Havana (33 page)

“Frankie, this is hunting. You must be patient for your shot. We wait for the ideal moment and it will come when it comes. To rush is to fail. Corporal, you are doing an excellent job of driving. Frankie, see how the corporal is doing. He is smooth, relaxed, in command. He has perfect control. He knows exactly when the moment will be, and he will spurt ahead.
Bzzzzzzzt!
”

The corporal, some kind of Indian with a dark though not negro face, laughed, showing white teeth. His eyes glittered like another true killer's; this was extreme pleasure for him.

The car ahead slowed, tangled in traffic. The corporal pulled expertly to the side of the road, let two cars glide by, then slid back in line. He didn't want to get too close, but just to stay in contact, to be close enough to spring when the moment arrived.

But whatever was holding up the progression suddenly vanished, and the traffic lurched into motion. For a while, they drove through dense city streets, sometimes coming close to their prey, sometimes sliding back inconspicuously.

Then their quarry turned, found a broader road, and accelerated. The corporal adjusted accordingly, and the buildings on either side fell away, giving way to peasant shacks, small shops, unused, scraggly plots of land and the odd bar or so. Overhead, the scream of a multi-engined plane at a low altitude suggested they were approaching the airport.

And then, suddenly, a car between them and the police car pulled over. Ahead beckoned open road, no oncoming traffic, and the opportunity for the clean kill.

“Vamos!”
said Ramon, for this was the moment, but the corporal had read it too, and was already accelerating. Frankie twisted sideways and back, lifting the machine pistol, vaguely aware of Ramon in back bringing his heavier gun up to rest on the window frame. It was now, it was happening.

Almost in slow motion, the cars closed distance, and in even slower motion the corporal began to drift to the left, floating out in the oncoming traffic lane, not lurching as if in attack, but in a fluid, controlled maneuver that could not be read as aggression until too late.

The black Roadmaster seemed to be standing still as the corporal closed with it, and the back window came into range. Frankie saw Earl leaning slightly forward, around the man on his left. He saw this over the barrel of his gun.

But at that moment came the squeal of brakes as ahead a school bus lurched into view, pulling out from behind a stand of trees into the oncoming lane. The car heaved, shuddered and the corporal braked through deceleration and slipped back just in time to miss the head-on.

The bus flashed by.

“Now go,
go!
” screamed Latavistada, and the corporal punched it hard, this time overtaking the car.

But Frankie knew: he'd been seen.

 

Earl smiled at his new policeman friend, and twisted his arm as if to show him the trick with the cuff—though actually coiling that arm and tensing. He knew what he had to do. He suddenly uncoiled, driving the point of his elbow with a sick thud into the hinge of the jaw on the right side of the man's face, a clean, pure, knockout blow if ever there was one. The echo of the thud filled the car but Earl was almost faster than its meaning, for he was up, leaning forward into the front seat as the driver looked up at him, eyes wide in fear but way behind in the reaction.

Earl uncoiled another blow to the head and felt the solid, shuddering jolt, but this man was quicker by a bit, and tougher too, and he didn't go out but just went back, moaning. His foot reflexively hit the brake and the car skewed sideways, pulling up a screen of dust, its tires screaming against the pavement and then the dust of the shoulder until all purchase was lost and it lurched into a gully. Earl hit the man again and he sat back, in a fog.

One second passed as Earl forgot who he was and why he was there. Then it all came back to him. He hit the door of the car, pulled it open, rolled out, and scrambled up the embankment. He saw the black car of the two gunmen slewed over as well. The gun barrels swept toward him and he went down, slid into some bushes.

No fire came. He'd been too fast. He crawled desperately away, and thorns and burrs and sharp leaves tore at him, but no pain could halt him. When he thought he was far enough away, he rose and ran blindly, to put as much distance as he could between himself and his hunters.

Frenchy had taken down all the Harvard crap. Out went the tennis rackets, the pennants, the photos of the '47 tennis squad clustered smiling and blond around that stupid trophy. He threw out all messages from Roger, who wanted his personal goods back. He had a certain police detective visit Roger and suggest, unsubtly, that Roger get the hell out of Cuba. Word reached him that Roger had obeyed his order.

Frenchy no longer wore boola-boola blue blazers and tennis flannels but instead dark tropical suits, bespeaking a man of gravitas and intensity. He fired Roger's secretary in an ungentle fashion, and promoted a new girl from the pool who would be loyal entirely and absolutely to him. To make sure of that, he proposed that night, and the next started screwing her hard. He changed the locks on all the file cabinets and the security vault. He had the carpenters nail down the windows. He forbade the janitor to come in unannounced. He directed that all correspondence to Roger St. John Evans be destroyed immediately.

