Havana Run

by Les Standiford

  “It is a lamentable truth,” the bearded man said.

  “You must be important, then.”

  The bearded man shook his head and glanced up at the man in the suit. “Leave him to me,” the one in the suit said. “If there is anything left in that brain of his, he will speak it. If not…” He shrugged.

  The bearded man turned back. “You hear what Joseíto says, old friend.” He paused and waved a hand about their surroundings. “And this place where you are, it belongs to him. What am I to do?”

  The old man blinked. “Let me go,” he said.

  “If you will only help Joseíto, it will be done.”

  The old man glanced up at the man in the suit, then back at the one with the beard. “Were we really friends?”

  The bearded man’s gaze seemed to draw inward. He drew a breath before he answered. “Yes,” he said, finally. “We were friends.”

  “Did I ever do you any harm?”

  The bearded man stared back. “I do not think so,” he said.

  “Then you should get me out of here,” the old man said. “You’ll rest easier if you do.”

  The bearded man sighed. He stood up and gave his companion a look that suggested perplexity.

  “I will fix him,” the man in the suit said.

  “Another time,” the bearded man said. He motioned for the man in the suit to precede him out the door. And they were gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  “A magnificent sight, wouldn’t you gentlemen agree?” It was Antonio Fuentes come to join Deal and Russell Straight at the rail of the lavishly appointed Hatteras, waving his hand now in the direction of the looming headlands above Havana Bay, just off the yacht’s port side.

  “Awesome,” Deal said, his eyes on the cliff-top fortress that commanded the entrance to the vast bay ahead. It was a word co-opted and drained by a generation of waverippers, stoners and skateboarders, but still it seemed appropriate for what he saw jutting into the sky above him, an enormous stone fortress that seemed to have grown up from the very rock beneath it.

  “Be a good place to set up your guns,” Russell offered. Sheets of spray unfurled from the yacht’s prow, spangling the view into something approaching magic.

  “The Spaniards thought so,” Fuentes said. “They mounted a dozen enormous cannons inside those walls.” He flashed his smile as he gestured. “The Twelve Apostles, they were called. A rather effective deterrent in those days.”

  Deal nodded, his eyes tracing the irregular lines of the massive battlements. It was Morro Castle up there, he knew that much, built in the late 1500s by the descendants of the original conquistadors, to safeguard the outpost called Cuba they’d wrested from the natives.

  Look upon this work, ye mighty, and dismay, he mused, a version of a line from a poem he’d studied in college springing to him, some ruler’s dare from the past to the foolhardy of the present.

  Sure. The castle was just a showpiece now, but if he had been a pirate or plunderer with an eye on the sprawling city laid out below, the sight of that imposing fortress would certainly have given him pause. Then again, he thought, given their present purpose, perhaps he should feel pause right now.

  “As if that weren’t enough,” Fuentes said, pointing toward the foot of the cliffs, “each night a great chain was raised from the bottom of the sea and stretched across the entrance of the harbor. It made the city virtually impregnable.”

  “They must have had plenty to worry about,” Russell said.

  “Cuba has always been coveted,” Fuentes replied. He gave Deal a meaningful look.

  “The most beautiful island that eyes have ever seen,” Fuentes intoned, gesturing over the bow at the vista sprawled before them. “Do you know who wrote those words?”

  “Christopher Columbus,” Deal said, offhandedly.

  Fuentes smiled again, and this time it seemed genuine. “You surprise me, Mr. Deal. This from a man whose grades were not so good…?”

  “It was just a guess,” Deal said. “I didn’t think it was Ronald Reagan.”

  Fuentes smiled. “So you say.” He nodded.

  Deal glanced at Russell, then turned back to the view. Let Fuentes think he knew everything in his mind, he thought. It was probably better that way.

  The waters of the Florida Straits, placid enough to begin with this day, had calmed even further as they approached the island, the swells subsiding steadily as the corrugated thumbprint of land grew steadily larger at the juncture of pristine sky and sea. He could only imagine Columbus, staring off at this lovely island after months at sea. It must have seemed a suitable payoff, even for such monumental efforts as those.

