Cuban Death-Lift (18 page)

When our driver finally managed to nose up to the crowded docks, I jumped out and pulled O'Davis up behind me. He was surprisingly nimble for his size. Before we headed up the ladder to the main deck, he turned and wagged his finger at our Cuban driver, railing at him in a guttural Spanish.

“What were you lecturing him about?”

“No lecture, Yank. Convinced him to stay until we came back out.”

“I hate to be a spoilsport, but these Castro Cubans aren't known for keeping their promises.”

Westy O'Davis gave me a conspirator's wink. “This one will. I told him you were a very important man, mate. Had to lie a wee bit—told him you were a Russian adviser. Believed me, too—imagine that.”

The bar of the
Comandante Pinares
was long and narrow, with the obligatory mirror behind the sparse liquor stock and a floor made of aluminum sheeting that seemed to bow with each step. Booths along the outer bulkhead were packed with Cuban-Americans busy with plates of black beans and yellow rice. Frail waiters dressed in white shirts and black ties moved sluggishly through the noise and smoke. There were a couple of stools open at the bar, so my red-bearded friend and I took a seat and ordered beer.

Westy lifted his eyebrows, questioning me. I shook my head. “She's not in here,” I said.

It was a Czechoslovakian beer served in big dark bottles, and the entire head when poured consisted of about four massive bubbles which suggested, it seemed, that the brewer had included dishwater in his recipe.

But it was good beer, strong and cold, and Westy did quick justice to it and ordered more. When it came, he poured his glass full, tasted it experimentally, and clicked his tongue, pleased.

He said, “Nothin' like that first taste of beer, eh, mate?”

“It does rank right up there.”

He swiveled on his stool, toying with the glass. He had a big blunt ruddy face, a trace of scar between cheek and Gaelic nose, and bright-blue eyes that were easy to read.

“Having some second thoughts there, O'Davis?”

He squenched up one eye mischievously. “Hah! Yank, once me mind's made up, I've made up me mind.” He paused for a moment, and then: “I've sailed most a the world, spent half me life in foreign ports. Seen a lotta boatmen white and otherwise and I've learned to know the ones that aren't worth a flip and the ones that are, and—well, I give you me hand, didn't I?”

“But you've been thinking,” I added.

“Sure I've been a-thinkin'. I've been a-sittin' here wondering how important that lady is that we're chasin'. Is she your wife or your wench or jest a charter or what?”

“Just a very important person, you might say, O'Davis.” I felt him eyeing me, and I had to grin. “Okay, okay,” I said. “I'm being secretive. But there's a reason. Tell you what—next time you're in the States, come to Key West. You can stay with me for a couple of weeks and we'll fish and drink beer all day and tell tall tales. And I'll give you the whole story. But for now it has to be my way.”

“And don't be a-thinkin' I won't take you up on that kind offer. You have the look of the mystery about you, brother MacMorgan, and a very interestin' story it will be, no doubt.”

“And you have the look of one very nosy Irishman, O'Davis.”

He cackled at that. “Sure an' it's true, true! But sittin' here among these wolves and mother dogs, who else do you have to trust?”

As we sat there, O'Davis told me all he knew about the layout of the
Pinares.
Just aft of the bar was a little souvenir shop where they sold green cigars and T-shirts. Outside and up the stairs was the immigration office and, cabined beside that, a larger room where, for a price, there were prostitutes and gambling.

“What about below?”

He shook his head. “Never been down there—an' I've been jest about everyplace an outsider can go in me three weeks here.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“An' what does that mean, Yank?”

“It means you should stay here while I have a look around.”

“But ya canna go strollin' down inta the belly of the ship like ya own the place. There's guards, mate. I've seen 'em me own self. Two of 'em above an' God knows how many below.”

“All I can do is try. I don't want to lose that woman.”

There was a kind sympathy in his blue eyes. “Ya talk like a man who's lost a woman before.”

“And you talk like a man who knows what that means,” I said.

When I turned to go, he grabbed my shoulder. “Hold on there, now. You'll be needin' a diversion, I'm a thinkin'.”

“Or maybe just a lost look. You know how easily us stupid Americans get lost.”

“But a diversion would be a fair sight better.” He held up his finger as if lecturing. “Have you ever noticed, Yank, what a hot-blooded people these Cubans be? Fine folk, mostly—but hot-blooded.” He nodded toward two men sitting on stools down from ours. They were young, wore T-shirts, and both had tattoos. “Now take those two fellas. I'd be willin' to bet me last Cayman dollar, picture of the Queen an' all, that if I was to suggest to one that the other told me his sister was a
putana,
why I bet there would be one hell of a diversion.”

“Don't try it, O'Davis—”

But it was too late. He was already stretched out over the counter laughing like a drunk, barking Spanish at the two men in his Irish brogue. It didn't take long for them to react. While the one glowered at O'Davis, the other stood up and dumped beer on his former friend, yelling challenges. The other answered with a roundhouse right that sent chin and body crashing into the next table. When the guards rushed in to break it up, people started shoving and more fights broke out. Pretty soon the narrow bar of the
Comandante Pinares
was, indeed, one hell of a diversion.

Westy O'Davis picked his beer up gingerly, careful lest it be spilled by the combatants, then backed away, nudging me ahead of him.

“Do ya see what I mean, friend MacMorgan?” he said in a silly half-whisper. “Hot-blooded!”

“O'Davis, you fool, you swore to me on your mother's grave that you wouldn't get involved in any rough stuff.”

“Ah, 'deed I did, 'deed I did.” Then he glanced at me with a sly look. “Funny thing about me mother's grave—it's empty, it is. The old girl runs a little pub in Kilcullen outside Kildare. Last I heard, she was still arm 'rasslin' the farm lads for bottles o' port.” He tapped me on the shoulder. “Here they come, Yank—the guards from the bowels o' the ship. Now's the time to make yer move. I'm thinkin' I'll jest stay up here and enjoy the spectacle.”

