by Wil Mara
He tried to drive it all out of his mind. He’d done this many times before but could never sustain it. The guilt kept hammering away. Maybe it really is time to give up, he thought. He was coming unglued both physically and emotionally. Sheila was missing; Ben was dead. There were people in government, both good and bad, ready to pounce on him as soon as they had the chance. There was also Sheila’s lawyer, who had him in his crosshairs and was madder than a rattlesnake.
And he was no longer making progress. The trail—if it could really be called that, in light of Moore’s opinion of his pursuits—had gone cold.
Hammond closed his eyes and began to piece together an exit strategy. The first step would be to go back to the hotel, pack his belongings, and wait until sundown. Then I’ll call Noah and make my way back to the boat. After that, I’ll have to—
The church bells that suddenly began ringing in the distance caught his attention not because of their ethereal beauty but because they sounded hauntingly similar to those in the church where he used to attend services less than a mile from his family estate. In fact, Hammond realized with a chill, they were identical.
His head came up, the eyelids peeling apart, and he tried to pinpoint the source. It certainly wasn’t far. He got to his feet somewhat clumsily and resumed his route down the alley. By the time he reached the end, the bells had stopped. Two blocks farther on, however, he saw a tiny cathedral that stood alone at the end of a weedy, spider-cracked parking lot. It was a boxlike structure made of white sandstone that had become grimed by age and neglect. There were two red doors set into a broad archway and a three-segmented bell tower with a gold crucifix on top. He stopped at the front, wondering if the place hadn’t been altogether abandoned. Then he saw that the door on the right was open a crack. He pulled it the rest of the way open, the hinges groaning, and stepped inside. The door eased to a close, enveloping him in darkness.
The odors came first—ancient dust, tired wood, rotting books, and incense. Then, as his eyes adjusted, familiar shapes began to emerge. There was a pile of fraying hymnals stacked on a table. A once-beautiful tempera painting of Jesus hung at a forward angle, rippled by the tropical heat and discolored along the bottom by what appeared to be water damage.
He crossed slowly into the nave. The velvet carpet was worn to near transparency. Pews no longer possessed the luxury of uniformity, as many had undergone repairs of varying skill. Some of the chandeliers had broken shades, and most of the stained-glass windows had mismatching or altogether-colorless patch spots.
As he moved down the aisle, he thought about some of the people he’d seen since his arrival—not just those he’d spoken with but others he’d noted in passing. There was a group of boys playing volleyball in a street, the “net” nothing more than a length of rope. They were all alarmingly skinny, even for young boys. A tiny woman of great but indeterminate age had shuffled up to him, her withered features like the skin of a dried apple, and openly begged for money. When Hammond gave her a twenty, she rubbed her cheek against the back of his hand like a servile dog. And his sadness toward the countless prostitutes who seemed to populate every street mellowed into pity when he was told by one of the taxi drivers that most of them were, in fact, college students in need of extra money—not for drugs or liquor, but for school supplies that the government failed to provide.
As he drew closer to the front of the church, he began to see things that weren’t really there. The three polished caskets, lids still closed, resting on their wooden biers and surrounded by candles. In the far reaches of his mind, he wondered if he would ever be able to enter a church again without conjuring this image. In spite of it, he willed himself forward. Just like in the dreams, the lids began to open slowly, and the waterlogged corpses sat up and reached out to take hold of him. . . .
Then he was there, in front of the altar, in the precise spot where he stood each time the nightmare came to its violent end. He looked up at the huge crucifix suspended on two thin wires, gazed into the eyes of the suffering-Christ effigy.
Then a voice broke the silence. “Puedo ayudarlo?” Can I help you?
Hammond turned like a trapped thief. The man who stood there was small but well built and dressed in a priest’s casual vestments. He was older but still appeared to possess much vitality. The cleric came forward, studying Hammond with benevolent curiosity.
“I apologize, Father,” Hammond replied in Spanish. “I didn’t mean to trespass.”
