I had lived with thirst before and knew how to control it. Right now, though, I could use a drink, and it wasn’t water I wanted, but a tall, cold beer in a frosted glass with the suds running down the sides....
For some reason the cramped quarters weren’t as stifling hot as I had expected them to get. The floorboards didn’t join and a coolness seemed to seep upward, musty but easy to live with, like being stuck in an old root cellar.
During the first eight hours, dozens of feet had tramped through the premises, adding to the confusion of voices. Somebody was continually chasing the kids out, trying to mollify the protests of the residents. Twice, agents had stood right outside my cubicle and discussed the search, angry voices muffled but very audible.
“These spics snowed us,” the husky-voiced one called Bud had said. “They were in on it.”
“You think these people arranged Morgan’s escape?”
That was the one called Lou, and I found myself grinning. Bud and Lou. Abbott and Costello. I began picturing them that way.
“That’s what I think,” Bud said.
“How the hell did they manage it?”
“The kids were in on it.”
“Get serious! The kids? They’re too little, too young. They couldn’t organize a burping contest.”
“Those little bastards did it, Lou, I’m telling you.”
“No way, Bud—there wasn’t time to plan.”
“They didn’t plan it, Lou—the grown-ups did.”
“Bud, kids don’t react to orders like that! Not in a matter of seconds. Morgan spotted his tail, took advantage of the situation, used those kids for cover, and somehow got through the cordon.”
“But how did he get through the cordon?”
Who’s on first?
A neighborhood house-to-house search was instituted and the feds went through the routine again. Then I heard a voice that echoed back from the recent past and I felt that grin pull at my mouth again.
Crowley.
The big cheese had taken personal charge and everybody was catching hell. As a matter of policy, they were going to station some people around in case I was still holed up, but their own damn self-assurance in their techniques was going to screw the pooch for them.
“It’s just precautionary,” Crowley said, referring to keeping a minimal presence in the neighborhood. His voice was as bland as my memory of his face. “Morgan’s gone. He knew he was being tailed, and walked us into an area where he had allies and resources, and he’s far, far gone. You all know his dossier—if we want him back, we have to start from scratch.”
So I stayed where I was and listened to the sounds coming back to normal. It would be dark out now, and supper was finished. Faintly, the sounds of a television program came through to me—seemed my saviors watched Johnny Carson, like all good Americans, so I knew it was after eleven o’clock.
I waited.
I changed positions a few times.
And I waited some more.
Then I heard the scratching at the boards in front of my face. I had been in the dark so long my night vision was at its fullest and I saw the section move and slide outward and looked at the funny little guy with the scraggly mustache in the loose light-blue short-sleeve shirt and baggy darker blue pants, standing there trying to peer inside like some fool searching for a missing cat.
He said, “Señor...?”
“I’m here.” After all those hours, my voice was scratchy.
His bandito mustache rose in a big smile. “Ha, I knew you were not going anywhere, señor! But at first I thought you might have lose the conscious...or maybe you were wounded and we did not know, and some terrible thing happen and...”
“Amigo, I’ve never been better. Nothing wounded but my pride.”
A relieved sigh.
Then he pulled the boards back farther. “Come out now, quickly, please. It is all right.”
I shouldered through the opening, watched while he fitted what appeared to be part of the wall back in place. Then he shoved a carton of garbage up against it and I followed him through a grocery storeroom and up a dark flight of stairs, and into more darkness.
After he bolted the door behind us, he flicked on a yellow-shaded lamp beside an ancient radio console. The room was small but not tiny, with adobe-type walls, second-hand furniture and Catholic wall decorations.
Then my host turned to study me, his face bright with pleasure.
His half-bow was almost comic. “Allow me to present myself, señor. I am Pedro Navarro, formerly of Cuba, but now a citizen of your country by choice.”
“I’m Morgan,” I said.
