Cuba blue

by Robert W. Walker

  Fidel raised his hand and was about to speak when the doors burst open and Qui Aguilera, struggling with a secretary that she finally pushed to the floor, entered. JZ followed, helping the secretary to her feet.

  “What is the meaning of this?” shouted Castro.

  “It’s my daughter, Detective Aguilera, General!” shouted Tomaso.

  “The detective who kept this case alive,” added Pena.

  “She uncovered the truth well before the rest of us,” said Benilo, coming to Qui’s defense.

  “And she’s been a target since,” added Sergio.

  “Presidente, you’ve got to listen to me!” pleaded Qui. “I have evidence of a horrible wrong in this camera.” She came forward and placed the camera on his desk. “A wrong that can no longer be ignored.”

  “What is this evidence?”

  “Damning evidence, sir. And, more in Santiago going as far back as the Revolucion.”

  “Enough! No more talk until I see the photos.” Herding them them inside a small dining room, he ordered his aides to bring them lunch and keep them there. He strode off to have the film developed.

  42

  Two hours later

  The meal finished, they watched Fidel enter the room, dismiss his aides, and begin to lay Qui’s photos across the table. He paused to look at each before positioning the next photo. When all were arranged, he lifted a single photo, the one of JZ brandishing an ancient sword in the cave. “Interesting weapon, Mr Zayas. Are you a collector?”

  Surprised in spite of himself that he was known by name, JZ replied, “Yes, it broke my heart to leave them there.”

  Fidel nodded. “Before we go any further, Mr. Zayas, precisely what is your interest in all of this aside from treasue hunting?”

  JZ replied, “El Presidente, in the interest of justice, I’ve worked closely with Detective Aguilera to uncover what precisely happened the night two American doctors were killed in Havana.”

  “So Dr. Benilo informed me earlier. You are here to see justice carried out. Cuban justice.”

  “I am indeed, sir.”

  “I vouch for his sincerity,” Qui jumped in. “I owe him my life.”

  “Then your only interest in all this is to determine who’s responsible for the deaths of the two American doctors, Mr. Zayas?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t work for the CIA?” Fidel pointedly said to JZ.

  JZ took a deep breath. He knew a lie would get him arrested, but he was unsure if the truth would not have the same result. “I write reports that I assume are read by the CIA, sir, same as all of us who work in the American Interest Section.”

  “Interest…a handsome word for spying.”

  “So I’ve been told, repeatedly by almost every Cuban who learns where I work. Let me assure you I’m no spy.”

  “I’m not sure I can trust the word of any American. The history between our countries has proven that lies are as common as maggots. How do I know that this is not some elaborate CIA plot against me?”

  JZ realized only now the enormity of Fidel’s paranoia with respect to anything American, including him. “Everyone in this room can vouch for my interest and integrity throughout these eunfortunate circumstances.”

  “I tell you, Presidente,” Qui burst out, “the CIA is the least of your worries. The rot and stench of this scandal will shake Cuba to its foundations if not handled properly.”

  Fidel stared long and hard at Qui as if seeing her for the first time. “You remind me of someone, Aguilera,” he said to her, his long, bony finger pointing. “Someone I’ve always admired.”

  “Who, sir?” asked Qui.

  “Someone who had a raging fire within and once believed in fairytale endings,” countered Fidel. “ Me as a young man…when I was in university. A time when I felt invincible.”

  This silenced the room as everyone waited and watched, none sure of Fidel’s next move. Suddenly, he tapped the table. “Tell me the story behind these. Leave nothing out.”

  Staring at the photos, Qui began tbe story with the discovery of the bodies on the Sanabela. Each of the others told their part of the tale as the afternoon lengthened. Qui finished with, “General Cavuto Ruiz is dead, and Colonel Alfonso Gutierrez, badly burned, is in custody for his part in all this. Colonel Emanuel Cordova in Santiago is keeping Gutierrez under an alias in the hospital.”

  “Ahhh…yes, Cordova,” said Fidel sitting at the head of the table staring at the images spread before him. “Strange coincidence. General Ruiz had him on a government watch list.

  Fidel Castro looked Qui up and down. “Tomaso, she is indeed your daughter. Has your tenacity. You were always the most meticulous and careful of us.” He glanced as Tomaso. “Some things never change.”

  “Hmm…I see more of her mother than me in her. I think, it’s stubbornness more than anything.” He chuckled.

  “Traits that make for a helluva detective,” Benilo commented.

  Taking up another photo, Fidel rubbed his chin and said, “So the Lake of Blood was well named after all.”

  “Yes. Appears so, I’m afraid,” replied JZ.

  “So many died,” commented Tomaso.

  Benilo, in an angry tone, added, “And for no cause but greed.”

  “It’s extremely sensitive information,” said Pena.

