Valley of the Templars ts-7

by Paul Christopher

  Holliday shuffled toward customs in the big, noisy terminal trying to figure what the impact on the world would have been if Castro had signed with the team and had a career as a major league pitcher. Perhaps there would have been one Batista after another for the next fifty years, all with a cozy relationship with the United States. American sugar, fruit and tobacco interests would have flourished, and so would the Mafia. Cuba could have stayed as corrupt as any of its neighbors to the south, or its slightly wackier compatriots in North Africa and the Middle East. American servicemen from Guantánamo on leave in Havana, picking up hookers in the bars and clubs and gambling in the casinos like the Riviera, the Capri or the Sans Souci. Blacks still unemancipated, working as cane cutters or in the tobacco fields, the vast majority of the country illiterate and poor.

  He reached the head of the line, put both bags on the big industrial scales and waited while the weight figure was computed, paying the fee in U.S. dollars. Then he was signaled to the customs counter.

  “Passport, senor,” demanded the uniformed customs agent. Behind him sat two men in suits and dark glasses, both reading Granma, the official newspaper. These would be the airport police that Eddie had warned him about.

  Holliday handed over the blue-covered Canadian passport identifying him as John Leeson, smiling pleasantly.

  “You are Canadian?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have traveled to a great many places, senor,” said the customs official, flipping through the pages. Holliday had been very specific to Hartog the forger about the stamps he wanted, including five countries with UNESCO Preservation sites, among them India, Japan, Peru and New Zealand.

  “So I have,” said Holliday, keeping his tone genial.

  “You are here on business or pleasure, senor?”

  “A bit of both, mostly business.” He handed over the business card he’d made at the Hyatt in Toronto.

  “You pay to fix our great buildings, yes?”

  “I just take the pictures for the bosses. All of us have our bosses, right?”

  “That is correct, sí.” The customs official smiled. “We all have our bosses. Please, senor, put your suitcases on the counter and open them.”

  Holliday did as he was told. Once the cases were on the counter, he unlocked them and pulled them open. The customs official rummaged through the clothes, felt the sides, bottom and back, then indicated that Holliday could close the first up. The customs man checked the second suitcase.

  “A lot of camera equipment,” commented the official. At some invisible signal the two men reading newspapers stood up and stood beside the suitcase. As well as the camera case, there were round slots for thirty metal film containers. The taller of the two security men opened a few of the film containers at random while the other watched for a reaction from Holliday. There was none. The tall security man then told Holliday to take out the hard foam insert. Holliday handed it to the man, who checked the bottom before setting it aside; if things could be inserted into the foam from above, it was logical that they could be inserted from below. He turned his attention to the red nylon lining, poking at it with a long finger.

  “It is…soft,” said the taller man in the dark glasses. “Why is this?”

  “I put a foam pad behind the lining as more protection for the camera equipment.”

  “Show me,” said the man.

  Holliday did so, pulling aside a four-inch section of the nylon lining that he’d left loose after gluing the section of yoga mat into the suitcase. It was the mark of an experienced traveler who had to explain the same thing to other customs and security people at airports all over the world.

  “Why do you not use one of those aluminum suitcases, the square one?”

  “That’s the best way I know to get your equipment stolen. The only people who use Halliburton cases do so because they’ve got valuable stuff inside or because they’re trying to look cool. I prefer any old suitcase myself.”

  The security man gave Holliday a long look, then nodded to himself. “What hotel are you staying at, senor?”

  “The Nacional,” answered Holliday. “Where else?”

  “Of course,” said the security man. “You may close the suitcases now, senor. Welcome to Cuba.”

  And that was that. He closed the suitcases, found his way to the exit and stepped outside into the blistering heat to wait for Eddie. He spotted half a dozen taxis, including a 1949 Ford Victoria, a ’41 Dodge four-door sedan in powder blue and a Cadillac El Dorado convertible in bright pink. There was even a ’31 Ford Model A in two tones of green with cream-colored wheels, whitewall tires and a steel luggage rack at the back.

  “They have friends in Miami who send them the money to fix them up,” said Eddie, his voice quiet. He stared right ahead. “And remember—half the drivers work for secret police.”

  Holliday chose the ’49 Dodge—his uncle Henry had driven one all through Holliday’s childhood and his early adolescence. It reminded him of the smell of rubber on a hot day and egg salad sandwiches when he and Henry and his cousin Peggy went on camping trips.

  Like many things in Havana, the Hotel Nacional was definitely a blast from the past. It had been built in the ’30s by the famous New York architects McKim, Meade and Wright, and bore a strong resemblance to the Breakers, the Beaux-Arts hotel in Palm Beach. It wasn’t surprising since the Breakers architects, Shultze and Walker, were contemporaries with McKim, building such well-known hotels as the Pierre, the Waldorf-Astoria and the Sherry Netherland.

  Stepping into the narrow lobby, its high ceiling done in dark coffered oak, the walls a pale creamy yellow, Holliday was uneasily reminded of the scene in The Shining when Danny Torrance was rumbling down the halls on his Big Wheel, Stanley Kubrick’s camera looking over his shoulder.