“That is okay,” the man said. His voice was so powerful and resonant that it seemed odd coming from someone of his size. “All are welcome here. I am Father Núñez.”
He held out his hand, and Hammond took it. “I’m Jason Hammond.”
Núñez nodded. “You are American.”
“Yes. I am . . . visiting. I heard the bells and wanted to see what the church looked like inside.”
Núñez’s bushy eyebrows came together in puzzlement. “Bells? What do you mean?”
“The bells in the tower, I heard them just before. That’s what led me here.”
The priest seemed to consider the idea for a moment, then shook his head. “No bells have been rung today. They are only rung on Sundays, before mass.”
Hammond couldn’t decide if this man, whom he had never met before, was kidding or not. But Núñez’s expression did not change, and Hammond intuited that he was not the type of person to joke about such things.
“The bells weren’t ringing just a short time ago?”
“No. I would know this. I am the bell ringer here.”
Hammond watched him for another moment in a final search for signs of trickery, then turned his eyes back to the massive wooden crucifix. “Is there another church in this area?”
Núñez laughed. “No, señor. It is hard enough keeping this one. My country’s government is not exactly sympathetic, you understand.”
Hammond nodded absently.
“Are you okay?”
“Hmm? Oh . . . sure.”
“Why don’t you sit down, and I will get you something cold to dr—”
“No, no. Thank you.” Hammond turned and began walking away. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Mr. Hammond, please,” Núñez called out. “You do not need to go.”
But Hammond did not turn around. He went out the door and crossed the parking lot without looking back.
He called Noah as soon as he left the church property to let him know the search was over. The older man tried to talk him into carrying on, but it was a halfhearted attempt, and they both knew it. The news from home hadn’t changed. Still no word from the police, no word from Sheila herself—when Hammond finally conceded the fact she might already be dead, he had to struggle to keep from vomiting—and Henry Moore yelling into the phone every time Noah tried to talk to him.
Hammond took a few bites of a room-service sandwich, then slept until the dreams forced him awake. As soon as darkness fell, he jammed everything into his bag and went out. Thinking about the real-life nightmare that awaited him back in the States numbed him. After paying his bill in cash, he traversed the lobby of the Hotel Parque Central and exited through one of the side doors. He paused to make sure his phone was on and fully charged, then tucked it in his pocket and started toward the rear of the building, away from the traffic-clogged Neptuno Prado y Zulueta.
He reached the corner and crossed into a quiet residential neighborhood; the street noise from the heart of the city grew fainter with each step. Then, seemingly from nowhere, a stranger appeared. It was a young man of perhaps twenty-two or -three, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain T-shirt. He had a cigar box in his hands and was holding it up to Hammond, smiling eagerly.
“Americano rico, mire, por favor. Esto es lo que quiere.” Please, wealthy American, look here. This is what you want. He said this quietly and was being watchful of his surroundings.
Hammond had been offered contraband cigars several times before, along with a variety of liquor, narcotics, weapo
ns, and cheaply pirated pressings of popular CDs and DVDs.
Without breaking his stride, Hammond tried to wave the kid away. “No, no—déjeme en paz.” Leave me alone.
“No, esto es lo que quiere,” his antagonist insisted. This is what you want. Then he added, “Mire, por favor.” Please look.
Hammond took a deep breath, stopped, and glanced at the box as the lid was lifted.
There were no cigars inside, but rather a note cast in fairly legible print—I can take you to Olivero Clemente.
Hammond studied the boy for a moment. “How much?” he asked, still in Spanish.
“One hundred,” came the quick reply.
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
The kid closed the box and held it at his side like a book. His eyes kept shifting about. “My mother and I live in the same apartment building. He rarely goes out, but we see him sometimes.”
