by Dan Simmons
Ten minutes later, I followed him back to the car. Schlegel walked like an old man, and his body continued to shake. I had planned to use the lead pipe a final time, spill whiskey over him, deliver him to the airport, and pay some boy a few dollars to help my “inebriated friend” meet his flight to Rio. But I had been clever enough for one day. Too clever. And fat little Teddy Schlegel had been through enough. I knew that he would kill me in a second if he got the chance, but not this day. Nor soon.
I drove him to the airport. He rode all the way with his shoulders sagging and his head down. Once there, I took his bags from the trunk and set them on the curb. I had not touched the $26,000.
Schlegel stood shaking on the sidewalk, his eyes still lowered.
“Of course, there will be others watching you until you board your plane,” I said softly. “If you call anyone from here or talk to anyone, these others will gather you and return you to me. Do you understand?”
Schlegel nodded, his face still lowered and his legs now also visibly shaking.
“Board your aircraft,” I said. “Go to Rio. Never return to Cuba. If you mention this to no one, I will mention it to no one. No one need know that you spoke with us.”
Schlegel nodded. His fingers were trembling. Why some people are chosen for intelligence work, I will never understand. Why any of us continue to do it, I also will never understand.
“Go home,” I said, and got in the car and drove away.
On the Central Highway back to San Francisco de Paula, I opened the bottle of whiskey I had brought along to splash over Schlegel’s clothes as part of the cover story. Instead, I drank most of it before I drove through the gates of the finca.
“Estamos copados,” I said. Unlike Hemingway, I did not like the sound of the words at all.
22
WE HAD FOUND SANTIAGO’S BODY on Saturday, August 8. Hemingway and I had held our idiot fight on Sunday, August 9. I had driven Schlegel to the airport on Monday, August 10. Lieutenant Maldonado came to the finca on Tuesday, August 11, the day before we were scheduled to depart in the Pilar to meet the August 13 landings.
Hemingway had spent much of the morning provisioning his boat. He had decided that along with Gregory and Patrick, the crew would consist only of Winston Guest, Patchi Ibarlucia, the recovering Don Saxon to man the radio, and his indispensible mate, Gregorio Fuentes. The Southern Cross had left the Casablanca shipyards for what was supposed to be a short trip up to the area around Key Paraíso and back by sunset, and Hemingway had finished the preparations on the Pilar and sent her out to shadow the yacht. He had appointed Wolfer as the acting captain in his absence. Don Saxon, the Marine, was along for the afternoon to man the radio. Hemingway stayed behind to clean and oil the niños and to study the charts of the approach to Bahía Manatí. He had cabled Tom Shevlin, received additional permission to take the millionaire sportsman’s speedboat on a trip, and we were planning to drive back to Cojímar in the evening to meet the returning Pilar and prepare the Lorraine for its adventure.
“Tom says that there are two long, hidden compartments aft of the engine housing,” said Hemingway. “Left over from the rum-running days. We can stow the niños, the grenades, and one of the BARs there.”
“You’re bringing a BAR?” I said. “Why?”
“In case we have to engage the submarine,” said the writer.
“If we have to engage the submarine,” I said, “we’re fucked.”
USING SCHLEGEL’S KEY, it had taken me only a few minutes on Monday afternoon to decode the numeral-based transmission I had intercepted during our last outing. First I copied the transmission as I had received it:
q-f-i-e-n / w-u-w-s-y / d-y-r-q-q / t-e-o-i-o / w-q-e-w-x / d-t-u-w-p / c-m-b-x-x
Then I wrote the repeating cipher base above the transmission:
3 1 4 1 5 9 2 3 1 4 1 5 9 2 3 1 4 1 5 9 2 3 1 4 1 5 9 2 3 1 4 1
q f i e n w u w s y d y r q q t e o i o w q e w x d t u w p c m b
I had neglected to ask Schlegel which direction the cipher went in the alphabet—up or down—but there were only two choices, and in a minute I realized that during encryption for transmission, the cipher moved the letters up the number of spaces indicated by the digit above it, which meant that during decryption I would count down that same number of letters. Thus, three spaces back from q gave me n, one space back from f gave me an e, four spaces back from i gave me another e, and so forth. I tossed out the last two x’s as filler.
