by John Lutz
“Yes,” said Carlucci, distractedly. He was watching the soldiers pile out of the Jeep. He said to Gonçalves. “They can stay put, can’t they?”
“They are here for your protection.”
Morales was still gazing dreamily upward. “A certain Señor Villardo sent musicians to serenade my aunt. They no sooner finished than another band appeared, sent by Señor Montero. The two most eligible bachelors in Havana, as Tía Maria was the most beautiful girl. She would have made the marriage of the season—if the Revolution hadn’t interfered.”
“Not to one of those two,” said Gonçalves. “Villardo was murdered in ’58, by another gangster who was jealous of his special relationship with Batista. Montero was homosexual and so determined to hide it that he had the poor peasant boys murdered as soon as he was finished with them.”
Morales threw him a hurt look. He was too lost in the past to think of a comeback. He turned away and mounted stone steps that looked as if they’d been gnawed by a giant. The banister was gone. Its fluted supports stood there like a row of tree stumps.
“Maybe you want to tone it down,” said Carlucci confidentially to Gonçalves. Ava had noted before his ability to sound mild and menacing at the same time. “This is a special moment for Ruy. After all the trouble you went to, to find that cross, you don’t want to spoil it.”
Gonçalves walked on as if he hadn’t heard. Carlucci followed Ava. The four soldiers were close behind them.
Morales said, “I’m gonna fix this place up. No matter how much it costs. And then I’ll move back here. There should be a Morales living here. I’ll get married again. Fill it with kids. What do you think, Arturo?”
“Sounds good, Ruy.”
The door was standing open, with only shadows behind it. Morales entered and said, “This was where Abuelo Francisco had his office, right by the front door. He didn’t want the womenfolk to bother him when he was sitting in here with his business associates, smoking cigars. When she was four my mom snuck in. Abuelo Francisco was very stern. But Tío Gusto laughed and let her sit in his lap and cut his cigar.”
“That would be Gustavo Latro,” said Gonçalves. “Who ran your father’s loansharking business. An excellent manager. Your father would order him to break the leg of a man who fell behind in his payments. But Latro would only break his left thumb, so he could go on working and paying.”
“Those are all lies! My family had nothing to do with loansharking.” Morales turned and came back at Gonçalves, arms swinging. The latter stood his ground. Morales tapped him on the chest. “Hey, camerón. You’ve about used up the points you’ve earned for finding the cross. And I haven’t even seen it yet. Let’s have less talk and more action.”
“Finding the cross was quite difficult,” the Cuban observed. “There were half a dozen families living here, until the place became structurally unsound. It was standing empty when I returned from Miami. Since then, it’s been full of diggers, archeological consultants, guards.”
“Six families living in my family’s house.”
“You find that disgusting.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Me, for one. I find your family taking up space for six disgusting. This way.”
He was standing in the doorway. Rather than entering, he led the way along the side of the house. Morales held back a moment, glaring after him, lips pouting, fists clenched.
“I don’t get you, pal,” Carlucci said quietly to Gonçalves. “You figure the project is so far along, Ruy can’t pull out? Don’t count on it.”
Morales was still hanging back. “Where the hell are you going?” he shouted. “The cross was buried in the courtyard.”
“No, I’m afraid it wasn’t,” Gonçalves called back, over his shoulder. “Family stories are unreliable. That’s what held us up so long. We found it in the backyard, near the smokehouse.”
Carlucci was hesitating too now. He glanced at the soldiers behind them, then turned to his employer. “I think we ought to come back tomorrow, Ruy.”
“Twenty feet from the cross and you’re trying to pull me back?” Morales walked past him.
In the overgrown backyard, earth-moving equipment was standing in the shadows. A work light on a stand threw glaring light into a large hole next to a dilapidated shack. A pair of soldiers with slung Kalashnikovs were standing by. One had something under his arm.
“The lead box!” Morales hurried forward. “It was buried in a lead box, my grandfather told me. Who says you can’t trust family stories?”
