Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (32 page)

Fewer still knew of the battalion's clandestine unit run by Colonel Isidro Marrón. It specialized in penetrating Cuban insurgent groups and in conducting assassinations. The button was a way their agents confirmed the identity of other members of the unit.

Rork growled, “I
hate
the Orden Público and what it does to the Cuban people.”

Thus encouraged, our man finally spoke. “Please, I leave Florida, go Cuba.”

I replied with a sick chuckle. He glanced desperately at the domino players.

“No one will help you. These Galicians've always hated Madrid, so they won't care. In fact, they would enjoy watching you die, once I tell them who you work for.”

Tears began to form. “What . . . you . . . want?”

“The truth.
La verdad
. If you tell the truth to me, I will let you live and take a message to Marrón. But if you lie, I will know it and walk away. Then the men in this place will kill you slowly, for their enjoyment. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Your name, age, work location, and place of birth?”

“Francisco Sanchez, two-seven years, work Key West, from Matanzas.”

No wonder he outran me. “What is your mission here?”

“I see where you go.”

“Correct answer. The old man is too old to be in Orden Público. He is an informant here in Ybor? His name?”

“Yes, he live here. Name Torito.”

Little bull, a common nickname. “How did you know I was here in Ybor?”

“
Jefe
tell me this morning.”

“Your
jefe
—what is his name, rank, and work location?”

He was hesitant, until Rork leaned even closer and grunted a Gaelic curse.

“
Teniente
Roldan, work Key West, but he here now.”

I'd heard of Lieutenant Narciso Roldan. He'd been operating in Key West for several years, the replacement for Lieutenant Julio Boreau, whom I killed in New York in '86, and whose son tried to kill me in Havana in '88. A tangled web of façades and death.

“Correct answer. And what is Roldan's mission here in Ybor?”

“He no tell me.”

“How did Roldan know I am here?”

“He no tell me.”

“When and where will you kill Martí?”

“
Jefe
no tell me about kill Martí.”

Sanchez wasn't showing signs of deceit. I believed him. He was only a minor cog in the machine, not privy to operational plans or personnel outside of his own small area.

“Tell Marrón this: I know everything. So does Washington. Understand?”

Sanchez nodded, obviously still unsure if he was about to die.

“Let him go, Rork.”

Rork pulled him up and pointed to the back door. Sanchez didn't wait around and darted out the door. We went out the front. On our way, I dropped another dollar on Saurez's table. “
Un poco más, señor. Muchas gracias por los buenos tiempos
.”

Ybor City, Florida
Friday morning
16 December 1892

Rork and I steered for the cigar factory again, this time in an uneasy state of mind. Would they come after us now? We watched everything and everyone on the streets.

At the offices, we met Ybor's private secretary. He informed us Don Vicente was out of town, but expected back later that evening. We also discovered Martí was arriving on the seven o'clock train from the new Cuban tobacco town of Martí City, near Ocala.

His Ybor City gathering would be right there, on the front steps of the factory, where he would give a speech at 8 p.m. The subject matter would be supporting the independence movement of Cuba with their time, effort, and donations; and explaining what the Cuban Revolutionary Party was planning to do to make the island free.

Ybor's secretary wasn't sure of Martí's itinerary after his
speaking engagement, but thought he'd be in town until Monday morning at least. Then he would either take the train back north to New York City or the steamer south to Key West.

Unfortunately, other than Ybor himself, I knew no one else in the company to whom I could entrust such important and secret information. The secretary, a cold and calculating type, did not inspire my confidence. I found that odd, for his boss, Don Vicente, was known to be openly pro-revolutionary and a friend of Martí. Still, my instinct said no, so we thanked the secretary and left, never giving the true reason for our intrusion.

One of the first rules in espionage is to always plan for those things you can't anticipate. In other words, have redundancy built in for when the first option doesn't work due to unforeseen circumstances, like Mr. Ybor not being available. In my experience, the first preference seldom works smoothly. Accordingly, I had two other options ready.

One was to contact the Pedrosos, Paulina and Ruperto, black Cuban tobacco workers who lived at Thirteenth Street and Eighth Avenue. Martí considered them dear friends—Paulina was like a mother to him—and he usually stayed at their home when in the Tampa area. Several times over dinner and wine in New York, I'd heard Martí speak of them in affectionate terms, but had never met them myself. I knew I could trust them, but would they trust me?

It was little more than a block away, so Rork and I started walking. In low tones, we discussed how the assassination would be carried out.

“Rork, I think they'll poison him tonight.”

“Why not just shoot him?”

“Well, there's another factor here—anonymity. The assassin arrived in Ybor City within the last hours or days. Agreed?”

“Aye, sir. Either with Roldan a few days ago, or with
Reina Regente
today.”

“Exactly. We know Martí won't arrive on the train from Ocala tonight until seven p.m., just before the speech at eight.
Like most Cubans, he doesn't eat dinner early. He'll eat after the speech, and after he deals with the post-speech crowd of admirers. That means it will be late, around eleven or midnight. He'll be very tired and go to bed right after eating. Tomorrow morning, he'll be found dead in his bed. That works out very well for the Spanish.”

“Killed anonymously. Like Drake was. So it can't be tied to
Reina Regente
an' the Spanish government. No international complications.”