  They booked the Rita Hayworth two-bedroom suite and settled in. It was no five-star hotel as advertised, but it wasn’t too bad; somewhere above a Best Western but not as good as the Waldorf. The suite had a balcony that looked out over the Malecon seawall to the ocean, and that was certainly something. Eddie did a cursory check for electronic bugs—usually not used in places like the Nacional according to Eddie—unless the Special Brigade had some interest in you, in which case it would have been likely they’d be taken to the dungeons under Morro Castle on the other side of the harbor and fed to the few remaining rats in the city—you don’t have rats where there is nothing for them to eat. When Eddie was satisfied they ordered a bottle of Havana Club Rum, some ice and some Cokes and a Cohiba Behike 52, if they had it. When the rum, the Cokes and the cigar arrived on its own small silver serving platter with a cutter and a small silver receptacle full of matches, Holliday and Eddie sat out on the balcony to watch the sun go down and figure out the next step in the plan to find Eddie’s brother, Domingo.

  “You must remember, Doc, this is not the Cuba of my youth,” cautioned Eddie, puffing on the aromatic cigar. He sipped his rum and stared thoughtfully out over the Malecon and the darkening sea beyond. “In my early days, when I was in the Pioneers, they were my best days, you understand? Everything was ahead of us. We went out into the fields each year to gather vegetables and to cut the cane and pick the fruit and it meant something. Fidel would lead us to better times, better days ahead. Everything was about the future, and for a while it was true. Before Fidel a black man could never have gone to university. Most didn’t even go to school at all, but now we were equal, all of us, men, women, black, white, mulatto…none of that mattered…as long as we listened to Fidel and to Che.”

  “So, what happened?” Holliday asked, enjoying the faint but cooling onshore breeze coming up from the ocean and riffling the curtains behind them.

  “The lies began. Fidel would blame the ‘embargo’ for everything…there was a food shortage because of the ‘embargo,’ a clothing shortage ‘embargo,’ always the same, but we could see it—a ten-ton truck packed with tomatoes rotting in the sun because no one had organized transportation or distribution…. There
were rumors that all was not well among El Comandante and his friends. Have you ever heard the name Manuel Piñeiro Losada?”

  “I don’t think so.” Holliday shrugged.

  “He was Fidel’s head of the Dirección General de Inteligencia, DGI. Cuban intelligence. Between Losada and Fidel they convinced Che that the next step in the socialization of the Americas lay in Bolivia, of all places. Bolivia is more than four thousand kilometers from Cuba—what did it have to do with us? But Fidel and Losada told him the Bolivian Communist Party would rise to his aid. It wasn’t true, just like it wasn’t true for the poor bastardos at the Bay of Pigs. He left Cuba with his little group of less than twenty men in the middle of February, and by April he was dead, his guerrilla force wiped out, betrayed to the CIA by Losada.”

  “Interesting piece of history, but what does it have to do with right now?” Holliday asked, cracking an ice cube between his teeth.

  “People stopped believing in the lies. How do you say, the people and the government became…isolated from each other. First the Russians came and brought their KGB, then the Chinese and then finally we had no one. Nothing worked. There was no food, no coffee, no parts to replace the aircraft and the tanks. There was only the black market and the generals smuggling drugs. We traded doctors and engineers to Venezuela for gasoline, but that was all. No one cared about Fidel or Raul. They only believed in the Secret Police in their big houses with swimming pools in Atabey. Like a famous writer said… ‘El emperador ya no responde a su teléfono.’ The emperor no longer answers his telephone. Fidel is over. There are two Cubas now, the people and the generals, each general with…su propio pedazo de la torta. His own piece of the pie, yes? There is no government at all.”

  “The Middle Ages,” said Holliday quietly. Eddie was telling him that Cuba had collapsed into fiefdoms, lords and vassals, masters and slaves; it was the ultimate expression of rich and poor; Blade Runner where the technology stopped dead in 1959. A Clockwork Orange in a 1958 Edsel. Anarchy.

  “Sí,” answered Eddie with a sneer, “and not one black man among them.” He shook his head sadly. “This is not a revolution I can believe in. It is not a revolution anyone believes in anymore. Fidel speaks, but there are no ears to listen.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “Just remember that anyone who walks behind you who looks like he is eating well is probably Secret Police, and bring a great many of those American dollars with you…. There will be lots of soborno to pay.”

  “Bribes?”

  “Sí, mi colonel, lots of bribes.”

  5

  They met the man at La Taberna de la Muralles, a café and bar on a small cobbled plaza in Old Havana, the following day at lunchtime. He was in his fifties, with a rugged, clean-shaven face that had seen a lot of sun. He wore a porkpie hat that made him look a little bit like Gene Hackman in the French Connection, dark glasses and he had a napkin tucked into his white silk guayabera shirt as he ate a plate of assorted pastelitos—Cuban puff pastry stuffed with savory fillings. His gleaming hair looked too perfectly black to be true.

  “Who is he?” Holliday asked as they approached his table on the crowded outdoor patio.

  “His name is Cesar Diaz. He is a policeman, a detective, in fact,” said Eddie.

  “We’re buying information from a cop?” Holliday asked.

