The Trojan Sea (19 page)

Stuart didn’t hear him say the rest as he watched Ledbetter pull out his handcuffs. “I don’t believe this!” he shouted.

“Believe it,” Smatter growled after he finished Mirandizing him.

“Why would I show you all this if I had done it?”

“Because you’re a smart-ass,” Ledbetter said, snapping the cuffs on his wrists, “and you think we’re dumb shits.”

“Colonel Stuart,” Toni said, her voice firm and commanding, “don’t say anything else. You need a lawyer.”

The panic was back, claiming Stuart’s emotions. “A lawyer! I haven’t done anything!” He looked at her, pleading his case. “Do you think I’ve done anything wrong?”

She didn’t answer.

Nothing in Stuart’s experience had prepared him for the reality of being booked and charged with a crime—not TV, movies, or novels. Experienced criminals learn, often the hard way, to go with the flow and not buck the opening moves of the lockstep sequence called the criminal justice system. But for the average citizen caught up in the process for the first time, it’s a devastating ordeal. All the normal courtesies and freedoms taken for granted are gone, and Stuart was never asked to do a thing. Instead he was pushed, prodded, and propelled through the rigid chain of events as if he were a dumb animal being rendered for meat-packing.

But what upset him the most was the fingerprinting process, when a wisp of a woman with small, bony, and incredibly strong hands took his prints. When she was finished, she handed him a small dry paper towel to clean the ink off his fingers. But without any soap, no amount of rubbing could clean off the ink. His dirty fingers were the stain he shared with the other inmates in the holding cell as he awaited arraignment the next morning.

“Hey, bud,” a grossly overweight and shaggy cellmate barked, “whatcha lookin’ at?”

For a moment Stuart was sure the challenge was the prelude to the rape that popular wisdom held as the informal part of the process. He held up his fingers. “How do you get your hands clean?” he asked.

“Who gives a shit?” another cellmate asked.

“Shove ’em up your ass and swish ’em around,” a voice from a corner said.

The shaggy bear stared at him. “What the fuck you in for? Child molestin’?” A dark rumble worked its way around the cell, and Stuart looked for a guard. Would one come if he yelled for help? The mumbling grew louder when he didn’t answer, and his panic was back in full force. “Asshole here has a sweet mouth,” the shaggy bear said. “Maybe he’d like being on the receivin’ end of some man-boy lovin’ for a change.”

“Yeah,” the voice from the corner said. “Don’t like no child molesters ’round here.”

“I’m charged with murder!” Stuart blurted. The cell fell quiet, and the bear moved away. Murderers were the aristocrats of the criminal class and accorded a special respect, provided the deceased was a criminally correct victim. Even felons had standards.

“No shit?” the voice from the corner said. “Who’d you shank?”

Stuart sensed the change, and for the first time his anger broke through. “I didn’t
shank
anyone.”

“Yeah. Right.” A righteous denial was expected. “So who was the deceased?”

“My wife’s boyfriend.”

A low murmur of approval worked its way around the cell. If the victim had been a child, Stuart would have discovered what “cruel and unusual punishment” really meant. “Hey, man,” the shaggy bear said, “sometimes a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.”

The next big surprise was the food. It was terrible and all but inedible. According to jailhouse wisdom, the cooks worked to make it that way, and anything approaching palatability was immediately fed to stray cats and dogs. Astonishingly, most of the men wolfed it down, claiming they had to keep up their strength.

The booking sergeant had warned Stuart that he would be spending the night in jail until he could appear before a judge for arraignment and bail Friday morning. But Stuart didn’t know what a night in jail meant. It was a noisy place, filled with shouts and groans as men wrestled with their subconscious and bad dreams. One man two cells down had a screaming fit that required a medic and four guards to control, and even under heavy sedation he continued to moan and grind his teeth.

Finally it was light, and Stuart waited impatiently for a chance to meet with his lawyer before arraignment. Again the process was impersonal and lockstep. “You just say ‘not guilty’ when the judge asks how you plead,” the lawyer explained. “Otherwise don’t say a thing. My job right now is to get you out on bail.”

“How much will that be?”

The lawyer thought for a moment. “They’ll probably hit you with an open-ended murder charge for now. My best guess, with a little luck, two hundred thousand.”

“I don’t have that much! I know my folks don’t.”

“That’s why there’s bail bondsmen. Figure ten percent.”

“Twenty thousand dollars?”

“You want to stay another night in jail? Last night was tame. Wait until tonight. And you don’t want to be within ten miles of this place on a Saturday night.”

Stuart shook his head and joined the line of suspects being arraigned for various crimes. Two hours later he was in the courtroom awaiting his turn in front of the judge. His heart missed a beat when his lawyer walked in with his father and General Butler. “What’s General Butler doing here?” Stuart asked in a low voice. His lawyer didn’t answer as the clerk read the charge against him.