“Exactly. Martí is known to have frail health, and there will be no reports of a commotion, no wounds, no sign of struggle, no suicide note. Death by natural causes will be assumed. Cuban rebel unification ends and they return to their internecine conflicts to determine the new leader of the movement. The Spanish aren't even blamed for Martí's death and celebrate the sixteenth of December as the day their most effective foe to the colonial occupation of Cuba ceased to be a problem. Marrón gets a quiet accolade from Madrid and becomes the most powerful man in Cuba, unseen by the masses, but feared by those in authority, even the royal governor.”

“Sounds logical. Methinks the bastards'll put the arsenic in his rice an' beans at that late dinner,” said Rork. “Martí an' his lads'll eat at one o' these restaurants 'round here. The assassin'll be one o' the kitchen help an' slip it in his food nice an' easy.”

“I agree. But if the assassin is newly arrived on the Spanish cruiser, he'll have to get a job there right away. That's too unpredictable, though, so it would have to somehow be prearranged.”

“Aye, good point. So the restaurant owner would be in the employ o' Roldan, an' have the kitchen job waitin' for when the killer gets there tonight.”

“Which restaurant, though? Perhaps Señora Pedroso will know.”

The Pedroso home at 1805 Thirteenth Street was like many others recently constructed in Ybor's town. A simple frame affair,
the second story was little more than an attic with a window. It was normally the couple's bedroom. When Martí visited, it was his room.

No one answered my knock on the door. The neighbor ladies, rocking on their porches while sewing or shucking, studied our every move. The woman across the street feigned not to understand my English, or even my Spanish, when I asked when the Pedrosos would be home.

“Well, that didn't work,” I grumbled to Rork as we stood in front of the house.

“Can't blame the neighbors for not talkin'—we're strangers in uniform an' they don't trust us. 'Tis just like back in Wexford, it is. When those damned Limey overseers came sniffin' 'round the croppers' places, lookin' for taxes an' such, nobody'd tell the buggers so much as a how d'ye do.”

Once Rork got started on the Irish situation he couldn't stop, so I steered him back to our mission. “Maybe Cano can make some headway here. Nuevitas Hotel is over on Seventh, so let's ask him to help.”

“Ooh, so now you're trustin' the lad, are ya?”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” I admitted. “He's passed muster—so far.”

Las Nuevitas Hotel was a moderately priced frame place, completely unlike Plant's exotic palace on the other side of the river. Of course, rich tourists didn't visit Ybor City, so opulence wasn't needed. Across the street from Nuevitas was Ybor City's theater, an equally moderate cultural center for the Cuban community. I noted the alley behind the theater separated it from the Pedroso house. I also saw that the marquee showed a performance scheduled for the evening, and predicted to Rork they'd have a sparse attendance. Everyone in town would be over at the cigar factory listening to Martí.

Cano was sipping coffee in the lobby. We joined him and I inquired if he had been successful in alerting Martí's colleagues to the threat on their leader's life. He said he had been to the local
office of the Cuban Revolutionary Party, but the leaders were gone. He set up a meeting with them before Martí returned to Ybor City, which he'd also heard wasn't until seven that evening.

Not explaining what Rork and I had been through with Roldan's men, I told Cano I needed two favors. The first was that everything I was about to tell him would be completely confidential, for lives depended on it. The second was the message I had alluded to when meeting him in Key West was also about an assassination of Martí, and I needed Cano to pass it to the Pedrosos. I then told him the murder would likely be by arsenic poisoning in his food, probably tonight at dinner after the big speech. I added my conjecture that Martí would then be discovered dead in his bed tomorrow morning, with no signs of traumatic wounds pointing to the Spanish.

He was visibly stunned. “So that's how they will do the murder? I thought they would try to shoot him at the train station or at the speech, but this . . . this unspeakable deed . . . is even more evil-minded than I had imagined.”

“Remember, please impress upon your friends neither of our warnings can be made public, Dr. Cano. The press would seize on this to sell papers by printing the most sensational rumors as facts, creating a storm of indignation that will lead in unforeseen directions, most of which culminate in a lot of innocent people dying. This information needs to be kept under control, for both Cuban and American purposes.”

“Yes, I can understand that. It will ultimately be up to Martí, though.”

“I know,” I reluctantly agreed. Martí was unpredictable.

Cano then gave us some welcome news. “I was introduced to Paulina and Ruperto Pedroso by Martí himself two years ago, and will remind them of it when I see them, Commander. It will establish my creditability. I am sure they will listen and understand the gravity of this development. Paulina will insist on cooking the dinner personally, which will neutralize the Spanish plot.”

“Excellent. That is the best thing that could happen.”

Cano rose from his chair with a determined set to his expression. “But we do not have much time, do we, Commander? Those closest to Martí must know this intelligence as soon as possible. I will speak to the neighbors to learn where the Pedrosos work, then go and give them the message. I think they may work at Barreto's factory, it is on Eighth Avenue by Fire Station Number Two, just around the corner from their house.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cano. While you are doing that, Rork and I will be over in Tampa notifying another group to get the word to Martí through a separate stealthy method. I want redundancy to ensure success.”

I could tell he wanted to ask who the group was, but he held back. “Good luck, sir. Our multiple efforts should be effective.”

“Yes, well, the alternative is catastrophic. Look, we won't be able to come back here afterward, since we have to return to the ship,” I put out my hand, “so this is goodbye, once again.”

Something else was on my mind, or actually, my heart. “Dr. Cano, I think after all we've been through together, and since you're about to be my daughter's husband, we can dispense with ranks and formality. How about if you call me Peter?”

“Thank you, sir, I mean Peter. I am honored and certainly will. And please, my name is Mario. And now, I too must be going. I have a lot to do.”