Passage by Night (v5) (8 page)

10
Isle of Tears

San Juan slumbered in the noonday heat as they turned past the concrete pillbox on the point and moved into the narrow channel. On the far side, the cliffs lifted a hundred feet out of the water with an old Spanish fortress perched on top.

Papa Melos leaned out of the wheelhouse window and nodded towards it. 'They're using it as a prison for political offenders. I've heard some terrible stories about what goes on up there.'

'I can believe them.'

Manning looked up at the fortress. It was at least four hundred years old and the amenities had probably altered little since it was built. From the Inquisition to Castro. He sighed and shook his head. Time was a circle turning endlessly on itself. There was no beginning, no end.

San Juan itself was a typical small Cuban fishing port, but there were few boats in the harbour and a strange air of decay hung over everything. Even the Cuban flag over the Town Hall hung like a limp rag in the great heat.

Papa Melos cut the engines and signaled to Manning to let go the anchor. For a moment longer, the
Cretan Lover
glided forward and then, with a gentle tug, it came to a halt fifty or sixty yards from the crumbling stone jetty that formed the south side of the harbour.

The old man stepped out of the wheelhouse and joined Manning at the rail. 'We have to wait here till we've been cleared by the harbour-master.'

Anna came out of the cabin. A blue silk scarf was bound about her head peasant-fashion and sunglasses shaded her eyes. She moved beside him, her arms touching his.

'What do you think, Harry?' she said anxiously.

He tried to sound reassuring. 'There's nothing to worry about. Everything's going to be fine.'

Inside his shirt, tucked into his waistband, was a .38 caliber automatic and he touched the butt quickly to reassure himself.

As they looked across the harbour a small rowing boat appeared from between two moored fishing boats. The man at the oars was being urged on by a fat, bearded official in a crumpled khaki uniform.

Papa Melos gave an exclamation of relief. 'It's still the same harbour-master, thank God. Luis Raphael is his name and he's as genial as he is fat.'

'That could be important,' Manning said.

As the boat bumped against the side of the launch, Rafael smiled up at them, his face shiny with sweat. He spoke English with a pronounced American accent.

'Papa Melos, by all that's holy. I thought it was your boat, but I couldn't believe my eyes. Long time no see.'

'Papa Melos leaned over the rail and they touched hands. 'Luis, my old friend, good to see you.' He waved towards Anna. 'My daughter. You've heard me speak of her often.'

Rafael positively beamed. 'My pleasure, senorita.' He turned again to the old man. 'And how is Yanni?'

'Drowned in a bad storm off Andros six months ago,' the old man said calmly and nodded towards Manning. 'That is why I have Alexias here.'

Rafael looked genuinely distressed and crossed himself quickly. 'May he rest in peace.'

'Are you coming aboard?'

The Cuban shook his head. 'Bring her straight in to the jetty. I will meet you there. The occasion would seem to call for a drink.'

'Is Bayo still running the hotel?'

Rafael nodded. 'Trade isn't what it was, but he seems to manage. These are difficult times.'

'For all of us,' Papa Melos said. 'We'll see you on the wharf.'

Rafael gave a quick order to the oarsman who immediately started to row away and Papa Melos turned to Manning with a smile. 'I think it's going to be all right.'

'It certainly looks like it,' Manning said. 'What about this man Bayo you mentioned? Can he be trusted?'

The old man nodded. 'These people are too Catholic ever to go Communist. That's where Castro is making his big mistake. There are a lot of people in Cuba like Luis Rafael and Bayo. Ordinary men who have to accept what happens because they've got to keep on living. Because they've got wives and families. That doesn't mean they have to like it. Castro will find that out to his cost one fine day.'

He went back to the wheelhouse and started the engine as Manning cranked in the anchor. He moved to the prow and got ready with the line. Rafael was already on the jetty and as they coasted in, he spoke to a couple of loafers who moved forward. Manning tossed them the line and as they ran it round a stanchion, Papa Melos killed the engine.