“Awful big hole for such a small box,” said Carlucci, following his employer.
“We weren’t sure where it was,” said Gonçalves, also moving up.
Ava was about to follow when her elbow was grabbed from behind. She turned to look at the young soldier who’d done it. He didn’t speak or return the look.
Gonçalves was adjusting the work light. “Open the box and show him,” he said to the soldier holding it. In what looked like a rehearsed move, the soldier smoothly unlatched the lock and swung back the lid.
The box was empty.
All the soldiers, including Gonçalves, burst out laughing.
Carlucci recovered first. “Ruy, let’s get out of here!”
“What the fuck?” Morales said. “Where’s my cross?”
“It would be my guess that your grandfather could not bear to get his hands dirty.” Goncalves was still chuckling. “Never having done a day’s work in his life. He ordered a servant to bury the cross. The servant sold it. It was melted down to make fillings for the teeth of workers. That is my hope, anyway.”
“That’s it, camerón,” Morales was spitting with rage. “You forgot, you need me more than I need you. I’m pulling all my money out of this fucking country. Tell the workers they got their last paycheck. They might as well put down their tools and go home.”
“They have already stopped work,” Gonçalves said. “The project is finished.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t need you anymore,” Gonçalves said. He turned to Carlucci. “You were right about the size of the hole. It’s big because it’s your grave.”
Carlucci lunged at the soldier behind him. The long thin blade of his stiletto caught the light. But the soldier was even quicker. Back-pedaling, he fired a burst into Carlucci at point-blank range. The bullets knocked him over backward. Before he hit the ground, all the soldiers were firing. The one who was standing next to Ava ran forward, also firing. The muzzle flashes were almost continuous in the near darkness. On Morales’s white suit bloodstains like crimson hibiscus flowers bloomed. He fell to his knees. Gonçalves walked toward him, firing his pistol. Morales’s face turned to pulp.
Ava spun and ran up the driveway to the Jeeps. Nobody’d been left on guard. Everybody’d wanted in on the firing squad. The shooting was still going on, the reports almost continuous. Ava jumped over the low door of the Jeep Gonçalves had been driving. Her hands swept the dashboard in search of dangling keys. It took her far too long to remember that Gonçalves had simply pressed the starter button. She did so and the engine roared to life. She stamped on the clutch pedal. Where was reverse? It was too dark to see the pattern on the gear knob, if there was one. She guessed down and right. The gears ground. She tried up and left. The long crooked gear lever slotted into place. She backed up into the street.
As she drove away, the shooting continued.
Others were hearing it. Heads were leaning out of windows. She wove to avoid little knots of people standing in the street, cyclists who’d stopped and put their feet to the ground. Ava’s heart was pounding and her mind’s workings were gummy with shock. Once she could no longer hear the firing but only the Jeep’s busy engine, she began to feel a little calmer.
She spun the car’s wheel to make a turn. She was heading for lights and people, trying to get away from the murder scene. That was enough for the moment. Up ahead were the lights of the punta de control. She didn’t think they were goi
ng to raise the barrier and salute for her.
She swung the car right, turning into a narrow calle. Switched off the Jeep and walked away from it. She walked for a long time, through mostly empty streets. She retreated from checkpoints and turned away from sirens. The sky began to grow light. She had no idea where she was, but over the tops of buildings she could see a dome that was a small replica of the U.S. Capitol.
That could have been taken as a bitter joke on her. She was still wearing the clothes she had put on to fly to Washington and go to the Capitol in search of Senator Chuck North. Here, she was conspicuous: a tall, pale redhead in a navy blue pantsuit and a filthy blouse that had once been white.
That would be the description given to the police and the army, who were looking for her. She expected they were looking for her hard. The soldier who had held her back from the killing ground had been acting on Gonçalves’s orders. He wanted her kept alive for some purpose she couldn’t guess at.
