Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (39 page)

We sat in the increasingly stuffy room for fifteen long minutes. I noted the time was 11:40 p.m. when Cano reappeared and invited us up to see the great man himself, whom I heard several in the house refer to as “the apostle.” I thought that a bit much.

Our disengagement from the divan was less than graceful, with Rork thunking his weapon-laden sea bag around and me accidently snagged on Maria's voluminous dress, but we made it, ascending the narrow stairs in a solemn pilgrimage to the mount. Cano excused himself and exited the front door, saying he would return shortly.

When we reached the room at the top of the stairwell, Martí stood up from a crude desk. Fourteen years younger than me at thirty-nine, he seemed far older than his age. With his hairline receding ever more, his eyes bloodshot, and his movements slowed, he presented an image of a tired grandfather at the end of his work day: the red tie undone, the coat draped over the chair, both shirt sleeves rolled up, soon to be slumbering in bed. I knew the reality was different, however, for Martí was renowned for his determination to finish his tasks even when sick or exhausted. He would be “on duty” for at least another two hours and up again by six o'clock in the morning.

In spite of all that, he was nonetheless in a very good frame of mind. Greeting me with an
abrazo
—the Cuban version of a bear hug—his face split into a big silly grin, that enormous mustache of his accentuating his delight.

Holding my shoulders in his hands, Martí used his nickname for me. “My Neptune is here at last! It has been far too long, Peter.”

“Neptune?” inquired Maria in a whisper.

With a laugh, he explained, “Well, madam, if Abraham Lincoln could have Gideon Welles be his Neptune, then I insist
upon having Peter Wake be mine!”

Martí then hugged Rork. “And the Gaelic Titan, too! My cup truly runneth over. How are you, my friend?”

Rork has never been shy, especially when thirsty. “Ooh, boyo, since you asked, listenin' to all your talkin' made me throat dry as a bone, José.”

“Well, I cannot let that wretched condition continue, can I?” He called down the stairs, “Paulina!
Una copa de buen ron, por favor!
”

I introduced Maria. “José, this is Doña Maria Ana Maura y Abad, of Spain. She is an admirer of your efforts and wanted to meet you. Maria, this is José Julián Martí Pérez, the writer, teacher, and patriot.”

Martí could be very charming when the moment called for it, and he rose to the occasion. Turning to Maria, he smiled and took her hand, lightly kissing it. Apparently for my benefit, he spoke to her in his fluent English. “I am enchanted, madam. Mario said there was a beautiful woman from Spain with Peter, but I now find that description to be a sadly misleading understatement. I recall seeing you at my little speech tonight. Thank you for listening to my simple ideas with such kind attention.”

After decades of diplomatic soirees, Maria was rather quickwitted herself. She favored us with the angelic version of her smile and turned those deep blue eyes on my Cuban friend. “Thank
you
, Señor Martí, for expressing them so wonderfully. As for me, I was merely one of the many people who were entranced by your brilliant oration.”

“Your modesty becomes you, madam. You are, without the slightest doubt, the loveliest daughter Spain has in the New World, and I am very fortunate to have the honor and pleasure of meeting you. Thank you so much for coming to visit me this evening, for your radiance has brightened my life and given me added vivacity. Please be assured our humble home and myself are completely at your service.”

He led the way into another, smaller room, where chairs had been set up around a table. Gesturing to the table, he suggested to Rork, “Perhaps you and Doña Maria will enjoy your refreshments here while Peter and I adjourn for a moment. I promise it will not be longer than that,” he looked at Maria, “for I would be a fool to deprive myself of such wonderful company.”

Rork grunted his agreement and Maria made a little curtsy. Paulina arrived with a glass of rum for Rork, a stemmed glass of red wine for Maria, and a plate of sliced pineapple and banana.

When Martí and I were seated in swivel chairs at his desk in the first room, his face hardened. Charm time was over, for he had serious things to discuss.

“Thank you for coming, Peter. I know I have imposed upon your schedule. First, let me say thank you for your warnings about Orden Público's intentions to poison me, rendered in quadruplicate, no less. I received them today from Mario, courtesy of you getting him to Tampa; from my brother Masons, because of your informing their local lodge of the situation; from Don Vicente Ybor's office, due to you alerting them; and from your personal note.”

He shrugged, with a slyly cocked eyebrow. “As you can see, my friend, I am untouched and well. After your warnings, I have eaten only food and drink which Paulina has personally prepared. On a brighter note, my events recently have brought in a considerable amount of donations for the cause. And now, will it be rum or wine for you?”

“José, as far as the warnings are concerned, I owe you several times over for helping me, and saving
my
life, in Cuba. As far as a drink, I'm getting older and less resilient, and will be taking the ship to sea later, so no rum. A glass of wine would do well, thank you.”

The reader will note I didn't tell Martí the entire story of my huge waste of time and effort by initially assuming the Germans were killing the Mayan rebel leader; how I realized the plot was actually to kill Martí; how close he'd come to not getting
a warning and dying; or about my official, albeit confidential, assignment to get warning to him. In the business of secret information, one never tells
all
one knows.

“Ah, then a Bordeaux to celebrate,” said Martí, an aficionado of French cuisine and wine. Paulina was asked to bring a bottle up and went off. He returned to our discussion.

“There is something else I wish to speak about, Peter. A very important matter.”

“What is it?”

“The new presidential administration here, which will take office in March. Grover Cleveland has strong views about maintaining U.S. neutrality in the Cuban situation. Since this will be his second term, admittedly with an interruption of four years, he knows how to wield power and implement his policies from the start. Therefore, the next four years will be a different environment for Cuban independence.”