Frenchy was now on the move. He at last had a budget he controlled, an agenda he believed in and no one to suck up to—people, including the ambassador, now sucked up to him. He could give free rein to all his impulses toward destruction and conquest. He had wasted no time, and, using as leverage his ability to arrange extremely profitable grants from the Agency to various factotums in the Cuban security apparatus, directed a general closing down of all radical elements of society. Several newspapers and magazines were raided, their staff members carried off to unforgettably rough treatment in cells in the Morro Fortress. All reports on interrogations were forwarded to Frenchy, and he read them with concentration, looking for connections and cross-links, points of weakness, methods of attack. In very short order he developed a superior working knowledge of the Cuban radical underground. And, of course, he ordered surveillance of the Soviet Trade Legation doubled.

And, again in astonishingly short order, he became beloved and feared. The businessmen were not used to directness, instantaneous results and the pure aggression that was Frenchy's style. But they were practical men, and they got it; secretly, they'd been sick of Roger's airy, aristocratic manner and offhanded laziness, and had long since caught on he didn't know or do a goddamned thing. Frenchy came to each corporation, made an intimate pact with its security officers, and provided a special gift of intelligence to each powerful executive, all without destroying anyone's ego on the tennis court.

But now he had the first crisis of his young career.

He had no time for rage or recriminations. He simply marked it down as a bad operating principle, using ill-disciplined, untrained workers, while at the same time realizing that he was more or less committed to them.

“You find him again, you kill him. That's what those two bozos have to do now, and if they fail, Mr. Lansky, it will upset me. Believe me, you do not want to upset me, do you understand?”

Lansky, who had faced some of the most brazen gangsters of all time, was contrite in the face of Frenchy's newly emergent power personality. He was a shrewd enough judge to realize that this was who Frenchy had been all along, and that his true essence was simply coming out. And of course, it was true: his men had blown it.

“They'll succeed this time. I am as upset as you.”

“I'm not upset, Mr. Lansky.”

“Meyer.”

“I'm not upset, Mr. Lansky. I don't get upset; I get things done. Now I need answers. Can these two find him on their own?”

“Truth is: probably not. Give them guns or knives, let them loose, and they'll get a job done. This New York fellow once sprayed a cop in Times Square. He even killed a police horse. The Cuban is known as a torturer.”

“I know Captain Latavistada's reputation. I saw him operate at Moncada after the attack. Even the other men in SIM fear him. But the question is: are they clever enough to find Earl Swagger, for your sake and mine? You say no.”

“The Cuban has formerly worked out of Santiago. He knows that city. Here, he's like an Iowa boy in New York. As for Frankie Carbine, a smart one he's never been. He was used in New York for jobs with guns or fists. He was a soldier. He never would have become more than a soldier.”

“All right. I will find Earl. You get these clowns off the street. Right now, they're doing more harm than good. When I find Swagger, you have them ready to move. I want them hot and loaded for bear with a full tank of gas. I'll give you an address, and they will do the thing. And they will succeed this time. This is a very dangerous man, but on aggression alone they will succeed. Even this man is made of flesh, not steel.”

“I will set it up.”

“Thank you. Now I have some calls to make.”

 

He quickly arranged to meet the heads of the Cuban Internal Security Ministry and its action arm, the Cuban Secret Police, at the well-appointed Internal Security headquarters in the beautiful Capitolio building, that mock version of the U.S. Capitol set amid gardens in Old Havana.

“Gentlemen,” he said gravely, “I want you to understand that a lie has been told. It is a good lie, a lie in obedience to noble principles. I told it.”

The two man stared at him, surrounded by their staff members. Cigar smoke hung heavy in the air. Old campaigners and battlers, formed in the
gangsterismo
politics of the thirties and forties, believers in the presidente who had rejoiced in his return in 1952, the two weren't quite sure what to make of this supremely confident young American who was said to be so highly connected to American power that the ambassador himself feared him. They would wait and see what the young fellow had to say.

Frenchy blazed ahead.

“The lie was that the American who escaped yesterday from two state policemen was a simple tourist with a visa problem. We told you this. We lied.”

“And, what,” asked the chief of the secret police, “was he then?”

“He was a spy. He was a traitor. We had caught on to his activities, had him arrested on a technicality and were in the process, with the help of your state police, of returning him to America for interrogation.”

“If this is such a dangerous man, why weren't we informed, Señor Short?”

“I could tell you another lie, but I won't. The lying is no good. It was my decision. Everything was meant to be low-key, unnoticed. He himself did not even understand that we were on to him, or so we thought. But he was far cleverer than I gave him credit for, and he understood what fate awaited him. Thus he assaulted your men and managed to escape.”

