Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I wouldn’t mind at all,” I said, slightly disappointed that I wouldn’t be taking the yoke and flying the plane, but more concerned with my friend’s comfort.

  The plane’s leather seats were comfortable, and there was more room in the rear than I’d anticipated. I settled in next to Maritza, fastened my seat belt, and observed as Xavier walked around the plane to visually check its condition. He climbed into the pilot’s left-hand front seat, ran down a printed checklist, cracked open his window and yelled “Clear!” to inform anyone nearby that he was about to start the engine, and set the propeller into motion.

  Seth sat ramrod straight, as though to move would in some way cause the plane to blow up. He watched everything Xavier did, including using another checklist to run down various engine settings. He handed Seth a set of earphones attached to a tiny microphone. “Thought you might like to listen in,” he said. Seth reluctantly put it on, and I was glad that Xavier had thought to offer the set to Seth. It would occupy his thoughts and take his mind off his anxiety. Or so I hoped.

  Xavier donned his own microphone and earphones and informed the tower that he was starting his taxi to the runway. He was cleared and slowly moved down a taxiway until reaching the runway in use that morning, its designation based upon the wind’s direction. Planes take off and land into the wind whenever possible. After some more chatter with the tower, he turned onto the runway, advanced the throttle to the firewall, released the toe brakes, and started his takeoff roll. I was concerned at how long it took us to become airborne, but I chalked up the extended takeoff to the weight of the plane. Eventually we lifted off. Xavier banked, affording us a view of downtown Tampa. From my seat behind the pilot, I could see Seth squeeze his eyes shut when the plane tilted in the air.

  Xavier continued his climb until he’d reached his desired cruising altitude. He adjusted the controls and looked back over his shoulder. “There’s a sectional chart in the pocket behind my seat,” he said. “We’ll be heading down the west coast until we reach the Naples beacon, then fly due east to Lauderdale.”

  Xavier’s plane was considerably quieter than the older model in which I’d taken my flying lessons in Cabot Cove from Jed Richardson, and its smooth flight through the air at five thousand feet was almost hypnotic. I noticed that Seth nodded off a few times, snapping his head up when he realized that he had. I, too, had to fight dozing off despite Xavier’s occasional commentary pointing out sights along the coast and on the ground. Maritza didn’t contribute to the conversation during the trip. She’d barely said a word from the time we’d taken off until we reached Naples, where Xavier was to alter his course.

  In order to head for Fort Lauderdale, we would have to fly due east, which was what Xavier had said he intended to do. But as I followed our course on the aeronautical chart, I was aware that we were now flying southeast, which would take us south of Miami. I debated asking Xavier about it but held back. This was, after all, his plane, and he was the pilot in command. He’d probably changed course because of the weather forecast for east of Naples, or perhaps he’d been instructed to alter his flight plan by air traffic control.

  But as we continued in the southeasterly direction, I decided to ask why we’d changed course.

  “Weren’t we supposed to fly east when we reached Naples?”

  He didn’t answer my question.

  “Xavier, I’m just curious why the change in our course,” I said louder.

  When there was still no reply, I leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. That was when Maritza tapped me on the shoulder.

  I turned to see her pretty face set in a scowl. Then I noticed the small handgun she held. It was pointed directly at me.

  Chapter Twenty

  “What are you doing?” I said in a loud voice to Maritza.

  Seth heard me, turned, and peered through the space between the front seats. “What’s the matter, Jessica?”

  I started to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. I pointed to the gun in Maritza’s hand.

  It was difficult for Seth to see, but when he did, he said, “Gorry, what in the world is going on?”

  “I’d suggest you both be quiet,” Maritza said coolly and calmly. “I won’t hesitate killing you.”

  “This is . . . this is outrageous,” I said, realizing as I did that it was a pathetically weak response to a powder-keg situation.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Seth asked Xavier.

