Two of the rebels had stopped the Jeep. Manuel shot out another tire and Taco Sardo, who had started all the trouble in the first place, quickly raced into the road to put a pistol bullet into the driver’s throat.
The Jeep would not run. Four of them together managed to push it down the road a short distance. Then, with two others to assist, they lifted the crippled vehicle and carried it from the road, hiding it in the brush. They lifted the two dead soldiers and carried them far into the hills, leaving their bodies to rot. Maria scrubbed blood from the road, Fenton picked up shards of broken glass. When they were done, no evidence of the scramble remained. The road was clear again, empty.
That had been trouble enough. That alone had swelled the tension, had drawn everyone’s nerves back like a bowstring.
There was more Tuesday evening. Fenton was not sure what had happened, but while he sat among the rocks and kept a lonely vigil over the road, there was a sharp scream, curses in Spanish, a roar of pain. And later that evening he saw Garth with deep scratches across his face. And Maria wore a deep frown, and her eyes were pools of bitterness.
Now Fenton drank his coffee and smoked another cigarette. It was a moot point, he thought, whether Castro’s convoy would arrive before the rebels succeeded in killing each other off. Matt Garth obviously didn’t learn from experience; he was going to go on until someone put a bullet in him. Taco, blood-hungry after being wounded in the leg, would shoot at anything that came within range. Manuel sat lost in thought, still the leader but now gripped by his dream of power and glory. Maria burned with fear and anger. And Earl Fenton, the quiet man, the refugee of a teller’s cage in the Metropolitan Bank of Lynbrook, the man with cancer in his lungs, drank bitter coffee and smoked strong cigarettes and waited for Fidel to come and meet his death.
Late in the afternoon.
Or early in the evening.
Matt Garth liked things simple and direct. If you made things too complicated you just loused them up. When you wanted a woman, you took her. When you were killing someone for a price, you went ahead and killed him. And when you had a burn on for some son-of-a-bitch who had been giving you a hard time, well, you belted him one.
Which was what he was going to do.
He had just finished his session as lookout. He had crouched between rocks as mute and massive as Garth himself, his Sten gun perched along a rock ledge with a fresh clip in its breech. And four soldiers came rolling along in a battered Jeep, peering into the brush in a hunt for rebels. One of them, a beardless kid, had focused a pair of binoculars upon the precise spot where Garth was sitting. And Garth’s finger was poised on the trigger. One burst of the Sten gun would have sent the four rat bastards to hell. But the kid with the glasses had seen nothing, and the soldiers were gone now.
So to hell with being lookout. One of the Cubans had taken over, a guy named Jiminez, and Garth didn’t have to play lookout like a goddamn kid playing cops and robbers. He had better things to do.
The first thing to do was find Fenton. Fenton had it coming, all right. There was Maria, flat on her back and ready to take it and there was Garth ready to give it to her. And that buttinsky, Fenton, had to foul things up.
Garth laughed. The bastard wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if she came around and tried to serve it to him on a platter, but he had to louse things up for Garth.
Well, he’d know better next time.
Garth smiled. He was still smiling when he found Fenton by the dead campfire. Fenton didn’t return the smile.
“Say,” he said deceptively, “I wanted to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Private stuff,” Garth told him. “And listen—I’m sorry I belted you the other day. I lost my head. I got all hot over the broad and I couldn’t think about nothing else.”
“Oh,” Fenton said. “Well, it’s all right.”
“No hard feelings?”
“None.”
“Shake on it?”
Fenton seemed to hesitate, then accepted the huge hand offered to him. They shook hands solemnly.
“Now,” Garth went on innocently, “let’s talk. I got things you oughta know about.”
“Then tell me.”
“It’s private, Earl. C’mon—let’s head over into the brush a ways. These spics are all the time listening.”
Fenton shrugged, stood up. He was holding the Sten gun in one hand. Garth led him away from the camp, into the brush far from the road. Garth wanted to laugh—it was getting cute now. You could take these complicated guys like Fenton and you could twist them up six ways and backwards. The simple things were best, damn it.
