Cuba Straits Page 9

  “No Más?”

  The Russian nodded. “Scarecrow man we saw last night is captain. I still laugh the way he talk so tough. Hah! This hippie boy-girl threatening me, Kostikov.”

  Maybe that really was the big guy’s name. It was painful to smile with thirty-three stitches, but Vernum managed. “Yeah, he’s nuts. That’s what I was thinking at the time. But if they’re in a boat, why didn’t we just rent a faster boat and catch them?”

  “You question orders?”

  Orders? Vernum hadn’t heard any orders. “No, man,” he said, “just asking.”

  “The scarecrow likes hear himself talk to women, tells them everything. Don’t worry, we have plan.” The Russian balled up his napkin and lobbed it forward, where a woman sat alone behind the pilot, one of the blondes Vernum recognized from last night. She was lighting a cigarette in a noisy plane that had a rattling door and wasn’t pressurized.

  Vernum said, “I didn’t realize there was a connection, but—” He stopped himself before inquiring how the Russian had found time to locate her. At the ER, they’d wasted two hours, counting the cops and the stitches.

  “Many sources,” Kostikov said. “Now you go home and wait. That’s all now.” He turned around, his big butt taking up two seats.

  Huh? Vernum slipped across the aisle. “Whoa! man. You mean my job is done? You haven’t interrogated Casanova yet. And what about the briefcase?”

  The Russian had more hair on his eyebrows than his head, so looking him in the face was like confronting two cornered animals. Lots of vodka and violence and ruptured veins stared back. “You claim used device on defector, yes?”

  The Montblanc pen, he meant. Yes, Vernum had tried to use that bad boy, but said, “Well, I think so, but, man, we was punching the hell out of each other. You know how that goes. Those two probably left for a day sail and they’re back in Key West right now.”

  The Russian motioned to the overhead bin. “You still have device?”

  Uh-oh. He hadn’t expected that but stayed cool, got to his feet and bluffed, saying, “Of course. Issued by my government. I’ll get it for you.”

  “No!” The big man didn’t relax until Vernum was seated again. “We have many sources. Information no need for so many people to share. You understand meaning?”

  Yes and no—the Russian was a pig and couldn’t speak Spanish but apparently knew where Figuerito and the hippie were headed.

  “Sorry I doubted you.”

  “No, is good you want this defector so strongly. I see this in you even after so much stupid coward shit you do last night. But”—Kostikov pushed closer—“I think you be fast at learning this trade. You would like?”

  Had the Russian attempted a fatherly tone?

  “Yeah,” Vernum replied, “I’ll do whatever it takes, man.”

  “Oh?”

  “An opportunity to serve my country, of course.”

  “A patriot, eh?” The Russian’s tone said Bullshit. “I am told you are criminal. A deviant who buys girls with opium of religion. As patriot, you have read Karl Marx, yes?”

  “Uh . . . I’d have to think back. What do you mean?”

  “God, all your gods, are shit. That was truth Comrade Marx wrote. Your Santería is more shit than even Papist shit.”

  Vernum thought, Dude, you are playing with fire, but changed his approach. “Man, you’d have to experience where I live. It’s all dirt roads and oxcarts, the same tired village women every goddamn day. So I—”

  “Your women are superstitious fools,” the Russian said. “They fear stupid fears—even a devil in the cane fields, I hear. Is true?”

  Vernum shrugged, thinking, Uh-oh.

  “Your DGI say some hide their children, or defect on rafts, because of you. See? Religion total shit. Is large difference between devils and a man who is deviant, huh?”

  That question, in an odd way, disapproved of superstition but not deviants. Vernum felt a tad better. “As long as you understand what I’m dealing with. Think what you want, but, as a respected Santero, I’ve gotta, well”—he risked a man-to-man wink—“restrain my interests in things that Havana, Key West—name any city—can offer men like us.”

  Two bloodshot eyes stared through him, then swiveled toward the blonde or the pilot, who wore a headset and was also smoking. The Russian looked out the window—blue ocean a mile below—then asked, “You have phone with camera?”

