by Glen Carter
The cop was saying something.
“Sorry?”
“Your friend,” said the senior man. “Maybe a few drinks. He meets a lady. He returns in themorning.”
Was this guy serious? Jack shook his head. “Not a chance. The last time I saw Malloy he was pounding the guy with a blackjack. Doing a pretty good job of it too. No lady.”
The cop nodded, but he wasn’t finished. “Then maybe jinitera. Lots of…,” the cop looked to his lesser, sharing a smirk, “Lots of whores in old Havana.”
Seth chuckled. “I don’t think so, mate. Malloy would throw the cuffs on a hooker before shagging one.”
The cops looked strangely at the Brit.
This was going nowhere. An American citizen had been kidnapped, or worse. Two journalists had been assaulted and these cops just didn’t get it. Jack wondered why someone higher up from the Ministry of Interior wasn’t here. He doubted it would do any good to ask. Frustrated and exhausted he was ready to call it a night.
The hotel lobby was quiet. There were just a couple of guys at the bar. A moment later they were joined by a gorgeous woman—tall, blond, and dressed to kill. She took a seat between the two men. For some reason she looked familiar.
The two cops stood up, and snapped shut their notebooks. They assured Jack that everything possible was being done to locate his missing friend. In the morning they’d be back and if Malloy hadn’t returned, he’d be treated as a missing person. It wasn’tmuch, though Jack knew it was the most he could hope for. He watched them leave and then followed Seth to the elevators. Before the door closed, Jack caught another glimpse of the blond and her two friends. The three of them raised their glasses in his direction and nodded. Here’s to you, Jack Doyle.
Problem was, Jack had no idea why he was being toasted, or by whom.
41
Malloy became aware of a monstrous throbbing at the base of his skull. A relentless rhythm that made him hate his awakening. Eyes squeezed shut, he yielded to a black limitless moment that brought no relief.
He scratched his way backward within the evening, vaguely remembering a kid with a horse and buggy. There were birds. Doyle and Kaitlin. Dark shapes emerging from a vehicle. Then a fight that ended with a crushing thump at the back of his head.
He grunted. Shifted slightly where he lay.
A boot pressed him to the floor. A different sort of pain.
“Don’t you fucking move.”
The voice came from outside his head. Like the boot crushing his spine.
The pressure made it tough to inhale. He needed to roll over but could not. His senses were coming alive, giving the pounding in his head edges and points.
Things were muddy, though he faintly remembered that voice. There was a blackjack in his hand, and a lot of cursing while he was swinging it. The voice had a watery lisp now. Broken jaw. Maybe some missing teeth. Malloy grunted, once more.
The boot ground into his back. “You think ith funny? Cock-thucker.”
Malloy winced and, a second or two later, pried his eyes open. The first thing he saw was a floor full of feet. Seven of them, not including that boot pinning him to the floor.
“Let him up.”
“Gringo motherfucker.”
“I said let him up.”
The pressure disappeared from his back. Malloy rubbed the base of his neck, feeling something slippery and warm.
“Get up.”
It was a new voice calling the shots.
Malloy pulled himself up and slumped against a wall. Breathing hard, he studied his surroundings. It was a shed of some kind. Alone light was strung from the ceiling. Gardening implements were hung everywhere. There were wheel barrows and a long work bench, amess of gas cans and tools. It was stifling hot. Sweat stung his eyes. Four of them came into focus. Three he recognized. They were the ones who had gotten out of the car. The big guy looked bad. He had black eyes and the side of his face was swollen. His lips were cut and blood-caked. Nice work, Malloy thought. Still haven’t lost the touch. The fourth man walked into the light.
It was Roberto Sevier. He was thin-lipped with eyes like large black buttons. Taller than he appeared on the surveillance tape. Well dressed and showing a face that belonged on an old Spanish coin. He was looking, at that moment, the smug prick.
Sevier bent on one knee and spoke directly. “There is an old Spanish refrain,” he said. “You would call it a proverb. A laocasionla pintan calva. Do you know what it means?”