“What’s it all about, Garth?”
“Oh, it’s interesting,” Garth said, stalling. “About this Castro bird. The one we hit in the head tomorrow.”
“You mean today. Any minute, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah,” Garth said. “Well, whenever the hell it is. It’ll be a gas telling them about it on Bleecker Street, you know? Can you see it?”
“Is that all you wanted?”
“Not exactly. Lemme have your gun a minute, Earl.”
Fenton handed him the gun. “Why do you want it?”
“I don’t want it,” Garth said, tossing the Sten gun into a clump of bushes. “I just don’t want you to have it, Earl, honey. Because I’m going to beat the crap out of you, Earl.”
“I don’t—”
That was all he said. Garth drove a fist to the pit of his stomach, doubling him over. Then a right uppercut straightened him out again, and a left cross to the chest put him on the ground. He lay there looking as though he had been hit by a truck.
“You fell for it,” Garth said. “No hard feelings? I got plenty of feelings, you son-of-a-bitch!”
He hauled Fenton up, smashed him full in the face. Fenton’s nose was bleeding now. He hit him, smashed his lips, felt teeth give way. This time he let him fall to the ground. He kicked him hard, felt ribs crack and kicked him again. The man on the ground looked lifeless, inert, but Garth knew he wasn’t dead. Matt Garth was a pro, damnit. He could beat the hell out of a guy and not kill him. He knew his business.
He whirled at a sound. Maria had followed them; she stood in the clearing now, gun in hand, her eyes on Fenton. The eyes moved to Garth and stared with hatred. But Garth ignored the gun. Beating Fenton had excited him; he always got excited after a muscle job, always needed a woman as soon as possible. And here was a woman—to hell with the gun in her hand.
He rushed her. There was a moment when she could have shot him, but she hadn’t expected his move and the chance was lost. His whole body slammed into her, knocking the gun from her grasp, tumbling her to the ground. He fell on her, and although she fought him she didn’t have a chance. He had her where he wanted her.
Fenton wasn’t going to stop him now, not this time. Nobody was going to stumble on them. This time, goddamn it, he was going to lay her silly.
He ripped off her clothes, stripping her naked, and struck her savagely in the face or stomach or naked breasts every time she tried to resist him. Then he fumbled momentarily with his own clothing, struck her again, forced her legs apart, went for her. She had given up, knowing resistance was useless, resigned to the inevitable.
He plunged deep into the soft warmth of her. She struggled anew, briefly.
And then, finally, it was over.
He got slowly to his feet. “You’re hot stuff,” he told Maria. “We’ll have to go another round pretty soon.”
Her eyes were sheer hatred.
Garth laughed. He looked at Fenton—conscious now, on his feet again, and able to function. Fenton had his gun back. And Maria moved to pick up hers.
“C’mon,” he told them. “We gotta go up against this Castro guy. Then we can have some more fun.”
He turned his back to them and started through the brush again, back to the camp site. Either one of them could have shot him. But he knew they would not. In both their minds, Castro came first.
And no one shot him.
Ernesto took a small sip of sour red wine. The heavyset Cuban put his glass on the table and smiled broadly.
“My friend,” he said. “You have decided to stay in Cuba, true?”
“I’ve decided to stay,” Turner said.
“And you will obtain papers? You will become a citizen?”
Turner nodded.
“A thought has come to me,” Ernesto said. “I have a friend, an official in the Department of Immigration. He is not busy these days. More people seek to leave Cuba than to enter here. This friend of mine, he is a fine man. You would like him, amigo.”
“You have many friends, Ernesto.”
“So? Can a man live without friends? Friends are the strength of a man. But to continue. This friend of mine, this official, might make matters simpler. There are complications to becoming a citizen, even in Cuba. What you Americans call pink tape.”
“Red tape.”
“So. My friend could cut this red tape. A preparation of papers, a signature, the application of an official seal, and you are a citizen of Cuba. Is it not simple?”