The message now read:
NEEDINSTRUCTIONSANDFUNDSCOLUMBIA
So, for that, Schlegel had endured what he endured and I had further eliminated any sense of honor in my life.
But it did tell me something. First, if Schlegel was to be believed—and I believed that he had told me everything he knew—then this transmission was being relayed to Hamburg via the radio operator on the Southern Cross. Furthermore, the captain and crew of the yacht probably did not know that these transmissions were being sent via their shortwave. Also, this confirmed Schlegel’s statement that there were two members of the SD assassination team in Cuba—this Columbia and the one code-named Panama. It was Panama whom Schlegel had said was close to Hemingway’s operation. It was Panama’s partner, Columbia, who was asking for instructions and money.
Who could Panama be? Who was close enough to the Crook Factory to relay reliable information about it? Delgado, of course, because I had been passing him information. Winston Guest? Dr. Herrera Sotolongo had said that he believed the sportsman to be a British agent. If a British agent, why not a double agent for the Germans? But I found it hard to believe that the impulsive, likable Wolfer was a trained SD assassin. Dr. Herrera Sotolongo himself refused to join Hemingway’s band but knew enough about the operation of the Crook Factory to be the source. Who else? One of the Basques? Sinsky or Patchi or Roberto Herrera? The Black Priest? One of Hemingway’s servants who was inserted long ago and had been living under deep cover all that time? I had seen stranger things.
Of course, it did not have to be someone that close to Hemingway. He had more than twenty operatives in his Crook Factory, and there was no security within the group. Any one of the bellmen or waiters or wharf rats or drinking cronies of Hemingway’s whom he had enlisted for this farcical operation could be the assassin.
It was feasible that Panama was Lieutenant Maldonado, receiving money from the Germans and possibly using it to bribe one of Hemingway’s amateurs. That way, Panama could be reporting updated information to Becker without being too close to the day-to-day operation of the Crook Factory. And we knew that Maldonado was a killer. He could easily have sold his services to the Germans and been trained in their Todt Team tactics.
But Maldonado was not Aryan. And the SD was particular about whom it chose as its cold-blooded assassins.
Columbia could be Hauptsturmführer Becker himself. But Schlegel had said that Becker had been receiving messages from both members of the Todt Team. If the chubby Abwehr man had been correct, then it made more sense that our friend Johann Siegfried Becker was the agent in charge of Operation Raven in Cuba and that Columbia was someone else, quite possibly someone I had not seen and had never heard of before.
Two RSHA SD AMT VI assassins, awaiting instructions, waiting to be unleashed, awaiting word from Hamburg or Berlin to kill their target or targets.
Who was their target?
So far we had two dead people: Kohler, the first radio operator from the Southern Cross, and poor Santiago. Both had their throats cut. It seemed probable that Maldonado had killed Kohler, and the boy had been following the lieutenant just days before the murder. Perhaps the SD had loosened its preference for Aryan killers in this instance.
Finally, there was one other factor that would—I hoped—make Schlegel’s ordeal worthwhile. If the Abwehr man did not cable Becker upon his return to Rio—and there were several good reasons that Schlegel might not be eager to share the details of his interrogation or the fact that he had ratted out an SD assassin team—then B
ecker and his Todt Team would think that their numeral-based code was secure. For a few days at least, we might be able to intercept more of their secret transmissions.
And a few days, I thought, should be all that we need.
And that is when Maria burst into the guest house. Her eyes were wide with terror and her voice was shaking so badly that I could hardly understand her.
“José, José, he is here. He has come for me. He is here to kill me!”
“Calm down,” I said, holding her shoulders and shaking her to stop her from rolling her eyes and panting like a spooked horse. “Who’s here?”