This had a ring of reality to it. But Hammond was still hesitant; he’d been fooled too many times. And he’d made a plan that he was in the process of executing; his mind was already moving in that direction. On the other hand, the worst that can happen is the guy is lying and I’m out another hundred. No great loss. If that turned out to be the case, he’d view it as nothing more than an annoying detour on the way back to the boat. And there’s always the chance he’s not lying. Hammond had learned through experience that sooner or later, you usually encountered someone willing to talk.
He unbuttoned the back pocket of his cotton pants and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. The kid’s eyes just about sparkled when he saw it. While he paused to admire it, Hammond wondered where he’d be able to break it into smaller bills. The kid stuffed it into his own pocket and gestured with his finger. “Vamos!”
As they moved farther from the city center, the neighborhoods became increasingly run-down and depressing. The roads lost their pavement and became rutted trails of packed earth. Streetlights were dimmer and spaced at greater intervals. Most homes appeared to be unoccupied, many collapsed or just about to. Particularly unsettling was the fact that Hammond’s guide seemed to be growing more nervous. Sometimes he would jerk his head left or right, but Hammond never saw anyone or anything to justify these reactions. He felt increasingly isolated, thoroughly detached from civilization. It occurred to him that he was walking through a completely forgotten section of the world. And no one knows I’m here.
They came to what appeared to be a park of sorts. There were dozens of dwarf trees arranged in concentric circles, their hanging fruit dried and rotting. Benches had been set in select locations, but they were badly dilapidated and unsuitable for use. There was also a statue in the center of the property—a generic Cuban farmer with a sickle on his shoulder and a proud, determined look on his face. From the days when Cuba was floated by Russian welfare, Hammond thought, making a point not to share this political commentary with his companion. Another Communist experiment that didn’t pan out. The kid did not appear to take notice of the memorial, as if he’d been through here a million times.
Then he took off running. Hammond, instantly furious at being deceived again, shouted and began to pursue. Then the other two appeared—young men of about the same age but much greater size. In fact, Hammond saw with skyrocketing alarm, they were massive. They had been hiding behind two of the trees and were on him in an instant. Then the cigar salesman returned, emerging from the darkness as silently as he had the first time. The box was no longer in his hand but rather a long stiletto with a crude wooden handle.
He came forward and brought the blade up quick, stopping just as the tip pressed into the soft of Hammond’s throat.
“Si te mueves estás muerto,” he breathed into Hammond’s face. You move and you’re dead.
Hammond swore at him in English. The very thought that his audience couldn’t understand him was satisfying in itself.
One of the muscle heads responded to this obstinacy by driving a fist into Hammond’s stomach. He folded and went down. Then they were on him, their hands swarming greedily over his body. Stiletto man was on his knees a few feet away, digging through Hammond’s bag. When they were certain his pockets had been emptied, all three began kicking him viciously. He tried to crawl away several times, only to be struck harder for his temerity. Then came a hard, metallic click, a sound he knew all too well.
He looked up to find one of the two monsters—he wasn’t sure which—holding a gun inches from his head.
“I think we’ll leave you here,” the brute said, licking his lips with nervous pleasure.
Hammond stared hard at him, refusing to show any sign of fear. He even smiled a little. There followed a moment, no more than a flicker, when the gunman first looked confused, then enraged. In that instant, Hammond knew he would at least be able to claim one small victory before his life came to an end.
The thug’s mouth twisted into an animalistic snarl. Then a shot pierced the night air.
Hammond flinched at the sound of the report. What happened next surprised him—there was no pain, no suffering, no agony. Nothing at all. So why do I hear screaming?
When he looked around, two facts immediately presented themselves—the first was that he hadn’t been struck, and the second was that the soulless beast who’d been holding the gun had. He now lay on the ground just inches away, writhing like a worm and screeching at the top of his lungs. Both hands were clamped to his thigh, blood flowing between the fingers.
The other two punks stood in a frozen panic, searching for the sniper. Another shot came, ripping into the upper part of the arm holding the stiletto. Hammond expected the skinny kid to start squawking like his colleague, but something else happened—he took one dazed look at the blood turning his sleeve red and fainted dead away.