That smile blossomed under the mustache again—somewhat yellow, like the lamp shade. He was a smoker—the smell of cigars was on him. Well, he was Cuban....
We sat on a couch whose springs were too tired to complain, and cold beers were drawn from a cooler, ice cold, sweaty in a good way, and he let me swallow one down before he got me another. I was just nursing that one when he picked up the conversation.
“Señor Morgan, of course I know who you are. The man with but one name. Morgan the Raider, the militia keep calling you. A pirate for our day. But we do not reveal what we know of you in front of the intruders. We think that is more wise.”
Being known at all was something I wanted no part of. Why did a bunch of Cuban exiles know who the hell I was? There were too many possibilities, none of them good.
I said, “Why should you know me, Pedro? I’ve kind of made a point of staying under the radar. Only cops and crooks know who I am...or anyway, that’s what I thought.”
“It is more a matter of knowing of you, Señor Morgan. Until now, none of us have had the pleasure of meeting you. But we are glad to do so now.”
“Why?”
He caught the look in my eyes and smiled again. “Some months ago you did our neighboring country, Nuevo Cadiz, a great service. There you have become a legend. They sing of you in the cantinas, they write your name on the wall.”
“Not restroom walls, I hope.”
He didn’t get the joke and seemed momentarily dismayed. “No, no, you are a hero in that country!”
I had to smirk. “Probably not to everybody.”
“This is true, Señor Morgan. To certain people connected with the former corrupt government, to mention your name to them is to make them ill in the stomach, no? They talk of you in Cuba, too, where the people hope and dream that perhaps one day you might honor them with your presence, your talents, and give those thieves in control...” He paused and spat on the floor with vehemence. “...the taste of death they deserve.”
“I have no business in Cuba, amigo.”
His head nodded in sad agreement. “A man’s business is his own. His choices are his to make. We all know this.”
“Good.”
“But, señor, to Cubans, you are still a symbol. Someone to be admired, even to be...imitated. A great hero makes small heroes out of others, and enough small heroes can be...”
“An army of revolution?”
“Yes. And those heroes, they will arise when the time comes.”
I tried to make sure my smile didn’t seem patronizing. I owed this guy, and his people.
“Friend,” I said, “you’re talking to a man with a price on his head and the police at his back. I’m about as helpful to you right now as a rabid dog. If the federales knew what you did for me? Hell, they’d slap you in the pen so fast your eyes would cross.”
His smile blossomed again, but melancholy now. “Ah, again true. But the people who helped you, who look up to you, they do not care. They brush up against a real hero, and they help this hero, and they feel good about themselves and each other.”
“Yeah, well, whatever works for them.” I swallowed more beer. “How did you work it, Pedro?”
Navarro’s shrug was a masterpiece of understatement. “Heroes are recognized...by police and populace alike. There was one of our people...he was in Nuevo Cadiz, when you staged y
our small revolution, señor, and when he saw you on the street here he recognized you...knew you at once.”
“A break for me.”
“And he saw those who followed you, too, and when you headed our way, we were called...and called to action. In just a few minutes, several things were planned for coming to your assistance.”
I let out a little laugh. They sure had done a great job on the fly like that.
“You see, we are good Americans, Señor Morgan, but we know that police, those with badges, don’t always work for... what is the phrase? The public interest. And American or not, we are still Cubans. And the hero of Nuevo Cadiz, well ...we have more loyalty to him than to any militia.”
I had to laugh again. “My God, were those kids really in on it from the start?”
“Ah, yes, the children. The police didn’t believe the little ones could be organized like that. They forgot one thing. These muchachos grew up in the knowledge of much injustice. Only because of lessons learned in the streets of Havana are these children here in America with the rest of us.”
Well, Sherlock Holmes had his Baker Street Irregulars. Now Morgan the Raider had his own little Cuban pirates to thank.
I shook my head. “How in the hell do I find a way to say gracias, Pedro? For what you and your people have done?”
