North of Havana Page 17

  “What’s happening?”

  What was happening was someone was shooting at us from the hill to our right—that registered, too.

  I yelled to the boy, “Stay down!” as I floored the Nissan, going full speed in reverse. Valdes was hunched over, his face in his hands. I noted that he might have been hit, whether by glass or a bullet, I couldn’t tell. I was counting to myself—thousand-two, thousand-three, thousand-four—then twisted the wheel hard left, spinning the car 180 degrees. I had almost completed the turn when I felt the car jolt, list heavily to the right, and heard the rending sound of raw metal on asphalt—

  “Damn it!”

  —Shifted into first and tried to drive away… saw a comet’s tail of sparks as the car attempted to drag itself, exposed axle grinding on pavement—

  “Why aren’t we moving?”

  I switched off the engine, yelling to Valdes, “We lost a wheel!” both of us ducking instinctively at the sound of another shot and chunks of rear window that exploded in upon us.

  Heard the boy yell, “Get us the hell out of here!” He didn’t seem frightened, still sounded mad.

  Valdes already had the door open. I reached and dragged the boy over the seat. Waited until Valdes was out, then pushed the boy ahead of me into the gloom of heavy foliage that descended toward the harbor. Heard another shot—pa-RAP!—as the three of us began to run… then tumble down, down into a darkness… sliding, rolling… then running again into thick jungle.

  I nearly had to tackle Valdes to get him to stop. I grabbed him by the shoulders and said into his ear: “Quiet! Listen a minute—we need to stop; find out if anyone’s following us.”

  It was too dark to be sure if he nodded.

  I said, “Were you hit?”

  “Something cut me. Maybe the glass. I think I’m bleeding, but just a little.”

  Santiago stood holding on to my belt. He’d been holding on to my belt most of the way down the bluff. We’d followed what seemed to be a narrow, twisting ravine—apparently the only way to get down on foot. We’d all done some stumbling and falling. I said to him: “You okay?”

  “Those bastards were trying to shoot us.” He sounded worried but still not scared. Like maybe he’d been through worse.

  Valdes stood quietly for a moment, breathing heavily before he whispered, “Why are they doing this?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “You’re sure it’s not Taino?”

  “He has no reason. He needs me. He knows he needs me.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

  “It’s true. Trust me.”

  “I’m not in a very trusting mood. Tell me why he needs you. Be convincing.”

  Very long pause. To tell me would be to compromise his anonymity. Finally: “The only way our revolution can get arms and outside funds is through me. I… work for a department that deals with merchant shipping.”

  “If you have a way to bring money and weapons into this country, you’re more than just a worker.”

  “That’s true. I’m head of a department.”

  “For which harbor?”

  Again, the long pause. “For all of Cuba.”

  Jesus… in charge of all maritime commerce? That had to be a massive government bureaucracy; almost a Politburo position. Valdes was telling me that he was one of the country’s major players. He had to have huge political connections, almost had to be a member of the party.

  He was risking all that to help these third-rate revolutionaries? I couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or to dismiss him as an idiot. But Valdes had certainly eliminated Taino as a suspect. I said, “See? I’m starting to trust you more already,” then stood listening for a moment. There was at least a mile between us and the road… no sound at all coming from the ascendant darkness. Why would they have abandoned the attack so quickly?

  Still whispering, I said, “What about Angel Santoya’s people? Maybe they thought Rita was in the car with us.”

  “No, it’s not them. I’m certain of it.”

  Something about the way he said that bothered me. A little too confident?

  Or maybe it bothered me because it was something I didn’t want to hear. If it wasn’t Taino, if it wasn’t Angel Santoya, then there was only one plausible explanation. It had to be one or more men from a small, select group that was a lot more professional and dangerous than a crazed religious leader or a doddering old man.

  It had to be the holdover Russians, Castro’s own dirty tricks team and personal hit squad. It had to be Rojo Seis… Red Six.

  But why?

  That was something else I didn’t want to acknowledge. There could be only one reason for killing me—revenge. Revenge for something that had happened nearly two decades ago, probably before those now in charge were even members of the cadre.

  It seemed ridiculous; simply made no sense unless… unless it was true that the collapse of Cuba’s infrastructure was so complete that each agency cell could now operate independently… didn’t have to answer to anyone, didn’t have to ask anyone… was free to do whatever it took to survive, free to strike out on its own against any perceived threat.

  A team as small as Red Six would venerate its own history… and probably never forgive its own losses.

  Or maybe it wasn’t even that compelling. These days, what role did Cuba play in world politics? No more Angola, no more Nicaragua, no more Grenada—these guys had to be bored, restless as hell; probably lay around on the beach all day having Rambo fantasies, hoping for something interesting to do. Probably young enough and dumb enough to wish they’d operated during the days of Vietnam, Mariel, and Star Wars.

  Christ, for people like that, nailing me could be like some kind of practice exercise. A live-fire version of hare and hounds; a way to keep their skills sharp. Castro didn’t have to have anything to do with it. Nor did politics. With them it would be personal… and no one else would ever have to know.