  “He is the brother of my sister’s husband,” explained Eddie.

  “Still…,” worried Holliday.

  “The police are as poor as the people they’re supposed to serve. Five pesos a month doesn’t buy anything on the black market. They have to make their way just like everyone else.”

  They sat down and Eddie did the introductions. Diaz offered them pastries from his plate, but they declined. He ordered coffee for them all, wiped the sugar off his lips with his makeshift bib and sat back in his chair. He really was beginning to look like Popeye Doyle.

  “Eddie Cabrera, it has been a very long time,” said Diaz, speaking slightly accented English.

  “Africa,” said Eddie. “Other places more recently.”

  “There are some people in the Dirección de Inteligencia who would be interested to know you are back in Cuba. You must know that, of course.”

  “And if you so much as whispered my name, you must know what would happen to your brothers and your uncles and your aunts and your good friend Tomas who you play dominos with, even that dog of yours—what is his name?”

  “Romeo.” Diaz smiled. “You have turned very hard, Eddie. I must say this.”

  “Try fighting with Ochoa Sánchez in Angola—that would make you hard, too.”

  “Ochoa was executed in the Tropas Especiales.”

  “Everyone is executed eventually who disagrees with Fidel. Which is why I stayed in Africa.”

  “Probably a wise move.”

  “I thought so.”

  “But now you are home again,” said Diaz. “And you want something.”

  “That’s right.” Eddie nodded. The coffee arrived, the real thing in tiny cups—thick and strong and black.

  “So tell me,” said Diaz, sipping. He took a red-and-white package of Populars from the pocket of his guayabera and lit one with what looked suspiciously like a gold Dunhill lighter, or at least a pretty good knockoff. Holliday noticed that the detective was wearing a stainless steel Omega Constellation on his left wrist. Whatever the detective was doing for money was clearly quite lucrative.

  “My brother, Domingo, has disappeared,” Eddie said flatly.

  “A lot of people are disappearing these days.” Diaz shrugged, smoking. “You have been away too long, Eddie; things have changed. Fidel gives lectures on the television about robots and Mars and how atomic bombs all over the world are leaking their radiation into the air, which is causing the hurricanes to get worse each year. He thinks American drones fly over his house all day looking for ways to poison his food. Raul dreams of his farm in Spain. The generals fight to see who will be the next comandante. The rest of Cuba thinks it wants to go to Miami.” He shrugged again. “Not to mention that Domingo had the misfortune to work for the Operations Division of the Ministry of the Interior and who knows what that means? There was even a rumor he worked at Lourdes and at Mantanzas.”

  Holliday had heard of Lourdes; it was a giant signal intelligence operation built by the Russians and completed by the Chinese. Effectively it was the Cuban version of the NSA, a giant ear, listening to America. He’d never heard of Mantanzas, so he asked.

  “You know the CIA operates a training camp for new agents called the Farm?”

  “I think I’ve heard of it,” said Holliday evasively. In fact, he’d once been an instructor at the installation at Camp Peary in the Virginia countryside. He didn’t dare mention it.

  “That is what Mantanzas is,” said Diaz, stubbing out his cigarette. “Carlos the Jackal trained there in 1962.”

  “You have no idea where he is?” Holliday asked.

  “No, senor,” said Diaz, shaking his head.

  “Can you ask questions, perhaps?”

  “Careful questions. For a price.”

  “What price?”

  “A thousand. U.S dollars, of course, to start.”

  “How about five hundred?”

  “For now.”

  Holliday took ten fresh twenties out of his wallet and laid them neatly on the table. Diaz covered them with his big hand and slid them out of sight.

  “That is not five hundred dollars, senor,” said the cop.

  “No. It’s two hundred. Another three when you bring us some information we can use.”

  “How do I contact you?”

  “Tell my sister you wish to talk. She will know how to reach me. I will choose the place,” said Eddie. “Vamos a necesitar armas.”

  “What kind of weapons?” asked Diaz blandly, lighting another Popular.

  “Pistolas,” said Eddie.

  “Makarov?”

  “Two, with fifty rounds and an extra clip each.” />
  “A thousand.”

  “Mierde,” scoffed Eddie. “I can get an AK-47 for a hundred and eighty dollars in Mozambique and still with the greased paper on it. Do better, Cesar, and maybe there will be more business we can do together. Two hundred each, pay when we get them.”

  “Are you sure we can trust this guy to get us guns?” asked Holliday. “Maybe he’s setting us up.”

  “This is not America, senor. We do not have—what do you call them? Stings? We are all on the same side here, senor.” He rubbed his fingers together and winked. “The side with cash in its pockets, comprendez?” Diaz frowned. “Once upon a time Cuba was a paradise, senor. Now it is a jungle and the only object is to survive.” He stood up abruptly, pushed back his chair and walked away.

  “What now?” Holliday asked.

  Eddie watched Diaz go, a thoughtful expression on his face. Holliday looked around the square. From where he sat and from what he’d seen, there was nothing but music, cafés, good food and pretty women in Havana; it was a museum piece, a country caught in amber, a giant tourist trap, perhaps, but so far he hadn’t seen much of Diaz’s jungle.