“Shall we go to this friend?”
“Very simple.”
Turner considered. “I have no money,” he said. “Wouldn’t it cost some money for this friend to expedite things?”
Ernesto sighed, extended his hands with his palms down. “This is a friend,” he said. “Not an acquaintance but a friend, as you are my friend. Once I was able to do a great service for this friend. Once he was in great trouble with the man Torelli of whom I spoke. He was a croupier, and there was the matter of a shortage. I was able to cover for my friend. Thus he would be happy to do a service for me in return. There will be no need for money in this case.”
“Well,” Turner said. “That’s different.”
“So. Let us go, my friend. And in an hour you shall be a free citizen of Cuba. Then we shall go again to the bordello, yes? I am in need of a woman. And we shall celebrate your citizenship.”
Two hours later Turner was a citizen of Cuba. The three of them—he, Ernesto and the Immigration official—had a drink in celebration. Then they taxied to a bordello which Ernesto liked. Turner was happy now. He was safe. He did not have to think of murdering Castro.
Castro’s convoy was sighted at seventeen minutes past six.
One of the new men had the watch. He saw the lead Jeep pull into view, saw it far off down the road. He gave the signal, and the rebel band began drifting into position, stationing themselves in strategic spots along the rock formations on either side of the road. Fenton was ready, gun in hand, heart hammering. He braced himself with his back against a boulder, then shifted and stretched prone in the gap between two huge rocks. He lay down on his belly and pointed his weapon at the road.
Time.
A Jeep with four uniformed soldiers led the procession. Directly behind it was a truck covered with a canvas top. There were men in it, Fenton knew. Soldiers, armed with rifles and machine guns and grenades. And behind the truck was another Jeep, with more soldiers.
So Castro was expecting an ambush. That was obvious—you didn’t travel with the entire militia around you if you thought you were one hundred percent safe. There was a third Jeep, with more soldiers. Then a long Lincoln, a limousine, with the shades drawn.
Castro had to be in the Lincoln. He would be traveling there, behind drawn shades, probably cool and comfortable in an air-conditioned car. And there was a pair of Buicks behind the Lincoln, then a slew of Jeeps with still more soldiers.
Fenton drew a deep breath.
The convoy crawled forward. Fenton began to ache inside for a cigarette, for a cup of coffee, for something. He steadied himself, steadied his gun. It seemed now that everything had to go wrong, that the convoy could not help getting wind of the rebel trap. Fenton looked across the road, saw Manuel aiming his gun through a blind of branches arranged for camouflage. He saw Maria in the shadow of another rock, then looked to his right and listened to the heavy breathing of another rebel. God, they were too easy to see, too easy to spot! They did not stand a chance.
The lead Jeep was approaching. It was already level with Taco Sardo, who had the post furthest to the rear. Fenton listened to the motors of the Jeeps and the truck, heard a bird singing in a nearby shrub, drew in his breath sharply when he heard another rebel shift position and snap a twig. It seemed to Fenton that any sound, however slight, would be heard by Castro’s forces, that any noise at all would give away the rebel position. He knew this was ridiculous but he couldn’t help feeling it. He tried to hold his own breath, tried to keep from making any sound at all.
The convoy kept coming. The plan was a simple one—they were to hold fire until the lead Jeep came abreast of the position held by Garth on one side and a man named Jiminez on the other. Then they would open fire. Garth and Jiminez were to shoot down the lead vehicles, blocking the road at the front. Sardo and a few others would be doing the same to the Jeeps at the rear of the procession. That would keep Castro in the middle, would prevent the big Lincoln limousine from escaping either to the front or to the rear.
The rest was up to the rebels in the center, to Manuel and Maria and Fenton and to one or two more. They would level their guns at the Lincoln, going for Castro, for the big fish in the pond. It would be easier with a few grenades or a bazooka, Fenton thought. Something that would stop a Jeep with a single shot. It was harder when you had to make Sten guns do all the work.
And then he stopped thinking, because the time was coming.