Malloy looked him straight in the eye, but that was it. He wasn’t accustomed to being on the other side of an interrogation. Sevier would have made a lousy cop.
Without waiting for a response, Sevier stood and walked to a wooden stool. “It means when an opportunity comes along, you take it. Make hay while the sun shines, which is what I am offering to you.”
Malloy’s head was pounding too hard for riddles. He’d have to listen to this fuck while he played his games. He was fully awake now. “I have one too,” Malloy croaked.
“Good. Good. I can’t wait to hear it.”
Malloy momentarily studied the three others. They seemed content as spectators.
“Teigh trasna ort fein,” Malloy said. “It’s Gaelic.”
“And it means?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Sevier laughed. “We’ll see,” he said. “But in them eantime, there is something I need to discuss with you. And it involves your friend.”
“I have a lot of friends.”
“And not one of them will make any difference to your predicament, I’m afraid. Which brings me to the reason you’re here. Two reasons, actually.” Sevier stopped for a moment, eventually turning his back. “Why is Jack Doyle interested in the Bay of Pigs?”
Malloy didn’t respond. He stole half a moment to regroup, then straightened against the wall. “Maybe you should ask him.”
Sevier faced him. “That was my preference,” he said, shooting a look at Mister Big. “But, Doyle isn’t here and that leaves you to answer my questions.”
Malloy needed to know how much stonewalling he could do. He waited a moment, rubbed at his face. “I’ve got a question, too,” he said. “Who the fuck are you? And why am I here?”
Malloy was still a little fuzzy, but what emerged from the murk was a kid with a carriage and a bunch of birds. Kaitlin had been mesmerized. The horse took off and then the goons were there. The blackjack became his neutralizer, until he got neutralized. The pounding in his head was getting worse. Molloy shook it off and tried to focus on the things that were important at that moment. His well-being for one. Sevier’s thugs didn’t look that tough, and he’d already kicked one ass, but he’d had a little surprise up his sleeve then. It would have had a better outcome except for getting blindsided. Likely by the one Doyle had taken down before chasing off to rescue Kaitlin.
Malloy scanned the shed. Looking for something that might become a weapon. There was a crowbar on a hook above the workbench. He’d need to get to it, somehow. In the meantime, he’d keep Sevier engaged. Turn the interrogator into the interrogated. An old trick. Malloy looked him straight in the face. “You didn’t answer my questions,” he said.
“You know who I am,” Sevier responded. “You’ve been asking about me. About things that are none of your business.”
“Things?”
“Don’t insult me, Malloy. I know about your interest in a man I once knew. I know about your visit to Pabon. You and Doyle.”
“Pabon is an old friend of mine. We stopped in to say hello.”
Sevier ignored him. “Pabon was a simple librarian. A keeper of relics. Like you. In truth, he was insignificant.”
“Was?”
Sevier’s face betrayed mild disappointment at the trap he’d just stumbled into. “I read the newspapers,” he replied. “It’s a shame about his death. I’m sure he’ll bemissed, especially by the Brigade.”
Malloywanted to cut the shit and lay it all on the table. There was Pabon’s murder and th
e drive-by shooting. Sevier had been caught on tape with two scumbags—and a car. The same car Malloy had spotted just before the bullets started to fly outside their hotel. Any greenhorn prosecutor could connect Sevier with the drive-by and the murder of two innocent people. It wasn’t as easy drawing a line between Sevier and the Pabon killing, but Malloy was goddamn sure about that, too.
Sevier was speaking again. “There’s something else. You and your friend visited my company headquarters today and you left with a videotape. Stole it actually.” Seviermoved closer. Eyes like darts. “I want it back.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sevier nodded sharply.
The big thug opened a tool chest and removed something that made Malloy’s heart pound.
Seviermade some room. “Remember what I told you about that Spanish proverb. About opportunities that present themselves.”
Malloy gritted his teeth.
“Return my property and you’ll live. However, if not….” Sevier allowed the words to hang there.
Pruning shears gleamed in the overhead light.