“How do you plead?” the judge asked.

“Not guilty,” Stuart croaked, sounding anything but innocent.

“Bail?” the judge asked.

“This is a charge of murder,” the deputy DA handling the arraignment said. “We believe one million dollars is in order.”

Stuart almost fainted. “Your honor,” his lawyer said, “Lieutenant Colonel Stuart provided the police with the only evidence possibly linking him to this crime. He has a spotless record and is in the Air Force, currently assigned to the Pentagon. Lieutenant General Franklin Bernard Butler is here to vouch for him.”

Butler stood up, but before he could say a word, the judge asked, “You’ll vouch for him?”

“Yes, sir,” Butler answered. “Colonel Stuart will appear as ordered.”

“Bail is set at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” the judge said. “Next case.”

“What happened to the two hundred thousand dollars?” Stuart mumbled as he was led away. His next stop was a holding cell as he waited for his father to make bail. Much to his surprise, that was the most efficient part of the process, largely because he was now dealing with the free-enterprise system and was considered a sure thing to appear. But it was still late afternoon before he was released. Shanker was waiting for him outside.

“Your mother is upset,” Shanker said, surprisingly calm. Stuart nodded dumbly, not sure what he would say to her. “Damn,” Shanker muttered. “How’d you get into this mess?” Stuart stared at the floor, searching for the right words. “Come on,” Shanker said, relenting. “Let’s go home for the weekend.”

“Can I go to Newport News?”

“Why not? That’s the address I gave them, and it is your home of record.” He led the way out the double doors and into the hall where Barbara Raye Wilson’s lawyer was waiting. “Fuck me in the heart,” Shanker snarled.

The lawyer looked at Shanker, worry etched on his face. “Mrs. Wilson is concerned about Eric’s welfare,” he said.

“Then let Jenny talk to Mike about it,” Shanker said. “Not the bitch queen of”—he paused, searching for the right words—“of permanently maimed lawyers.” He smiled wickedly, enjoying the confrontation. The lawyer jerked his head once and scurried away, glad to escape Shanker’s wrath. “Always know when to get out of Dodge,” Shanker called. The lawyer walked faster. “Fuckin’ commie,” Shanker said in a loud voice, using the worst name in his vocabulary. “What’s the bitch up to now?”

Havana, Cuba

The 1957 four-door Chevrolet sedan rattled and rumbled down Calzada de Infanta, its broken suspension groaning in protest. “Over half a million miles,” the driver said with a sigh. “A good car, but parts are so expensive now.” He gave a very Cuban shrug. “It’s time to end the embargo.”

Marsten agreed with him. Everywhere he could see the results of Castro’s
revolución
and the economic embargo imposed by the United States. It seemed the entire population of Havana was riding bicycles. Besides those he saw mainly trucks and buses. The vast majority of the buildings were in desperate need of repair, much like the Chevy he was riding in. Yet the people were full of life and the air was charged with a vibrancy that defied Castro’s failed Communist dream. Marsten kept looking out the window, wanting to experience the people, feel their pulse, take their measure. Then it came to him. Like the car, the city needed only a chance, and money, to renew itself. Until then both would keep running.

“All the tourists,” Marsten said, “that’s a good sign.”

The driver shrugged. “
Turistas.
They bring money, but it goes to the big hotels, the government, the
jineteras,
not the people.”

“¿Jineteras?”
Marsten asked. His Spanish was good enough to know that was the word for female horse riders or jockeys.

The driver laughed.
“Putas.”
Whores. “Havana has the most beautiful and cleanest
putas
in the world.”

“Is prostitution a problem? I thought Castro had ended that.”

Again the shrug. “This is Cuba. Sex is a commodity for sale, like food. Besides, how else can a poor girl who only has her youth and her beauty support her family?” On cue he handed Marsten a card. “Very pretty girls.” He turned around in his seat and said in a low voice, his lips barely moving, “Your friend the jogger says to ask for Angelica.”

The car creaked to a stop in front of a large house near the luxury hotel Nacional and the Malecón, Havana’s famous waterfront boulevard. Like most of the houses, which hadn’t seen a paintbrush since Castro came to power, little remained of this one’s former glory. The tropical climate combined with the sea air was slowly destroying it. “Casa Salandro” the driver said. “A good choice. You will like it here.” He got out and opened the trunk to retrieve Marsten’s suitcase. “Don’t forget the card,” he whispered when Marsten paid him.

A handsome young man pushed open the rusty gate and rushed out to carry the bag. “This way, Señor Marsten,” the young man said, leading him inside. The gate slammed shut, and Marsten stepped through a time warp and into an open atrium. The decay and poverty of Havana were held at bay, and he was in a well-cared-for home, surrounded by flowers and quiet elegance. A beautiful fountain demanded his attention, and the sound of gently splashing water cast a net of tranquillity and grace over him.