  “Shit!”

  Valdes whispered, “What’s wrong?”

  I said, “I think we’d better split up. You take the boy, find somewhere safe and wait it out.”

  “Because you think I’m the target—that’s why you want to be on your own?” Reasonable to suspect and not very flattering.

  I said, “If I thought that, I’d take the boy. No. It’s me they want. You two need to get out of here. Work your way around to Angosta, stay at the Santería place. They might keep the roads under surveillance all night… maybe all week. That’s what I’m telling you.”

  I knew he had to be thinking of the hit man in the alley, Rosario; putting it all together.

  “But why? The only reason you came was to bring money for Tomlinson.”

  “I know. But it’s more involved than that.” I was thinking about Dewey and Tomlinson. Could I rely on Valdes to carry a message? Tell them to catch the first plane out of Havana, no questions asked, and I’d meet them back at Dinkin’s Bay. Decided… yes, I could depend on Valdes. He had that quality about him—an idealist, just as his former wife had said, but also rational… authentic. Told him, “You and the boy need to get out of here. Trust me.”

  “Perhaps I’m also not in the mood to trust. I think you should either explain or we shouldn’t split up.”

  I was surprised when Santiago said, “If he promises not to drive anymore, I’d rather stay with the Yankee.”

  I began to press the issue, then stopped.…

  Had I heard something?

  Yes… the sound of a small rock tumbling through rain forest mulch… a thudding, muffled, heartbeat sound.

  Was someone up there?

  Now I heard a twig crack… silence… then another twig.

  No doubt about it, someone was moving slowly down the bluff, coming toward us. Or maybe several people…

  I took the boy by the shoulder,
pressed him to Valdes, then nudged them both downhill toward splotches of gray that were visible through the trees: Mariel Harbor.

  I said to Valdes, “Head for the peninsula, I’ll catch up. When you get to the water, make some noise. Splash around. Whoever it is, maybe they’ll be a little less careful when they pass me.”

  Valdes hesitated—the guy was so scared he was trembling. “You’re not just some guy who came here to help a friend. Are you?”

  I gave him another little push. “If we get through this, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  15

  Valdes wasn’t the only one trembling. I was beginning to react to it, standing there waiting in the dark, listening to the crunch of twigs, the whisper of moving branches, hearing the bear-heavy sounds of a man who was stalking me, the man intent on killing me… beginning to feel panic alarms in all the motor response areas of a very, very tired nervous system.

  I had to control the natural instinct to breathe too fast and shallowly. Had to consciously tell myself that fear is meaningless; fear is a handy warning system, nothing more. Repeated words in my head—stay calm, be patient—as I waited, listening to the small noises that marked his progression, getting closer to me, closer. Just one man. I was pretty sure it was just one man.

  I’d moved down the bluff to the funnel-mouth of the ravine—the natural exit place for someone following us. Was crouched on one knee behind the buttress of a rain forest giant that had somehow escaped the chainsaw. I was now closer to the harbor; near enough to see panels of water through the trees, a few glittering boat lights out there. If the man walked past me, he’d be backlighted; I’d be able to see his silhouette.

  Then what?

  That was the question: Then what…

  I’d felt around on the ground until I found a couple of chunks of limestone rock and a hefty piece of tree limb. Caveman weaponry against a man with a rifle… or who was probably smart enough, well trained enough, to have switched to a handgun for this kind of close quarters, lights-out work. Probably some sort of nine-millimeter semi… or maybe a shotgun.

  I pictured him standing there, his back to me; pictured me stepping out to nail him… imagined what the bullet would feel like when he immediately turned and shot me.

  Stay calm… be patient.

  No… a better idea would be to let him walk right past; let him bolt toward the noise that Valdes and the boy would soon make when they reached the water. Give it a few minutes—the whole time, I’d be moving in the opposite direction—then yell at him, let him know where I was, the guy he really wanted, then continue the chase, one on one. Valdes and the boy would make it safely to the Santería compound while I… while I spent the next few days running for my life, trying to find a way out of Cuba.…

  That was a better solution?

  Christ!

  He was very close now. So close that I could hear the sound his steps made in the spongy rain forest loam. There was a pattern to his movement: Step, step… step, step… step, step… pause to listen.…

  When he paused, I could hear his breathing… the soft phewing sound of someone who is exhaling through his mouth, trying to be very quiet. Couldn’t have been more than ten, fifteen feet from me. Pictured him, the way he would look: crouched low, weapon pivoting back and forth in synch with the movement of his eyes. Probably wearing some sort of tactical clothing, full cammo with face black; some gung-ho stud who loved the whole uniform, who loved what he was doing.

  I had to fight the bizarre urge to just stand up, introduce myself and say, “Hey, let’s talk this thing over.” Say, “All that stuff they told you? All that stuff they taught you? None of it is… rational.”

