Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (19 page)

Wednesday evening
14 December 1892

Those squall lines brought thick showers that soaked me as I ducked from building to building along Duval Street. Few people were out and about; those who were traveled buttoned up in their carriages. Key Westers are intimately experienced with foul weather and I saw several places with storm shutters closed.

Just after crossing Fleming Street, I reached the new Cuban society building known as the San Carlos Institute, a stone structure that replaced the old frame one at Fleming and Carlos Alley. That place of revolutionary fervor was destroyed by the fire of 1886, an event indelibly imprinted in my mind for many reasons. My watch showed 8 p.m., quite late for a Tuesday evening, but there were lights on inside the Institute and I pounded on the door.

A rotund elderly man with eyes that had seen it all answered. After a top-to-bottom evaluation of this fool standing in the rain and disturbing the peace, he deigned to allow me a skeptical,
“
Buenas noches, señor
.”

I asked if Mr. Poyo or Mr. Herrera were there and provided my name. He replied in English, informing me the gentlemen were off the island. I stressed it was most urgent I speak with a leader of the Institute, for I had information they would want to know immediately.

Evidently I passed muster, for he asked me into the foyer, blue tiled in traditional Spanish motif, and bade me wait, saying he would find someone in authority. A moment later, that person turned out to be a slender gentleman of intelligent features, expensive attire, and middle age. His penetrative gaze, magnified through a pair of spectacles, reminded me of Martí's.

He was introduced by the doorman as Dr. Mario Cano, a lawyer from Havana and a member of the Institute. The prefix was an indication of his occupation as a lawyer, a normal appellation in the Spanish culture. I was impressed by Cano and thought I could transact my business quickly. Cano bowed slightly and was about to speak when a commotion behind him showed someone else was about to join us.

My daughter Useppa appeared from around a corner and gave me a big hug, exclaiming, “Daddy! What in the world are you doing here?”

I was completely caught off guard. Suddenly, I recognized Cano as the man I'd seen on the wharf standing beside Useppa the day we'd departed.
Possessively close
beside her then, as he was now.

A lawyer from Havana? Red flags went up in my mind, for Cano's profession uses deceptive words to camouflage mal intent or guilt.

Useppa had never mentioned him in her letters. Did this mean their obvious “friendship” was of recent beginning? Her fiancé, killed six years earlier by Spanish agents in Key West, was also Cuban and a member of the Institute, though he was a Protestant pastor and a decent gentleman. Was there a connection between the two men beyond the apparent? Was
my daughter still mixed up in the extremely dangerous world of Cuban revolutionary intrigue?

I felt a surge of anger toward Cano. He should know better than to involve her in that world. And so should she.

“No, what precisely are
you
doing here, young lady?” I asked indignantly, for now I didn't like the look on Cano's face. No longer vaguely pleasant, it appeared deliberately inscrutable. Actually, it was damned smug. My suspicions grew by the second. My daughter was still fragile after her beau's death, and I didn't like Cano's looks, or his profession.

“Especially at this time of night,” I appended, speaking in the Cuban's direction.

My demonstration of paternal concern for my little girl's welfare got me no accolades or concessions, however. Instead, I got a lecture.

“Oh, Daddy, for goodness sake.
You
, with
your
sordid history, should not be chastising
me
about propriety. There is absolutely nothing improper going on here. It was a meeting of a committee of the Institute, which asked me to stop by and speak about my work at the Douglass School, since we have some Cuban Negro children there.”

A true daughter of her Irish-blooded mother, she was worked up now and cast me an indignant scowl of her own. “And Mario, for your information, is a gentleman of the highest caliber and a decent Christian. As for me, I am a grown woman, a lady, and I am perfectly safe with him, anywhere, anytime, of
my
choosing!”

As the man in question silently watched this scene of familial rebellion play out, I thought I detected a slight bemused look on his face. Yes, there it was, the right corner of his mouth slightly raised, in appreciation of the show.

Fathers cannot win in such situations, especially when the daughter is a grown woman. So, ignoring her broadside, I switched targets and subjects.

“Dr. Cano, I am here to transmit a special message to José
Martí. It's quite urgent and of extreme import, but I just arrived from sea and don't know his location.”

My daughter looked at me warily, then relaxed and said, “Mario, you may remember me saying Daddy is a close friend of Martí.” With a protective squeeze of Cano's arm she added, somewhat condescendingly, I thought, “You can trust him.”

I was about to remind her who was the daughter and who was the father, when Cano spoke for the first time. I noted he had very little accent, as if he was quite comfortable in our language.

“Martí is not here in Key West, Commander Wake. He was here for nearly a month, but left by steamer five days ago for engagements in Tampa, Ocala, and Ybor City. I will be taking the steamer on the seventeenth, if this weather permits, to meet him up in Ybor City next Monday. I can pass along your message at that time verbally, or in writing, whichever you wish. If it is confidential, you may trust it will remain so.”

The years in espionage taught me there were frequently several layers of meanings, for reasons good or bad, in many people's statements, and one had to peel them away to discern the actual core of the issue. The man before me was a prime example.

