Valley of the Templars

by Paul Christopher

  “He will feel pain eventually, though?”

  “Excruciating,” answered Musaro. “It will look very much like a stroke. He will be unable to talk, but essentially his entire body will be suffering from severe inflammation. His lungs will fill with fluid, and he will suffer extreme pain in all his joints. Eventually he will be unable to draw breath and he will die of asphyxiation.”

  Ortega reached out and snapped the box shut, then slipped it into the pocket. “Good. I will do it.”

  “You know when it is to be done?”

  “The feast of St. Lazarus. It has been his favorite saint’s day since his diverticulitis. I am always invited to give the blessing. The older he gets, the more Catholic he becomes.”

  “A common trait among old men,” said Musaro. He sat forward in his chair, placing his hands flat upon the polished inlaid desk. “The Feast Day of St. Lazarus is on the twenty-first day of the month. The deed must be done on that day. A great many people are counting on it, Jaime. A great many people are counting on you, Jaime.”

  “And my reward for committing murder?”

  “On the night of his death, you and I will be flown to Rome on an Air Canada 777. On the day after your arrival, the cardinal electors will meet to select a new dean since the ever-controversial Cardinal Soldano is over eighty and no longer eligible to vote in any future conclaves. You will become the next dean of the College of Cardinals.”

  “It is an elected position. How can you guarantee such a thing?”

  “There are currently ninety-four cardinal electors. I am owed favors of one kind or another by seventy-six of them, more than enough to obtain a two-thirds majority of sixty-two.”

  “You’ve taken care of everything,” said Ortega.

  “I am the apostolic nuncio, the envoy of the pope and therefore the envoy of God to this country.” Musaro lifted his shoulders and smiled, the light from the big bow window behind him turning his hair into a halo with a tropical Garden of Gethsemane at his back. His voice was soft but filled with the power of a man saying Mass in a cathedral. “‘Deos enim religuos accepimus, Caesares dedimus’: The gods were handed down to us, but we created this terrible Caesar ourselves, Jaime, and having created him, we have the responsibility of removing him from this world. Alea iacta est, Jaime. For Fidel the die has been cast and you have been chosen to be his Brutus. Deus animae tuae misereatur. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  It took another three days for the Tiburon Blanco to make its way up the broad valley of the Agabama to the small town of Condado, once a rail center for agricultural goods from the small surrounding farms. The rail line that had once served the town had died with the revolution, the tracks overgrown with weeds, an ancient steam engine enduring a humiliating and rusting demise, the single glass eye of its enormous headlamp pointing the way down a track that was no longer there. Mountains rose on three sides, and only a few miles ahead the valley narrowed to its end. Ahead lay the much narrower Valley of Death, the river winding and curling deep into the heart of the Sierra del Escambray.

  In the time that had passed since his arrival in Cuba, Holliday had developed a deep mahogany tan. In a pair of grease-covered cotton pants, rubber tire sandals and an old Bruce Springsteen Darkness Tour T-shirt, he almost looked like a local. It was Eddie who suggested that he wear a bandanna low over his fresh scar and his ruined eye. The bandanna looked a little odd, but the scar was too terrible to miss and too easy to describe. If they didn’t need supplies for the boat, the prudent thing would have been for him to stay behind. They had filled the boat’s huge hidden tanks at the little harbor in Tunas de Zaza just before reaching La Boca and the mouth of the river, so at least fuel was no problem.

  Arango guided the boat upriver toward the town with special care. Even with the shallow five-foot draft, the Tiburon Blanco had almost grounded several times as they approached Condado. As the summer progressed, the water would become even shallower, making passage up or downriver impossible. The old man eventually found a short stretch of stony beach and Eddie threw out a concrete block anchor to make sure the boat didn’t drift away downriver if Arango decided to take a nap.

  Both men said good-bye to Arango, dropped off the side of the boat and down onto the beach. They began the half-mile walk into town, empty knapsacks carried over their shoulders. They found a narrow dirt road between fields of early wheat and tobacco and followed it, dust rising in puffs from their sandaled feet. The sun was relentless in a hot blue sky and Holliday no longer wondered why the average Cuban walked so slowly; to go any faster was to invite a heart attack.