That shrug again. “There is no need. You may thank us by not being caught, and by remaining an inspiration to a beaten-down people...and perhaps to keep in your mind that there are such people, and that they need you.”
“They can look up to me if they like. There’s no accounting for taste. But there isn’t much chance of me helping anybody out. A guy in a hole has enough trouble digging himself out.”
“But, señor, people in the premature grave, they...what is the expression? Perhaps they should stick together. It is a thought, no?”
Now it was my turn to shrug. “If it pleases you.”
He stared at me a long moment, then said, “Tell me, Señor Morgan, is it true you stole forty million dollars from your government, and have it hidden in some safe place?”
I chuckled. “That would buy a nice little invasion army, wouldn’t it, Pedro?”
He laughed, too, shook his head, and finally sipped his own beer. “A very nice army, possibly even a successful one...but we are content to raise our own funds through our own efforts.”
“If you’re not asking for a handout, from that forty mil, why do you bring it up?”
“I am a curious man, señor.”
Apparently he hadn’t heard about the cat.
“Sorry, Pedro, I hate to disappoint you. It’s true the... militia...thinks I pulled that job. But I never did. Hope it doesn’t spoil my image, buddy.”
His teeth gleamed brightly under his mustache. “I wouldn’t have believed you, señor, if you told me that you did do this thing.”
“Why not?”
“Señor...surely you know the stories about you, they say you are the robbing hood.”
I almost choked on my beer. “Yeah. I’m a robbin’ hood, all right. I never took any spoils from anybody who didn’t have it coming. Criminals, bad people in general with money and jewels and other goodies that they didn’t earn or deserve...I took it from them.”
“And gave to the poor, señor?”
“Well...sort of. At first, I was poor, remember. But no, Pedro, I’m no saint. I’m the raider they say I am. I just don’t knock over solid citizens, much less Uncle Whiskers.”
“Uncle...?”
“Uncle Sugar. Uncle Sam?”
“Ah!” He pointed at me. “He wants you!”
“Doesn’t he, though.”
He stood. “We will serve you a meal now, señor, if you will so honor us.”
“That growling you hear is my stomach thanking you in advance.”
I got up and stuck my hand out and he shook it. Stood there just looking down at this little guy who was, as far as I was concerned, seven feet tall.
“After we eat, Señor Morgan, we must prepare you for your departure. The militia are still about, so you will remain here until we are sure it is safe for you to leave.”
“You’re sticking your neck out pretty far.”
“That is not a new experience, señor,” he said with his smile turned sideways. “Your accommodations will not be lavish, I am sorry to say—simply a secret space off the bedroom of my wife and me...but quite safe. They have already searched there twice and have not found it. And it will be more spacious than your other hiding place.”
That wouldn’t be tough.
“Mind answering me something, Pedro?”
“Most certainly.”
“Why the necessity for all these hiding places?”
For a moment he said nothing—he had his own secrets.
But then he shrugged again. “We, too, are fighting an enemy. We are not pursued, and yet, in our way, we are fugitives.”
I nodded. “Chased from your homes.”
“Our homeland has been ravaged, our properties confiscated, friends and relatives executed. Even in this country, the enemy has ways of getting to those it considers a threat. At such times, señor, a hiding place is most necessary. The place where you were housed before? That was previously used to keep our limited treasury.”
My eyebrows went up. “Your treasury’s pretty damn empty, if you can fit me in there.”
Now the smile disappeared. His face grew tight, his eyes black with hatred. “Once it was...what is the word? Flush. A small treasure a pirate such as yourself might find well worth...raiding. Treasure that would have bought the safety of many lives.”
“What happened to it?”
“Money that can be the source of much good is often a lure for evil. It was stolen, señor.”
“Who did it?”
“His name is Jaimie Halaquez. A bad man, señor. A devil that walks the earth. A man I would kill with these hands, if I had the chance, with no fear of losing my place in Heaven.”
