Cuban Death-Lift (4 page)

I held my hand, stopping him. “Not interested, Norm. Not yet. But you can have some coffee and make your pitch before I turn you down.”

Norm said he liked my new home. He roamed around looking at this, asking questions about that, then stopped by my portable shortwave receiver. He sipped at his mug of coffee. “You were never much for news, Dusky. What's the story—you keeping up with the Mariel Harbor thing?”

“It's become kind of a hobby. I want to see how many people Castro and our own dear President let drown before they work out a sensible way to sealift those refugees—or stop it all together.”

Norm lowered his head as if in some way—because he worked for the federal government, maybe—he carried some share of the burden.

“It's a damn messy situation, no doubt about that.” He looked up again. “Did you hear the latest?”

“What's that?”

“Yesterday the Cuban authorities forced an American shrimp boat to leave the port of Mariel just before the storm hit. The boat was loaded with refugees—probably close to two hundred. Our Coast Guard monitored a distress call from the shrimp boat. Cuban authorities refused to go to their rescue—didn't even acknowledge the call. By the time one of our Coast Guard cutters got on the scene there wasn't a trace of anybody or anything. We figure it went down, all hands and all refugees lost.”

“Jesus Christ. And they still can't find half the other boats they got distress calls from.”

“No way of knowing who made it, who didn't. No way of even knowing how many boats and people were out there—a lot of them didn't even have radios. And they don't exactly register before leaving Key West. Like I said, Dusky . . . damn messy.”

“And it makes no sense. The whole goddam thing makes no sense.”

“It makes more sense than you think, Dusky. To Castro and . . . and to us.”

I stopped and gave him a hard look. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He swirled the coffee in his mug. “Tell you what. Why don't you and I get some more coffee, sit down, and I'll tell you the whole story from beginning to end. And then if you still want to refuse to help, you can. But we need you, you big scarred-up bastard. Doesn't it feel good to be needed?”

“Sure,” I said. “Yeah. It makes my heart feel about as warm as the blade of this knife I got strapped to my belt. . . .”

“First of all,” Norm Fizer said, “Castro has some obvious reasons for wanting this sealift.”

He sat straddling a chair, his jacket off, a fresh mug of coffee in his hand. From beneath us, from the moving sea, came the sound of a running tide bubbling around the pilings, and the snap and muted crackle of pistol shrimp within their tunicate hideaways.

“Money's got to be a big part of it,” I said.

Norm nodded. “Absolutely. When Castro took power, he screwed up the country's entire economic system by abandoning the big money standbys—sugarcane and tobacco—and trying to diversify. He tried different crops, and he tried to industrialize before his people were ready for it. It got the country in such big financial trouble that he was forced to go back to what Cuba had always relied on—cane and tobacco. And things didn't go too badly then. But that first mistake got him deep in debt to the Moscow boys. Remember, Castro wasn't any worse than Batista at first—which is bad enough. But it wasn't anything compared to the kind of dictator he became when Russia got its puppet strings on him.”

“That much I already know. Why don't you get to why you're here?”

He smiled. “For a guy who's trying to become a hermit, you sure as hell don't have much patience.”

“It's the low wages.” Animated, I pretended to check my watch. “Besides, I got bird watching at ten, a communing with nature at eleven, and a conversation with God at—”

“Okay, okay. Jesus, MacMorgan, you've become a sarcastic bastard, you know that?” He grinned when he said it.

“It's been a big year for sarcasm.”

I shouldn't have put it that way. It sounded thankless. But when I did I realized the source of the depression which had been trailing me lately. Self-pity. I had been carrying it around on my sleeve. Like a scar. Or a cause. Or maybe even a medal. Self-pity is the most disgusting—and costly—of all indulgences, and I was immediately pissed off at myself for having said it. But Norm just took it in stride the way any good officer would.

“So I'll hurry.”

“Maybe you ought to kick me in the ass first. I just realized that that's probably what I need.”

