Last Witness

by Glen Carter

Another hundred metres and then they turned left onto a deserted street. Dark doorways and broken windows. Not a light to be seen. Another part of old Havana, abandoned and waiting for a fix-up. It was the kind of street where a body would rot before being discovered.

  One of the goons pushed him towards a van parked further up the street. They weren’t going to do it here. Maybe they planned to take him somewhere—to beat something out of him first. Maybe the name of the man who had provided the briefcase full of money. Strangely, the thought didn’t bother him. Poole smiled. The jab of a gun barrel was his reward.

  He wanted to know more about Lilia. How she found him. Had she shared her information with anyone? A serious breach in operational security could be a problem, especially now.

  The van was closer. One of the goons reached it and stood there, weapon raised. A second later he pulled open the door.

  Poole immediately thought what a strange sight he made. The others must have thought so too, because they froze where they stood.

  Perched inside the van, Bezhan Asatiani smiled and then shot the closest goon in the face.

  Suddenly, Poole swung around, and in a flash, his knife was plunged into the second man’s chest. With a gasp, he dropped lifeless to the ground.

  Lilia had no weapon and no chance.

  Asatiani got to her and held her, immovable. She cried out and struggled to get free. Cursing, which made the old Georgian chuckle.

  “She’s a firecracker,” Asatiani chortled. “I’m glad we finally meet. Who are they?”

  Poole told him, then they loaded the two bodies into the van and slammed the door. He turned to Lilia. “You will tell me everything I want to know,” he said, holding his bloodied knife to her face. “Or I will remove your body parts, starting with those beautiful breasts.”

  “You pig,” Lilia stammered. “Murderer.”

  Poole looked stung. “Murderer?” He pressed the bloody knife against her cheek. “And what plans did you have for me? Dinner and a movie?”

  “Wonderful plans,” she said defiantly, “that included rotting in prison.” Lilia looked at the van. “They had other ideas.”

  Poole laughed.

  Asatiani held out her purse, which Poole grabbed and emptied onto the street. Only two things interested him. A small tarnished medal that Poole picked up and wiped across his shirt. There was also a clump of lead, which he collected and examined. Realization quickly swept in. “Where did you get it?” Poole demanded. “During your visit to the morgue?”

  Lilia looked away.

  Menacingly, the knife was lowered. Its point drawing blood above her breast.

  Lilia gasped. Tears streamed down her face. She glared at Poole. A rage bursting from her. “Anton Lubov’s corpse,” she hissed. “My father.”

  52

  The international press centre was located in Cuba’s national theater, a large modern building on Avenida Paseo only a few blocks from Revolution Square. It contained two large auditoriums, the largest of which contained hundreds of busy journalists. The building was an architectural disappointment to anyone who visited, but when you were fighting deadlines, what mattered most was a working Internet and plenty of fibre drops to feed your stories.

  Kaitlin O’Rourke was on the phone, doing a debrief with some CNS radio host in New York. What was it like having a front row seat on history? Kaitlin thought about the question. “Very moving,” she replied. “It’s the best part of my job.” The interview ended a moment later.

  They were tucked away in one corner of the main stage, a partitioned space large enough for a few chairs and a small desk. The other US networks had the same amount of space down the line. Next door, CNN hung a hand-written sign. “The stage is our world.”

  Kaitlin swivelled in her chair to watch the final seconds of her story on the President’s arrival being fed to New York. It had been a hell of a deadline. With no time to spare, the story had been written on the drive from the airport. A quick standup was shot with Revolution Square as a backdrop, then Kaitlin had nailed the voiceover. Seth’s editing had been swift beyond words.

  “In the can,” the Brit said, smiling. “Now can we get drunk?”

  Maria was on the phone, shaking her head. She held up a hand for quiet. “I’m sorry, you’re what?”

  Kaitlin’s stomach tightened.

  Maria was looking her way, but listening to New York. The show producer was on the other end of the line. Maria looked incredulous. “You’re going with McCoy on Denton’s arrival. You’re kidding me.”