The jetty was only a couple of feet above the rail and Manning climbed up, pulling Anna behind him. Rafael removed his cap and kissed her hand.

'A great pleasure. I have known your father for many years now.' He looked down at the tuna and sighed heavily. 'A long time since we've seen such beauties landed here. You'll have no trouble in selling them.'

'That's what I hoped,' Papa Melos said and they all walked along the jetty together.

'But why the long absence?' Rafael said. 'It must be at least six months since a boat called here from Harmon Springs.'

'To be honest, we weren't sure we'd be welcomed,' Papa Melos told him. 'Let's face it, things haven't been quite the same since the crisis.'

'But we know our friends,' Rafael said. 'There is a large difference between Greeks from Harmon Springs and Yankee spies from Miami. Give us some credit for that much sense.'

'Well, it's nice to hear that. Perhaps when the others know how we've got on, they'll start coming again themselves.'

'Nothing I'd like better.'

The sign outside Bayo's place said:
HOTEL
, and was as dilapitated as the rest of the waterfront. There were several wooden tables outside, but no customers, and Manning guessed that the place would probably liven up in the evening.

It was cool and dark inside and reasonably clean, with whitewashed walls and rush mats on the floor. There were more tables and chairs and marble-topped bar in one corner, bottles ranged behind it on wooden shelves.

The man who leaned on the bar reading his newspaper was small and wiry. The right side of his face was disfigured by an ugly scar and the eye was covered by a black patch.

'Heh, Bayo, see who's here!' Rafael called.

Bayo glanced up in surprise. When he saw Papa Melos a delighted smile appeared on his face. He dropped the newspaper and came round the end of the bar.

'Papa Melos,' he said in English, pumping the old man's hand. 'A sight for sore eyes.'

Papa Melos put a hand on the little Cuban's shoulder and frowned. 'Your face, Bayo, what happened?'

Bayo shrugged, his smile slipping a little. 'Nothing, my friend. An accident three months ago. You have brought fish in?'

The old man nodded. 'Three tuna.'

'He needed the excuse to see how we were getting on,' Rafael put in.

They all smiled and Papa Melos introduced Anna and Manning. 'My daughter and Alexias Stavrou. He's crewing for me now.'

'And Yanni? How is Yanni?'

'Drowned six months ago,' Papa Melos said calmly.

A spasm of pain crossed the little Cuban's face and he reached instinctively to touch the old man's sleeve. 'He was a good boy.'

'None better,' Papa Melos said. 'It is God's will.'

The slight awkward silence was quickly glossed over by Rafael who dropped his hat onto a table and pulled forward a chair for Anna. 'But this is the time for wine, not talk. A bottle of your best is indicated, Bayo.'

Bayo nodded eagerly. 'I have some Chablis '57 cooling in the icebox for Colonel Rojas, but he won't be in until this evening.'

He disappeared into the back room and Manning turned to Rafael. 'Who's this Colonel Rojas he mentioned?'

Rafael immediately looked uncomfortable. 'He commands the fortress here. They have turned it into a prison for political offenders. Since the Bay of Pigs affair, it's had plenty of occupants.'

'What is he? Police or army?'

The glance the Cuban threw over his shoulder before leaning forward was almost a reflex action. 'They say he is of the DIER, senor. The military secret police. In Cuba today they have more power than anyone.'

'What happened to Bayo?' Papa Melos said as he tapped tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. 'His face is certainly one hell of a mess.'

'Three months ago a new batch of prisoners was delivered to the fortress from the main island. Their guards were a rough lot. Real
barbudos
of the kind who were in the hills with the President. They got drunk and started to break the place up. When Bayo tried to stop them, one of them slashed him across the face. He lost an eye.'

'Nice people,' Manning said.

Rafael shrugged, 'In Cuba today, it is not wise to pass judgment on anything, senor. You would do well to remember that.'

