Castro Directive

by Mertz, Stephen

  "And please, no sugar in my coffee," Pierce said. "They always do that to me here,"

  he remarked when the waitress moved away.

  "It's not Cuban coffee without the sugar."

  "I don't need any more sugar in my diet, thank you."

  "Maybe they just want to sweeten up the gringo." She smiled and gave his hand a quick squeeze.

  "What do you want to talk about?" He reached for his glass of water.

  "Do you notice anything different about me?"

  He looked her over. He had no idea what she was talking about. "Let's see . . . A new blouse? A new bracelet? A new kind of makeup?"

  She waved a hand at him. "I am not smoking. I quit."

  "Again?" He'd lost count of the number of times Tina had given up cigarettes over the years he'd known her. "It is almost two weeks. Well, ten days tomorrow."

  "Congratulations. The tobacco industry must be hurting."

  "Oh, shut up. I never smoked more than a pack and a half a day."

  He glanced at the books, but Tina had other things on her mind. "Let me see, Nicky. I do not think I told you yet that Consuelo is engaged. I tried to convince her to drop the guy six months ago. He is no good. Now they are getting married. I cannot believe her. And I just found out Tia Juana did a trabajo for her, and that is how she got him."

  So Aunt Joan had cast a spell, Pierce thought. What else was new?

  Consuelo was Tina's younger sister, and Pierce knew he was about to hear a monologue on the conditions of her entire family—the three sisters, two brothers, and parents. Their meals arrived, and he let her talk.

  There were two sides to Tina. The warm, caring woman, the one who expressed concern about his bumps and bruises, the one he'd married. Then there was the catty side; the manipulator who tried to control through emotional subterfuge. That was the Tina he'd divorced.

  As she talked, a nagging thought occurred to him. Finally he interrupted her. "Say, Tina, have you ever asked Tia Juana to do a trabajo on us? You know, like to get us back together?"

  She stared at him, her mouth tight, her eyes narrow. "How dare you say that? You do not ask things like that. It is impolite; it is my business."

  "Hey, if it involves me, it's my business, too. Right?"

  "I thought you did not believe. You always make fun of Tia Juana."

  "I make fun of her name, that's all." It was no use trying to explain to her again that he regarded Santeria as a belief system that seemed to work if you were a part of it. If you thought you could be manipulated by spells, you probably would be. Still, he was curious to know if good ol' Tia Juana had been invoking the spirits or orishas to bring them together again.

  "When you make fun of her, you are offending the spirits."

  "What, they can't take a joke." He'd joked from time to time that Tia Juana's should do her invocations with tequila instead of Florida water. But Tina never found that funny. "Okay, I hereby apologize to all the orishas: Chango, Eleggua, the whole gang. How's that? And besides, you know I like Aunt Joan."

  "You are terrible," she huffed.

  Pierce was grateful when their lunches arrived and Tina moved on to the subject of life at the library. When they were almost finished, she asked about Gibby. "What is wrong with him, anyway? He sounded so cold on the phone."

  "Tina, you used to say that you didn't like him because he talked too much."

  "Well, he did. He is very self-centered. I mean we all are, but. . . You know what I mean."

  "Yeah. You just don't like him. You never did. So what's in the books?"

  She shook her head, gave him an exasperated look. "You are so damn critical of me. It is truly amazing I am still a whole person after all these years, Nicky. You must have a high opinion of yourself if you think I would ask Tia Juana to do a trabajo for more of the same."

  "Sorry I brought it up." He didn't lift his gaze from the books. If he were as bad as she made him out to be, she wouldn't be eating lunch with him. But she was always quick to forgive and forget…until the next time.

  "Okay, clean your mess up," she said, turning the two books around. "I do not want to get these dirty."

  He moved his plate aside and wiped the table with a paper napkin. Tina slid the smaller of the two tomes over to him. "It is on Mayan mythology and was edited by Redington. I marked a section on the crystal skull myth."

