2 Green to Go

by John H. Cunningham

  “What’ll we do with Ramón if we find him?” I said.

  “I’ll kill him!”

  Nina clutched the steering wheel so tight, her hands were white.

  A crazy thought hit me. “Nina, please slow down and let’s talk about this.”

  She shook her head as if I was an irritating child.

  “Technically, you haven’t done anything illegal—”

  “Oh, really?” she said. “You want to defend me when the Secret Police arrive to drag us to jail?”

  “Ray and I coerced you. We found out about the plane that crashed on your farm back in the sixties and forced you and your grandfather to cooperate.”

  “Of course, now I feel safe.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Who would believe that after we went to Havana? Ramón will make it perfectly clear that I helped you.”

  “Even so, murder’s a whole different story. Believe me, I’d like to strangle him with my bare hands too, but we need a better plan.”

  She shook her head once, and a moment later let her foot off the accelerator pedal. We slowed down to a moderate pace and Nina slumped in her seat.

  “So what’s the better plan?”

  We drove for a while in silence, and I pulled together snippets of information we’d learned from the PNR guard who worked with Gutierrez, what Juan had said about Sanchez, and what this guard from MININT had inferred. It was clear that the search for the treasure hadn’t abated, and that at least one of the groups had found the Maceo’s farm in the Pinar del Rio. So others would too, and there’d be worse trouble the longer this went on.

  From what I could deduce, Sanchez, Gutierrez, and the Peruvians had some sort of partnership that, given their separate searches, seemed to have gone sour. Good news. I had no idea where Gunner fit in—he could have forced himself in like he tried to with Ray and me—but I hoped his being an outsider would keep him from rallying the resources to find us. Honor amongst thieves and all that, but considering the power vacuum in Cuba, and the brewing revolution in Peru, and the greed of the thieves, it wasn’t hard to imagine these groups being at each other’s throats.

  The question was, how could I manipulate that situation to our benefit and still provide the Maceo’s protection after Ray and I were gone?

  The answer came to me and I flinched.

  It was either extremely foolish, or very bold.

  But my entire life had been defined that way, so why should this be different?

  “Take me to Viñales,” I said.

  “What?” She looked at me. “Why?”

  “I’m going to surprise Sanchez and try to get the wolves focused more on each other, rather than us chickens.”

  She stared at me over her shoulder as she drove. “The Director of the Secret Police? You’re crazy, Buck. Why would you do that?”

  “I’m betting Sanchez was in on the Atocha theft with Gutierrez and the Peruvians. He has connections Gutierrez would have needed.”

  “Sanchez is a monster—ask any Cuban.”

  “I never won a fight clinging to the ropes, Nina. Nobody would expect this approach, which gives me the benefit of surprise, and hopefully, sincerity.”

  She wasn’t happy about it, had what seemed a few choice words in Spanish, in fact, but she turned south, toward Viñales.

  46

  The approach to Viñales wound through a breathtaking valley. Mango fields and guava farms lined the road and filled the air with their delightful fragrance. The horizon was dominated by giant karst plateaus, known locally as mogotes, which rose as high as a thousand feet and were flat on top like mesas. We wound through forests as the road crisscrossed up out of the valley toward the town.

  At the top we found the village of Viñales, with its lovely colonial buildings that dated back into the early 1800’s. Nina drove slowly through the town and parked the truck on a side street.

  “Hotel Las Jasmines is on top of that hill.” She nodded toward a driveway up a steep incline. “I’ll wait for you there.” She pointed to a small restaurant on the corner.

  “If I’m gone more than an hour, go home, get your grandfather, and drive to Havana. If they catch up with you, claim ignorance, or say we stole your truck, or held you hostage and forced you to help us.”

  Our eyes locked for several seconds, then I turned to go. I felt her hand grab my shoulder. She leaned into the passenger seat and pressed her lips against mine. She held her arm tight around my neck.

  “Be safe. I’ll be waiting.”