  The young pilot turned to Seth, and I could see the traces of a smile on his face. “Righting a wrong,” he said.

  “What wrong?” Seth demanded.

  “You’ll know soon enough,” he said.

  I looked out my window in search of a landmark below but saw nothing distinguishable that would indicate where we were.

  “Xavier,” I said loud enough to be heard over the engine’s noise, “where are you taking us?”

  When he didn’t answer, I asked the same question of Maritza.

  “Just shut up, Mrs. Fletcher, and enjoy the ride.”

  “No, that’s not good enough,” I said. “This is kidnapping. Don’t you realize that you’re engaging in a criminal act?”

  She laughed and said, “The only criminal act was taking my father’s research away from the people it belongs to, the Cuban people.”

  “What does that have to do with us?” I asked.

  She guffawed. “You and your doctor friend got a lot closer to my father than anyone else. If anybody knows what stage my father was at in his research, it’s you two.”

  “That’s absurd,” I said. “I’d just met your father before he died.”

  She waved her gun at Seth. “But your friend was in Tampa a lot and spent plenty of time with my father, reading his notes, hearing about the research.”

  Seth, who’d undone his seat belt and was trying to twist around, was admonished by Xavier in no uncertain terms. “Sit still! I don’t need you wiggling around while I’m flying this plane. Do you want to end up in the water? My sister means business. She’ll blow your brains out before we land if you don’t cooperate. Now, put your seat belt back on.”

  Seth and I fell silent until I said, “You’re taking us to Cuba, aren’t you?”

  “How did you ever guess?” Xavier said as he banked sharply, pushing Seth against his door and exerting g-forces on everyone. Seth quickly buckled his seat belt. We looked at each other and simultaneously came to the same unstated conclusion. There was nothing to be gained by fighting the situation, not at five thousand feet above the ground, and with someone holding a lethal weapon in her hand. We settled back in silence as Xavier continued en route to Cuba.

  When he’d reached a point over the ocean off the Florida coast, he communicated with Cuban air traffic control. I knew from having read about others who’d violated Cuban air space without permission that the result could be deadly. Xavier obviously knew the system, complete with language that would allow him to approach the island without fear of being intercepted by Cuban military aircraft.

  We could do nothing but sit stoically and watch the island of Cuba come into view. I was aware that the José Martí International Airport, Cuba’s main aviation hub, was located close to Havana, and that many international airlines scheduled flights into it on a daily basis. Xavier continued radio contact with Cuban air traffic controllers in Spanish, although English is the universally accepted aeronautical language throughout the world. Maybe the sort of special dispensation he had with Cuban authorities called for all communication to be in his native tongue.

  I saw a Virgin Atlantic jet approaching for a landing, and a KLM jet turning to enter the pattern. Xavier was in a holding pattern, waiting for his landing instructions, which would come once the jets had landed and had cleared the runway. Getting too close to the jet blast from a large aircraft could flip a smaller plane like the Cessna.

 
Finally, Xavier banked sharply, and the runway appeared ahead. It looked to be very long; our plane would take up only a fraction of its length. We touched down, bounced up, then settled on the asphalt runway and stayed there. Xavier turned off the runway at the first available exit and taxied for what seemed an eternity to a large building on which a sign said TERMINAL 2. He headed for an isolated area at the far end, where a half dozen armed men wearing drab green pants and shirts, and with wide belts over their shirts, stood. Five of them wore black berets; the sixth’s hat had a visor, and I assumed that he was an officer. All had automatic weapons slung over their shoulders.

  “So,” Seth growled at Xavier, “what are we supposed to do now?”

  “Just do as you are told,” he replied. “Do not try anything foolish.”

  “You realize that kidnapping us will kick back on you,” I said. “I called people back home to tell them of our travel plans. Once they haven’t heard from us, they’ll want to know why.”