  Pierce opened the book to the page with the marker. On it was a photograph of a crystal skull. It looked identical to the one he'd seen in Loften's office. Next to the picture was a section on the myth.

  "I bet that crystal skull was stolen when the museum director was killed," she said, leaning over the table.

  "That's a good guess."

  "Are you looking for it for Raymond?"

  He put a finger to his lips as he concentrated on the paragraph below the photo of the skull. The myth of the twin skull was described as a parallel legend to that of the Plumed Serpent and the Smoking Mirror. One skull was a god of life and hope, a counterpart to the Plumed Serpent; the other was a god of death and darkness and correlated with the Smoking Mirror. It went on to explain that both myths invoked the duality principle of man, his inner struggle between the forces of "good" and "evil."

  Redington noted that the reunion of the skulls, as described in the myth, symbolized the resolution of the internal war of the human heart. Once freed from this duality, mankind would transform, shedding its old ways and moving to a higher level of existence. He went on to explain that it was the Plumed Serpent, rather than the Smoking Mirror, who could achieve the true union of opposites.

  "Hello, Nicky. I do not have all day. I have more to show you."

  He looked up, pleased that she wasn't pressing him about the investigation. "What's the other one?"

  She rubbed her hand lightly over the cover. "We just got this one in last week. It was not even shelved yet."

  Pierce glanced at the cover as she passed it to him. The Encyclopedia of the Arcane. "What is it?"

  "You wanted something on Noster Mundus, right? This is what I found."

  She reached over and opened it to a page she'd marked. It was a color plate labeled: EMBLEMS OF SECRET SOCIETIES.

  Pierce slipped his wire-framed glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on. He glanced over the page of emblems; they looked like coats of arms of European families. "What am I supposed to be looking for?"

  "Down at the bottom, on the right."

  He stared at a drawing of a scroll. On either side of it was a skull. Below the emblem were the words NOSIER MUNDUS.

  "That's it, right?" she asked. He nodded. "Think so."

  "Can you read the tiny letters on the scroll?"

  Pierce leaned close to the page. "I can't quite make them out."

  "Neither could I. Use this." She reached into her purse and handed him a magnifying glass. "I thought detectives were supposed to carry these."

  He guffawed. "Sure, Tina. And smoke pipes and wear funny hats."

  He leaned closer, at first focusing on one of the skulls. Its eyes were diamond shapes, instead of simply hollow, just as in the crystal skull he'd seen. He turned his attention to the scroll. "J-U-N-G-E-R-E," he spelled out.

  "Jungere. That is Latin for join, or bind together. I guess it means bind together our sorry world."

  "Why do you say that?" He looked up from the page.

  "There is one other reference to Noster Mundus in the book." She flipped to another page she'd marked. "It is just a short description."

  Pierce leaned forward again and read the passage:

  Of more recent origin, little is known about a group called Noster Mundus, which was founded by international financier Raymond Andrews. Their membership is by invitation; their numbers few and their meetings secret. A spokesman for the group, headquartered in Bayonne, France, defined their purpose this way: "We are a group of men and women who are working toward higher standards in public life, improved industrial relations, and a more sensible attitude between natio
ns. Furthermore, we believe that a few individuals can make a significant change in society, but first they must change themselves.

  It sounded vaguely like what Elise had told him, except she'd made it seem more ominous. He wondered why Andrews would locate the headquarters of Noster Mundus in Bayonne. Maybe he was planning on investing in a jai alai team, he thought wryly. Bayonne was located in the heart of the Basque region, and was where many of the top players grew up.

  "Does that help you?" Tina asked.

  "Sort of." He wasn't sure what to think of it. "Can I take it with me?"

  She snapped the cover shut. "Reference only." She pulled out the manila envelope from the back of the book. "I made copies of both pages, plus the section on the crystal skull from the other book. And there are also copies of two journal articles by Redington in there. They are both about mythology, and one talks about the crystal skull."

  "Good. I'll read them later. You're very efficient."

  She smiled coyly. "I did not think you ever noticed. I am efficient and you owe me $2 for the copying."

