Valley of the Templars

by Paul Christopher

  Columbus spent very little time on the island of Cuba before moving on to Hispaniola, or what is now known as Haiti, and the Dominican Republic. One of the crew members on the first voyage, a man in his midtwenties and of prominent birth, Diego Velázquez, caught Columbus’s eye and soon after they settled in Hispaniola, Columbus ritually made Velázquez an officer in the Ordem Militar de Cristo, an honor the young Spaniard took very seriously. Nineteen years later in 1511, Velázquez, now known as Don Diego Velázquez de Cuéllar, was ordered by Diego Columbus, Christopher Columbus’s firstborn child and now viceroy of the West Indies, to occupy and conquer the island of Cuba. For the next five years Don Diego Velázquez established a number of settlements, including, most notably, Santiago de Cuba and San Cristóbal de Havana, a small town just west of present-day Havana. For these efforts Don Diego Velázquez was made governor of Cuba by Diego Columbus. To commemorate the discovery of Havana, Don Diego built La Templete, a small neoclassical temple, which would soon become the headquarters for Don Diego’s version of the Ordem Militar de Cristo, which he named the Brotherhood of the Knights of Christ, La Hermandad dos Cavaleiros de Cristo. Very soon after this, at least between its members it became known simply as La Hermandad or the Brotherhood.

  “Does it still exist?” Holliday asked.

  Braintree shrugged. “There’ve been all sorts of rumors over the years, just like the never-ending rumors of the original Templar, but soon after conquering Cuba, Velázquez fell out of favor with Diego Columbus during Cortez’s conquest of Mexixo, and stripped of authority, he died in Santiago de Cuba in 1524. Most probably the Brotherhood died with him.”

  “Or maybe not,” said Eddie quietly.

  4

  The Air Canada A320 came in low over the sea, reaching land in the early afternoon. The gently rolling countryside below could just as easily have been rural France—fields, farms and small villages crouched in broad valleys or perched on low hills, all connected by country roads that led to broader highways.

  “Mi patria precioso,” whispered Eddie with a choke in his voice as he stared down at the landscape from the window seat of the narrow-body jet.

  “Let’s just hope we get out of the airport,” said Holliday.

  “We will, mi colonel, but remember, after that you must listen very carefully to what I tell you about how things work in this place.”

  “I promise to obey every command.” Holliday smiled. Eddie raised an expressive eyebrow. An instant later the slightly ominous whir and thump of the flaps lowering filled the interior of the aircraft and they began their final approach to Jose Marti International Airport.

  Terminal 3 at Jose Marti was built specifically for international arrivals and departures, showcasing Cuba as a modern twenty-first-century country, which everybody, especially the Cubans, knows it is not. The architecture was slick: glass, steel and open-beam high ceilings with crisscrossing assemblies of pipe and I-beams, some of them hung with large versions of the world’s flags, including the Stars and Stripes. The Cuban government might hate American foreign policy and politicians, but they love American tourists. Although there have been no sanctioned flights to Cuba since 1960, the Cubans found ways around the problem almost immediately. Americans could reach Cuba by first going to Canada, Mexico or the Bahamas and flying onward from those countries. Instead of passport entry and exit stamps, Cuban customs provided the tourist with a small separate visa slipped into the passport on arrival and removed on departure. Although each tourist who visited Cuba from the United States could technically be arrested under the Trading with the Enemy Act, it didn’t stop more than one hundred and fifty thousand tourists a year from going there, although most of the guidebooks suggest that they shouldn’t announce their American citizenship too loudly and might even go so far as to wear a Canada pin, or a Canadian flag patch, on their knapsacks. On the other hand, there is a regular St. Patrick’s Day on O’Reilly Street in Havana, complete with a pipe band, green beer and a choir singing “Danny Boy” in a Spanish accent. After all, it was rumored that even Che Guevara had Irish-American roots, and of course, even Castro himself had an American connection—in the late 1940s Fidel had been offered a five-thousand-dollar signing bonus by the New York Giants.

  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.