  Their own had been a quick and uneventful crossing—he’d boarded Fuentes’ yacht around eight and could guess without looking at his watch that it wasn’t yet two. After a glance at what was on the disk Vines had given him, he’d spent a hectic day preparing his crews at the Villas for his absence and convincing Russell Straight to join him.

  He’d confined his story to the vaguest details of Fuentes’ proposition, leaving any mention of Vines out of it. For now, there was no need to revisit those matters with Russell, who’d been pleased enough to join him as it was. His girlfriend in Miami had grown accustomed to his periodic absences, and if Russell had no special interest in Cuba, he certainly wasn’t unhappy about a few paid days off the job.

  Deal had returned to his condo early in the evening to pack a few things, then tried to phone Janice to let her know he’d be away for a long weekend. He’d ended up having to leave a message on her cell phone, then left another detailed set of instructions for Bernice on the machine at his Miami office. He’d picked up a sandwich at Fausto’s market, munched on it absently in the parking lot, then finally stopped struggling against the matter that had been bothering him the entire day.

  He’d started the engine of the Hog, and after a few minutes’ searching, managed to find his way back to Angie Marsh’s tucked-away cottage, still uncertain what he was going to say to her.

  As it turned out, his apprehension was wasted. Though the motor scooter was still perched where he’d seen it, and a melting glass of ice tea on the table beside the wicker chair suggested she’d certainly not been gone long, his knock at the door brought no response.

  He’d tried Watkins Title and dropped by the Pier House as well, but had had no luck. In the end, he’d returned to the still-deserted cottage, where he’d tucked a note in the screen describing an unexpected business trip to the Caymans. Close enough, he thought, with a sidelong glance at their host. At least there was a Caymans bank involved.

  He’d dropped into bed, exhausted, waking shortly before their appointed meeting time with Fuentes. He’d meant to drop by Angie’s cottage on the way out of town that morning, but had hesitated, debating with himself: He had left his phone number on the note, after all, and time was getting short, and he was beginning to feel too much like a schoolboy anyway.

  Sex in the front seat of a car, unanswered notes tucked in a sweetheart’s door? Besides, what if he dropped by her place, only to find that she wasn’t alone? No, he’d thought, he would be gone just a few days, and the separation would be good. He’d have a chance to sort things out, see how he felt when he returned. With that thought in mind, he’d driven resolutely past the looming bed-and-breakfast without a backward glance and made his way across town.

  He’d arranged to leave the Hog in the parking lot of the Pier House, then had walked across the street to the Mallory Docks, where he found Russell already waiting. The two of them were ferried from the docks out to Fuentes’ yacht on a tender boat piloted by a taciturn Conch who professed no knowledge of the Bellísima or the man who owned her.

  “Lot of big, expensive boats come and go around here,” the man had said with a shrug. “I don’t ask a lot of questions, myself.”

  Fuentes had had no qualms about Deal’s announcement that Russell would be joining them. Apparently, traveling wit
h the taciturn Tomás suggested to him that anyone of importance needed a spare linebacker or two in attendance.

  In any case, Fuentes had been there to welcome them on board and usher them inside a teak-paneled stateroom, where Russell devoured first one plate and then a second of the elaborate breakfast buffet laid out. Deal had merely picked at his food, and once again scanned the financials and other documentation Fuentes had sent over in the courier pouch.

  There was no way of determining the precise identities of the principals behind Fuentes’ undertaking, but the anonymous thumbnails before him suggested that at least one notorious South American political boss was involved. And whatever the identities of the half dozen individuals profiled, there seemed to be tremendous financial fire-power in reserve—assuming, of course, that it was all true.

  But why wouldn’t there be some international consortium of the very powerful gearing up to snatch what they could of the island he was presently looking at, Deal wondered? Vines seemed to believe that such a scenario was under way. And there had been a series of groups intent on that mission for the past five hundred years, after all. First had come the Spaniards, then the Americans and finally the Mob. Even the Russians had tried their hand at Cuba for a few decades.