She was walking down the cracked pavement of another of those streets of once beautiful, now crumbling houses Havana seemed to have so many of. She passed concrete walls covered with mold or moss, broken columns, collapsing arches, peeling paint, and cracked and holed stucco. And enormous and brilliant bougainvillea and hibiscus that hadn’t been cut back in a long time.
A clothesline was strung across a wrought-iron railed balcony, on the second floor, just above her. The pants and blouses hanging out to dry among bras and panties looked like they would fit, at least from a distance. The window was dark. Ava glanced around. The street was empty, but that wouldn’t be the case for much longer. The city was awakening. This was her best chance.
A thick and flourishing vine looked strong enough to take her weight. In fact it looked more substantial than the building. She took hold with both hands, placed the soles of the feet against the wall, and climbed hand over hand. When she was level with the bottom of the balcony, she grasped one of the wrought-iron uprights and started to swing toward the balcony. The iron support tore out of the concrete and she nearly fell. She got both hands on the vine again, climbed higher, and swung a leg over the balcony. Then the other. She was happy to see that the blinds of the window were drawn. She unpinned a pair of blue jeans and a pale-blue blouse and a floral print scarf. Bundling them under her jacket, she climbed down and breathed a sigh of relief as she walked quickly away.
The next street was busier. People were on their way to work on bicycles or motor scooters. A truck with a flat bed and wooden railings was loading passengers who’d stand all the way to work. A barber with immaculate white smock and gleaming moustache was trimming a customer’s hair on the pavement. Fruit merchants were filling the bins outside their shops. A bike repair shop was opening its doors. So was the café next door. A woman was watering the flower boxes while a man was plucking a chicken for lunch. The place smelled agreeably of coffee. Ava ducked in.
Ignoring tables and chairs, she went into the women’s room. It was very clean, but the toilet was a reeking hole in the ground between footpads. Ava changed quickly. The jeans were too big for her in the waist and short in the leg. She stripped the belt from her pantsuit and cinched it tight. The blouse was a pretty thing, hand-embroidered with a scoop neck, but it was much too low and kept revealing her bra, no matter how much she tugged it this way and that. She draped the scarf over her conspicuous hair and tied it under her chin. Stepped back into her leather pumps, and went out.
The proprietress smiled and offered her café con leche.
It smelled wonderful, but Ava mumbled apologies and went out. She had no money, no identification, nothing. Her purse was on Morales’s yacht.
She walked on, feeling less exposed now. She didn’t even dart into a shop or alley when a police car or army Jeep went by. The streets and sidewalks were becoming more crowded.
She turned a corner and entered a park. Rows of tall, straight royal palms and benches lined a path. On the worn, dusty grass to her left, some teenagers were playing beisbol, using a stick for a bat and milk cartons cut in half for gloves. On the right, smaller children were playing a wild game of fútbol. The ball was so flat it was visibly misshapen. The kids had to kick it with all their force to make it wobble downfield. Their book bags marked out the goals.
Ava joined the solitary readers and cooing couples on the benches. She thought about what she ought to do. The United States now had an embassy, but not an ambassador in Havana, she’d read, though she had no idea where it was. There was nothing for her to do but go there, somehow get in to meet the non-ambassador, and tell him that Rodrigo Morales had been murdered by his supposed partner in the Cuban government. She would also repeat that baffling remark of Gonçalves, that the project was finished. She hoped they would take her seriously, even though she had no identification to prove that she was a former employee of the NSA.
Decision made, she rose and walked to the street. A glossy yellow 1957 Chevrolet pulled up at the curb and a smiling man leaned out. He must have noticed her air of urgency.
“Taxi?” he said.
Ava was tempted to accept the offer. Get in, and let the embassy pay him. But there seemed to be a punta de control at every major intersection. And they would be on the alert for her. It was going to be just as obvious to Gonçalves as to her that the embassy was her only possible destination. She’d have a better chance of reaching it on foot.