  "I'm buying you lunch. But if you insist…"

  "Never mind," she said, darkly.

  He ran a finger over the back of her hand. "I appreciate your help."

  She reached for his hand. "You know, it has been awhile since we have spent an evening together."

  She meant night, not evening, he thought, and slipped his hand away. "Tina, I don't think that's a very good idea. We're divorced, remember?"

  She pulled her hand from his side of the table, suddenly indignant. "You do not have to tell me the obvious."

  "Think about it. You and I are like a broken record that keeps playing the same notes over and over, and I don't think either of us likes the sound of it very well."

  Her eyes narrowed again, and her lips tuned down as she drew back and glared. "How long did it take for you to come up with that cute line?"

  He didn't answer her.

  "There is someone else. I was right," she said accusingly.

  "What I do is none of your business. That's what divorce means."

  He thought for a second that she was going to cry. But then anger tightened her jaw, and he braced himself for an outburst. "Well, I have been seeing someone, too," she hissed. "And you can just get your own goddamn reference material from now on." She swept up the books and the manila envelope as she sprang from the booth.

  "Hey, I thought that was for me," he protested, reaching for the envelope.

  "I feel sorry for you," she scoffed, drawing away. "You have no feelings for people. You cannot even express the way you feel. You do one thing, say another. It is like you are hiding behind—" She shook her head. "Behind I do not know what." She turned and strutted out.

  Pierce gazed glumly after her. Nice going. Get her mad and send her on her way. Her theatrics had captured the attention of the foursome at the next booth. He felt like explaining that they were just practicing for a play. In a way, it was true. The scene was a repeat of past performances. Another cycle was completed, and he knew what would follow, if he allowed it.

  She would call him in a day, two days, or a week, apologize; or she'd just stop over and they'd tumble into bed. Or his resolve would weaken and he'd stop by the library to make up. That's how it had happened twice, no three times, since their divorce. Divorce wasn't meant to be another version of a bad marriage. He knew at least that much.

  Chapter 17

  As soon as he left the restaurant, Pierce walked to the phone booth at the corner and dialed Elise's number from a scrap of paper in his pocket.

  He wanted to talk to her about what happened to him last night, but he also wanted to get Tina out of his mind.

  As the phone rang, he fiddled with the coin-return slot. "No one is in right now, but if you—"

  He hung up on the recording, paused a moment, then lifted the bulky Miami phone book on his knee and looked up Bill Redington's home number. When he found it, he deposited another quarter and dialed.

  A woman answered on the second ring. "Is Dr. Redington in?"

  "I'm sorry. I don't expect him until late this afternoon. He's teaching a couple of class."

  "On Sunday?"

  "Yes. At the Coral Castle."

  The tourist place?"

  "That's right. In Homestead."

  "Why there?"

  "I'm just his wife." She laughed. "You'll have to ask him. He should be home about three. Can I take a message?"

  "No thanks. I'll talk to him later." He rang off and glanced at his watch. What the hell. He didn't have anything planned this afternoon, and he wanted to talk to Redington about Noster Mundus. Besides, he was curious to find out why a psychology class would be held at the Coral Castle.

  As he drove to Homestead down U.S. 1, he thought about the break-in again. Scarjaw could have killed him, but didn't. It seemed that getting Nicholas Pierce out of the way would have been the expedient thing to do—unless whoever was behind the break-in needed him. On one hand, Elise and Redington wanted him to keep track of Andrews. On the other, Andrews was using him to pursue Elise and Redington. The break-in, he decided, was simply a warning to him to watch his loyalties. But whose warning?

  He glanced out the window at a clown waving to him in front of a car dealership. U.S. 1 stretched through South Miami like a bad dream, a garish commercial corridor devoid of character. The tropics had been buried beneath tons of concrete and only gradually did stretches of open, undeveloped land appear. He passed a billboard advertising the Monkey Jungle, then another for the Coral Castle. One more mile. He parked in the lot, walked to the ticket window, and passed $6 through the slot. He'd driven by the castle a few times on trips to Homestead, a town bordering the Everglades, but had never stopped. Now he felt strangely like a tourist on his home turf.