Christ. He needed to gain some control. Time was running out. The air felt super-heated. “You’re all up shit creek kidnapping an American citizen,” Malloy said lamely. “I’ll bet in this country, that’s a death sentence.”
“Not quite,” Sevier responded. “But that’s not something you should be concerned about. My friend here has an axe to grind.” Sevier paused. “And he’s not worried about ‘shit creek’.”
The pruning shears were stroked as if to awaken them.
Malloy sucked in gasoline vapours and spent oil and felt his guts catch fire. His breath quickened.
The big one dropped to the floor and grabbed one of Malloy’s hands. The other two stomped over and held him down.
“Well?” Sevier said.
A panic took hold. Malloy’s heart raced. “Well what?” he said.
“You were asking Pabon about someone I knew, once,” Sevier continued. “Is that why you’re here? You and the reporter. Why did you come?” When Malloy didn’t answer, Sevier gave a nod.
Malloy struggled as one of his fingers was forced between the blades of the pruning shears. Squeezing slowly, the blades cut. Malloy fought the urge to shout. He tried to break free, but couldn’t move.
Sevier moved closer to his face, suddenly producing a revolver that he placed on Malloy’s forehead. “Pabon died quickly. As a compatriot, I thought he was owed at least that. You, on the other hand...” Sevier placed a hand on the big one’s shoulder. “My swollen friend here will enjoy cutting off your fingers and toes.”
More pressure was applied.
Malloy yelled in pain.
“Tell me what you’re doing in Cuba?” Spittle appeared at the corners of Sevier’s mouth. His face twisted in anger. “And what did you do with my videotape?”
“You fucking asshole,” Malloy stammered. It was excruciating. Another pain shot up his arm and into his chest. It felt like a knife being sunk into his sternum. He gasped for air. Heavy drops of blood thudded to the floor. Soaked in sweat, Malloy coughed.
Sevier stared at him, waiting.
“Teigh trasna ort fein,” Malloy wheezed.
Sevier sneered.
There was a crack followed by a crunch.
A blood-curdling scream exploded from Malloy’s chest. Then he slumped to the floor.
42
Poole studied the luminescent dial on his watch and then allowed his eyes to adjust to the blackness.Asatiani was a broad black shape behind the sweeps of his flashlight. He was quiet, which was fine.The man was normally unrelenting with his useless chatter.
Poole shifted his rucksack, satisfied that nothing was overlooked. The SnaiperskayaVintovka Dragunov was tucked inside a leather case along with a PSO-1 optical scope and four magazines of ammunition. Under other circumstances, Poole would have worried about corrosion. It didn’t take long to ruin a fine weapon, but the rifle had a chrome-lined bore that neutralized dampness.
They came to a bend in the tunnel where it was necessary to stoop to half his height. Poole cradled the rucksack in his arms.The heat and stench made it feel like they were squeezing through someone’s colon, the wrong way. Poole didn’t mind. His breathing was easy and measured. However, he suspected Asatiani was feeling the discomfort.
After another twenty yards the passageway became larger. Poole slapped the Georgian on the shoulder. Asatiani showed him five sweaty fingers and turned without a word.
The Georgian had led them into the tunnel from a small cement bunker located next to a nondescript government building not far from Revolution Square. He unlocked the thick steel door. “The tunnel carries electrical and communications cables to the entire bureaucracy.The cabinet and ministries, the council of state, and the communist party apparatchiks. It’s the political and administrative nerve centre for the whole fucking country.” A small trapdoor was unlatched. It creaked loudly as Asatiani lifted it. The beam from the flashlight revealed a rusty metal ladder that fell away to the blackness below. “Designed by Soviet engineers and paid for by Brezhnev.” The old Georgian placed his face closer in the darkness. “They planted listening devices on the cables and heard everything Castro and his cronies were up to.” Asatiani motioned for Poole to go first. “Get in. I’ll pass the rucksack down to you. Then I’ll secure the door.”