'I suppose you're right.' Manning offered him a cigarette. 'Is this the only hotel in town?'

'There was another, but it closed last month. No one comes for the fishing any more.'

'Anyone staying here now?'

Rafael smiled. 'I don't think Bayo has had a guest in six months. There will be plenty of room for you to stay, if that's what's worrying you.'

At that moment, Bayo appeared from the rear, a clean white cloth over one arm and carrying a tray on which stood the bottle of wine and five glasses.

He put down the tray and lifted the bottle. 'Nectar of the gods. See how the moisture has frozen on the outside.'

'Perfect, my dear Bayo. Perfect. You must have known I was coming.'

The man spoke excellent English and completely filled the doorway. His face was shaded by a Panama hat and a soiled white linen suit draped loosely from the immense shoulders, only half-concealing the grotesque figure.

He carried a malacca cane in one hand and as he moved into the room, the look of complete terror appeared on Bayo's face and the bottle slipped between nerveless fingers. Manning caught it neatly and placed it on the table.

'My thanks, senor,' the fat man said. 'A pity to waste good wine. But there are only five glasses here, Bayo.'

As Bayo moved away quickly, Rafael jumped up, his face quite pale. 'A chair, colonel.'

'Thank you, my friend.'

He flopped down with a groan. 'The English have a saying. Only mad dogs and themselves go out in the midday sun. It would appear to me that there is much truth in this. Would you agree?'

'The perfect remedy.' Manning poured some wine into one of the glasses and pushed it across.

'My thanks, senor, but it would hardly be good manners for me to drink alone. Rafael, introduce me to your friends.'

'But of course, Colonel Rojas.'

So this was Rojas? Rafael babbled the introductions and Manning schooled his face to steadiness and poured wine into the glasses as Bayo returned.

Sweat stained the colonel's jacket in great patches and trickled along the folds of his fat face. He produced a red silk handkerchief, mopped the worst of it away and removed his panama. His head was quite bald and what little hair remained had been razored clean. But it was the eyes that were his most compelling feature, constantly in motion, cold and hard and utterly without mercy.

'Poor Bayo. I startled you, eh? I made you jump?' A muscle twitched in Bayo's face and Rojas laughed harshly, his body shaking like a jelly. 'He hasn't been the same since his little accident last summer.'

Anna leaned forward, anger sparkling in her eyes and Manning put a hand on her arm and reached for the bottle. 'More wine, colonel?'

Rojas raised the glass to his lips and sighed with pleasure. 'Exquisite! Such a delightful bouquet!' He put the glass down and produced a long Havana cigar from his breast pocket. 'I hear you've brought tuna with you, captain.'

Papa Melos nodded. 'That was the purpose of the trip. Boats from Harmon Springs called frequently, but that was before the crisis. I thought I'd see if we were still welcome.'

Rojas turned to him in what appeared to be quite genuine amazement. 'But our quarrel is not with your people, my friend. It is with the Americans and those who would help them.'

There was a slight, awkward silence and Manning said calmly, 'Well, that's certainly nice to know.'

Rojas put a match to his cigar and puffed out a cloud of blue smoke. 'So, the tuna were your only reason for calling here?'

The old man moistened dry lips. 'But of course,' he said, a ghastly smile on his face.

'Strange,' Rojas said calmly. 'I thought that perhaps Senor Manning here had intended taking a few photographs.'

As a dry sob erupted from the old man's throat, Manning's hand slid inside his shirt, reaching for the butt of the automatic.

Rojas shook his head. 'I don't think that would be very wise.'

Something hard and cold nudged Manning in the side of the head and he turned and stared into the business end of a submachine gun. The man who held it looked extremely competent. He wore a neat khaki uniform, a black beret and beard to match.

Manning put his hands on the table and the soldier reached inside his shirt and removed the automatic. Rojas poured himself another glass of wine and sipped it in leisurely fashion.