing seven people. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.
“When Meyer Lansky told me about your background in German intelligence, fighting Russian communism during the war, I must confess I was fascinated and decided to find out more. Selfishly I wondered if we might be able to make use of you in our own war on communism. So I contacted the Agency chief and asked him to check with his opposite number in Buenos Aires, to see what they could tell us about you. And they told us a great deal. It appears that your real name is Bernhard Gunther and that you were born in Berlin. There you were first a policeman, then something in the SS, and finally something in German military intelligence—the Abwehr. The CIA checked you out with the Central Registry of War Criminals and Security Suspects—CROWCASS—and also the Berlin Document Center. And while there’s no record of your being wanted for any war crimes, it does seem that there’s a warrant out on you from the police in Vienna. For the murders of those two unfortunate women.”
There seemed little point in denying what he’d said, even though I hadn’t murdered anyone in Vienna. But I thought I might explain it away to his political satisfaction.
“After the war,” I said, “and because of my experience fighting the Russians, I was recruited by American counterintelligence: first by the 970th CIC in Germany, and then the 430th in Austria. As I’m sure you’re aware, the CIC was the forerunner of the CIA. Anyway, I was instrumental in uncovering a traitor in their organization. A man named John Belinsky, who turned out to have been working for the Russian MVD. This would have been in September 1947. The two women were much later on. That was in 1949. One of them I killed because she was the wife of a notorious war criminal. The other was a Russian agent. The Americans will probably deny it now, of course, but they were the ones who got me out of Austria. On the ratline they provided for escaping Nazis. They provided me with a Red Cross passport in the name of Carlos Hausner and got me on the boat to Argentina, where, for a while, I worked for the secret police. The SIDE. At least I did until the job I was on turned into an embarrassment for the government, and I became persona non grata. They fixed me up with an Argie passport and some visas, which is how I fetched up here. Since then I’ve been trying to keep out of trouble’s way.”
“There’s no doubt about it, you’ve had an interesting life.”
I nodded. “Confucius used to think so,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. I’ve been living here quietly since 1950. But recently I bumped into an old acquaintance, Max Reles, who, knowing my background with the Berlin Criminal Police, offered me a job. I was going to take it, too, until he got himself killed. By now Lansky knew something of my background as well, and when Max got himself killed, he asked me to look over the shoulder of the local militia. Well, you don’t say no to Meyer Lansky. Not in this town. And now here we are. But I really don’t see how I can help you, Lieutenant Quevedo.”
There was a shout from one of the soldiers digging in front of us. The man threw down his shovel, knelt down for a moment, peered into the ground, straightened, and then gave us a sign that he had found what they were looking for.
I pointed at them. “I mean, beyond the help I’ve already given you with this arms cache.”
“For which I am very grateful, as soon I’ll prove to your satisfaction, Señor Gunther. I may call you that, may I not? It is your name, after all. No, I want something else. Something quite different. Don’t get me wrong. This is good. This is very good. But I want something more enduring. Let me explain: it’s my understanding that Lansky has offered you a job working for him. No, that’s not quite the truth. It’s rather more than an understanding. As a matter of fact, it was my idea—that he offer you a job.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. I imagine he’ll pay well. Lansky is a generous man. For him, this is simply good business. You get what you pay for. He’s a gambler, of course. And like most intelligent gamblers he dislikes uncertainty. If he can’t have certainty, he’ll do the next best thing and hedge his bet. Which is where you come in. You see, my employers would like to know if and when he tries to hedge his bet on Batista by offering the reds financial support.”
“You want me to spy on him, is that it?”
“Exactly so. How difficult can this be for a man such as yourself? Lansky is a Jew, after all. Spying on a Jew should be second nature to a Nazi.”
There seemed to be no point in arguing with that. “And in return?”
“In return, we agree not to deport you to Austria to face those murder charges. You also get to keep whatever Lansky pays you.”
“You know, I had been planning a short trip home to Germany. To take care of some family business.”
“I regret that will no longer be possible. After all, if you left, what guarantee could we have that you would ever return? And we would have lost this excellent chance to spy on Lansky. Incidentally, for your sake it might be best if you didn’t report our conversation to your new employer. With this man, people whose loyalties are in any way questionable have a dreadful habit of disappearing. Señor Waxman, for example. Almost certainly Lansky had this man killed. It would be no different for you, I think. He is the kind of man for whom the saying ‘Better safe than sorry’ is a way of life. And who can blame him for being so cautious? After all, he has millions invested in Havana. And it’s certain he won’t allow anything to get in the way of that. Not you. Not me. Not even the president himself. All he wants to do is keep on making money, and it makes little or no difference to him and his friends if he does it under one regime or another.”
“This is fantasy,” I insisted. “Surely Lansky’s not going to help the communists.”