  “You want some of that lunch they put out?” Deal came up from his thoughts to find Russell at his side, pointing inside the afterdeck stateroom where one of Fuentes’ mates busied about the buffet table.

  Deal followed Russell’s gesture, absently fingering one of the tiny plastic disks in his pocket. One of Vines’ “procedural details,” he thought, ruefully. About the size and weight of a watch battery, the thing had one dark, irregular side, cooked up to resemble a chunk of dried chewing gum, while the other side was smooth, with a covering that peeled away, allowing it to be stuck onto any hard surface.

  “Doesn’t matter where you put it,” Vines had assured him. “It’ll pick up conversation anywhere in a room.”

  Vines had given him a dozen of the things to scatter in what he deemed “useful” locations during his stay in Cuba.

  When Deal had expressed doubt that anything so small could send a signal all the way back to the United States, Vines had shaken his head at Deal’s naiveté.

  “It doesn’t have to,” he said. “Why do you think we still maintain a U.S. Interests Section in Havana? There’s a state-of-the-art listening station you wouldn’t believe set up inside the place. These things will beam in loud and clear that far.”

  “Then why not let your spies go plant the bugs?”

  “Cuba is a closed society, my friend. They can’t get to where you’re going. That’s the whole point,” Vines told him. “You can start with Fuentes’ boat.”

  Which was something he hadn’t gotten around to quite yet, Deal thought, breaking off his replay of the conversation. He wasn’t an undercover agent—even when he’d been on the force, the notion of deception had never appealed to him. He was who he was, and these days he was a goddamned building contractor.

  What had ever possessed him to go along with Vines on this? He took another look at the approaching shoreline, then gave Fuentes a sidelong glance.

  “Maybe I’ll get a little something,” he said.

  “Of course,” Fuentes responded, with a grand flourish.

  “How about you?” Deal asked. He realized his fingers had turned sweaty on the disk in his pocket. Some spy, he thought. But then again, Vines had been a little light on the training.

  “Not just now,” Fuentes responded with another dramatic wave. “I am enjoying the view.”

  He turned back to the rail then, and Deal quickly followed after Russell, who was already hovering over the table inside. As he surveyed the room, Fuentes’ mate disappeared into the galley, from where issued the sound of pots being stowed, along with the clank of plates and crockery.

  The heavy teak buffet table seemed a likely place to plant one of the bugs, Deal thought. It was surely permanent—the thing would have to be taken apart to move it from the room—and it had a spacious-enough overhang where he could hide the disk.

  He watched Russell mounding what looked like tuna salad onto his plate, debated briefly about enlisting his help, then thought better of it. He reached back into his pocket and found the tiny tab with his thumb and forefinger, and, with the thing still hidden, peeled the protective covering away. He had the device out of his pocket and was about to step up to the table and press it to the underside of the lip when Fuentes’ mate popped back out of the galley.

  “Mr. Deal,” the man said in his faintly accented English. “Allow me to help you…”

  “Just getting some coffee,” Deal said, hastily reaching for a china cup and saucer.

  The mate reached quickly for the cup, but Deal grabbed it back with his other hand. The mate was resolute, however—this was a man who’d clearly been put on this earth to serve.

  His hand darted swiftly to the edge of the delicate saucer and pulled it deftly away from Deal. He was about to lift the heavy silver coffee decanter to pour with his other hand when his eyes widened at something.

  “Dios mío,” the man muttered. He glanced up at Deal, his face ashen. “My apologies, Mr. Deal.”

  Deal’s gaze was locked upon the man’s finger, which scratched away at the china saucer, trying to dislodge the wad of gum stuck to its rim. Deal glanced back at the mate, his astonishment shading gradually toward dread. So much for spycraft, he thought. What in God’s name was he to do? Russell, meanwhile, sent him a curious look, but didn’t leave off working on his still-unfilled plate.