  “You trust him?” Holliday asked.

  “Arango? Of course,” said Eddie.

  “He was plenty upset by those pirates,” said Holliday. “What’s to stop him from heading back downstream and abandoning us?”

  “Four things,” answered Eddie with a grin. “Uno—he only has half his money. Dos—it takes at least two people to fire that machine gun. Tres—he knows I would find him and cut out his heart. Quatro—I have the glow plug relay fuses from both engines in my pack. He is not going anywhere.”

  The town was small and almost deserted and its largest industry appeared to be a trucking company using old military vehicles to transport produce grown in a number of large greenhouses. The town square was almost empty as though the people had left on the last train out of town decades before. Doors were closed, windows were shuttered and the only movement came from little spirals of dust whirling in the hot breeze.

  They found a carnicería that had some relatively fresh meat to sell, and the butcher gave them directions to a farm stand on the other side of town where they managed to find what they needed in the way of fruits, vegetables and even a clutch of fresh eggs. The old lady running the little stand was careful to pack the precious cargo in a paper bag lined with straw.

  Their errands done, the two men headed back to the boat. “Hola! Arango! We’ve found the huevos you wanted,” called out Eddie as they eased themselves over the gunwales. Both men froze as a figure stepped up out of the well leading down to the cabin. His skin was the color of teak, his hair snow-white. He was as tall as Eddie but not even close to being as muscular. He had dark, deep-set, suspicious eyes beneath heavy black eyebrows that were starkly at odds with the whiteness of his hair. He carried a big Makarov pistol in his right hand.

  “Where is Arango?” Eddie asked harshly. Holliday was acutely aware that he was unarmed.

  “Él está abajo, dormido. Borracho,” answered the white-haired man.

  “Prove it,” Eddie said.

  Without taking his eyes off them, the man with the white hair used his left hand to slide back the cabin door. Arango’s snores were loud and regular. “Está usted satisfecho…mi hermano?”

  “Speak English,” said Eddie.

  “Why should I speak your Yucca friend’s language? It is the language of the enemy.” The white-haired man sneered. His English was at least as good as Eddie’s.

  “Because it is polite,” said Eddie. “Or have you forgotten simple manners along with everything else our parents taught us?”

  “Your parents?” Holliday said.

  “Yes, mi colonel,” said Eddie, his voice brittle with anger. “May I present you to Domingo Romano Cabrera Alphonso? My brother.”

  15

  “Why this place in particular?” Will Black said, paying the driver of the pristine 1953 Oldsmobile taxi, then climbing out into the superheated air.

  “Because there aren’t that many places in Cuba that rent private airplanes,” said Carrie Pilkington. “In fact, this guy is the only one I could find.”

  The faded sign on the rusted old corrugated hangar said SERVICIOS DE AVIACIóN P. LAFRAMBUESA. The hangar was located on what looked like an old, cracked, concrete hardstand at the northwestern perimeter of Playa Baracoa Airfield. Playa Baracoa was twelve miles west of Havana, its single runway within sight of the sea.

  Once upon a time Playa Baracoa had been an importan
t airbase, but it had been inactive for years, old MiGs rusting away on overgrown hardstands, a few old Russian MiL 18 helicopters and some short-range Yak 40 VIP transports in case some bigwig in the military took it into his head to visit friends at the other end of the island or fly to Cancún for the weekend.

  There was a man working on an airplane in front of Servicios de Aviación P. Laframbuesa. He was in his early sixties, tall and gangly, his bib overalls and his old straw hat making him look more like old MacDonald on his farm than an airplane mechanic.

  The plane itself looked almost as out of place as the man. It was canary yellow with tricycle landing gear, the front two wheels on high pylons that tilted the nose upward like some sort of curious insect. Both the upward-hinged doors were open and Black could see that there was room for a pilot and copilot and Spartan seating for two more in the cramped little cockpit.