  Kaitlin’s heart sank. They had seen McCoy and his crew only briefly on the tarmac after Air Force One had landed. He hadn’t even bothered to stick around for the President’s remarks.

  Maria repeated what she was being told. “Simmons wants McCoy to front the story.” Maria shrugged in a way that said, don’t shoot the messenger.

  Kaitlin grabbed the phone. Her face red. “This is my tape, my interviews, my story. McCoy gets nowhere near it.”

  The producer growled back. “Simmons wants. Simmons gets. McCoy’s going live from Revolution Square. Sorry, O’Rourke. Stay in touch.”

  Kaitlin fumed. “That bastard.”

  Maria and Seth groaned in unison.

  McCoy had hijacked the story.

  Five minutes later the three of them sat in stunned silence as Frank Simmons’s face appeared on the satellite TV in their cubicle.

  “Good Evening. President Frederick Denton has arrived in Havana, Cuba, to correct what his administration calls historic failures in this country’s treatment of that tiny Caribbean nation. It’s a visit that will see an end to the decades old embargo imposed by the United States against Cuba. Within minutes of touching down in the Cuban capital, President Denton did something that will be admired in Cuba, but despised by many Cubans in south Florida. Senior correspondent Tim McCoy is on the ground in Havana tonight with more. Tim.”

  The camera switched to Tim McCoy in the CNS anchor booth at Revolution Square. He was smiling broadly which would have been fine had the story required it. It certainly didn’t.

  “Frank, you could hear a pin drop in Jose Marti International Airport this afternoon when President Denton announced freedom and pardons for the so-called Cuban Five.”

  Maria said what the three of them were thinking. “He must have super human ears considering he wasn’t even there.”

  Kaitlin sat, white knuckled and quiet.

  McCoy continued his spiel, overlaid by Seth’s video from Denton’s arrival and the red carpet. Then came clips of Denton’s speech. It was all over in ninety seconds. Simmons asked a couple of questions and then thanked McCoy for his insightful reporting. Then it was on to the next story.

  It was stunningly inadequate and no wonder the show was bleeding viewers.

  Maria was dumbfounded.

  “Screw McCoy,” Seth said.

  Deflated, Kaitlin smiled weakly. There was nothing she could do. But she wouldn’t surrender. “OK,” she said. “Time to move on. Fight another day.” She slammed shut her laptop. “I think you’ve earned a night on the network.”

  “Righto,” Seth piped up.

  Kaitlin tried to match his excitement. “The guys from German TV have an entire restaurant booked. I’m sure they’d love to have you and Maria tag along.”

  Maria took a little longer to come around. “Bloody wankers,” she finally said. “Pack your gear, Seth. Time to go. And you,” she said to Kaitlin, “you’ll be the belle of the President’s ball tonight.”

  Kaitlin had nearly forgotten. She was looking forward to a little relaxation, especially with her husband. God knows she needed it.

  Seth grabbed his camera and kissed Kaitlin on the cheek. “Have fun, luv. Don’t stay out late. You’ll need to be at the top of your game tomorrow.”

  Maria nodded. “He’s right. If you need me later, and I mean much later, I’ll be in my room, time coding tape. Great work today. Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

  “Thanks.
I appreciate it. Gute nacht.”

  Maria and Seth headed in the direction of German TV.

  A moment later, Kaitlin grabbed her notebook and her purse. Pablo was waiting for her outside. Kaitlin jumped into the van.

  “You had a good day?” Pablo said.

  “Unbelievable,” Kaitlin said.

  53

  The broad sidewalk at the foot of El Capitolio swarmed with gawkers as, one after another, cars pulled up at the building’s entrance. Doors were briskly opened and the elite stepped into view. Most elicited no more than curious stares, though occasionally there were gasps and loud squeals when some well-known face exited a limousine and waved

  Kaitlin protested, but Pablo insisted on opening the door for them.

  “My lady,” he said in his best English, helping her from the van.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said.

  “Pleeeaase,” Jack said.

  Pablo disappeared to the driver’s door and quickly drove off.