He was being circumspect, so I cut to the chase. “President Harrison and the Republicans are supporters of your cause, but in four months they will be out of executive power, and until then he is a lame duck president. I know President-elect Cleveland. He wants to avoid any kind of war with anyone. You are worried your movement's building up of arms, supplies, and men will be affected by that attitude, because the Florida coast may be patrolled by naval and revenue vessels and neutrality strictly enforced. Correct?”

He sighed. “Yes. We are not ready yet to liberate our island by force of arms. Our previous attempts have shown the folly of half measures. But our momentum is gaining, and when we are ready, we will need to strike quickly and with coordination. Everything depends upon our armies getting what they need.”

Paulina padded quietly into the room and poured the bottle of Bordeaux. There was only enough for our two glasses and she informed him it was all in her possession.

A fleeting look of disappointment showed on his face. He told Paulina in Spanish, “Then please bring us the bottle of Vin Mariani.” She hurried off.

Vin Mariani, a Bordeaux infused with the extract from coca leaves, was not only Martí's favorite late nightcap, it was the choice of many famous people, from Queen Victoria to Pope Pius to my friend Thomas Edison, who once told me it helped him stay awake and work longer hours. Cocaine is popular in drinks these days, but not for me, and I prefer my wine unadulterated. I kept my opinion to myself, though, as Martí continued, “Is there any legal method, precedent, or ploy you know of that would enable us to continue our sending of supplies to Cuba?”

“No, none within the existing laws and regulations. In fact, there are laws specifically against running guns and rebels out of our country into another. And Congress is in no hurry to change them because Cleveland won the election pretty convincingly.”

He nodded grudgingly and was about to say something when an embarrassed Paulina returned without a bottle, explaining they had none. The last bottle went to Ocala with him and they couldn't find it. She said not to worry though, for she had ordered more and it was on its way. Seeing her anxiety, Martí kissed her cheek and thanked her.

He watched her depart and softly said to me, “She is such a dear, my black mother. I dislike being such a bother to her and Ruperto. They work so hard in the cigar factory. And now, Peter, I think we should rejoin our other friends.”

We took our wine into the other room and sat down at the table, joined by Mario Cano. Soon a general conversation in English about books and plays and music had consumed our attention. Martí was at his charismatic best, utterly captivating Maria. Sean and I laughed uproariously at his acerbic depictions of New York's grand littérateurs and thespians, including himself.

Maria enjoyed herself immensely, using Martí's public sobriquet in a whisper to me, “Oh Peter, here I am laughing and drinking with the apostle of freedom. Amazing!”

Our glasses were empty when Paulina returned yet again, this time with a bottle of the Vin Mariani. She poured for everyone
and in the spirit of the moment I did not demur. I would have one polite sip.

Martí, happier than I'd seen him in years, abruptly stopped in mid-sentence and suggested with raised finger, “
Carpe diem
, my friends! We must toast my young friend and fellow seeker of justice, Dr. Mario Cano. Mario, may you and dear Useppa know health, wealth, and happiness, and all the time to enjoy them . . .”

In his enthusiasm, he drank his Vin Mariani before the rest of us even raised our glasses. We were in the midst of doing just that when Martí's eyes grew wide in fright.

“Stop—do not drink it!” he blurted out, gasping for air to get out, “
Poison!
”

Then he clasped his throat, doubled over, and began choking to death.

Ybor City, Florida
Midnight Friday
16 December 1892

The instantaneous transition from complete joy to abject horror stunned the rest of us at the table, but in a flash my training and instinct took over.

“Get a doctor!” I ordered Maria, who dashed down the stairs.

Rork already had his Navy Colt .44 in the good right hand and the marlinspike exposed on his left stump. I said, “Check the street from the window and cover the door to this room.”

To my future son-in-law I said, “Mario, help me with his collar and tie.”

Cano and I ripped Martí's collar away. It became clear to me his choking was not due to an obstruction, he was gagging due to the ingestion of the poison.

His voice was hoarse and weak. “They did it . . .”

The initial shock was over and he was no longer choking, but he was still doubled over, clutching his stomach. There wasn't anything I could do.

“The doctor is on the way,” I said. “You'll make it through this, José.”

Martí grasped my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh, as he forced out his next words, “No one must know! If I live, no one must know of this. Do you understand?”

He was so close I smelled the garlic on his breath. His face was contorted and those famous eyes bored into me. There was only one answer I could make.

“I understand, José. I will tell no one outside of this house.”

Ruperto and Cano carried Martí to a bed along the wall, where he lay on his side, groaning with the pain and saying nothing. Paulina ordered everyone out and we trooped down the stairs as Ruperto, a revolver in his hand stood on the first step of the stairs and glared at everyone.

The parlor was packed with distraught and angry people, a dangerous situation for us. By then, Rork had returned his Colt inside his jacket, but kept his hand near it. I did likewise, for I did not know these men, one of whom might be a spy or assassin of Roldan's, or might think
we
were. Cano did know several and tried to calm them, to no avail. He motioned for us to follow him out to the porch.

One of the men outside was admonishing the others to stay silent and tell no one what had happened, that discipline was needed for the apostle had ordered it so. None argued. All remained nervous. Several kept glancing at Maria, Rork, and I—strangers to them and the last to be with Martí. They were not friendly glances.

A moment later a distinguished gentleman carrying a large valise strode through the porch, having been passed through by the outer guards. Cano recognized him and told me he was Dr. Miguel Barbarossa, Martí's friend and local physician who cared
for the leader when he visited the Tampa area.