  Neither Xavier nor his sister said anything in response as he brought the Cessna to a stop, shut off the engine, opened his door, and hopped down. He was approached by the soldier who I assumed was in charge and they had a spirited conversation, with Xavier frequently pointing back at the plane. The officer issued a command to the five soldiers, and they surrounded us. One opened Seth’s door and ordered him to get out. Maritza said to me, “You’re next,” and waved the handgun for emphasis. I pushed Seth’s seat forward and managed to slide past it, then step down on a foothold and to the ground.

  The officer barked an order in Spanish, but because we didn’t understand what he said, we didn’t move.

  “That way,” Xavier said, pointing to a doorway at the end of the terminal.

  With the soldiers flanking us, Seth and I followed Xavier and Maritza to the door. Another uniformed man opened it, and we entered a large gray cinder-block room with a table and four chairs, the only furniture in the room. We were told to sit, which we did, of course, and waited for what would come next. Maritza had disappeared, but Xavier took one of the chairs. After five minutes of silence, I decided to take a stand.

  “I insist on seeing someone from the United States embassy,” I said in as strong a voice as I could muster.

  “You have no embassy here in Cuba,” Xavier said.

  “But we have offices under the auspices of the Swiss embassy, as I understand it.”

  “You have nothing to talk to them about,” he said.

  “We’re American citizens who’ve been taken hostage. We’ve been hijacked to Cuba.”

  “Look, Mrs. Fletcher,” Xavier said, “we’ve brought you here for a good reason. All you have to do is cooperate and everything will be all right. No one wants to see you or Dr. Hazlitt hurt. Just do what you’re told, tell the officials here what they want to know, and everything will be fine.”

  Seth, who’d said nothing during my exchange with Xavier, now spoke up. “Your father must be turning in his grave the way his only son has turned out.”

  “My father knew how I turned out, Dr. Hazlitt, and frankly I couldn’t care less what he thought. He was a traitor and deserved what he got.”

  “A traitor?” Seth barked. “A traitor to what?”

  “His people.”

  “And just who are they?”

  “The people of Cuba, my people. My esteemed father abandoned them while he went looking for money. The Cuban government financed his research here, and what did Papi do? He ran away with the results, defected, sold out to Yankee imperialism, to that fraud Peters.”

  “But you defected, too,” I said.

  “In preparation.”

  Seth and I were about to ask him to explain, but it was obvious that none was needed. He’d been sent to Tampa by the Cuban government to spy on anti-Castro people and to sabotage any actions they might contemplate against the Castro regime.

  Seth and I asked a few more questions without receiving answers. The next ten minutes seemed like hours as we sat in our uncomfortable chairs, eyes nervously going to the armed soldiers standing in each corner of the room. What could they possibly have in mind for us?

  While Seth knew something about Alvaro Vasquez’s research, it hardly represented the sort of knowledge that would be of help to someone in Cuba. Besides, Seth had come to the conclusion that Vasquez’s research efforts hadn’t led to anything tangible or useful in the fight against Alzheimer’s disease. Would they believe Seth if he told them that? And if they didn’t believe him, to what extent would they pursue it? Torture?

  Would I ever have thought it possible that Seth and I would end up being kidnapped and brought to Cuba? The more I pondered the situation, the colder the room seemed to get, and I wrapped my arms about myself.

  I was deep in those thoughts when the door opened and a middle-aged man entered. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, and tie and carried a briefcase. Xavier jumped up, greeted him, and pointed to his chair, which the man took. He opened his briefcase, laid a stack of papers on the table, smiled at me, and said in good English tinged with his Cuban accent, “Welcome to the People’s Republic of Cuba, Mrs. Fletcher.” He said the same thing to Seth, referring to him as Dr. Hazlitt.

  “Who are you?” Seth asked.

  “I represent the Ministry of the Interior,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “No, what’s your name?” Seth insisted.

  “That is of little interest,” he countered. “I am authorized to welcome you and to see that your stay is a pleasant one.”

