Cuba blue

by Robert W. Walker

  Benilo said, “The Aguilera family tomb.”

  “Arturo, they would never forgive me if anything happened to her.”

  “All the more reason for us to present the facts, my friend. What has been done is anti-Cuban.”

  At a back table in the Excalibre’s darkened casino bar

  “We couldn’t locate them, the boat or Cavuto. It’s like they disappeared.”

  The helicopter pilot said, “Lotta ocean out there.”

  Humberto Arias dismissed the pilot, “Leave us.”

  The man visibly wilted, his eyes downcast as he walked away.

  Humberto stared at Alejandro, his unblinking eyes cold and hard, waiting until he no longer heard the sound of the pilot’s footsteps.

  It was a look Alejandro had seen before-a lizard’s obsessive gaze before pouncing on its prey. Staring back, he kept his face expressionless as if holding the winning hand in a high-stakes poker game.

  “I send you to stop Ruiz, and you fail me Alejandro.” Humberto’s fingers drummed slowly against the glossy hardwood tabletop. “You’re beginning to remind me of how Cavuto compromised my operation in the first place.”

  Recognizing Humberto’s body language as threatening, Alejandro swallowed, wishing he had a drink. “Perhaps this time, he’ll screw up in your favor.”

  Humberto suddenly laughed, the sound loud and raucous, “I respect you Alejandro. Even under the gun, you keep your wits.” While the words seemed friendly, his tone remained glacial.

  Reading the changes in Humberto-subtle softening of features, the drumming fingers stilled-Alejandro relaxed a bit.

  “But, this time, you best pray Cavuto fails. If he blows the Sanabela, the SP’s story will not cover us.”

  “Agreed. No one will believe the coincidence.”

  “Exactly. An American cop killed aboard the boat where the three doctors were found?” He shook his head. “No one’s that stupid.”

  Alejandro snickered. “However, it would prove the boat’s reputation is well founded.”

  Again Humberto laughed. “You always make me smile Alejandro, even at the worst times.” He motioned the bartender to bring them drinks. “Listen, my boy, I want you to join me in Santiago next week at the mountain Forteleza.”

  “La Montana Forteleza?” Never previously invited, Alejandro felt suspicion at being asked to the storied, whispered about conclave of the rich and powerful. An invitation could go either way-a beneficent reward or a quick and quiet ‘exit.’ Some likened it to a playground for heroes, a Mount Olympus in the mountains outside Santiago. Alejandro sipped his drink. His pounding headache and little food all day combined to make him feel woozy.

  Arias conspiratorially said, “Say nothing of this to Cavuto. I do not wish him to know about the American having boarded the boat. Let him continue with his foolish assumptions. Understood?”

  Alejandro nodded knowing Arias plotted someone’s downfall. He felt confident this meant Cavuto’s end and not his own. Yes, Ruiz’s future was as dark as a Havana night.

  29

  Taking up most of the day, the search for an explosive had turned up nothing. Yet Adondo, like a tenacious rat terrier, continued rummaging in the bowels of the engine room. A room with spaces so small even a slight man had little room to maneuver.

  The Sanabela raced with surprising speed over the dark glassy like surface of the Caribbean waters, her recently greased and pampered motor roaring. They had cruised southward, around and past the curved fat finger of Pinar del Rio. At their stern, Giraldo’s cousin, Domingo, stood with binoculars raised, having been ordered to sound an alarm if any vessels pursued them.

  With day turning to twilight, Qui and JZ watched sunset and clouds conspire to paint the sky brilliant colors. In the west, a rainbow of intense colors that overhead began to thin and fade into the indigo horizon in the east, where sea and sky proved indistinguishable. Enraptured by Cuba’s beauty from this perspective and feeling enveloped within its arms, Qui leaned into JZ for warmth, comfort, and respite from what’d been a horrendous day. JZ reached around her waist and held her close, deeply inhaling her scent. For Qui, this felt right.

  “Rough day at the office?” His rich resonant voice sounded as if it could reach all the way back to Havana.

  Qui laughed and replied, “Right about that, JZ. But this freedom? It’s delightful.”