  Kaitlin wasn’t some Latin American film star, but she received the crowd’s rapt attention anyway. She was stunning in a deep-blue kneelength dress that hugged her form and was a perfect match for her dark hair and eyes. Jack had whistled loudly when he saw her in it.

  “Should we stop and pose,” he said, taking her arm. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the paparazzi.”

  “Look who’s talking,” she said through a tight smile. “Who are you wearing tonight, darling?”

  “Sears, of course,” Jack smiled.

  After a few steps, Kaitlin abruptly stopped. A small hand reached up to her from the crowd. Jack saw a youngster’s eager face, a weak

  smile beneath huge brown eyes. He knew Kaitlin couldn’t pass him by. She bent down and took the boy’s small hand. His mother was at his side.

  “You are so handsome,” Kaitlin said to the boy. “What’s your name?”

  “Tony,” said a tiny voice, eyes wide beneath long black lashes. “Are you from the United States?” he said.

  Jack was impressed with the youngster’s ability to corral a beautiful woman so casually.

  “Yes, I am,” Kaitlin replied, smiling warmly.

  “The United States is where my medicine is,” said the youngster.

  Confused, Kaitlin looked at his mother.

  “Tony has leukemia,” she said quietly. “All we can do is pray.”

  Jack looked more closely. The pallor in the kid’s skin was unmistakeable. He was underweight and leaning against his mother. Kaitlin’s face was a mix of sadness and anger. Christ, who wouldn’t be angry?

  “I’m so sorry,” Kaitlin said, barely audible.

  How many kids like Tony were waiting to die while their parents prayed?

  Kaitlin touched the youngster’s face and then leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. Tony’s features lit up, and in that moment, he appeared a boy without a care in the world. Healthy and happy, except for the cancer running unchecked in his body. Kaitlin turned to Jack. No words were spoken, none were needed. The news business often crushed your compassion. Sometimes, the most innocent of moments restored it.

  They both turned at the sound of an engine. Another car pulled up and the back door was swung open.

  Jack winced when he saw it.

  Kaitlin groaned.

  Tim McCoy got out and walked briskly towards them, followed by a dark beauty.

  “Oh, my God,” Kaitlin said, under her breath. “What is she wearing?”

  “Half of what she should be,” Jack responded.

  After amoment, McCoy stopped. “This is nice,” he said, grinning. “Meeting the locals. Good for you, O’Rourke. They’re important, too.”

  Kaitlin ignored him. She pulled at Jack’s arm and turned.

  “Who’s the kid,” McCoy said. “A relative?”

  Kaitlin shot him a look. “This is Tony,” she said coolly.

  As if on cue, Tony giggled.

  Jack gave McCoy a disgusted look. “Kaitlin’s relatives are Colombian, McCoy,” he said. “That’s another Latin country.”

  “Whatever,” McCoy replied. He reached into his pocket then and removed a ball of pesos. “Here you go, Tony,” he said. “Don’t let your mommy spend it.”

  Faces in the crowd turned sour.

  Jack took hold of Kaitlin but it was too late.

  She was already in McCoy’s face. “You’re a bastard,” she hissed. “The boy has cancer.”

  McCoy feigned sympathy. “And you believe that? You’re so gullible, O’Rourke” he said. “Not good. We’re paid to be skeptics.” With that, he grabbed his date and was gone.

  Kaitlin turned to Tony’s mother with a look of apology. She nodded her acceptance.

  Jack took Kaitlin’s elbow and led her off.

  The Capitolio building was a glorious example of over-indulgent neoclassicism. The main floor was a cavernous space of stone and marble that ran the length of several city blocks with a gigantic dome that could be seen all over Havana. The building once housed the national legislature, but when Cubans shed their democracy, it became a sanctuary for scientists.

  Kaitlin was awestruck.

  Jack placed a glass of champagne into her hand and played tour guide.

  “Very interesting,” Kaitlin mewed several times while Jack spoke.

  He pointed to the floor, at a compass outlined in marble with a huge chunk of glass embedded at its centre. “The biggest diamond in the world,” he said.

  “Is it real,” Kaitlin wondered.

  “As real as the one on your finger,” he joked.