  Nor was it valid. His position, my position were both the senseless pantomime of a vanished death dance; a pointless ceremony that was still embraced by a political theater of the absurd. For a thousand millennia we sharpened sticks or rocks into weapons and we stalked and we hunted and we killed because that is what the strongest and the fittest of us did. Those who were incapable did not contribute to the chromosomal mandate because they did not survive. It is what the genetic memory of a thousand millennia told us to do, what it still tells us to do.

  Necessity plays no role. If the drive is strong enough, necessity can be invented. It is the predicament of our nature that is the imperative, not the nature of our predicament. It is deep within us and it is a hunger; a hunger that feeds on meat and feeds on fear and feeds on tribal differences, social, sexual, or visual. Political leaders who want to survive pander to the drive. Political exigencies are the ideal excuse.

  But what it always comes down to is young men carrying something in their hands, doing what we have always done, doing it well and with passion, because that is what we are.…

  Yet, I did not call out; attempted nothing as civilized as attempting to introduce myself. Instead, I balled myself tighter against the planked root of the tree, aware that, along with his weapon of choice, it was also possible that he was equipped with a night optics system. I couldn’t see him, but he might be able to see me.

  We have come so far.…

  Which is why I crouched low, eyes wide, like some animal frozen in the headlights of a speeding car. I waited. I listened. His movements created a palpable energy wave that seemed to push ahead of him… seeped through the darkness like a kind of gas and soon enveloped me. He was that close.…

  Through the grain of the tree I felt the slightest of vibrations … a thud—the butt of a weapon accidentally hitting it?

  Yes…

  He had found my tree; was standing next to it but on the opposite side.

  Did he know where I was? He had to know.…

  Moving only my fingertips, I touched the club… then dismissed it. Felt until I found the rocks, touched them one by one, then gripped the smallest of them—about the size of an orange. Transferred that to my left hand, then took a slightly larger rock in my right. Held it with a three-fingered grip, like a softball.

  I had to do something. I had to act. If I waited for him to attack, I was lost. He’d step away from the tree and shoot me. No muss, no fuss. No contest. I had to attack first. To surprise him was my only chance.…

  So why wouldn’t my legs work? Why couldn’t I move?

  I heard another small thunk. Yes, he was on the other side of the tree. Probably leaning against it now, letting me sweat it out.

  Then I heard something else: a distant voice… then the sound of splashing, like someone running through water.

  Valdes and Santiago had reached the harbor; were giving up their position for no other reason than I had told them to do it.

  So now my stalker would reassess. He would decide that he’d miscalculated; that we already had made it to the water, and he would sprint toward the sound to catch us.…

  But my stalker did not sprint. He did not move. He waited… and I knew that he was waiting for me. I had to move now or die.

  I took a deep breath, released it silently. Took another… then I was moving without waiting to think it out… didn’t have to think about it because I knew what to do, just as I’ve always known what to do, because it’s in me, that instinct. The rock in my left hand, I tossed several feet out into the darkness. I waited until it hit, drawing his attention, and I was already moving the opposite way… arm back, hand cocked behind my ear… and I threw the rock as hard as I could, chest high, at a dark place on the tree’s buttress where I knew he had to be. I was already rolling when the rock hit—waHAP—and came to my feet, crouched low, expecting to hear gunfire or the groan of a man in pain.

  Instead I heard an echoing rain forest silence… water dripping, cicadas droning; the squawk of an outraged bird. Then… from behind me… a voice: “Good move, Ford. Wrong tree.”

  A man’s voice speaking English. A voice that was familiar but that I did not immediately place.

  I turned slowly, very slowly, and looked into the jun
gled void. No one there; the voice seemed to originate from darkness. In the pause that followed, I heard, thunk. Then heard it again: thunk. The noise that I had convinced myself was the sound of a rifle butt banging the tree.

  “Palm nuts,” the voice said. “Sounds like wood against wood, doesn’t it? Same little trick you tried with the rock.”

  He left the obvious unspoken: I’d fallen for it, he hadn’t.

  It was Lenny Geis, the voice. Lenny Geis, the Canadian businessman, the cheerful tour guide, the man with the fiancée back home, the man who was troubled by prostitutes and loneliness, who had been vouched for by bellboys at the Havana Libre, the man who was none of the things he’d seemed to be, who had fooled me twice and was now going to shoot me.

  I said, “You’re a hell of an actor, Lenny. Or whatever your real name is.”

  Heard the voice say, “It’s like one of those things, those Americanisms, they taught us up there at the training school. The one outside Montreal? The line that goes, ‘It takes one to know one.’ “

  A beam of white light blinked on, blinding me. I used my hands to shield my eyes. The way the light panned across me, very steady, I realized it was one of those mini halogen flashlights that can be mounted beneath the barrel of some weapon. A semiauto pistol, perhaps, or an automatic rifle. What would Geis, a Russian, prefer? Same as everyone else, probably. A Beretta or the superior Sig Sauer—like the one I kept wrapped in oilcloth back in Dinkin’s Bay and hadn’t used since my last trip to Mariel.

  Ludicrous that I should be standing there so calmly, the light now sighted on my chest, speculating on the specifics of hardware.