“Lieutenant Maldonado,” gasped the girl. “Caballo Loco. He is in the main house. He has come to take me away!”
I had taken to keeping the .38 in my belt. I wanted to give Maria a weapon while I went up to the main house, but I did not want to face Maldonado unarmed. I went into the guest room and took Schlegel’s Luger from the nightstand.
Pulling Maria into the guest room bathroom, I held out the pistol, slapped in the clip of 9-millimeter slugs, chambered a round, and clicked off the safety. “Stay right here,” I said. “Lock this door. If Maldonado or anyone else unfriendly tries to come in, just aim and squeeze the trigger. But make sure it’s not me or Hemingway before you shoot.”
Maria was weeping softly now. “José, I do not know how to operate such a—”
“Just aim and squeeze the trigger when you know it’s a bad guy,” I said. “But be damned sure it’s a bad guy.”
I stepped out and waited until she locked the door. Then I went up to the main house.
I HAD NEVER SEEN Hemingway so angry, not even the day of our fight. As he stood blocking the front doorway, stopping Maldonado and three other Cuban uniformed goons from entering, the writer’s face was pale, his lips were white, and his hands were clenched so tightly that I winced to see those bruised knuckles turning purple and white.
“Señor Hemingway,” the lieutenant was saying, glancing once at me as I walked up behind the writer and then paying me no further attention, “we regret the necessity of this intrusion—”
“There’s not going to be any intrusion,” snapped Hemingway. “You’re not entering this house.”
“Regrettably, we must, Don Ernesto,” said Maldonado. “It is a matter of police priority. A young woman who is a primary suspect in a recent murder has been reported in this area, and we are searching all homes where she might—”
“You are not searching this home,” said Hemingway.
The confrontation bordered on farce. The lieutenant was speaking in English, which his three goons probably did not understand. Hemingway was speaking in formal Spanish. Every time he said no to Caballo Loco, the eyebrows of the three underling cops went a bit higher in shock and surprise.
I had forgotten how tall Maldonado was. The Cuban looked to be six feet four inches tall, with one of those physiques that seems to be all long bone and gristle. His facial features were exaggerated in size—long chin, heavy brows, cheekbones that threw shadows onto his lower cheeks—and even his mustache seemed more pronounced than a normal man’s. Maldonado often dressed in plainclothes, but this afternoon he was in full uniform, and he rested his knobby thumbs on his black gun belt as he spoke. The lieutenant seemed very relaxed, almost amused by the confrontation, and this seemed to make Hemingway all the more apoplectic.
The writer was wearing the same soiled shirt and shorts he had on the evening of our fight, only now that long-barreled .22 target pistol was tucked into his wide belt. Maldonado did not seem to notice the weapon, but his three goons could not keep their eyes off it. I was afraid that the lieutenant’s insolent manner and perfect English were going to so enrage Hemingway that the writer would pull the .22 and there would be a gunfight right there in the front hallway of the finca. I decided that if this happened, I would have to take out Maldonado with the .38 before drawing down on his underlings. Somehow, I did not believe that Hemingway’s .22 would stop the tall Cuban before he drew the Colt .44 from its holster and blew the writer all the way back into the dining room.
This is nuts, I thought. And one hell of a way for a trained agent of the SIS to die—a gunfight with the Cuban National Police.
“Señor Hemingway,” Maldonado was saying, “we will make the search as quick and unobtrusive as possible—”
“No, you won’t,” said Hemingway in Spanish, “because there’s not going to be any search. This house and grounds are American property… U.S. soil.”
Maldonado blinked at this. “Surely you jest, señor.”
“I am totally serious, Lieutenant.” One look at Hemingway’s face would have convinced anyone of this statement.
“But I am sure that under international law, only the United States Embassy and certain military bases such as Guantánamo and Camagüey would be considered U.S. soil on the island of Cuba, señor,” said the lieutenant in calm tones.
“Bullshit,” said Hemingway in English, and then switched back to Spanish. “I am a citizen of the United States of America. This is my home and property. It is protected by the laws of the United States of America.”