Guessing the embassy might be somewhere near the Capitol building, she turned toward its dome. As she passed a dilapidated church with a tall, leaning bell tower, an old lady in a black dress came out, stowing her rosary in her purse. She had a lined and puckered face with bright, kindly eyes. Ava asked her the way to the U.S. Embassy. The woman smiled and said she would show her. Ava offered her an arm to lean on.
They chatted. The old lady disapproved of Ava’s not being married and a mother yet, but was complimentary of her Spanish. She stopped abruptly and said, “That’s funny. There didn’t use to be a checkpoint here.”
It was a temporary one. Two police cars were parked bumper to bumper, blocking the street. In the distance, Ava could see the American flag waving over a building. She blurted, “Is there another way?”
Her tone, even more than the question, gave her away. The old lady’s eyes widened and became fearful. With a wordless cry, she backed away, pointing a thin finger at Ava.
Ava was about to make a run for it. Too late. The police at the checkpoint already had their weapons leveled on her. She slowly raised her hands.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Ava was sitting on the floor in an empty room. Unlike everyplace else in Cuba that she’d seen, it was new and clean. So recently built that it smelled as if the concrete hadn’t fully dried yet. Strips of fluorescent in the ceiling provided the light; they were underground.
Her captors had put her in the backseat of a car, the newest she’d seen on the island. Soldiers flanked her and another drove. They handled her gently, even respectfully, and did not even bind her hands, as if she was a valuable property they were eager to present to their officers. They did not speak to her and ignored her questions. The car took her out of the city, past fields of sugarcane and tobacco, over bad roads. The broken pavements eventually gave way to dirt. Noticing her coughing at the dust, a soldier closed the windows and turned on the air-conditioning. The car had delivered her to a cinder-block structure with a steel door. They’d descended stairs, put her in this room, and left her.
The door opened and a soldier, one of her escort, entered. He was carrying two steel and plastic chairs, cheap and new. He put them down facing each other and retreated to stand in the doorway. A moment later Gonçalves entered. He was wearing fresh olive fatigues, with high laced boots and a flapped holster on a web belt. He motioned her to sit facing him.
She doubted he’d had any sleep last night, but he looked none the worse. He gave the impression that something, his mission or perhaps just his great age, had taken him beyond the need for rest or food. The deep-s
et black eyes below tufty gray brows regarded her. The dense but close-trimmed gray beard concealed his expression.
“You have a good chance of survival,” he said. “At least in the short term.”
“If you think I possess valuable information, you’re wrong.”
He looked puzzled, but only for a moment. “Oh, yes. I told Morales I wanted to interrogate you. In fact, I do not. But you are going to serve my purpose.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You cannot. I am so glad we were able to find you again. It was unforgivable that you were allowed to slip away. My men . . . lost control of themselves.”
“So did you. You were trying to blast Morales’s corpse apart with bullets.”
“Yes. I admit that. I hated Morales. I didn’t hate Carlucci, oddly enough, though he was a bad man and deserved to die. Their idea for the Cuban people’s future was . . . their past. Serving foreigners who’ve come to enjoy a tropical paradise. Being preyed upon by gangsters and corrupt politicians. It was agony to play along with them.”
“I can believe that.”
He was silent, his head on one side, studying her. With his long nose and black eyes, he was like a bird of prey. “The toxic spill,” he said. “We haven’t been able to determine if it was freon for the air-conditioning system or fertilizer for the golf course.”
“So that’s what you’ve been working on. Instead of trying to find Morales’s cross.”
“It’s a matter of great interest to me, this thing that almost brought our efforts to ruin. You are a brave woman, taking on Rodrigo Morales all alone.”
“I wasn’t alone.”
“Yes, your aunt—no, cousin. Morales told me Carlucci had her murdered. I’ve read about your family. The Norths. Like the Bushes and the Kennedys. First you exploit the people to build up a great fortune. Then you go to Washington to serve the people.”