The guards came rushing past us, automatic weapons slung on slings over their shoulders. They carried green aerosol cans—probably Mace.

In long confident strides, hands in pockets, I moved down the hallway and took the aluminum steps two at a time. The main corridor belowdeck was tiled with mud-colored linoleum, and the bulkheads were painted gray. I had to make a decision: aft or forward? The engine rooms would be aft. And the crew quarters. I took a chance and headed toward the bow.

I had pressed my ear against the hatchways of three cabins before I finally heard the voices.

Strident Spanish. The imperious voice of a man followed by the muffled replies of a woman. It was no ordinary conversation. The male voice was demanding, threatening, the woman's was controlled but edged with underlying emotion.

I knew the voice. I had heard it whisper my name over and over the night before.

It was the voice of Androsa Santarun.

I fought off the urge to force my way into the room, kick ass and take names later. This was no place for a rescue attempt. The ship was crawling with guards. It was still daylight. And even if I did get the woman and make it out, there was no way of getting us back to
Sniper.
The government boat pilot might believe me to be Russian, but there was no way he'd play cat and mouse with his own people. Besides, there was still the off chance—however slight—that this was some kind of standard immigration interrogation.

There was no absolute proof that Androsa had been kidnapped.

Not yet, anyway.

I leaned against the door, straining to hear. As shoddy as the ship was, the bulkheads were solid and thick, and I could catch only snatches of the man's voice. It was the heavy growl of someone used to authority: flat, demanding, unyielding. I picked up only a few words.

Nombres
was Spanish for “names.” And it was easy enough to figure out what
espia
meant.

They had her. No doubt about that now. And I knew what the fate of a beautiful American spy woman would be in the hands of the Castro Cubans. Last night, after our lovemaking, she had whispered to me that I had been her first since the death of her husband. And it had been something good for her; something desperately important and special. Thinking about what the soldiers would do to her after they had reamed every bit of useful information out of her made my stomach roll.

The sound of footsteps jerked me from my thoughts. Coming down the aluminum stairs. Heavy steps, one man in a hurry. Hard-bottomed shoes. Military shoes.

It was a long corridor. Before me lay a dead end. Behind, toward the stairs, was the only hope of a hiding place—a narrow offshoot from the main hallway which ended, probably, in a small room. I gauged the sound of the footsteps, wondering if I had time to make it to the intersecting hall. And knew, then, that I didn't.

First the shadow moved around the corner, then the man himself—a burly Cuban soldier with an AK-47 in hand. He was light-skinned and broad-faced with pockmarks and a mustache. He looked at me, surprised. And I knew I had only one chance. I lifted my arms, gesturing as if lost. I smiled. Tried to look friendly. See the stupid American? Just took a wrong turn, that's all, buddy. Just lead me toward the bar and we'll both be happy.

But it didn't work. I heard the metallic
click
as he flicked off the safety of the automatic, and he came at me in a weighty jog.

My mind scanned frantically, searching for some way to take him. If I had a knife, I could try a quick throw, then roll for my life, hoping for a lucky hit. But the stout Gerber was folded away in its belt holder, and even if I made a try for it the 7.62mm slugs would cut me in two like something meant for the toaster.

But my luck hadn't run out.

I had the unexpected good fortune of falling in with a kindred spirit, a copper-haired, red-bearded, crazy-eyed Irishman by the name of Westy O'Davis.

And when the soldier went trotting by the narrow intersection of corridors, O'Davis stepped out with a blind-sided overhand right that allowed the bulky Cuban one staggering step before he went down like a sack of wet bones.

O'Davis stepped out touching his knuckles gingerly. He looked at me and grinned. “ 'Tis an interestin' life you live, brother MacMorgan.”

I exhaled heavily. “Next time I tell you to stay out of my business, O'Davis, give me a swift kick in the ass, okay?”

“Pleasure, Yank. You're a man who needs watchin', I'm thinkin'.”

Behind me, the muffled voice of Androsa's captors were louder now, closer to the door. I long-stepped it down the hall and helped the big Irishman drag the body of the soldier into the little storage room. I heard the cabin door open, and then voices. They were coming our way. The storage room was crammed with boxes, but we forced our way in, pulling the door halfway shut behind us. It smelled of mold and diesel, and overhead bare steampipes rattled and clanked with uneven pressure.

Waiting, I reached down and touched the soldier's neck. Fast-pulse. Steady.

“Dead?”

I shook my head. “No.”

O'Davis looked surprised but said nothing.

We watched them go by: Androsa and two men. One wore the uniform of a common Cuban soldier. He had the woman's arm bent up behind her, and her mouth was a thin line of pain. Below the small head wound she had gotten back on
Storm Nest
was a larger swelling, fresh and already turning the soft cheek purple. The other Cuban was a hugely fat man, gaudy general's uniform draped over him like a tent. His face was a mass of rolling jowls and sweat, and his narrow pig eyes wavered only once: Androsa struggled as they passed before us, and he turned only just enough to slap her savagely across the face.

I felt the hand of Westy O'Davis holding my shoulder tightly, and heard him whisper in my ear, “Easy, mate. Easy . . .”

In the bright anger of that moment, detail stood out sharp and vivid, focusing through eyes and etched upon brain: tiny brave raven-haired woman locked between the bulk of the two soldiers. She wore an orange blouse. It brought out the deep tan and whitened the clenched teeth. Her blouse was ripped slightly at the collar, and two buttons were missing, knots of white thread twisted. She wore faded jeans and jogging shoes that squeaked against the linoleum as they forced her along, and the beautiful Spanish-Indian face masked its fear with a stoic hatred.