He rubbed his chin with a big hand. “I know that the last twelve months must seem like a nightmare. . . .”

“Hey, let's forget it. The last person I should try to take it out on is you. You've done a lot for me, Stormin' Norman, and I appreciate it. I really do.”

That All-American boy face of his was sober for a moment, then was transformed by masculine good humor. “Hey, you saved my tail once yourself—remember?”

“I thought we'd been ordered never to discuss that.”

He winked. “I won't tell if you don't. But let's get back to this Cuban thing before committing any more treason. Huh?”

So Castro wanted the American boats in Mariel Harbor to make money. According to Norm, that was one reason—but not the most important. Castro was charging American captains outlandish rates for anchorage, food, beer, water, fuel, and repair.

“We figure Cuba is clearing about a half million dollars in cash for every day this thing goes on,” Norm said. “And that's not counting the value of the boats they've confiscated for one reason or another. Now, the next obvious reason Castro wants this sealift to continue is that it's a hell of a chance to get rid of some of Cuba's excess human baggage. They're short on food over there, damn short on money, so he's sending us the people he doesn't want to support anymore. It looks like we're getting a lot of his mentally ill. And he's cleaning out the prisons— sending them all over here. Now, it's true that a lot of his ‘criminals' have done nothing worse than steal a mango or two—or try to escape to America. And those people will probably do fine here in the States. But others are the habitual criminals—murderers, rapists, scum like that. Castro's a shrewd bastard, you have to give him that. Because the murderers and the rapists aren't the worst of what he's sending.”

“I think I can see where you're going with this.”

“You're right. It's pretty obvious. He's slipping a hell of a lot of agents in on us, along with his criminals. How many refugees have landed in Key West so far? Thirty thousand or so. And they say there are at least a hundred thousand more coming. Our major source of secret information in Cuba tells us that about one in every five hundred refugees will be an agent. A Cuban agent who has been educated and trained in the Soviet Union, sent here to spy, carry out subversive activities, and generally raise hell.”

“If you know who they are, why don't you just stop them at the docks and send them packing?”

“Because we
don't
know who they are. Not yet. But we will.”

Fizer started to open his briefcase, stopped, stood up, and pretended to study the drawings on the wall.

“Hey, Norm,” I said. “Why don't you cut the lecture on Cuban political history and get down to it?”

He came back and took his seat. He looked worried. Damn worried. And Stormin' Norman Fizer isn't a man to show emotion.

“Okay, Dusky. Here it is, blow by blow. First of all, at this very moment we've got about eight to ten thousand American civilians sitting over there in Mariel Harbor. Private citizens on private boats like sitting ducks in Cuban waters—enemy waters. If, for some wild reason, the Cubans wanted hostages they could seal off that bottleneck harbor with one small gunboat.” He snapped his fingers. “With that many hostages, they could bring this country to its knees like that.”

“But why in hell would the Russians let Castro even think of something so crazy?”

“Never mind
why
it might happen,” Fizer snapped. “Let's just say that it could.” He stopped, opened his briefcase, took out an envelope marked “Top Secret” and handed me a sheet of paper. “Ten days ago, for reasons you are about to learn, the CIA sent three of its best agents to Mariel Harbor. They are all Cuban by birth, so it was easy enough for them to pose as American civilians interested in applying for the release of relatives. You'll find their names and biographies listed there.

“The most obvious reason for having CIA agents in Mariel is to keep an eye on how our people are being treated. But there's another reason, too. I mentioned that we have a source of secret information in Cuba. Well, it is a very, very valuable source. It's one of the only sources we have, frankly. Do you remember when Castro visited the United Nations a few years ago?”

“Sure. Tightest security precautions taken for one man in the history of the country, or something— right? Made a lot of Americans mad to think we took better care of a dictator than we do of our own Presidents. What about it?”