“Why not?” Quevedo shrugged. “Now you’re just being stupid, Gunther. And you’re not a stupid man. Look here, it might interest you to know that, according to the CIA, in the last American presidential election Lansky gave a substantial donation to both the Republicans, who won, and the Democrats, who lost. That way, whoever won would be sure to be grateful to him. That’s what I’m getting. Do you see? You can’t put a price on political influence. Lansky knows this only too well. As I say, it’s just good business. I’d do the same in his shoes. Besides, I already know that Max Reles secretly paid money to the families of some of the Moncada rebels. How do I know this? López volunteered the information.”
I looked back at the other car. López was asleep in the backseat. Then again, maybe he wasn’t asleep at all. The sun was shining directly on his unshaven face. He looked like a dead Christ.
“Volunteered. You think I believe that?”
“Eventually, I could not stop him from telling me things. You see, I had already pulled out every one of his fingernails.”
“You bastard.”
“Come now. That’s my job. And perhaps, a long time ago, it was yours, too. In the SS. Who can say? Not you, I’ll bet. I’m sure that with a bit more digging we could find some dirty secrets of your own, my Nazi friend. But that’s of no interest to me. What I should like to know now is if Reles gave this money with the knowledge of Lansky. And I should very much like to know if ever he does the same thing himself.”
“You’re crazy,” I said. “Castro got fifteen years. The revolution’s a toothless lion with him behind bars. And if it comes to that, so am I.”
“You’re wrong on both counts. About Castro, that is. He has plenty of friends. Powerful friends. In the pol
ice. In our judicial system. Even in government. You doubt me, I can tell. But did you know that the army officer who captured Castro after the Moncada Barracks attack also saved his life? That the court which tried him in Santiago allowed the man to make a two-hour speech in his own defense? That Ramón Hermida, our present minister of justice, made sure that instead of keeping Castro separate from all the other prisoners, as was the army’s recommendation, they were all sent to the Isle of Pines, where they’ve been allowed books and writing materials? And Hermida is not the only one in government who is a friend to this criminal. There are already those in the senate and the house of representatives who speak of amnesty. Tellaheche. Rodríguez. Agüero. Amnesty, I ask you. In almost any other country, such a man as this would have been shot. And deservedly so. I tell you this quite frankly, my friend. That I will be surprised if Dr. Castro serves more than five years in jail. Yes, he’s a lucky man. But you need more than good fortune to be as lucky as him. You need friends. And this leopard does not change his spots. The day Castro is released from prison is the day that the revolution begins in earnest. But I for one hope to prevent this from ever happening.”
He lit a little cigar. “What? Nothing to say? I thought you would need more persuasion. I thought you would need documentary evidence that I know your real identity. But now I can see I needn’t have bothered bringing the briefcase.”
“I know who I am, Lieutenant. I don’t need anyone to prove it. Not even you.”
“Cheer up. It’s not like you’ll be spying for nothing. And there are worse places to be than Havana. Especially for a man as comfortably off as you. But you’re mine now. Is that quite clear? Lansky will think you are his, but you’ll report to me, once a week. We’ll arrange to meet somewhere nice and quiet. The Casa Marina, perhaps. You like it there, I believe. We can choose a room where we won’t be disturbed, and everyone will think that we are spending time with some obliging little whore. Yes. You’ll jump when I tell you to jump, and squeak when I tell you to squeak. And maybe when you’re old and gray—that is to say, older and grayer than you are now—I’ll let you crawl back under your stone like the nasty little Nazi you are. But listen. You cross me just once, and I promise that you’ll be on the first plane back to Vienna with a rope under your ear. Which is very probably what you deserve.”
I took all of that without a word. He had me cold. Like I was a billfish hanging by my tail over the pier at Barlovento’s having my photograph taken. And not just any billfish. A billfish that had been heading home when it got itself hauled out of the gulf on a rod and reel. I hadn’t even managed to put up much of a fight. But I wanted to. More than that. I badly wanted to kill Quevedo now, even assassinate him—yes, I was more than happy to give him an opera-sized death. Just as long as I could pull the trigger on that smug bastard and his smug-bastard smile.
I glanced across at the army car and saw that López had recovered a little and was staring straight back at me. Probably wondering what kind of a lousy deal I had made to save his lousy skin. Or maybe it was Quevedo he was looking at. Possibly López was hoping he might get a chance to pull a trigger on the lieutenant himself. Just as soon as he had grown some new fingernails. He had more right to do it than I did, too. My hatred of the young lieutenant was only getting started. López had a good head start on me in that respect.
López closed his eyes again and laid his head on the seat. The two soldiers were pulling a box out of a hole in the ground. It was time to leave. If we were allowed. Quevedo was just the type to break a deal just because he could. And there would be nothing that I could do about it, either. I had always known that was a possibility, and had figured it was worth the risk. After all, it wasn’t my weapons cache. But I hadn’t figured on Quevedo turning me into his pet informer. Already I hated myself. More than I already hated myself.