He held his hands before him and strangled the air.
Then his grip loosened into fingers and the bitterness that etched his face disappeared and he smiled again.
“Come, Señor Morgan—you must eat. It has been a long time for you, between meals, no? But there was no other way. You need to seem to be gone. Vanished. And we need to appear as simple, unknowing peasants, not harborers of fugitives. And I do apologize for you having to stay for so long in that...that coffin.”
“It’s okay, Pedro.”
“It is?”
“Yeah. Any coffin you can crawl back out of? That’s one of your better coffins.”
This joke he got, and he led me into the next room, where a small feast awaited. I may not have been the hero they made me out to be, but I wasn’t about to turn down this delicious a hero’s welcome.
CHAPTER TWO
The federal prosecutors had not been shy about discussing the criminal-style activities I’d conducted for my country during the war. That was the heart of their case against me, after all. The shipment of currency from the Washington mint to New York consisted of forty million dollars in common bills, a paper volume that filled a medium-sized armored truck.
Why the G had made me for the heist was simple—I had pulled similar scores twice, during the war, getting troopmovement plans and coordinates on German blockhouses from their armored cars—utilizing booby-trap gimmicks to stop vehicles at given points, D-Y gas to knock out the drivers and passengers, with the means of entry a compact torch unit the Allied command had executed for me from my schematics. Complicated heists, requiring six-man teams.
Those two hits provided the template for the money truck score, right down to the torch.
So all these years later, a grateful government sent me to maximum security...only they hadn’t been able to keep me there; and the next time the “militia” had caught up with me had been dumb luck on their part, and rotten luck on mine.
They’d tried to do it through know-how and technology—
first the NYPD, because the Big Apple was where the hijacking went down, then every great government agency you ever heard of and several you haven’t, and all the resources that implies.
And they hadn’t been alone—private investigators lured by the reward got in the fray, and Mob types who figured they could slam me in a chair, give me a blow-torch refresher, and get the location of the hidden loot out of me.
Nobody had succeeded.
Luck had prevailed where skill had failed. Luck in the form of a coked-up kid in a stolen heap in a high-speed chase with a squad car that spooked the driver into making too wide and wild a turn, sending himself over the curb and the heap onto its skidding side, taking one not-so-innocent bystander along for the ride through a store window in a shower of glass.
Luck.
You can’t buy it. And you can’t avoid it. It finds you, and does its capricious thing, a coin flip coming up tails and giving you the bad luck of getting clipped by that coke freak, only to come up heads and let you survive, with just a minor concussion, cuts, abrasions, and a couple broken ribs. No internal injuries at all.
Luck.
The coin flips again, comes up tails, and an intern looking for a gold star goes to the trouble of fingerprinting an accident victim whose I.D. somehow got lost in the shuffle, and those prints get sent to a local precinct house and on to Washington, and you? You’re not even awake yet.
And when you do wake up, that coin has come up tails again, and you’re back in the less than loving arms of your Uncle Sam.
So I’d agreed to take on the Nuevo Cadiz mission. The end game was getting a top research scientist out of a supposedly impenetrable prison called the Rose Castle. My ability to break out of prisons suggested to the federal boys that I might be able to just as effectively break into one.
The deal was I’d get fifteen years off my thirty-year sentence. And as deals went, it stunk. But I liked the idea of the government paying for a Caribbean vacation, and I also liked the odds of me slipping their grip at the end of the mission....
Nuevo Cadiz was Cuba before the revolution, a dictatorship flush with the dough brought in by casino-driven tourist trade. A good number of those tourists were hoodlums on the run, paying for the privilege of sanctuary, and mobsters using the casinos as money laundries. I went in as one of those shady tourists, a guy who maybe had forty mil to fence. My CIA handlers teamed me with one Kimberly Stacy, an agent who would travel along as my wife. To keep the cover authentic, Kim Stacy and I got married in Georgia by a justice of the peace.
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