Cuba (21 page)

“Vargas said you were a jellyfish.”…The German

shook his head sadly.

“Do you work for him”…”…He was shocked at the sound of his

own voice, the pitch of which was surprisingly high.

“I do errands from time to timeea”…the German replied.

“He pays well and the work is congenial.”

“What do you want?”

“Vargas wanted me to remind you that you were sent to do

an errand. You are to transfer the money to the proper

accounts tomorrow and return to Cuba. If you do not, I

am to kill you.”

The German smiled warmly. “I will do it too.

There is a side of my personality that I am not

proud of, that I do not like to admit, but it is only

fair that I should tell you the truth: I like to kill

people. I enjoy it. I don’t just shoot them, bang,

bang, bang. I see how long I can keep them

alive, how much I can make them suffer. I own a

quiet little place, out of the way,

isolated. It is perfect for my needs.”

The German’s eyes narrowed speculatively.

“You seem a miserable specimen, but I like a

challenge. I think with a little prior planning I could

probably make you scream for at least forty-eight

hours before you died.”

Maximo’s heart was hammering in his ears, thudding

along like a race horse’s hooves.

The German picked up the telephone, told the

operator he wished to place a call to Havana.

He gave her the number.

One minute passed, then, another.

“Rail here. For Vargas.”

After a few seconds, Rail spoke again.

“Buenos diets, senor.

I have” given him your message.”

The German listened for a few more seconds, then

passed the telephone to Maximo.

The Cuban minister of finance managed to make a

noise, and heard the voice of Alejo Vargas:

“The money must arrive tomorrow, Maximo. You understand?”

“Your thug has threatened me.”

“I hope Senor Rail has made the situation

clear. It would be a tragedy for you to die because you did

not understand your duty.”

The line went dead before Maximo could answer. He

sat with the instrument in his hand, trying to keep control of

his stomach. Rail gestured, so he handed the phone

to him.

The German listened to make sure the connection had

been severed, then placed the instrument back in its

cradle. He stood.

“I don’t know what else to say. You understand the

situation. Your destiny is in your hands.”

With that the German went to the door, opened it and

passed through, then pulled the door shut behind him

until it latched.

Maximo ran to the bathroom and vomited in the

commode.

William Henry Chance was lying on the bed in his

hotel room reading a magazine when he heard the

knock on the door. He opened it to find Tommy

Carmellini standing there.

“Hey, bossea”…Carmellini said. “Let’s take

a walk.”

“Give me a moment to put on my shoes.”

Chance did so, pulled on a light sportscoat,

and locked the door behind him on the way out.

Neither man spoke as they rode the elevator

downstairs. Out on the sidewalk they

automatically checked for a tail. No one

obviously following, but that meant little. If the

Cubans had burned them as CIA, they could have

watchers hi every building, be filming every move, every

gesture, every movement of the lips.

So neither man said anything.

Carmellini directed then- steps toward one of the

larger casinos on the Malecon. Latin’music

engulfed them as they walked into the building. The

place reminded Chance of Atlantic City,

complete with crowds of gray-haired retirees

buying a good time, mostly Americans, Germans,

English, and Spaniards. No Cubans were

gambling, of course, just foreigners who had hard

currency to wager.

The only Cubans not behind the tables were

prostitutes,

young, gorgeous, and dressed in the latest European

fashions. At this hour of the evening the cigar smoke

was thick, the liquor flowing, and the laughter and music

loud.

The two men drifted around the casino, taking their

time, checking to see who was watching them, then finally

sifted out of the building through a side door. At the

basement loading dock a man was

inventorying supplies in a telephone repaur

van. Chance and Carmellini climbed in, the man

closed the door, and the van rolled.

“Vargas is having a powwow in his

officeea”…Carmellini reported. “It sounds as if

Castro is dead.”

“Nobody lives foreverea”…Chance said lightly. “Not

even dictators.”

“That isn’t the half of it. They’re talking about

biological weapons again.”

“Bingoea”…Chance said, a touch of satisfaction

creeping into his voice.

“Yeah. Vargas says there is a warehouse full

of biological warheads at Gitmo.”

It took a whole lot to surprise William

Henry Chance. He gaped.

“Not only thatea”…Carmellini continued, “he has one

of the things. He’s going to show it to the Cuban people,

prove to the world what perfidious bastards the

Americans are.”

“He’s got an American CBW warhead?”

“You’ll have to listen to the tape. Sounded to the

technician like the thing was stolen from a ship.”

“Biological warheads at Guantanamo Bay?

That’s gotta be wrong! Have these guys been

smoking something?”

“I think Vargas and his pals have gone off the deep

end. Either that or they plan to plant some

biological agents in Guantanamo after they

crash through the fence.”

“Maybe they know we’re listening to themea”…Chance said.

“Maybe this whole thing is a hoax.”

“Could beea”…Tommy Carmellini agreed, but

to judge by his tone of voice, he didn’t think

so.

Maximo Sedano was committed. He couldn’t

transfer the money to Cuban government accounts in

Havana because the transfer cards contained the wrong

account numbers. Changing the numbers was out of the question:

any alteration to the cards would be instantly spotted and

cause the Swiss bankers to suspect forgery.

Maximo carefully arranged the combination locks on

his attache case and opened it At the bottom was a

pistol, a very nice little Walther in 7.35 mm. The

magazine was full, but there was no round in the chamber.

Maximo chambered a round and engaged the safety.