The Lincoln was in range now. Fenton looked directly at it, looked at the gleaming metal, the drawn curtains. He steadied himself and his gun, pointing the barrel at one of the windows in the rear. At any moment Garth and Jiminez would start shooting. That would be his cue.
Damn it all, go on!
His heart stopped beating for those two seconds. He had an awful premonition of disaster and death that refused to leave his mind. His hands gripped the Sten gun shakily.
Then a shot rang out.
Fenton turned into a machine. He sprawled on his belly and held the Sten gun’s trigger down, spraying bullets against the window of the Lincoln. But things happened quickly, too quickly. The government forces reacted with the speed of light, almost as if they had been waiting for the shot with the same rapt attention Fenton himself had displayed. The lead Jeep spun off the road against the rocks and soldiers piled out of it, guns in hand. The second Jeep peeled off after it, and the canvas-topped truck barreled off to the other side with men spilling out of it on the way. The bullets didn’t stop Castro’s limousine and the other vehicles weren’t piled up in front of it. The road was unblocked.
And the Lincoln limousine went like the wind. The driver pressed the gas pedal to the floor and the big car responded magnificently with the coiled grace of a striking cobra. The car surged forward, the road clear ahead of it, and Fenton’s bullets didn’t seem to be having any effect at all. He tried for the tires and missed. And he knew instinctively that Castro was on the floor, that he had hit the floorboards when the first shot rang out, that he had escaped the trap.
The Lincoln didn’t stop. More gunfire chased it and more gunfire failed to stop the big car. But now their fire was being returned. The soldiers in the road were caught in the middle, with rebels in the rocks on either side. But there were too many of them—fifty or more, Fenton saw, as Jeep after Jeep emptied out men with guns.
His gun chattered again and men fell in the road. He broke open the gun, put in a fresh clip, fired. Returning fire splayed the rock to one side of him as he shrank back instinctively, still holding down the Sten gun’s trigger, still raining bullets on the men in the road.
Manuel’s voice was high, shrill, calling for a retreat. Fenton saw Taco Sardo a short distance down the road. The boy got up to run, but this time no rifle bullet hit him in the leg. This time a machine gun chased him and a line of bullets trailed down his back from his neck to the base of hi
s spine. Taco fell dead and the battle raged on.
Fenton scrambled to his feet, backed away into the woods. It was their only chance, he knew. The government troops would crush them in open battle, even with the superior position the rebels held. Sheer weight of numbers was too much to overcome with a positional advantage. They had to retreat, had to get back into the cover of the jungle. They knew the jungle and the Castristas did not. It was the only chance they had.
Bullets dug up the dirt at Fenton’s feet. He was running now. The weeks in the jungle had toughened him, had made him wise in the ways of war and outdoor living. His feet were sure of themselves, quick and easy on the treacherous paths. He ran back in the direction of the camp, away from the road and the battle.
He saw Garth on one side of him, Maria on the other. They, too, were running. Garth charged on ahead, and Fenton saw Maria raise a pistol to shoulder height. He gaped.
The girl, running, fired the pistol. And Garth caught the bullet in the back of his head.
He pitched forward and died.
Fenton ran, found cover, took it. He steadied himself in a clump of thick brush, replaced the Sten gun’s empty clip with still another one, caught his breath. So Garth was dead—Garth lived through the fighting and died because a woman on his own side hated him enough to shoot him in the back. Garth was dead, and other rebels were dead, and the government troops were still unsatisfied. They wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t just drive on, even though the rebel assault had been crippled. Now they were moving on, into the brush. They wanted to kill the rebels to the last man.
It looked as though they were going to.
Fenton saw Jiminez break for cover from the road. He saw a soldier pull the pin from a grenade, saw him hold it, counting quickly in Spanish. Then he watched the lazy flight of the grenade, soft and fat like a plump bird. Jiminez ran and the grenade followed. Then the grenade dropped to the ground at the feet of Jiminez and the man screamed in terror.
Killing Castro Page 11