  The climb up the hill in the wet heat produced sweat blossoms all over my back and chest. At the top, I stopped to catch my breath. The view was spectacular.

  Why couldn’t I be here for a romantic holiday with Nina?

  I wiped the sweat off my brow, brushed my fingers through my hair, and tried to make myself presentable. The simple, elegant three-story building looked like it belonged in Provence, France. There were only a few vehicles parked outside, two of which had Havana license plates.

  Once inside the lobby, I saw a large pool through the back windows, flanked by large chairs and white umbrellas. I continued on as if I belonged there and headed straight into the bar. Every surface was a dark stained wood except for the wall behind the bar, which was red brick. Had I spoken passable Spanish, this desperate play might not have felt so much like a really long shot. I had to be that much more cautious.

  Now that I was here, my heart pounded double, and I had a sudden epiphany that this might be the most foolish move of my life. Guts were one thing, boldness another, but to walk into the lion’s den without so much as a chair and whip was just plain idiotic. I sat on one of the yellow cane stools and the bartender stood patiently in front of me.

  “Havana Club, siete años, y Coke.”

  I did know how to order a drink, at least.

  I took a napkin off the bar, borrowed the bartender’s pen, and wrote a note. I folded the note in half, wrote Sanchez’s name on the front, and asked the bartender to have a bellhop take it to Señor Sanchez’s room. He disappeared toward the front desk. He returned a moment later and nodded.

  Crap. He must really be here.

  I wanted to guzzle the rum to steady my nerves, but it was more important to keep my head as clear as possible.

  It took only seven minutes until Sanchez strode into the room with two goons in tow. Dressed in white linen pants and shirt, he stopped as soon as he entered and put both hands on his hips. I held my glass up to salute him and held my breath.

  A slow smile creased his face. He waved his men back, and when they stayed inside the door, he flung his wrist at them and growled something that made them scamper into the lobby.

  “Buck Reilly. I can’t believe my eyes.”

  “Can I buy you a drink, Sanchez?”

  The bartender had already poured him something, which Sanchez carried to a table in the back corner of the room, where we took seats across from each other.

  “Social call?” he said.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, all right? You know my plane crashed on your lovely island, but my guess is you don’t know all the details. I’ll tell you everything I know, in exchange for two favors.”

  “Really, Buck. Favors?” The smile on his lips did not match his eyes.

  “I came to you, that should be worth something. You’ve been looking for me, but you’ve also been looking for Manny Gutierrez.”

  At the mention of Gutierrez’s name, Sanchez’s right brow arched.

  “And so have the Peruvians,” I said.

  Sanchez glanced over his shoulder, then scooted his chair closer to the table and leaned forward.

  “You’re well informed, Reilly. Perhaps you really are CIA.”

  “No, just a guy that got double-crossed by your Hero of the Revolution. A guy whose only remaining possession is now a crumpled heap of metal on a desolate beach, ninety miles from home.”

  “Tell me what you want and I’ll decide what to do with you,” Sanchez said.

  “I w
ant you to arrange a boat to get me out of here tomorrow—”

  “Hah! Certainly! I’ll have the Guardia Frontera take you anywhere you’d like to go.” He glared at me. “Don’t test my patience.”

  “My second request is that you find Gutierrez and let him rot indefinitely in a piss-coated cell, with no hope for a trial.”

  “Now that we agree on.”

  The waiter appeared with two more drinks. Sanchez’s appeared to be sparkling water. I took a gulp of rum to finish my first drink and handed it to the waiter. Sanchez’s eyes glistened as he smoothed his hand over his close-cropped silver beard.

  “As you already know, the Atocha treasure was stolen in Key West, nearly a week ago,” I said. “The thieves also stole a schooner called the Sea Lion and kidnapped its captain, who happens to be a friend of mine. The police unfortunately thought my friend was one of the thieves, so I set out to find and rescue him. I started in the Bahamas, on gut instinct, but then found out that was a waste of time.”

  “What made you realize the ship was not in the Bahamas?”