  “Agreed.”

  Feeling her slight shiver, he tightened his hold on her.

  “We left in such a hurry, I left no word with my colonel.”

  “Probably a good thing. Qui, he was furious you’d left Tino’s death scene. Besides, we don’t know to what extent he’s involved in all this, and even if he isn’t involved, he’d only complicate matters.”

  “But nobody knows where we are or-”

  “Or, where we’re going, I hope.”

  “Perhaps Santiago will provide some answers.”

  “A pilgrimage for clues,” he replied taking her hand and squeezing. “Stop worrying. We’re gonna be OK.”

  “What about you? You could get into serious trouble over this.”

  “Not if we get results.”

  Qui arched her back, looking overhead once more. At mid-heaven, red, orange, and yellow-tinted clouds streaked with ribbons of silver and blue faded into lavenders and purples, ribbons that the sea’s surface could not possibly reflect or duplicate. The growing darkness, interrupted by the occasional onshore lights and winking stars, marked their passage.

  JZ followed her gaze into the striking overhead display, and in a moment of passion, he looked back into her gaze. He touched a finger below her chin, moved it lightly across her cheek, and delicately traced her lips. He then bent to touch her lips with his own. His kiss took her breath away and lingered as bold as the sunset.

  Interrupted by the sound of shouting, they were plummeted back into their dangerous reality. They broke apart, all passion extinguished.

  Had Domingo spotted a ship on their wake, or worse, had Adondo shouted an alarm?

  With all sense of relief and calm shattered, Qui searched for the source of alarm.

  JZ pointed to Adondo, emerging from below deck.

  “I found it! I found it!”

  Adondo held up a battered light-colored toolbox, as Estrada rushed toward him calling out. “Don’t alarm everyone! It’s only Giraldo’s tools.”

  But Giraldo, overhearing, shouted from the pilothouse window, “No Captain! My toolbox is black!”

  “Put it down! Carefully, don’t drop it!” shouted JZ, going immediately to examine the unclaimed item.

  The entire crew gathered round. “Domingo!” shouted Qui. “Any sign of trouble over the waters?”

  “A light far in the distance is all!” he shouted back.

  Qui joined him at the stern. Using his binoculars, she examined the approaching distant light but could see no details, except that it was coming on fast. Its light brightening, the vessel continued straight toward them.

  “Domingo, keep a close watch. When you can see some details, call me. We need to know what it is.”

  “Is it the SP?”

  “’Til they’re closer, anyone’s guess. Keep me informed.”

  From the deck, JZ shouted, “Someone get me a pair of pliers, and the rest of you, back off!” To himself, he muttered, “Now, let’s have a look at what we’ve got.”

  “No!” balked Captain Estrada. “Just throw it overboard, now!”

  “And risk blowing out our hull to become shark bait?” JZ replied. “Now, please, Captain, get me those pliers.”

  The full discovery of what they faced came when JZ opened the toolbox and flashed a light on its contents. Qui had joined the others to stare down into death-in-a-box: a web of wires and electronics connected to a blob of what looked like gray Playdoh. “Plastique,” JZ calmly said as if ordering coffee.

  Unshaken, JZ knelt over the device while Estrada and Qui shivered beside him. “Listen, everyone!” shouted JZ. “Ready the lifeboats.
We may have to abandon ship.”

  “Leave my boat?” Estrada sounded incensed. “Not me.”

  “This is a fishing trawler, Luis, not the Titanic,” JZ replied.

  “To a man who has nothing else, it is important!”

  “Think of your life.”

  “She is my life.”

  “JZ, do you know how to disengage it?” Qui asked, ignoring their remarks.

  “I’ve had some training in detonation.”

  “So what’s the next step, JZ?” Qui persisted.

  “Meaning which wire should I pull?”

  Luis erupted, “Bastards mean to destroy my boat, kill me, all my men!”

  Qui replied, “Yes, all of us. To disappear.”

  “Along with the lock,” added JZ.

  “Send all their dirty secrets to the deep.” Qui sighed heavily, realizing that if the bomb went off now, she would have failed the now seven victims of this spreading madness.