“That's when we made our first contact with a General F.C. Halcón, one of the top men in Castro's army. Since then his code name has been Hawk. And Hawk has proved invaluable to us. He's fairly representative of a growing disenchantment with Castro in Cuba—even among the higher-ups. The last report we got from him informed us of the agents being planted among the refugees, but it also contained the words—in code, of course—‘storm nest.' That was his predetermined way of telling us he wanted out; things were getting hot for him, and he wanted us to get his ass out of Cuba.”

I said, “Not all that easy, I imagine.”

Norm shrugged and toyed with his coffee cup. “Normally, no. But it so happened that Halcón was assigned to run security operations in Mariel Harbor. So, three days after receiving his message, the CIA sent its agents in a forty-foot trawler, renamed
Storm Nest,
with orders to evacuate the Hawk.”

“And what happened?”

Fizer looked up at me, the concern in his face obvious. “The CIA's people just disappeared. Vanished. Through a pretty complex code system, they got word to the Key West marine operator that they had arrived, and they were awaiting contact from the Hawk. And then
poof,
nothing.”

“Maybe Castro's people were on to the whole operation and rounded up all four of them.”

“That's what we figured at first, but four nights ago we got another code transmission from Halcón. He's anxious as hell to get out and can't figure why we haven't sent anyone to get him. That's why I'm here, Dusky.”

“Hold it,” I said. “I want a beer in my hand before I listen to this.”

Fizer gave me that college-boy grin. “Jesus, MacMorgan, you act like I'm some sort of flimflam man or something.”

“Or something,” I agreed. I put an unrequested bottle of Hatuey on the table in front of him, then sat back down with my own, feeling the malted carbonation of the beer sluice away the acid taste of coffee.

“Dusky, we want you to take another of the CIA's agents to Mariel Harbor. A fine officer, a Lieutenant Santarun—another Cuban by birth, and supposedly one of the CIA's best people.”

“I only work alone, you know that, Norm—and that's not to say I'm even considering—”

“Just listen for a minute, dammit! We just want you to take Santarun over there. The lieutenant will do the rest. I just want you to watch and listen, and give me your impressions when you get back. For your own protection, we're not even telling Santarun that you're one of our people. And you are never to let on that you know who Santarun is. All you have to do is play the role of the slightly stupid charterboat captain—and then report back.”

I watched him for a moment. He toyed with his beer—hardly touched—nervously. “You're a bad liar, Fizer. Does Santarun know that you're using him for bait?”

Fizer's dark eyes caught mine. “It was the lieutenant's idea, Dusky. Something's going on down there in Mariel Harbor, and we have to know what it is. If Castro's people knew beforehand that we were sending agents, it means that the CIA has a serious security breach to deal with. And if there is a breach, they'll come after Santarun, too. You're our ace in the hole, Dusky. They'll rig some way to get the lieutenant—some way that will probably seem innocent enough—then send you packing. They're not going to waste their time with a civilian. And that's all you'll be in their eyes—and in the eyes of Santarun. It's risky, you're right. But not for you. Like I said, it was the lieutenant's idea. We have to know, once and for all, if Castro's goons snatched our agents—”

“Norm—”

“—because, if they did—”

“Norm—”

“—we'll have to pick up a couple of theirs and start—”

“Norm, you're still not telling me everything, dammit!”

He stared at me in mild surprise. Boyish. A “What, me?” kind of innocence.

I knew that look. I'd seen it before. Back in an attack assignment in the jungles of Southeast Asia where no American was ever supposed to be. I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on the table between us. “Norm, old buddy, I was raised in the circus, remember? I grew up with the ten-in-one-show gypsters, the fire eaters, the magicians, and the backlot crapshooters. Don't try to con a carnie, Norm. I learned to recognize a scam before I learned the Pledge of Allegiance. There's a big chunk of your story missing, old buddy. Why not just tell me straight?”

“Tell you what?” The mock innocence was gone, replaced by a somber, searching look.