  “Our stay?” Seth erupted. “Mrs. Fletcher and I are not staying here one more minute. I demand that you either see to it that we are delivered back to the United States or put us in touch with U.S. officials here in Cuba.”

  The man listened impassively. When Seth was finished with his demands, the Cuban official said in the same flat, low-key voice, “All in due time, all in due time—provided that we have your cooperation.”

  “Cooperation in what?” I asked, buoyed by Seth’s spark. “Why have we been brought here? Who ordered that we be brought here?”

  The man sighed, slipped the papers back into his briefcase, and stood. “You obviously do not intend to make this easy for yourselves. Surrender your cell phones to the officers. Enjoy your stay in Havana. I will see you again this evening.” He barked an order at Xavier, who jumped up and followed him.

  “You have no right to take our phones,” I called out as they walked from the room, to be replaced by two other men wearing army uniforms. They were older than the soldiers we’d first encountered. One of them repeated the order that we turn over our phones. Seth balked, but the menacing look on the soldiers’ faces, fortified by the weapons in the hands of the others, won out, and we handed them over.

  “Get up!” one of them ordered us.

  “Now, look,” Seth said, “I won’t tolerate this. I demand to know under what authority we’ve been brought here.”

  The men came to either side of Seth and placed their hands on his arms. Seth tried to shake them off, but they tightened their grip.

  “Seth,” I said, “don’t argue. I’m sure that they’ll see that this has been a big mistake and let us go.”

  My advice calmed him, and he allowed the men to escort him from the room. I followed, flanked by two of the younger soldiers, though they refrained from touching me. We went down a dank concrete corridor and out a different door from the one we’d previously entered. Waiting was a gray Mercedes limousine with blackened windows.

  We were instructed to get inside the car. We followed their orders and settled in the backseat, with two of the soldiers facing us on jump seats, another in the front passenger seat. The doors were closed and locked, and the driver sped off, destination unknown.

  It was a bumpy ride that lasted twenty minutes. I was certain we were in the city because of the sounds heard outside the limo: music, laughter, cars wit
h loud, damaged mufflers, and even a few loud reports that might have been gunshots. Eventually we came to a stop, the doors were opened, and we got out, blinking in the glaring sunshine. One of the men popped open the trunk and I was relieved to see that our luggage had been transported with us. However, I noted that a piece of red tape had been affixed to each of our bags, suggesting to me that they had probably been searched before being put in the trunk.

  We stood in front of a small cabin with a porch situated on a lovely stretch of pebbly beach. I looked around in search of others, but Seth and I and our handlers—if that’s the right word—were the only people there.

  The door to the cabin opened, and a tall man wearing a bright yellow guayabera, tan slacks, and sandals sans socks emerged. He walked down the two steps leading to the porch, came directly to me, and extended his hand. “Mrs. Fletcher, welcome to Havana.”

  Seth came to us and said, “I want you to know, whoever you are, that I’ll report this outrageous situation to our State Department.”

  “I hope there won’t be any need for that,” the man said in perfect English. “My name is Dr. Eduardo Rodriguez of the Health Ministry. I will be your host while you are here.”

  “Host?” Seth said. “You make it sound like we’re on a vacation.”

  Rodriguez’s laugh was gentle. “I would hope that you would consider it a vacation of sorts,” he said. “You have been here before, Dr. Hazlitt, and can appreciate our country. And once you have satisfied the authorities with answers to their questions, I am authorized to extend to both of you some days of sun and relaxation, at the expense of our government, of course.”

  At that moment, I was dazzled with confusion. We’d been forcibly kidnapped and brought to Cuba by Xavier and Maritza Vasquez, who said that their father’s research on Alzheimer’s disease had to be returned to the Cuban people. We’d been greeted by armed soldiers, made to sit in a stark concrete room, threatened if we didn’t cooperate, piled into a car and driven to a cabin on a beach, and now offered an all-expenses-paid vacation in sunny Cuba.