  “It’d leave only Sergio Latoya for them to clean up,” said Luis.

  “Yes, of course,” Qui said, her mind racing. “JZ, they must’ve taken you for Sergio. You’re both about the same size and build.”

  JZ nodded. “Makes sense…why they chased both of us aboard. Right now though, I gotta deal with this.” He indicated the blinking red-dot inside the toolbox.

  “Throw it over the side! Now!” shouted Giraldo from overhead, and the other men took up the cry. “Over the side! Over the side!”

  “But we have an opportunity here,” countered Qui.

  “Yes, the opportunity to die!” shouted Estrada.

  “No, Qui’s right!” JZ met her eyes and came to Qui’s defense.

  “Uncle! Get some men to fill a lifeboat with as much flammable stuff as possible. Then, get it into the water.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Set the bomb adrift,” JZ replied for her.

  “Adrift?” Estrada looked puzzled.

  “Allow them to blow it! Great idea.”

  Qui explained, “If we disarm it or simply toss it overboard, the ship stalking us will keep coming.”

  JZ added, “If they believe us all dead, things turn in our favor. A decoy, understand?”

  “I like the sound of this.” Estrada smiled and began spouting orders. “You men there! Grab the garbage and anything that will burn! You others, get the lifeboat over the side! Hurry!”

  Qui and JZ went about in search of items they needed to make the plan work. “Uncle, I want your Christmas lights,” said Qui.

  Estrada put up his hands at this. “But I like my lights.”

  “Do you like your life? We need them for the decoy.”

  “Lights?” asked Estrada. “Of course. They see the lights in the distance, they detonate! Men, rig the lights like on the Sanabela.”

  They gathered up rain gear, cast off netting, a pair of half-empty petrol cans. They tossed in some personal items for good measure. Adondo rigged the lights as JZ closed the toolbox and placed it in the center of the flammables. The lifeboat was then set adrift.

  They continued at a clip, running without lights. The further they moved off from the decoy they’d created, the more it appeared a shrimper trawling for a night catch.

  Everyone aboard Sanabela watched the blinking lights become smaller as they continued on their way. Then, at a goodly distance, the little boat was blown to smithereens shortly after being set adrift. JZ looked at his watch, which read 7:30 PM. They’d come a long way since having left Havana. Still, a long voyage lay ahead of them, but now those who stalked them had no reason to pursue, seeing the fiery eclipse of the Sanabela.

  “You did well, JZ, for a security guy.”

  “Good training.”

  “Yeah…defusing explosives is going to be on the list for training a security guard, eh?”

  JZ caught the knowing sarcasm in her voice. “Since 9/11 there’ve been a lot of new ahhh…precautions.”

  “Don’t worry,” she finally added, “your secrets are safe with me.”

  Seeing the boat explode, Cavuto smiled in the darkness, his heart warmed at the sight of his problems reduced to bits of fiery wreckage in the distance. As the Sanbela burned, he knew it was complete and absolute idiocy to be this far from home in a boat like this-one designed for racing in daylight. And without a working marine radio. Finally, with Humberto’s predicament obliterated, he turned the cigarette boat around and headed toward Havana, warmth, food, a good cigar, and a drink. Ruiz chuckled at the success of Step Two of his plan to regain Humberto’s trust and respect; he imagined a warm reception when Arias learned of the annihilation of the Sanabela and all aboard.

  Now, onto Step Three: get rid of Alejandro by any means. Ruiz secretly envisioned the day when Alejandro would hang in a dungeon, but he knew it must be done cleverly, so as not to implicate himself in the younger man’s downfall. His anxiety-ridden mind replayed every detail of Step Three like a movie. A film he relished seeing played out in real life when he returned to the Old City.

  30

  Sergio had done precisely as Quiana had suggested, getting his family to safety, and lying low, but he was increasingly curious about Dr. Estaban Montoya’s hidden papers and his part in all of this intrigue. How was Montoya connected to the murders? If he could unlock this single door, pull this single thread, perhaps it would help Quiana unravel the whole case.