He put the pistol in his right-hand trouser pocket and

looked at himself in the mirror.

He put his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers

around the butt of the weapon.

He had to go to the banks tomorrow, act like a bureaucrat

shuffling money for his government while they shoveled

$53 million plus interest into his personal

accounts. Well, if he could kill the German and

get away with it, he sure as hell could keep his

cool while the Swiss bankers made him rich.

Could he kill Rail?

How badly did he want to be rich?

He stood at the window looking at the Limmat

River a block from the hotel, and beyond it, the vast

expanse of Lake Zurich. Beyond the lake

half-hidden in the hare were the peaks of the Alps, still

white with last winter’s snow.

He certainly didn’t want to go back to Cuba.

A drink of scotch whiskey from the minibar helped

settle his nerves.

An hour later he left the hotel. He turned

left, crossed the Limmat River on the nearest

bridge, and headed for the main thoroughfare. Perhaps an

hour of daylight left, but not more. He didn’t

look around him, sure that Rail was somewhere near.

He took his time strolling along, pretending to enjoy

the early summer day and the ebb and flow of the

crowd, many of whom were young people on school holiday.

Finally he turned into an old

cobblestoned street too narrow for vehicles and

walked up it toward the hill which loomed above the

downtown area. Medieval buildings rose up on

either side and seemed to lean in, making the street

seem even narrower and more confining than it really was as the

daylight faded from the sky.

He found the restaurant he remembered and went

inside. Yes, it was as he recalled, with the tables and

chairs just so, the kitchen beyond, and past the kitchen, the

rest room. One with an old tank mounted high in the

wall with a pull chain.

How long had it been?

Two years, at least.

The waiter was new, didn’t seem to recognize

him. Not that he should, but it might be inconvenient if

he should later recall seeing Sedano here this evening.

Maximo sat with his back against the wall, so that

he could see both the front doorway and the door to the

kitchen.

He ordered an Italian red wine, something

robust, while he studied the menu.

The truth was Maximo was so nervous that he

didn’t think he could eat anything. The automatic

felt heavy on his thigh, its weight an ominous

presence that he couldn’t ignore.

He tried to slow his breathing, make his pulse

stop racing.

He used his handkerchief to wipe his hands, his

face. He was used to the heat of Cuba; he should not

be perspiring like this!

Get a grip, Maximoif you cannot control yourself you

will soon be dead. Or a subject for that pervert’s

experiments.

He wondered if Rail had told the truth about

torturing people.

lust thinking about that subject and the way the bastard

told him about itwith obvious relishmake his forehead

break out in a sweat. He swabbed with the handkerchief

again.

There were two couples and another single man in the

restaurant. Only one waiter shuttled back and

forth through the kitchen dbor.

Maximo moved to a different seat at the same table

so mat he could see through the kitchen door. Yes,

now when the waiter came through the door he could see

most of the length of the narrow kitchen. The chef was moving

back and forth, working on something in a pot, checking the

oven, taking things from a refrigerator….

“More wine?”

The waiter was there, holding the bottle.

“If you please.”

As the waiter poured, Maximo murmured, “Have you

a rest room?”

“Yes, of course. Through the kitchen, on the left in

back.”

“I do not wish to disturb the chef.”

“Do not stand on ceremony, sir.”

He waited, sipping the wine, trying not to stare through the

kitchen door. When the waiter returned he

ordered, something, the first thing he saw on the menu.

One of the two couples left, the second finished

their dinner and ordered coffee, the other man’s meal

came at about the same time as Maximo’s. .

He was just starting on the main course when the chef

came to the door, wiped his hands on a towel, and said

something to the waiter. Then he stepped outside into the’

narrow street and lit a cigarette. Night had

fallen.

Maximo got up and headed for the rest room.

As the kitchen door closed behind him, he looked for the

drawer or shelf that held the tools.

Quickly now …

He opened one drawer… the wrong one.

Next drawer, forks, knives and spoons.

Next drawer…

yes!

He saw what he wanted, and quick as a thought reached,

palmed it, and strode for die rest room.

Ten minutes passed before he was ready for the dining

room again. The chef was back at his pots and pans.

He nodded as Maximo walked by.

Maximo resumed his seat, took his time, stirred

the food around on his plate but could eat nothing more.

He took a few more sips of wine, then ordered

coffee.

He was just reaching for the bill at the end of the meal when

Rail dropped into a seat at his table.

“I should have come in earlier, let you-buy me a

meal.”

“Get out.”

“Oh, don’t be impolite. I wish to talk

to you awhile, to learn what you do for the Cuban

government.”

“If you wish to know can I pay more than Vargas,

the answer is probably no. I am just a civil

servant. I suggest you take up the question with

Vargas.”

Maximo took enough money from his wallet to pay for the

meal and a tip and dropped it into the tray on top of the

tab.

“I have a diplomatic passport. If you do not

leave I will have the waiter call the police.”

“And have me arrested?”

“Something like mat”

Rail stared into Maximo’s eyes. “I don’t

think you appreciate your position.”

“Perhaps. Have you properly evaluated yours?”

“A roaring mouse.”…Rail pushed himself away from the

table, rose, and walked out the front door.

Maximo lingered, considering.

He left the restaurant a half hour later,

his right hand in his pocket around the butt of the pistol.

He looked neither right nor left, walked

purposely along the thoroughfares. He crossed the

Limmat River and walked toward the main train

station, which was well lit and still crowded with vacationing