I bit my lip for a moment, and then said, “All right. I kept my end of the deal. This deal. The arms cache for López. So how about it? Are you going to let him go, like you agreed? I’ll be your dirty little spy, Quevedo, but only if you keep your end of this. D’you hear? You keep your word or you can send me back to Vienna and be damned.”
“That was a brave speech,” he said. “I admire you for it. No, really I do. One day in the future when you’re feeling a little less emotional about this, you can tell me all about being a policeman in Hitler’s Germany. I’m sure I’d be fascinated to find out more and understand what it must have been like. I’ve always been interested in history. Who knows? Maybe we’ll discover that we have something in common.”
He raised a forefinger as if he’d only just thought of something.
“One thing I really don’t understand: why you ever wanted to stick your neck out for a man like Alfredo López.”
“Believe me, I’m asking myself the same question.”
Quevedo smiled a smile of disbelief. “I don’t buy that. Not for a moment. When we were driving over here from Marianao just now, I asked him about you. And he told me that before today he’d only met you three times in his life. Twice at the home of Ernest Hemingway. And once at his office. And he said it was you who did him a good turn, not the other way around. Before today, that is. That you got him out of a tight spot once before. He didn’t say what that was. And frankly, I’ve already asked him so many questions I didn’t feel like pursuing the matter. Besides, he has no more fingernails to lose.” He shook his head. “So. Why? Why help him again?”
“Not that it’s any of your damn business, but López gave me a reason to believe in myself again.”
“What reason?”
“Nothing you would understand. I hardly understand it myself. But it was enough to make me want to carry on in the hope that my life might mean something.”
“I must have misjudged him. I took him for a deluded fool. But you make him sound like some kind of saint.”
“Every man finds his redemption where and when he can. One day, perhaps, when you’re where I am now, you’ll remember that.”
23
I DROVE ALFREDO LÓPEZ BACK TO FINCA VIGÍA. He was in bad shape, but I didn’t know where the nearest hospital was, and neither did he.
“I owe you my life, Gunther,” he said. “And a great deal of thanks.”
“Forget it. You don’t owe me anything. But please don’t ask me why. I’m through explaining myself for one day. That bastard Quevedo has an annoying habit of asking questions you’d rather not answer.”
López smiled. “Don’t I know it?”
“Of course. I’m sorry. It was nothing compared to what you must have been through.”
“I could use a cigarette.”
I kept a pack of Luckies in the glove box. At the junction of the road north into San Francisco de Paula I pulled up and put one in his mouth.
“Here,” I said, finding a match and lighting it.
He puffed for a moment and nodded his thanks.
“Let me do that for you.” I fetched the cigarette from his lips. “Just don’t expect me to come into the bathroom with you.”
I put the cigarette back in his mouth and drove on.
We reached the house. There had been a strong wind the previous night, and some of the ceiba tree’s leaves and branches were strewn across the steps in front of the house. A tall Negro was picking them up and putting them in a wheelbarrow, but he might just as easily have been putting them on the ground, as if someone had ordered the man to honor López’s return with a carpet of palms. Either way, he was making slow work of it. Like he’d just got two numbers on the bolita.
“Who’s that?” asked López.
“The gardener,” I said. I pulled up next to the Pontiac and switched off the engine.
“Yes, of course. For a moment—” He grunted. “The previous gardener committed suicide, you know. Drowned himself in the well.”
“I guess that explains why no one here seems to drink water very much.”
“Noreen thinks there’s a ghost.”
“No, th
at would be me.” I looked at him and frowned. “Can you make it up the steps?”
“I might need a bit of help.”
“You should be in a hospital.”
“That’s what I kept on telling Quevedo. But by then he’d stopped listening to me. That was after he gave me the free manicure.”
I got out of the car and slammed the door. Around there, that was like ringing the doorbell. I went around to the passenger’s side and opened the door for him. He was going to need a lot of that in the coming days, and I was already imagining myself driving away again, leaving her to it. I’d done enough. If he wanted to scratch the back of his head, Noreen could do it.
She came out of the front door as López stepped out of the car and swayed like a drunk who still had room for more. Gingerly he held on to the window pillar for a moment with the inside of his wrists and then put his spine into a smile for Noreen as she hurried down the steps. His lips parted, and the cigarette he was still smoking fell onto his shirt-front. I grabbed the cigarette, like the shirt actually mattered. It was a sure thing he wouldn’t be wearing it to the office again. Lots of blood on sweat-stained white cotton was hardly fashionable that year.
“Fredo,” she said, anxiously. “Are you all right? My God, what has happened to your hands?”
“The cops were expecting Horowitz at their annual fund-raiser,” I said.
López smiled, but Noreen wasn’t amused.
“I don’t see what there is to joke about, Bernie,” she said. “Really I don’t.”
“You had to be there, I guess. Look, when you’ve finished getting stiff with me, your legal friend here deserves to be in a hospital. I’d have driven him to one myself, but Fredo insisted we drive here first and convince you that he’s all right. I guess he rates you a higher priority than playing the piano again. That’s quite understandable, of course. I feel much the same way.”