  “That’s where the story will start to interest you. I got a phone call from a familiar voice with a slight Spanish accent, who told me the Sea Lion was headed for Panama, and from there to Peru.”

  “And who was this tipster?” Sanchez said.

  “He didn’t give me his name, but I’d bet my life it was Manny Gutierrez.”

  “So you have.” He let his statement sink in. “What makes you so certain?”

  “I wasn’t, at first, but when I went to Panama, an old friend who’s an official in the Canal Zone confirmed that the Sea Lion was awaiting passage through the canal and directed me to its coordinates. An American mercenary-type had been following me around the Bahamas in a nice Gulfstream jet, and he showed up in Panama too.”

  Sanchez sat forward in his chair.

  “In fact, I had to elude him there, but as you’re undoubtedly aware, he’s shown up here and brought the Peruvians with him.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “He goes by Gunner, but his name is Richard Rostenkowski.” I took a deep breath. “He’s a mercenary. In fact, he’s so ruthless he was kicked out of Iraq. My guess is that he’s tied in with Gutierrez too, but he’s obviously connected with the Peruvians.”

  Sanchez massaged his beard long enough to put pieces together. “So what happened in Panama?”

  “I was able to capture the vessel, but my friend on the Sea Lion was wounded during the battle and died shortly afterwards. But not before I spoke with him.”

  “And what did you do with the … cargo?”

  “I loaded it on my plane, scuttled the Sea Lion with those murdering bastards on board, and headed back toward Key West. But there was one important detail my friend told me before he died.” I waited, but Sanchez just stared at me. “He said that several hours after they set sail from Key West, the Sea Lion rendezvoused with another boat and transferred half the treasure to them. Gutierrez was on the boat they met.”

  I gambled that if Gutierrez had disappeared on him it would confirm his suspicions about being double-crossed. The information about Gunner spiced that up nicely, too. Sanchez had a hell of a poker face, but I sensed a slow boil beneath the surface.

  He sat back in his chair.

  “Congratulations on finding the boat, and too bad about your friend.” He sipped his sparkling water. “But if you were headed to Key West, how did you crash your plane on the shore near Puerto Esperanza?”

  “Before I ever left Key West—before I even knew about the theft of the Atocha treasure—a friend in the Coast Guard tipped me off that a group of Cuban divers had been searching the Florida straits for Gutierrez’s boat. The one I sank when he was on the run back to Cuba.”

  “I’m well aware of your involvement in that, but why would you care any more about that boat?”

  “By asking that, you’ve just confirmed that Gutierrez has been holding out on you since he returned to Cuba.”

  “I’m growing tired of this, Reilly. What are you saying?”

  “Gutierrez had stolen some very valuable maps from me before he took off in that boat. Archeological maps and letters I’d obtained while at my former company. He knew there was tremendous value to—some would call them treasure maps—either to sell or pursue treasures himself. So when I got the tip that Cuban divers were searching for that boat, I knew it had to be Gutierrez, and I decided I’d do my damndest to beat him to it.”

  “But first you had to rescue your friend?” Sanchez shook his head. “You’re a fool, Reilly. No wonder your business failed.”

  “It was because my business failed that my priorities have changed.”

  “Then what?” His voice had an edge to it now. Sanchez was not the type of man who tolerates being double-crossed, lied to, or out-smarted.

  “Gunner and the Peruvians got to my contact in Colón, so they knew I’d found the boat. Before I left Panama, Gunner invited me onto his G-IV and showed me all his fancy tracking equipment to let me know how he’d been following me.” I lowered my voice. “He also showed me a secret panel inside the plane that held automatic weapons and rocket launchers.”

  Sanchez touched the cell phone on his belt like it was a six-shooter.

  “How did you elude this Gunner to get to the Sea Lion, then?”

  “Slashed his tires as I got out of his plane, then hauled ass.”

  Sanchez actually smiled at that.