“Well, then, we must begin a manhunt. He is almost certainly still in Havana. Why, we can blanket the city with his picture. We can put it on the television. We can describe him on the radio. Our Cubans are patriots and they will hunt for him if so instructed. He won't be able to move ten feet without being spotted. Our departments stand at the ready to prevent the spread of the communist plague.”

“Yes, I knew you'd say that, and that I could count on you. And I request your efforts in helping me locate him. I request your intelligence networks, your spies, your connections in the underworld. But I would prefer nothing of a large public nature to happen. We don't need more outrages of the sort that scare our businessmen and harm the investment climate. If your people can locate this man, I'd prefer if they hold off once they spot him. I have a team, a very special team, well trained and highly experienced, who will handle the actual details of the arrest. So I want no all-points bulletins and no television or radio announcements and no posters. No, I want it done on the hush-hush; that is, by word of mouth, by description, by interrogation, by observation—but not with a raid. I will handle the raid.”

“This is a very unique situation,” said the secret police chief.

“Yes, it is,” said Frenchy. “And if it helps, I'd be happy to tell certain people how cooperative you've been. I'm sure that if I whispered certain things in certain ears, certain forms of aid could be forthcoming to each of your departments. Our budgets for fighting subversion are quite large. I have no problem citing the names of those men and departments who have shown special zeal in their duties. Those who hurt my enemies become my friends and I pay my friends in generous ways.”

“Then tell us what you require.”

He found the card and a nickel, got the operator, gave the number, heard it ring, and waited for it to be answered. It wasn't and the nickel came back.

Earl looked around. He wasn't sure where he was. He'd raced through woods, followed a filthy stream until it led to some broken-down houses, cut over to something of a main drag. He moved quickly, keeping his eyes down, and nobody seemed to notice him. He spied a bus, ran after it, and gave the driver a buck. Then he waited for change. The driver would remember someone who hadn't picked up his change.

He rode till the end of the line, through the fall of night, to what seemed like the outskirts of the city. In the dark, he felt a little better, and he wondered what the hell to do. Go to the airport on his own? That seemed like a good way to end up dead. Call the embassy? But whatever Frankie Carbine's motives were, the intelligence that had made it happen had to come from the embassy. They were trying to get rid of him, not help him. Should he just try and get a boat out on his own? The U.S. was only ninety miles away by sea, a night's trip. Some fisherman could get him there. But what would he pay with? And whoever
they
were, wouldn't they be watching the docks?

He walked about, secretly aimless, but seeming possessed of sense and destination. He knew that aimlessness would be recognizable and memorable, whereas a sense of destination would not. He walked, walked, walked.

This was a swell mess, all right. Gangsters trying to kill him in a foreign country where he didn't know the language or the rules, or where to go, or who to turn to. He just wanted to get home and put this island behind him, one more island he'd survived. He wanted no triumph, no vengeance, no—

Then he remembered the woman. Yes, he had her card, yes it had her number. He went into a hotel, found a phone booth and thanked god for AT&T, which had wired Cuba from one end to the other, pretty as you please.

He got the operator, gave the number, waited for the ring and—

“Hello.”

“Thank god you're there. Do you recognize my voice?”

“Of course. I'd heard they kicked you out.”

“They did but then someone else tried to kill me. So I'm on the run. And you are the only person in this town I trust.”

“God, you have a talent for trouble. I never met a man with a talent for trouble like yours.”

“I won't argue with you there, Mrs. Augustine.”

“Jean. I told you, Sergeant Swagger, Jean. Where are you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, that's kind of silly, isn't it? How can I help if I don't know where you are?”

It was true, and here it was: trust or die. Or, possibly, trust
and
die.

“I seem to be across from a church. It's Catholic, and the sign says Santa Maria—”

“Do you have any idea how many churches of Santa Maria there are in Havana?”

“Well, this one is Santa Maria de la Marbella.”

“Of the beautiful sea. You are not far off the Malecon at its most eastern end. Go there. Go to a place—let's see, it would be called the Bodeguita San Juan. I don't think it's far. I'll be there inside an hour.”

“What will you be driving?”

“A Pontiac convert—no, no, I'll take Juanita's car. It's a prewar thing, a Dodge I think.”

“I'll look for you in an hour.”

 

He watched her from across the street, in the shadows. She pulled up directly out front, and waited, then finally pulled away after ten minutes. Nobody followed. She swung around again, slowed but didn't stop, then pulled away. Again, there seemed to be no cars in pursuit and, looking up and down the street, he made out no lurkers or observers. And she of course gave it another try, slowing then stopping.

He dashed across the street, opened the rear door behind the driver side, scooted in and sank to the floor.