So he had a meeting with Martí himself in Ybor City? Was Cano in the Cuban Revolutionary Party as well as a member in the San Carlos Institute? Probably, for many members were. But he lived in Havana, so if he was a revolutionary, he must be covertly so.

Or perhaps he worked for Colonel Marrón? The colonel was very good at infiltrating revolutionary groups with agents provocateurs. Conceivably, Cano could be the assassin. Using my daughter as a trusted referral would be a logical route for an agent to get close to Martí. And if he was working for Marrón and the secret section of the Orden Público, he would know all about me, and therefore, Useppa.

He'd said his meeting was Monday, the nineteenth. That would be three days too late. A ruse to disarm my suspicion—or was it the truth, indicating he was legitimate? Or was it a clever test of my reaction to the date, to see if I knew it was three days too late?

Oh yes, this Cano fellow was slippery, indeed.

“Exactly where is Martí right now?” I demanded.

“Daddy . . .” warned Useppa in a whisper.

“I do not know, sir,” replied Cano. “I believe he probably is in either Ocala or in Ybor City today, for he has an important speaking engagement there tomorrow night. He stays at the home of Paulina and Ruperto Pedroso on Thirteenth Street.”

It was common knowledge Martí stayed with the Pedrosos when in Ybor City. The old black couple were like doting grandparents to him, and he was devoted to them. His love for them exemplified his attitude toward race relations and his hope for a unified free Cuba.

Useppa glared at me, her words hissing with anger. “Daddy, Mario is not one of your junior subordinates—stop treating him like one or I will send you away until you behave like a gentleman.”

A retort came to mind, but I refrained. She was right. I was using the wrong method to get information. I didn't like or trust Cano one bit, but I had to admit his relationship with Useppa had clouded my judgment on the best way to learn more about him. It was time for some honey-flavored humility, not vinegar.

“Yes, well, you're entirely right, dear. My anxiety on this matter got the best of me. You have my apologies, Dr. Cano, for being so impolite.”

“Not anything to worry about, Commander,” he said, rather unconvincingly. I saw Useppa nudging him, then he smiled openly for the first time and added, “Say, we were just about to get dinner over at the Duval Hotel. I would be honored if you could join us, and I know Useppa would greatly enjoy it.”

Was Mario Cano a friend or foe? There were two categories of foe. Was he, in fact, the assassin of Drake and Martí? Or was he, instead, a parasitic threat to my daughter's happiness, a Latin scoundrel out for something different? Either answer made him my enemy, and demanded more information about this mystery man. But both required something I didn't have—time.

I smiled politely in return. “Thank you, Dr. Cano, but I don't have much time at all, and so must say goodnight and goodbye for now.”

Useppa said, “Daddy, please don't go. The Navy can wait for an evening. I have something important to tell you.”

She was understandably proud of her work at the school, so I asked, “Really? What is it?”

Useppa beamed with delight. “Mario and I just got engaged!”

A sledgehammer could not have stopped my heart quicker.

“What?” I asked, hoping I'd misheard.

Through gritted teeth she informed me, “I love Mario. He loves me. We are getting married this coming spring.” She took a breath, and said, “Please come to dinner.”

She was absolutely serious, her mother's determination clearly evident in her eyes. With the realization that I had no say in the matter other than to accept it as a fact, I willed myself to remain calm and said, “Useppa, I guess my opinion or consent hasn't been asked for. As for dinner, I need to get under way immediately. There's a storm arriving tonight. And I'll see you both when I return to Key West in a couple days.”

“With Uncle Sean? I want Mario to meet him too.”

And I wanted Sean Rork to gauge Mario Cano as well. “Yes, dear. Sean will be here with me. We'll all go out to dinner then, but I must insist on being the host.”

That altered the ambience entirely. My daughter was delighted.

“Wonderful, Daddy! Thank you. We'll have a splendid time.”

Useppa gave me another big hug, afterward cuddling Cano.
They did look good together, I grudgingly admitted. Maybe this Cano fellow wasn't so bad after all.

Their happiness reminded me of my second encounter with Maria, one which ended far better than the first.

British Embassy
Connecticut Ave & N Street
Washington, D.C.
Friday evening
22 July 1892

It was yet another formal affair in full-dress white choker—my fifth that summer and pure torture in a sweltering Washington July—and my presence was due to an elderly superior's distaste of all things pertaining to the English. He particularly despised, as he described it, their “perennially arrogant condescension toward us.” I was bluntly “volun-told,” as we say in the navy, to attend so he wouldn't have to go and associate with “those people my father and his father had to fight, twice. Perfidious Albion!”

Evidently, this duty had been passed down the line from officer to officer because no one wanted to go. It is damned hot and humid in Washington's July.

For the record, I have no aversion to the British at all,
in informal company. My aversion was to being miserably uncomfortable wearing a damned formal uniform and enduring an hour or more of stupid chatter. However, I was in Washington on temporary assignment, had no junior assigned to me to unload the duty on, and I needed the captain's cooperation on the work I was doing. Thus, I acquiesced to the doddering old twit.

And this was how I found myself standing in the embassy's drive, waiting for a break in the procession at the entrance to make my way inside inconspicuously.