The third delinquent wasn’t interested in waiting around to discover what the shooter had in store for him; he turned and fled into the night. Then Hammond heard soft footsteps and saw the figure of a man develop from the darkness.
He was tall and lithe, moving with an almost-feminine grace. His garb was oddly formal—gray slacks and matching jacket and a black shirt open at the throat. It was the face, however, that commanded attention—a sailor’s gray-flecked beard, the deeply carved lines that come only from decades of hard living, and the large, faultless eyes of a man not easily conned. One who saw everything and found most of it unworthy of further consideration.
He walked to the scene of the carnage he had created and stopped. The weapon he’d used—a Walther PPK—was held slack in his hand. When the thug who’d been shot through the thigh noticed him, he pushed himself halfway up and said something unrepeatable. The man responded by swinging the Walther under the kid’s chin in one vicious blow, causing the punk to snap back, his arms flying almost comically over his head, before coming to rest in a jumbled heap. He did not move again.
The gunman went about the seemingly menial task of gathering up Hammond’s belongings, placing them gingerly into his bag. Then he slung the bag over his shoulder and stood before its speechless owner.
“I am Olivero Clemente,” he said plainly.
An electric charge went through Hammond; he hoped he didn’t look as dumbfounded as he felt.
Clemente held out a hand to help him up. “Come,” he said. “We cannot stay here long. Follow me.”
34
FREDERICK RYDELL stood by the panoramic window in his office, hands deep in his pockets. He watched the busy evening activity on the street below with detachment. His office door was still closed even though Theresa had gone home hours ago and there was no one else out there. It was quiet now, almost peaceful; the only noise in the room came from the computer’s exhaust fan. This serenity stood in stark contrast to the fact that he was experiencing one of the most miserable days of his life.
It began just minutes after his morning arrival, when he and nine others were called into an emergency meeting with Director Vallick. Rydell had never seen him so angry. Apoplectic was the word that came to m
ind, like the man was trying to push himself to a stroke. He had a pile of newspapers on his desk, each with a front-page story about how Hammond had new evidence in the Kennedy assassination and how Sheila Baker had been kidnapped as a result and how the government—supposedly the CIA in particular, most said—had something to do with her disappearance.
That’s right, Vallick had said as the veins in his neck bulged; the media was running with it now. And this attorney from Texas, Henry Moore, was stomping around like a madman. He had a friend in the Justice Department, and this friend had seen the evidence and felt justified calling in the attorney general of the United States. “One step below the president,” Vallick raged, holding up a finger. “One step!” Now the FBI was involved. That meant a full-scale investigation into the CIA’s role in the affair.
This was the point in the meeting where Vallick had gone cardiac. He took great pride in the way he had gradually but traceably improved the agency’s reputation during his tenure. No more draconian tactics, no more arrogant disregard for legal boundaries, no more public embarrassments. He insisted that his people could do their jobs within honorable limits. He was realistic enough to know that ethical standards had to be softened from time to time, but he was determined to prove to the American populace that the agency’s outlaw days were over. “I want full transparency and total cooperation from each of your departments,” he barked. “If I hear so much as a peep from the bureau that someone is putting up roadblocks, I’m going to eat that person alive. Am I perfectly clear on this point?”
He finished by saying he planned to direct Justice to open a lawsuit against Jason Hammond if his accusations proved baseless—which, he added, he fully expected them to. “I will ruin that man,” he screamed. He was throwing things when the attendees filed out of the office.
Just a few hours later, another dreaded call came from the other hothead in Rydell’s life: the faceless phone screamer. He had been expecting it for days. He sat wordlessly in his chair and endured a historic tongue-lashing. They had lost faith in him, the caller said, believing he had now become more of a liability than an asset. Rydell stiffened as though caught in a cold wind. A threat—an actual death threat from that madman.