  The man turned as they approached. He smiled and doffed his straw hat. Underneath it was a shock of curly salt-and-pepper hair. Carrie almost laughed. It was the first time she’d actually seen a man’s eyes “twinkle.” She smiled back at him. He looked like a six-foot-two version of the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

  “Puedo estar de servicio?” the leprechaun asked, the Spanish formal with a strangely flat accent.

  “Nos gustaría alquilar su avión,” answered Black. “Hace que lo realmente volar?”

  “Of course she flies, and lower your voice or Miroslava will hear you,” said the man. His English had the same flat drawl as his Spanish.

  “Who’s Miroslava?” Carrie asked.

  “She is,” said the man, stroking the aircraft’s rounded snout, “Miroslava the Golden Oriole. She’s a PZL-104 Wilga and proud of it. A hundred and twenty miles per hour, range of four hundred and twenty miles; take you anywhere in Cuba you want to go.”

  “You’re not Cuban.”

  “Name’s Pete Laframboise,” said the man. He held out a hand and they both shook it. The grip was strong and firm and the hand felt as though it had done its fair share of hard labor. “I’m a political exile,” he added pleasantly.

  “Laframboise, laframbuesa, very cute,” said Carrie.

  “I thought so,” he replied.

  “What kind of political exile?” Carrie asked.

  “You’re way too young,” said Laframboise. “FLQ, Federation de Liberation du Quebec.”

  “The Cross-LaPorte kidnappings in Montreal, October 1970,” said Carrie promptly. “LaPorte was murdered and the prime minister invoked the War Measures Act, same thing as martial law in the States. First real case of terrorism in North America. The FLQ went around planting bombs in mailboxes.”

  “Not bad,” Laframboise said, turning to Black. “Who in hell does she work for?”

  “If I told you I’d have to kill you.” Black smiled. He paused. “You don’t sound very French-Canadian.”

  “I’m not. I’m all Anglo. But I was young. I was going to McGill University. I fell in with the ‘wrong bunch,’ as the saying goes. Her name was Paulette and she was very passionate about…politics. We were part of the team that kidnapped James Cross, the British trade commissioner. In return for letting him go, we were all exiled to Cuba. The rest went back years ago. I was the only one who stayed. I like it down here. No winters, no snow to shovel. No hockey, either, but what the hey, you can’t have everything, even in the Socialist Paradise.”

  “And you wound up flying airplanes?”

  Laframboise shrugged and smiled. “I already had my license by the time I got to Montreal. Back then they needed crop dusters, so there was a ready-made job.”

  “You’re very forthcoming about yourself,” said Black.

  “Some people couldn’t give a crap. Just get them to the fishing and pick them up again without any chatter. You two are different. I could tell that right off. You’re no fishermen. You’re not even tourists, so I thought I’d be up front. Now it’s your turn; you be up front with me and maybe I’ll let you hire Miroslava.”

  “Fair enough,” said Black. “We’re looking for someone in the Sierra del Escambray. If we don’t find him, a lot of people are going to die.”

  “You’re a Brit. Who do you work for?”

  “MI6.”

  Laframboise glanced at Carrie. “Which means she works for…”

  “That’s right.” Black nodded.

  “You’ve got big brass ones to play spy games in this country—I’ll give you that,” said Laframboise. “In Cuba they drop you in jail for five years for not handing over your ID fast enough.”

  “This is no game, Mr. Laframboise. This is the real thing. I wasn’t kidding that people are going to die unless we find this man, and very soon.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is John Holliday. He’s traveling with a Cuban mercenary named Eddie Cabrera. They’re looking for Cabrera’s brother, Domingo.”

  “Who’s this Domingo character?”

  “An ex-agent of MININT,” answered Carrie. “The Ministerio del Interior.”

  Laframboise lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Believe me, dear, I know what MININT stands for. I’ve had my own run-ins with them every once in a while.” He shook his head. “You really like to pick exciting friends, don’t you?”

  “He’s hardly a friend,” said Black. “But we really do need to find him.”