  DGI agents had given Vernum a cheap one, but what did that have to do with anything?

  The Russian used a finger to wag him closer, then leaned his nose an inch from Vernum’s face. “No more your coward bullshit. I give order, you obey. I say truth, you obey. You want learn trade, you obey. Is clear?”

  This was more than Kostikov had spoken in three days. “Sure . . . yeah, never question your orders. Damn clear . . . comrade.”

  “Come. I want you take video.” The plane listed slightly when the Russian stood and he pulled himself seat to seat past the German blonde to the pilot, who he tapped on the shoulder, the pilot not surprised, more like I’m ready when you are, sir. Then put out his cigarette and fastened his shoulder harness.

  Vernum, standing in the aisle with his phone ready, noticed and thought, We’re either landing or he’s trying to scare the shit out of me.

  He looked out the window—nothing but water down there, José Martí International still twenty minutes away.

  The Russian turned and spoke to the blonde, not loud enough to hear but congenial in manner. The blonde had been subdued but suddenly smiled and said, with her grating accent, “Yah. I have camera. Anything, comrade, for you.” Unsnapped her seat belt and stood, the cigarette in her mouth, and dangled her white breasts when she leaned to dig through her purse.

  Why did Kostikov need both of their cameras?

  Vernum thought, Fat pig, he’s screwing with me, and was sure of it when the Russian laced a wrist through some cargo netting near the door and ordered, “Come, hit video button. You ready?”

  It was the way Kostikov grinned that warned what was coming—his assassin’s grin from the KGB video—but Vernum was so goddamn scared, he crept a few seats closer anyway and watched it happen through the viewfinder.

  Kostikov saying to the blonde, “Ah . . . such beauty, your necklace,” which she took as a compliment to her tits. She smiled, aiming her camera, but used a free hand to tease her blouse open, just a flash of nipple, before scolding him, “You are very, very bad man.”

  That grin again. “Yah. Bad.” Kostikov reached as if to touch her tits but ripped the necklace off.

  The way the blonde’s face paled, from sunburned to dead white, Vernum found himself breathing heavier, hungry, very hungry, the demon inside him demanding to be fed. He called to the Russian, “Wait . . . let me change angles,” and ducked in two rows behind the woman, swung his legs over an armrest for a better view, which Kostikov confirmed, before he forced the door open and lifted the woman by her hair while wind roared, debris scattering as if they’d flown into a sandstorm.

  “Don’t stop,” the Russian ordered, “use camera!”

  Vernum, deafened by the noise, realized those orders were for the blonde, who already looked dead, her eyes so wide and still, but rallied and did exactly as she’d been told while Kostikov looked into her lens and spoke Russian as if addressing future KGB agents.

  “Obey always me,” he told the woman. “Keep doing.”

  Hopeful, the expression on her face until he swung her out the door, held her there while the airstream ripped at her clothing, but, by god, she didn’t drop that phone.

  Vernum thought, I would marry her, and then leaped to his feet when the Russian signaled Come closer.

  “How’s this?”

  “Nyet, coward, here.”

  Mother of hell, this was a test, he realized, and so far only the blonde was passing
. He shuffled his feet, video rolling, while he brachiated from seat to seat. The opening was no wider than Vernum’s shoulders, but a universe of screaming reality out there when he was at the door. A mile down, miles above, nothing but blue.

  “Is angle good?” The assassin showing his artistic side while the blonde clawed at his wrist, her shoes gone, her blouse shredding like a flag.

  Through the viewfinder, Vernum managed eye contact with the woman and fell in love with her face, a perfect blend of horror and pain that fired his deepest needs within. I would give anything, he thought, to trade places with that pig. Why isn’t he laughing?

  Kostikov was more concerned with his lesson for today. Yelled a phrase of Russian at the lens, barked something else to the woman, his manner stern, and that was it—he dropped her with a Good riddance swipe of the hands, didn’t even watch her body rocket downward, tumbling, although Vernum captured it on HDV.

  My god. Ecstasy. Even without reviewing footage, he knew this was something he would watch over and over a thousand times, at night, alone—or with that right special someone just before he ate her soul.