“But surely, señor, Cuban sovereignty in this matter is—”
“Fuck Cuban sovereignty,” said Hemingway. He was watching Maldonado’s eyes very carefully, as if he believed in that old gunfighter’s maxim that the eyes showed you when your opponent was going to draw his weapon.
The three goons were angered by the last statement. Their hands moved to the pistols on their own belts. I wondered if Hemingway was going to watch all of their eyes. I kept my own gaze locked on Maldonado’s right hand where it rested on his belt in front of his holster.
The lieutenant smiled. He had large, perfect teeth. “I understand that you are agitated, Señor Hemingway. We mean no offense, but our duty requires—”
“I take offense, Lieutenant. This is American property, and any unauthorized entry would constitute an invasion of U.S. soil at a time when my country is at war.”
Maldonado’s right hand came up, and he rubbed his long chin as if seeking a way to be reasonable with this gringo. “But if all foreign residents in Cuba claimed that their homes were the property of their respective nations, señor, then…”
“I make no claims for anyone else,” snapped Hemingway. “But I am a U.S. citizen, working on war-related scientific projects under the direct authorization of Ambassador Spruille Braden of the United States embassy, Colonel Hayne D. Boyden of the United States Marine Corps, and Colonel John W. Thomason Jr., Chief of U.S. Naval Intelligence for South America. Any unauthorized entry of this home will be considered an act of war.”
Lieutenant Maldonado seemed to be at a loss as to how to deal with this glorious illogic. His three goons kept their hands on their pistols and looked to their tall leader for a sign.
“I understand that these are sensitive times, Señor Hemingway, and even though our duty to search for this alleged murderess is clear and indisputable,” said Maldonado, “we do not wish to disturb your harmony or offend the sensibilities of so preeminent a resident and friend of the Republic of Cuba. Therefore, we will honor your request not to disturb your home if you give us your word that the woman we seek is not here, and we shall then restrict our search to the adjoining grounds and outbuildings.”
The goons goggled at this endless flow of English from their superior.
“I give you my word on nothing but the certainty that your men will be shot as trespassers if they set another foot on these grounds,” said Hemingway, looking up at Maldonado.
Neither man blinked for a long, silent moment. The air smelled of sweat.
Maldonado bowed slightly. “Very well, señor. We understand your feelings and respect your need for privacy in these troubled times. If you see or hear of a young woman such as the one we seek, please contact me at—”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Hemingway, speaking in English for the first time and stepping forward to close the door in their faces.
Maldonado smiled, stepped back, and nodded for his goons to follow him as he walked back to the green Chevrolet parked in the driveway.
Hemingway closed the door and went to the window to watch them drive away. I started to say something light to break the tension, but then I noticed his pallor and clenched fists and decided against it. I had no doubt that the writer would have pulled the little .22 and begun blazing away if Maldonado had put his huge foot across that threshold.
“That cocksucker’s the one,” whispered Hemingway. “I’m sure that he killed Santiago.”
I said nothing.
“I sent Xenophobia down to the guest house,” he said, looking at me for the first time. “Thanks for coming up.”
I shrugged.
“Is that a pistol in your belt,” said Hemingway, “or are you just happy to see me?”
I pulled my jacket back far enough to show him the .38.
“Stranger and stranger, Special Agent Lucas,” said Hemingway. He went over to his drink table by the floral chair and made himself a Tom Collins. “Drink, Special Agent Lucas?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll go tell Maria they’re gone.”
Hemingway sipped his drink and looked at the painting on the nearest wall. “I guess I’ll have to quit calling her that.”
“What’s that?” I said.
“Xenophobia,” said Hemingway. “The girl has real enemies. They really want to kill her.”
I nodded and went back out past the pool to the guest house.
In the bedroom, I called Maria’s name once, started to knock, paused, stepped to one side of the door, and then knocked.
The 9-millimeter parabellum slug came through the door head high, went through the wall just above the bed, and probably tore through one of the royal palms outside before passing over the main house.