  A giant gold statue stood guard as a thousand guests milled around its base. There were presidents and prime ministers, each with an impressive entourage of sycophants. Kaitlin recognized several. Jack made note of the ones she didn’t. Conversations were swallowed by the thunder of voices. On one side of the vast hall an orchestra strained to be heard.

  Jack noticed that Kaitlin was getting her fair share of eyeballs. Then a waiter came by to replace her glass. He stared too. Jack was used to it.

  Kaitlin stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re a good man, Doyle,” she said. “Thanks for being my date.”

  “Just remember who you came with,” he laughed, feeling slightly guilty about the day he’d spent with the beautiful Lilia. He wouldn’t bring that up. Not Malloy, or Sevier and certainly not the ‘message’. Kaitlin deserved a night to relax. He on the other hand, wouldn’t enjoy that luxury.

  A hush suddenly fell over the hall. Realizing what was about to happen, Jack nudged Kaitlin forward until they were at a strategic place near the front. Seconds later, Frederick Denton and Pilious Ortega emerged through an ornate doorway. Both men were smiling broadly. The crowd erupted into ear-splitting applause and then the orchestra began the American anthem.

  Denton and Ortega stood stone-like. A look of contentment on their faces that Jack had rarely seen with men of such power. Within feet of the presidents stood their advisors and members of their respective cabinets. Paul Braithwaite looked pleased though tired. M.J. Dumont wore a shade of green that was a perfect match for the gold and burgundy touches throughout the hall. When the orchestra stopped, both men posed for the official photographs. Then they were off, in separate directions, to press the flesh.

  Jack searched the crowd for a man he knew would be there. How hard could it be to find him? He’d be the most stressed man in the room and the guy closest to the President.

  Kaitlin decided to cut her husband some slack. “Go on, Jack, I can take care of myself.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Always,” she said, spotting someone she knew. “I’ll find you when I get bored.” Then she was gone.

  It took a few moments for Jack to push his way through the crowd. Denton was the star and everyone wanted a glimpse, maybe an actual handshake. Then, Jack spotted him. Wolff was speaking into his sleeve, eyes watching the hands reaching for his boss. An agent placed his hand on Jack’s chest and gently pushed.

&n
bsp; “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to step back.”

  Jack slowly reached for his press credentials.

  The agent was unimpressed. “Please, step back,” he repeated.

  Jack needed to get Wolff’s attention before he was manhandled from the building. A flash of movement would do it. But nothing that was going to get him shot. Jack dropped his wallet, and with a sweep of his arm, bent to the floor. When he straightened, Wolff was headed their way.

  “Agent Fleming?”

  “It’s under control, sir.”

  Wolff looked impatiently at Jack. “What can we do for you, Mister Doyle?”

  “I think we should talk,” Jack replied.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jack was seated in a room on the second floor of the building. Half a dozen sets of eyes were on him. Guys with brush cuts and suits that bulged at the waste. Wolff sat closest, nodding his head and taking notes. Way too calm, considering what he had just been told.

  “This woman,” Wolff said. “A Russian?”

  “Yup,” Jack replied. “A reporter for Izvestia. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of her.”

  Wolff ignored it and continued. “And a cold war relic named…,” he checked his notes, “Anton Lubov.”

  “Assassinated,” Jack repeated.

  “And according to this Brechkovsky woman, the work of a Russian sniper named…,” the notes again, “Vasily Rusakova.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Wolff looked around at blank faces. No one was committing the sin of gullibility. “And your friend, Ed Malloy,” Wolff said. “Your late friend. Ex-FBI. How was he involved?”

  Jack would tell Wolff only what he had to. “Malloy and I were on the trail of a fugitive. A suspect in a drive-by shooting. We had reason to believe he’s hiding out here.”

  Wolff looked doubtful. “Strange thing, a reporter chasing a fugitive to Cuba. That’s what the police are for.”

  “It has to do with a story,” Jack replied. “And you know I won’t go any further on that score.”

  “Yes, I do,” Wolff said. “Whatever story you’re working on is your business. As long as it doesn’t interfere with my business.”

  “It doesn’t,” Jack assured him.