  • • •

  “SECRECY,” THE RUSSIAN SAID when they were seated again, “is first rule of importance. Here, I show you.” A satellite phone was produced. On it a Facebook photo: the scarecrow hippie and two female German agents, all naked, but only one of them wearing the KGB necklace that now dangled from Kostikov’s pocket.

  Vernum, for a change, spoke with respect. “Comrade, this is the work I have searched for all my life. Please give me another chance to—”

  “Shut your talk” was the reply. “Obey orders, that second rule of importance. Tell truth to superiors, that third.” The Russian was slow on his feet, but his hand grabbed Vernum’s chin before he could react. Pulled him across the aisle until they were nose to nose. “Fourth rule: I am your only superior. Is clear?”

  Yes.

  “Above all others.”

  Oh, yes!

  “Is true you are sex deviant?”

  A trick question. Vernum was screwed either way, so he tried a broader truth. “I like . . . killing.”

  “Good.”

  Really?

  Yes, the Russian approved. “Is okay with women or girls, even boys. Bugger ten dead goats, what I care? But do not lie to Kostikov.” A pause. “I tell you something—just us. Your DGI agents are idiots. Your government is shit. What you think of that?”

  Vernum could only nod.

  “I tell you use device or take gun, shoot all Cuban generals, what then?”

  “Follow orders, comrade” was the correct response.

  The Russian released him. “Okay. I want briefcase. Just me. Same with defector of name Casanova. Just me. You will help.”

  Vernum, close enough to smell the man’s breath, said, “Of course,” but had to wonder, Is this another test?

  “In DGI debrief, you will confirm whatever I say. No mention of German whore”—the man was fishing something from his pocket—“or video that you now make for me copy. What this called in Spanish?”

  “A memory stick,” Vernum replied. He glanced forward and, for the first time, realized their pilot was Russian. My god, it was true, he was being recruited by the KGB. “Right away,” he said. “I’ll make a copy before we land, then delete it from my phone.”

  Smart—that was Kostikov’s reaction. He appeared to relax a little, settled back and gave Vernum permission to watch the footage first.

  Hunched over his phone, hunger is what he felt.

  “You enjoy?”

  Oh my god, yes. Twice he played it, always pausing when the blonde made eye contact, and knew he could never bring himself to delete the footage.

  Kostikov sat back, hands laced behind his head. Taking it easy now that the job was done. “Is important to have hobby. Like me. I have hobby.”

  Vernum’s attention zoomed. “More videos like this?”

  “No, a hobby is for amusement. That is question I have for you. About your village, I hear story of time before Fidel. You know this story? I think was 1958.”

  Even now, speaking Fidel’s name was dangerous, but that isn’t why Vernum evaded. “A story about . . . ?”

  “Motorcycles,” the Russian said. “Do you know story?”

  Vernum was too frightened not to tell the truth. “I do. Three Harley-Davidsons. I know where they’re hidden, but not exactly where. But that traitor Figgy Casanova, he knows.”

  The Russian’s tongue circled his lips. “Story contains stupid game, baseball. Three fascists during Cold War—”

  That’s as far as he got. The man burped, touched a hand to his belly, and his thoughts turned inward while jerked chicken filled the air. Burped again, looked out the window. “Must shit,” he muttered and called something to the pilot that might have been Hurry up and land.

  Ford topped his tanks at the Chevron pier, Key West, and was south of Sand Key Light when the electronics suite bonged with a special alert to mariners. Alerts weren’t rare, but this one was synched to his GPS, so he paid attention.

  Between 13:30 and 14:00 hours EST, the U.S. Coast Guard received three reports of near collisions with a cruise ship or freighter, registry unknown, and one report of debris, possibly from a raft or sailing vessel but unconfirmed. Conditions: light to medium fog, seas near calm. Coast Guard has dispatched assets to investigate. Advise all vessels in shipping lanes south of Key West to be on alert . . .

  Exact GPS coordinates followed.