  Now, accompanied by Yuri, Sergio drove through the dark streets of Havana toward Montoya’s apartment located atop his clinic. To mask their movements, Sergio had left his police car at the B amp;B, and they traveled in Yuri’s ancient Jeep, lovingly held together with bailing wire and chewing gum.

  At Montoya’s, they were careful to break in without leaving a trace. Ex-Soviet security, Yuri, an expert with locks, had a complete set of burglary tools. Once inside, using flashlights, they searched for anything odd, anything out of place that might help lead to his killer or killers.

  So far, all they knew was that Montoya had access to a great deal more money than his government salary afforded. But where did his “extra” funds come from? Was he involved in the drug trafficking that the SP announced as the cause of death of the foreigners? Was he taking money from the Canadian pharmaceutical company? Why? More likely, Montoya was the front man for someone higher up-maybe someone with connections in the Department of Health in Castro’s government, someone who saw ready money in dealing with the Canadian company desperate for new drugs, new profits. Underneath his cheerfulness and joie de view, Sergio had a cynic’s view of government that extended to foreign businesses. The Cuban government’s control of the media, its not so subtle bias in reporting international news made him suspicious of capitalism. If this Canadian doctor was some sort of go-between for her company, did that make her the mysterious donor in Montoya’s coded records? If so, did this somehow get her killed? But why kill her two colleagues? Montoya had told Qui that he’d met with Denise at his clinic, or so Tomaso and Yuri reported. Could this company, through Dr. Beisiegel have pushed too hard, too far, too fast? These were the thoughts wafting through Detective Sergio Latoya’s mind as he entered the clinic.

  Upstairs the apartment had been treated as a crime scene, but Sergio hoped they hadn’t as yet cleaned out the clinic’s files. It took only minutes to learn they were too late. Every filing cabinet, every desk drawer had been gutted and left empty, lip balm, loose keys, paperclips rattling around at the bottom of the drawers.

  “Damn it, Yuri, we’re too late.”

  Yuri dropped into a chair, the cushion sighing with his weight. “We should’ve gotten here much sooner.”

  “It wouldn’t’ve done any good.” Sergio sat on the end of a desk. “Pena was in charge of the investigation. If he took the files, we might have a chance to find something. But this looks like the heavy hand of the SP.”

  “Forget about finding anything from that source. Face it, someone’s desperate to cover all this up.”

  “Desperate and dangerous.”


  “And clumsy.”

  “Agreed,” said Sergio. “Who’s gonna believe Montoya manages to accidentally kill himself, and then my friend, Tino, swallows his gun? All within twenty four hours?”

  “It was my fault Montoya was killed,” said a woman emerging from the darkness.

  Startled, both men leapt at the unexpected sound. They whirled around to face her.

  “Where’d you come from?” asked Yuri staring at the woman in obvious distress.

  “More importantly, who the hell’re you? And what’re you doing here? This is a crime scene.”

  “Upstairs. I was upstairs when I heard noises.”

  “You’re one of Montoya’s nurses?” Sergio demanded.

  “Yes, his only nurse, Alana Suaro. I got him killed. I did it.”

  She burst into tears and crumpled onto a nearby office settee. Sergio went to her and asked, “Explain yourself, what’re you saying?”

  “I saw him give the Canadian doctor a file. He…he was giving her information, secret information. I am a good citizen. I…I had to turn him in, but I…I didn’t know they…that they would…that he would die. He was killed…his reputation destroyed.” With that, she burst anew into tears.

  Yuri placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is not your doing, Alana is it? You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

  She nodded looking from one to the other. “You’re PNR?”

  “We are,” Yuri lied thinking she’d tell them more if she thought them police and not the SP. “You can trust us. We need your help to solve his death.”

  Sergio showed her his badge.

  She sighed heavily. “He was a good doctor. Estaban tried hard even when we had no drugs. He researched herbs. I knew he got drugs somewhere for the patients. I didn’t question, maybe I should have?”

  Yuri gently patted her hand to encourage her and said, “But the patients got better, yes?”

  “Many times, yes. We had to work hard to hide the drugs, so no one would know. We were a good team.” Tears welled up again.

  “You loved him,” Yuri stated quietly.