  “By the time I intercepted the Sea Lion, got the treasure, and headed north, Gunner and the Peruvians were on my tail again but a couple steps behind. When I got up here Gutierrez was waiting for me at the wreck site with a rocket launcher and shot my plane down. I was able to glide toward the closest land, which happened to be western Cuba, and crash-land in the water. Some local fishermen towed me to shore.”

  Sanchez had the decency to look a tad uncomfortable. His charade was over.

  “So where’s the treasure?”

  “I had to dump the weight out over the wreck site in order to remain airborne after Gutierrez blasted my plane—”

  “While still flying the plane?”

  “I had no choice,” I paused to stare into Sanchez’s narrow eyes. “My guess is Gutierrez either marked the location or dove down and collected the boxes I dumped after I went down in flames.”

  He stood and walked around the table. After two complete circuits, he stopped and bent toward me.

  “This is all very fantastic, Reilly. Why should I believe you?”

  “Because I just want to get the hell off this island and go home. If you get me a boat and take me back into U.S. waters, you’ll know I left empty-handed.”

  “Or perhaps you know exactly where the treasure was dumped and will return to collect it yourself,” he said.

  “I was after my friend, Sanchez, not treasure I couldn’t do anything with.” I shrugged. “Sure, I might have been given a reward, but if I can get my maps back off that wreck—”

  I stopped mid-sentence. Both of Sanchez’s eyebrows lifted this time. Greed is such a fine motivator for most men. I’d gambled that it would be for him.

  “The fishermen who rescued me could vouch for the fact that my plane was empty. In fact, one of them, his name was Juan, let me sleep in his house that night.”

  “His last name?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Gutierrez and his men killed him yesterday. I guess he’s trying to clean up his trail, which is why he’s been looking for me—and why I came to tell you the whole story. Even if he gets me before I find a way home, you’ll catch up to him, sooner or later.”

  Sanchez stood tall. He glanced to the restaurant door, where I assumed his goons were just outside.

  “And why should I let you go, Reilly? I could make you take me to the location where your plane was hit by the rocket.”

  “Three reasons, Sanchez. First, our countries are moving toward normalized relations and I radioed my friend in the Coast Guard, Ensign Frank Nardi, to tell
him I was coming to meet you. Second, you want me gone before the Peruvians find out I met with you. And third …”

  I pulled a piece of paper out of my pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table.

  “These are the coordinates my friend at the Coast Guard gave me where Gutierrez’s boat sank, where he nailed my plane, where I dumped the treasure.”

  The coordinates were written on a piece of personalized stationary emblazoned across the top with: ‘Ensign Frank Nardi, United States Coast Guard, Officer of the Deck, Cutter Mohawk.’

  “I just want to get home,” I said.

  Sanchez rubbed his palms together and a slow smile came over his face.

  “Where have you been hiding and how are you getting around?”

  “I stole a car. It’s parked in Viñales. I’ve been sleeping in fields and abandoned barns. Just smell me.”

  I lifted my arm and leaned my armpit in his direction. He stepped back with a sour expression.

  “You’re a pathetic loser, Reilly. But this is too fantastic not to be true. It fits with … some of the pieces I have deduced. Meet me at the public pier in Bahia Honda, tomorrow morning at eight. I’ll have a boat meet us there, and we’ll tow another boat behind it for you to return to Florida, once we confirm the location of Gutierrez’s sunken boat.”

  No handshake marked my departure, and the goons watched me closely as I passed through the lobby.

  If Gunner’s G-IV was still in Havana, my guess was that it would be seized within the hour. I still hadn’t figured out how he’d connected with the Peruvians, but I didn’t care anymore.

  Sanchez could have followed me or kept me captive and forced me to cooperate, but my visit was so freaking crazy I think he believed me. Lies work best when wound around enough truth to be plausible. My days of hustling Wall Street analysts still served me well, even with my rehabbed sense of values. And if he bought my story, Sanchez would call off his hounds.

  No matter what happened now, at least Gutierrez was in deep kaka here at home.