  “We cannot allow it to get out without careful consideration,” added Benilo. “It’s going to be shocking enough as it is…like a Hollywood movie.”

  “Murder and money,” agreed JZ.

  It was the images of the Black Madonna that gained most purchase with Fidel. Qui felt heartened that he’d immediately grasped the significance of these photos.

  Fidel, staring the whole time at the strange, underwater, otherworldly look of the real Black Madonna, commented, “Perhaps, I will call on you again if the need arises. You have all been very helpful and Cuba appreciates your patriotism and your discretion in this matter.” Stopping to stare at JZ, he added, “Even you, Mr Zayas, our prodigal son.” His eye then fell on Qui and he pointedly said, “In future, should I ever need your help, Quiana Magdalena Aguilera, I will call you.”

  The president of Cuba abruptly stood, gathered the photos, his intense gaze once again fell on each of his visitors. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will take it all under advisement.” With this cryptic remark, he left without another word. Two aides immediately entered the room and silently gestured, guiding Qui and the others to the exit.

  The following day in Miramar

  Arturo, Tomaso, and Yuri sat in the mariposa garden, sipping drinks and congratulating Qui on solving the case of the dead foreign doctors. They discussed the disposition of the disparate elements of the mystery.

  Benilo said, “Humberto Arias has completely disappeared. No one’s heard from him.”

  “After fifty plus years,” Tomaso commented, “He’s finally paying for his war crimes.”

  Qui added, “As well as the deaths of my three foreign doctors, Estaban, and Tony.” Silently she acknowledged her success in not failing the dead, a fear she’d had at the beginning of this tangled case.

  “He’s a member of that elite club called the disappeareds,” insisted Yuri. “Finally achieved the status he so well deserved.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Helluva a thing Qui, that Esteban was killed simply to cover Arias’s sale of Cuban medical secrets.”

  “But who’d have guessed that Montoya would’ve been illegally dealing in medical drugs?” Benilo added, “The man seemed toe the line.”

  “Prim and straitlaced, he was.” Tomaso added.

  “Must have been a serious liability to Arias,” Benilo replied.

  “Word is that Arias had Hilito killed for the same reason,” said Yuri, “to cover his tracks.”

  “Some detective I am,” commented Qui. “I never suspected Montoya of anything. He was so obsessed about rules. But I was onto Hilito…only too late.”

  Patting her shoulder, Benilo remarked,
“Qui, his death came was hours before you arrived.”

  “No criminal charges have been leveled at Alejandro Valdes,” Yuri commented. “None of the dirt’s sticking to him.”

  “Cunning man,” replied Qui. “Orchestrated Arias’s downfall…took years to realize his goal.

  “Revenge has never been so perfectly executed,” Tomaso observed.

  “Like a dessert Riesling,” stated Benilo. “A wine aged to perfection. After years of investment, the payoff must be indeed sweet.”

  “How often in this life are we treated to real justice,” commented Yuri.

  “Agreed, it’s a rare commodity,” Qui added putting down her glass. “And without Alejandro’s having peppered the trail, we’d never have caught Arias. For now as far as I’m concerned the scales are balanced, but I’ll keep my eye on him.”

  Tomaso said, “And Alfonso’s future can be summed up in a single word: disgrace. ”

  “Disgrace to him personally,” Qui added, “as well as disgrace on the entire PNR.”

  Benilo sarcastically replied with a smile, “That’s nothing new.”

  Yuri added, “Disgrace in a communist country is nothing! It’ll be ignored under the banner of reform with new faces. Politics as usual.”

  “Remember, Qui?” asked Benilo raising his glass in a mock toast. “I said politics is everything in Cuba.”

  “This case has proven you right.”

  Finishing his drink, Benilo stated, “Cagey how Fidel leaked the information about your discovery of the Black Madonna.”

  “Yeah, that news release supposedly from of the university at Santiago was quiet a piece of work. Fidel’s speechwriters musta worked overtime to make it so thoroughly ambiguous.”

  Yuri roared with laughter, the others joining in. “It’ll take years for anyone to unravel the details of what’s happened here and in Santiago. The communist way…bury it in secrecy, bureaucracy, and mis-information.”

  Qui continued, “Out of our hands. The experts have it.”

  “I’d like to believe the experts have it,” began Tomaso, “but I fear it’s in political hands. The international media is skewering our country once again.”

  “Well, I got enough on my hands with the estimable Mr. Zayas.” Looking at her watch, Qui announced, “And it’s time for me to leave before I miss his flight.”

  Turning to Tomaso, Benilo said, “Looks like your daughter’s finally met an American she likes. A man who won’t be intimidated by Rafaela’s spirit.”

  Tomaso smiled widely. “My little bird? Not likely her wings’ll ever be clipped.”