“I hope that's you,” she said.

“It is me. Just pull out, no need to hurry, and go about two blocks and pull over. Then check and see if anybody behind you pulls over, too.”

“Wow,” she said, “this is just like a mystery.”

“It ain't nowhere as much fun.”

She did as he directed, and then, that last security precaution passed, pulled out.

“I thought I'd missed you.”

“No, I was watching you. Sorry for the delay, but I wanted to make sure.”

“This is very exciting.”

He didn't say anything.

“You can stay at my place. My girl won't tell anybody. It's safe there. Out in Miramar. All I have to do is hit the out-of-town highway and—”

“No, please don't. I'd like you to take me downtown. To a place called Zanja Street.”

“Zanja Street? Near Chinatown. That's where the prostitutes are.”

“I know. There's one there I helped some weeks back. Esmeralda. I believe that she'll hide me.”

“Earl, there's plenty of room at my place. You'll be safe there.”

“No, I won't. And neither will you. You think you know about gangsters because of the movies. You think they dress funny and talk funny and wear carnations and funny hats. I've seen some of them movies, too. But let me tell you, they're trash. That's all. Trash. They will bust in and kill me and if you're there they'll kill you and that's that.”

“What about the embassy? That would at least make some sense.”

“I don't trust that fellow Roger.”

“Well, Roger's gone. Unceremoniously. He was dumped mysteriously in the night. The younger man, Walter, he's in charge now. Maybe he's not as bad as Roger.”

Earl didn't say a thing until he came up with, “Well, there's too many people paying attention in an embassy. The woman on Zanja Street is my best bet.”

The car stopped and started in traffic. Jean turned on the radio, and soft mambo music poured tinnily from the box. She rolled the windows down and the smell of sea came in, and the smell of flowers and the smell of rum.

“You're not planning some cowboy thing, are you?”

“No, I am not planning nothing except to get the hell off this place. It was a mistake ever coming. I have been shot at in too many hard places to die in a gutter in a city I don't know, for reasons I don't understand.”

“Do you have money? I have some money for you and I can get you more.”

“Thanks, I'm fine. You've done enough.”

“Earl, I know people.”

“I'd just get them in trouble.”

“Okay, we're almost there.”

Earl sat up. He saw the bars and bodegas of Zanja Street. He saw arches and cafes and girls lounging and smoking, showing too much flesh. The cobblestones and neon signs and banks of lottery numbers. He saw pimps and grifters and knife fighters. He saw sailors and midwestern dentists and palm trees and fruit stands and cigar rollers.

“I should be fine here.”

“I will say, you are a piece of work, mister. I never met a piece of work like you.”

“I ain't all that much fun, once you get to know me.”

“Please, let me help. I know I can help.”

Earl had thought this out pretty carefully. Now he gave it to her.

“You say you know people. There's a fellow in this town, some kind of European, maybe Russian, I don't know. But he's the sort people will have noticed. Wiry, salt-and-pepper hair like steel wool, full of electricity. He's always laughing. Funny guy. Funny in his comments, funny in his beliefs. I think he's a Red, but he knows what he's doing like nobody's business. I think he'd help me.”

“Does this genius have a name? A place? I will find him if you give them to me.”

“When I met him, he called himself Vurmoldt. He said he sold vacuum cleaners from Omaha, Nebraska. Atom powered, or some such foolishness. But later he laughed at what a phony lie that was, and what a lame thing it was to come up with. I never got the real name. But believe me, people will know him. And if you ask for Mr. Vurmoldt the vacuum salesman, he will hear and know you came from me. When you meet him, ask him if he's gotten a new handkerchief yet. He will know what that means. Ask around. Ask people who do business with the Russians. Or who watch the Russians.”

“I know a couple of Brits who are in that trade, I think.”

“They will have noticed him. You must get word to him.”

“Suppose he betrays you for some communist purpose? I don't like communists.”

“I don't like them neither. But I think this one is okay. It's a risk, but it makes some sort of sense.”

“What should I tell him?”

“Tell him I'm with Esmerelda. That's enough. He'll find me.”

“Not that it matters to you, but will I ever see you again?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, thanks for the truth.”

“Look, I didn't plan this world, I just live in it. If I didn't have responsibilities and I saw you in that bar and you smiled at me like that, I'd have fought the Pacific all over again for you. But that can't happen. You know it, I know it. Knowing you has been the best thing about this trip by far. I wish there was more. But there ain't. That's the truth.”

“You always tell the truth,” she said. “What a terrible, terrible gift.”

He leaned close and kissed her and smelled her, and didn't want to leave her, but if he didn't now, he never would. And so he did, stepping out into the shadows of Zanja Street.