  "Could you tell me where Professor Redington is holding his class, please?"

  "Why didn't you say you were with the class? It's only two dollars." She pushed four ones back through the slot. "Go all the way to the back. It's in the garden, on the other side of the revolving door."

  "Do you know when the next class is supposed to start?" She looked to the side, probably at a clock. "In twenty minutes, I believe, sir. He's just finishing up a class now."

  "Thanks. Keep it." He shoved the four dollars back to the woman and walked away, following the sidewalk to the corner of the building where several people stood under a speaker listening to a tape recording about the castle. They were all about the same age, and they looked collegiate, so he assumed they were some of Redington's students who'd arrived early for the second class. Although he'd heard about the castle's history, he listened to the tape, refreshing his memory.

  The story was a strange twist on an old plot: a man's dedication to building a monument in memory of his great love—in this case, the young woman who spurned him. In 1913, Edward Leedskalnin was a twenty-six-year-old stonemason living in Latvia and engaged to a girl of sixteen. But the night before the wedding, his young love told him he was too old for her. Heartbroken, Leedskalnin left his homeland and wandered through Canada and the United States for several years. By 1920, he had de- veloped a mild case of tuberculosis and moved to South Florida for the climate. Here, he bought an acre of land for twelve dollars and began carving large blocks of stone from the four-thousand-foot-thick bed of coral rock below him. Using only primitive, handmade tools and with no helpers, Leedskalnin, a hundred-pound, five-foot-tall elf of a man, mined, shaped, and moved eleven hundred tons of coral rock. And it was all dedicated to his lost love.

  So love moves coral rock, he thought. Why not?

  When the taped history had run its course, he passed through an arch in the castle's coral wall. Inside was a courtyard filled with massive rock tables and chairs, towers and stairs, a stone sundial, a well, and an open-air, coral rock bathtub. Perched atop the far wall was a crescent moon, and spheres like planets. He joined a tour group in progress and heard the guide saying that Leedskalnin worked on the C
oral Castle only when alone, usually by lantern at night. "Whenever people came around, he would simply sit down and stop working until they left."

  A young man, probably one of Redington's students, raised his hand. "You said that the whole tower is one solid piece of rock and weighs more than twenty-eight tons. How could he raise it by himself? Even if he had hoists, he would need help."

  The guide, a rotund, middle-aged man wearing a Greek sailor cap and a two-day growth of gray-speckled whiskers, smiled. "That's an intriguing mystery, isn't it?"

  He led the group along the back wall and stopped where a block of coral rock was inset in an oval hole in the wall. "This door weighs nine tons." He pushed it with one finger, and it revolved on a central axis. For an instant, when the door was perpendicular to him, Pierce caught a glimpse of Redington talking to a group of students who were sitting on a lawn. "It's actually on its second set of gears," the guide continued. "One day several years after Ed died, the old ones underneath broke in half and the door fell over. It took six men and modern tools to put the door back up after they made new gears for it. One of the engineers who examined Ed's holes in the door said it would take a laser beam to drill them."

  He led the group over to the well and explained that Leedskalnin had no electricity or running water. Yet, he had developed a coral rock water filtration system and heated water in his own solar heating system. "He was truly ingenious. And virtually everything here is impregnated with the memory of his Sweet Sixteen. From the valentine-shaped table to the sixteen steps leading to his tower."

  They moved over to an L-shaped coral rock near the side wall. Water percolated in a shallow pool on the horizontal surface, and embedded in the upright slab behind it was a trail of shells leading from larger ones at the bottom to the center, where smaller shells formed a vague face. "When Ed himself led tours, he always walked right by here and never said anything about this one. I call it the Bubbling Altar. The water is funneled up through a lead pipe from the spring below and drains back down. Notice the shells leading up to the human face. Some people have said it's symbolic of the evolution of man."