  “Oh Papa!” Qui leaned over kissed her father, then waved goodbye to the others.

  43

  During the drive alongside the ocean, Qui surrounded by bright sunlight mused over the preceding night spent with JZ when he had informed her that he must return to America. “I’ve been selected to explain to the families exactly what went on here.”

  “Oh, for what you call a debriefing? Fidel and Alejandro had you pegged right, then?”

  “Not precisely. The families have a right to know the details of how their loved ones died here. It’s not something I’m looking forward to, Qui.”

  She’d never pushed him for details on his background, and now was not the time to start. Instead, they’d made love, the kind she’d always dreamed of-at times passionate, at times tender, at times just plain fun. At one point, during a food break, she’d promised to see him off at the airport. He’d responded, “Might not be smart, Qui. Fidel’s got me under a microscope since we stormed his office-guess he’s still nervous over an Interest Section person getting so close.”

  “I don’t care about any of that!” she’d protested, kissing him again.

  “You should be; your career could be at stake.”

  “It can only improve with Jorge Pena being placed in Gutierrez’s position.”

  “Seems a good man in spite of a bad first impression.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at this. “Agreed. That machismo act of his had me fooled too.”

  JZ added, “But then you, he, Cordova, and Latoya disprove the prejudice I held against all PNR.”

  “What’s not to love?” Qui teased.

  With that, JZ left his chair, stalked over to her, pulled her up and over his shoulder, saying, “What not indeed,” over the sounds of her delighted shrieks. Dropping her onto the bed, he climbed up and toward her as if stalking prey. Capturing her, he shut off her laughter by pressing his lips tightly against hers. With the return of desire and with their time together shrinking, their lovemaking became a slow languorous tango, touch igniting fire. This intangible thing between them had become irresistible. It solidified and strengthened as the night passed with the lovers entwined within one another’s arms. The night proved magical. Their feelings had evolved into a deep, passionate, caring love, the existence of which neither could deny.

  As Qui continued toward the airport, her thoughts focused on how much she’d gained and how much she’d lost, and how much she’d changed since that first day on the Sanabela, staring at the netted bodies. She’d gained untold experience, knowledge, and street smarts. She’d lost Montoya and Tino, but she’d found JZ, and she must admit to herself if to no one else she’d found love. This case had changed her- seasoned her. In this regard, Qui would never again doubt her own instincts and intuition. She understood that her relentless determination and her commitment to truth and law had won out against all odds-including the Cuban underworld.

  But all these concerns were obliterated when Qui pulled alongside the private jet that JZ would board for Miami. She didn’t see him but he must be here, somewhere.

  Returning to America, JZ carried a written apology to the families of the American and Canadian victims. While the letter was sealed, Qui had learned the gist of it: a proviso that all those responsible for this miscarriage of justice in Cuba would pay as only Fidel could arrange.

  “Quiana!” she heard his voice from behind. JZ approached from a nearby hangar. Qui dropped all pretense and rushed into his arms.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go? When will you come back?”

  “I’ll be back…one way or another. Don’t worry.” He ran his fingers through her thick mane of hair and lifted her chin to his lips and passionately kissed her under the sound of the jet revving up. “You’ll be in heart from now until I see you again.”

  Her eyes glistened with tears held in abeyance. “If I had any guts, I’d get on that plane with you.”

  “No…no, it’ll take guts to go to work for Jorge Pena.”

  She laughed at this.

  “Besides, Havana and Cuba need you, and it’s where you belong. You love her.”

  “I could be happy anywhere so long as we were together,” she countered.

  “Now you’re sounding like Luis, the romantic.”

  “Luis is happy. Is that so much to ask?”

  “No…of course not, but Qui, we both know how much you love Cuba.”

  She buried her face in his chest, tears coming.

  “Like I said, Cuba needs you…in fact, Cuba needs more like you.”

  They embraced a last time. He whispered in her ear, “I’ll be back Quiana. I’ll be back. I promise you.”

  Parting, Qui feared her heart would literally break as she watched him board. The plane backed off, taxied to the runway, and idled there a moment. The entire time she watched and waved at his image in the small portal, she half expected some kind of Hollywood, feel good, fantasy-ending: the one that left him in her arms. This notion evaporated when the plane suddenly roared, raced down the runway, and lifted smoothly curving away from her toward Miami. She watched the silvery blue jet until it disappeared behind billowy clouds fearing she’d never again see the man she loved.

  She became aware that her cell phone was ringing. She answered it, foolishly hoping to hear JZ’s voice calling from the plane. Instead, it was Pena.

  “There’s been a horrible murde
r, the likes of which I’ve never seen, Quiana.”

  “Another murder?”

  “Worse than murder.”

  “Tell me, Pena, what’s worse than murder?”

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