Poole kept a close watch on him as he descended the ladder. Asatiani then passed the rucksack through the small opening. A moment later, Poole made room as the old Georgian lowered himself onto the ladder and pulled the door shut. Then, in the absolute darkness of the tunnel, Poole heard the latch being secured.
When Asatiani reached the bottom, he flicked on the flashlight.
Poole’s face was close. “It’s like a coffin, eh?”
Asatiani ignored him. Instead, he shone the flashlight on the trap door so Poole could see how it was locked shut. Once they got underway, Poole began making mental notes. This was his way out when the job was done and he intended to know every twist and turn along the way. Even the temperature variations could serve as way points as he made good his escape, through the tunnel, up the ladder, and to the car that would be waiting.
After another few minutes they came to another ladder. Asatiani stopped next to it. He handed the flashlight to Poole and began to climb. After a few steps, Asatiani gave Poole the signal to join him. Poole mounted the ladder and another trap door was pushed open revealing a dimly lit area above. Poole handed Asatiani the flashlight and then followed him through the opening. They were standing in a small room with electrical boxes and humming equipment. Poole waited as Asatiani placed his ear against a door and listened. A moment later, he turned off the overhead light and slowly pulled it open. Breathing cooler air, Poole followed him into a dark hallway. Asatiani’s flashlight revealed offices that ran at intervals along the corridor. Poole followed on Asatiani’s heels as the old Georgian moved quickly down the hallway. Another door was opened into a stairwell. They climbed to the top and stepped through another door into a hallway identical to the first.
Poole was eager to see his perch. “Quickly,” he said.
Asatiani removed a key from his pocket and opened the first door on their right. Poole followed him in and shut the door.
In the ambient light, Poole could see it was a bureaucrat’s space. The walls were hung with certificates and photographs. Poole scanned a couple of them. In one, Fidel Castro was cutting a ribbon somewhere. In another, a group of smiling men were crouched in front of a tall metal tower adorned with white parabolic dishes and other communications hardware. There were boxes piled against one wall and an unspectacular desk that had two telephones, a lamp, and a few file folders.
Poole crept to the window and pulled a pair of unusual looking binoculars from his rucksack. First he disabled their night vision.Then he surveyed the scene in the square below. The level of activity didn’t surprise him. Armoured personnel carriers sped along t
he broad avenue that skirted the massive space, chased by smaller vehicles with wildly flashing lights. In what was normally the parking area for tourist buses, Poole focused on the Secret Service command centre. Many agents were on duty. Poole pushed a button on the remarkable instrument he was holding to enable its rangefinder. Satisfied with the readout, he turned his attention to a pair of military helicopters, with their distinctive sound, holding station over the square. Powerful floods darted from building to building. At that moment, at the base of the building where he now stood, there were at least a dozen soldiers, as there were at the other buildings surrounding the square. Despite the hour, they appeared alert, eyes never staying in one place for longer than a few seconds. Weapons poised as if they expected Batista himself to emerge from the bushes with guns blazing. Poole replaced the binoculars, impressed with the resources being deployed by the enemy.
Asatiani whispered something. Poole turned in time to see him pushing aside a stack of boxes from the wall. He lent a hand, soon revealing a louvered floor-level panel. Asatiani bent down and quickly removed four screws holding the panel in place. He pulled it to one side, leaned in to take a look and then nodded.
Poole opened his rucksack and in a matter of minutes his weapon was assembled. He pulled himself inside the duct and crawled forward. With more than enough room to manoeuvre, he gently placed the rifle to one side and pressed his face against the grate.The scene repeated itself outside, every detail visible through the metal grid. Poole was happy, but to be sure, he brought the rifle forward and slowly extended the flash suppressor through the grate. Placing his eye against the powerful scope he was impressed as usual by the minute detail, even at this distance.Had he been so inclined, he could have dropped one, two, even three Secret Service agents before they had any idea they were under fire. Instead, Poole carefully wrapped the rifle and laid it down.He then elbowed his way backwards through the duct, through the opening into the room.
“A clean line of sight,” Poole said. “You’ve chosen well.”