  Ford considered how this might impact his crossing. He didn’t want to be seen by the Coast Guard, especially in international waters. On the positive side, cutters and helicopters were likely to collect in one small search area.

  A stroke of luck, he decided.

  Even in fog, collisions at sea were uncommon, but only because the sea is so damn big. A rogue freighter, is what it sounded like, one of those mega-ton robots with a sloppy crew who didn’t bother to stand watch when on autopilot. Ford pictured a raft full of refugees, or novices in a sailboat screaming, waving their arms to get the attention of an empty helm while the monster plowed them down.

  Tomlinson was too good a sailor not to stay on his toes in the shipping lanes.

  It was nearly three-thirty—15:30 hours. Ford switched his radar to a wider grid and steered a 230 heading, which was his best guess at the line Tomlinson would plot to Havana, or Marina Hemingway, fifteen miles west.

  His friend hadn’t shared particulars. This was another guess. But he had told Ford why he was sailing to Cuba: A woman’s love letters are sacred, so I’m going to return them.

  That simple, but only because Ford had condensed his pal’s diatribe into a simple declarative sentence. Tomlinson was a romantic idealist, ruled by emotion yet smart enough to rationalize even the dumbest of choices. Less so in this case, but seldom so passionate. He had used phrases such as Internet flesh peddlers, political ping-pong gawkers, and soul merchants. The moral imperative, he’d said, trumped all: we have a duty to right wrongs if it is within our power. “I don’t give two hoots in hell who wrote the letters, the sentiments belong to only one heart, a woman’s heart. Those letters are her last linkage, for christ’s sake, to the days when she was young and full of hope. Screw world voyeurism, man. I want to strike a blow for human privacy.”

  The grand gesture. Tomlinson seldom missed an opportunity, although, in this case, nostalgia and his leftist idealism probably played a role.

  Ford had made the mistake of asking, “What if Castro’s mistress is dead?”

  That mystic journey could not be summarized in a sentence.

  Ahead were clouds separated by miles of water, the surface lucent, punctuated by coral heads and banks of white sand until the Earth ruptured into canyons below. There, a line of cobalt marked the color change.

  “No bottom” was the old mariner’s
term.

  Flying is how it felt to Ford when he tapped the throttles up to 4000 rpm and let the boat settle into the slow rise and fall of the Florida Straits. He checked gauges—oil, water, fuel, amps—all good. Looked astern—the simplest of safety precautions that amateurs often failed to do. Went through his list while frigate birds searched the sky for thermals: safety harness with EPIRB where it belonged . . . kill switch attached to belt . . . enough water and MREs for a week stowed with emergency gear; tactical mace, a survival knife, and his old Sig P226, plus the mini Sig Sauer he’d taken, along with an ankle holster, from the cable installer. Two hundred rounds of 9mm were in a waterproof sleeve fitted inside the chemical toilet’s flush tank.

  Ingenious, the agency that had designed this boat.

  For purposes of deception: fishing rods with gold International reels in plain sight, four radar decoy buoys, a false passport, ten thousand in dollars and euros, a field kit that could only belong to a biologist, and a letter of introduction confirming he was doing important research on sea turtles.

  The letter was signed with a flourish and the personal seal of Gen. Juan Simón Rivera, former president of Masagua. Even if Ford caught up with No Más and convinced Tomlinson to turn around, he would need the equipment because he’d made up his mind to continue on to Cuba.

  Check. Check. Check. Like the pilot of an airliner, he went through the list, stayed busy until he’d reached the equivalent of cruising altitude.

  Flying. To Ford, that’s how it felt to point a good boat at the horizon and leave the world behind.

  • • •

  RADAR SHOWED a gathering of vessels ten miles ahead, close enough that Ford caught glimpses of a Coast Guard cutter’s tower, so he adjusted his course eastward, where clouds descended into the warm Gulf Stream. Rain most likely. Fog was rare this late in the afternoon.

  A helicopter appeared, one of the big ones with all the electronics. The best hope of avoiding attention was to steer toward it. He did, maintained course, while the chopper drifted away in a methodical search pattern.