  “Raúl,” the mate called sharply toward the galley.

  A young Hispanic man appeared in the doorway, concern on his face. “¿Qué pasa?”

  “¡Mira!” The mate thrust the cup and saucer at his helper, a dark expression on his face.

  “It is inexcusable,” the mate added to Deal. “The boy is an idiot.”

  “No,” Deal said, abruptly, his brain beginning to function at last. “It’s my gum.”

  He thrust his hand up as if to snatch the plate away, sending both cup and saucer flying. The mate and his assistant stared in dismay as the delicate china struck the parquet floor and shattered.

  “I’m sorry,” Deal said. He started forward toward the mess, shards of china grinding beneath his sole.

  “Let the boy get it,” the mate said, tugging at Deal’s sleeve. “You came for coffee.”

  Raúl had already ducked into the galley and was back in an instant with a broom and dustpan. In moments, he’d swept up the broken pieces and was gone. Deal heard the clatter as the dustpan was emptied.

  Deal allowed himself to be steered back to the buffet table, where the mate poured his cup of coffee. “Nothing else?” the mate inquired, handing Deal the cup. “You are certain?”

  “I’m fine,” Deal said. The mate gave him a curt nod and hurried off into the galley, where he began to deliver a fusillade of angry Spanish at the unfortunate Raul. While Russell finished the building of a mammoth sandwich, Deal pulled a second of the disks from his pocket and quickly affixed it to the underside of the table.

  “What the hell was that about?” Russell asked, finally glancing up, but Deal was already on his way out the door.

  ***

  “You are just in time,” Fuentes said, as Deal emerged on deck.

  Deal nodded, wondering if Fuentes could hear the pounding of his heart. The man seemed oblivious, though. He was turned back toward land, his hand raised in the now familiar dramatic gesture.

  They were less than a mile out from the coast now, and a string of impressive, Renaissance-style buildings had come into view, perched improbably above a huge seawall at the rocky, crescent-shaped shoreline and stretching away endlessly into the distance. It reminded Deal, who was still trying to get his breathing under control, of the striking view from seaward of the Art Deco hotels strung along Ocean Drive.

  But, however impressive that sigh
t was, it was only a few short blocks. This array seemed to go on forever, its graceful curving aspect only adding to the allure.

  “The Malecón,” Fuentes said, following Deal’s gaze. “Miles of it. It looks rather grand from this vantage point, does it not?”

  Deal glanced over. Fuentes’ eyes remained hidden behind his dark glasses, but he had shed his suit in favor of a pair of buttery linen slacks and a long-sleeved guayabera of a slightly darker shade. He wore a cap with an elongated fisherman’s bill and a flap that extended down the back of his neck. Maybe the man suffered from some form of albinism, Deal thought. Or maybe it was just a lifetime living under rocks.

  “Grand?” Deal agreed, grateful for Fuentes’ preoccupation. “I guess that’s a good word for it. It looks almost surreal, Florence by the sea or something.”

  “Best to see it this way to begin with,” Fuentes said, nodding his approval. “That is one reason we came by boat.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Deal said.

  “Once we are there,” Fuentes said, gesturing toward the shore, “you will understand what I mean. Better your own eyes tell you than my words.”

  Deal took it in without comment. He glanced toward the land again, noting that they had changed course slightly. They were heading west now, running parallel to shore.

  “We’re not going into the harbor?” he asked, a bit disappointed not to sail in beneath the prow of that massive fortress that hovered in the sky.

  Fuentes shook his head. “It is the commercial port which lies that way,” he said, using his chin to point back toward the castle. “We will dock at the Marina Hemingway. Arrangements are made more simply there.”

  He flashed Deal a hint of his all-knowing smile and paused before changing tacks. “I’m pleased that you were willing to take this journey, Mr. Deal. I’m confident that great things lie ahead for us all.”

  “A few years in a dungeon?” Deal said with a backward glance at the room where he’d planted his bug. Images from old movies spun through his mind, men in iron masks digging through rock with knives and spoons and fingernails.