  “And this stuff about a lot of people dying is true?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Black nodded.

  Laframboise shrugged. “Okay, me and Miroslava are in.”

  “It may well be dangerous,” warned Black.

  “What the hell?” said the tall, gangly man. “What’s life without a little danger?” He grinned. “Besides, if things get really bad, we’ll just fly to the Caymans so I can spend all that money I’ve been squirreling away for a snowy day.”

  “All right.” Black nodded again. “We need to go back to our hotel and pack a few things. Can you be ready in an hour?”

  “No problemo.” The pilot nodded.

  After twenty-two years of military service, fighting in three wars for his country and receiving two Purple Hearts, the Distinguished Service Medal, a Bronze Star and divorce papers and losing any sort of custody for his two kids, Major Frank Turturro was making the princely sum of six thousand six hundred and thirty-three dollars a month. Of that, twenty-four hundred dollars went to alimony, twelve hundred to child support and seven hundred on car payments. He’d maxed out all his credit cards, his overdraft protection had been revoked and he was still on the hook for his ex-wife’s student loans for the degree she’d gone after and failed to obtain while in search of her “inner woman.” When all was said and done, he barely had enough left over for beer and pretzels.

  He’d been in the U.S. Army for twenty-two years and had post-traumatic stress disorder stretched wire thin from Baghdad to Kabul and back again. More than once while lying on his back on some stony piece of ground in the middle of goat-butt nowhere staring up at constellations that were nothing like the ones he’d grown up with, he’d seriously considered putting his Browning .45 between his teeth and giving it the old heave-ho.

  Instead he went home after his last tour, took his pension in a lump sum and paid all his debts, then took a contract with Blackhawk Security and went straight back to Helmand Province, this time at six thousand a week. That was four years ago, and now he was a light colonel commanding his own small battalion of top-notch men, all of them combat veterans like himself and making a hell of a lot more than six grand. Mind you, commanding an elite unit about to start a revolution in Cuba was no ordinary ride in a Humvee down the dangerous streets of Sadr City in Baghdad.

  Lieutenant Colonel Frank J. Turturro stared through the olive drab Steiner binoculars. In the clearing below he could see a low, concrete block building with a shed roof made of corrugated iron. A narrow dirt road wound up the steep slope of the mountain, passing directly in front of the building. A Soviet GAZ-67 jeep knockoff from the good old days sat in a dirt parking lot besid
e the building, and a couple of rusty bicycles were leaned on the wall beneath the overhanging porch. A Cuban flag hung limply on a pole to the right of the old school, and a roughly made pole barrier blocked the road.

  According to his intel, the building had once been a school, but the birthrate had fallen to nothing in the area years before and now the structure was a barracks and checkpoint for the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria, or the PNR, Cuban National Police Force. His intel had also told him that the barracks held an eight-man squad, two men on patrol, two men at the checkpoint barrier and a second shift asleep or simply off duty within the barracks.

  Turturro shifted the binoculars slightly. Two blue-uniformed men in baseball caps were seated in white plastic garden chairs on the open verandah of the building. Both men had their chairs tilted back, both were smoking cigarettes and the one closest to the parking lot had a beer bottle nestled between his legs.

  “Time,” said Turturro, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Fifteen fifty-eight hours,” said Anthony Veccione, the man on his left with the LAW rocket tube cradled in his arms. According to Veccione, his friends called him “The Therapist” because he got rid of people’s anxieties—permanently.

  The M72 already had the tube extended, the sights up and the spring-loaded safety pulled out into the “Armed” position. All Tony had to do now was to sit up on his knees, put the tube on his shoulder and squeeze his fingers on the big button-style trigger mechanism on the topside of the tube. The M72 was slow and old, dating back to the Vietnam War, but it could blow through eight inches of tank armor and it would turn the inside of the old school building into a meat grinder. Veccione had a second tube strapped to his back in a special pack.

  “Two minutes until the shift change,” said Turturro. He turned to his right. Lying beside him was Nick Cavan, the best of the four senior snipers in Turturro’s company. “You ready, Nick?”