“Beautiful,” Marsten breathed. “Absolutely beautiful.” The young man led him through one of the doors that opened onto the courtyard. The room was also a throwback to an earlier, more affluent age. A middle-aged couple stood to meet him, and the man extended his hand in friendship.

“Welcome to our home, Señor Marsten. I’m Agosto Salandro. This is my wife, Amelia.”

Marsten gently took Amelia Salandro’s hand and instinctively raised it to his lips. She was a petite woman in her mid-forties. But the years and the hardships of revolutionary Cuba had been kind to her, and she was still beautiful. “My pleasure,” he murmured. For a moment he regretted his bachelor life and the family he never had. It was easy to envision a life with someone like Amelia.

Agosto Salandro smiled. Amelia did have that effect on people. “And you have met our son, Ernesto.” The young man who met his taxi nodded. “And may I present our daughter, Rosalinda.” A beautiful girl stood up, and Marsten wondered how he could possibly have missed her. She was definitely her mother’s daughter, a classic Spanish beauty with dark hair, deep brown eyes, and lips that reminded him of Sophia Loren’s. But there was more. The best of Cuba flowed in her bloodlines, and she moved with an inner grace that held the promise of the future. “Rosalinda will be your daytime guide while you’re in Havana,” Salandro said. “And Ernesto will escort you at night, should you care to go out.”

The Salandros led him into another room, and they sat for a few moments discussing his plans. The minutes rapidly turned into an hour, and Marsten soon felt like a member of the family. He was totally enchanted by the Salandros. Finally it was decided that Rosalinda would start his vacation by taking him on the Hemingway tour—first to the Hotel Ambos Mundos where the writer had lived for a time, followed by a walk to El Floridita, his favorite bar, and then by taxi to Finca Vigía, his estate outside Havana.

Later, and much to his surprise, Rosalinda escorted him to his suite on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. “If you need anything special,” she said in perfect English, “just ask Ernesto.” She studied him for a moment as if she were memorizing every nook and cranny of his face. “Until tomorrow,” she murmured.

The next two days flew by, bringing Marsten’s short vacation to an abrupt end, and thanks to Rosalinda and Ernesto he was beginning to understand the
habañeros
and their city. Now it was Sunday evening, and he had one last task to perform. As agreed, Ernesto was waiting for him by the fountain. “Have you decided what you would like to do for your last night in Havana?” the young man asked. Marsten handed him the card the cabdriver had given him. A knowing grin spread across Ernesto’s face.

“Is it open on a Sunday night?” Marsten asked.

“Of course,” Ernesto replied. “This is Havana. It’s a good choice for your last night here. You will not be disappointed. We can catch a cab on the Malecón.” He escorted Marsten outside for the short walk to the seaside promenade. Before they had taken ten steps, a woman burst from her home on the opposite side of the street and hustled toward them. “The commissar,” Ernesto said. “She’s the head of the street’s Committee for the Defense of the Revolution. She wants money.”

The woman walked with self-importance and blocked their way. “The Salandros have not been honoring the
revolución,
” she said. “Perhaps it is necessary to take a new census?”

“How much this time?” Ernesto asked.

The woman looked at Marsten. “Five hundred, U.S.”

“We are a poor family,” Ernesto pleaded.

“So poor that all your family lives under one roof?”

“We will try to find the money,” Ernesto said.

“Soon,” she replied. “Very soon.” She marched back into her house.

“Why do you have to bribe her?” Marsten asked.

“All the homes belong to the people, and we live in ours by the grace of the state and the commissar. Naturally we try to keep our families together, so everyone who lives under our roof is a Salandro. The commissar is responsible for the block census and certifies the members of a household and that the house is fully occupied.”

“I thought only your immediate family lives there.”

Ernesto grinned at him. “The Salandros who live with us are only ghosts.”

“I see,” Marsten replied. And he did. The Salandros kept their home by claiming that deceased relatives lived with them, and they bribed the commissar to go along with it.

Ernesto waved down a taxi. “It is the way things are done in Cuba,” he explained. “I must interact with many different people, all with different interests.” He spoke to the taxi driver, who spun the wheel of the car and headed into Old Havana. He snaked through the side streets and stopped in front of a nondescript house. “Tell the doorman when you want to go home. He will call me.”

“You’re not coming in with me?”

“It is not necessary,” Ernesto replied. “You will be perfectly safe here.”

The cabdriver opened the car door, and Marsten took three quick steps into the dark opening. Like the Salandros’ home, the outside of this house was a front concealing what was within. Once Marsten was inside, a well-dressed man escorted him to a private suite that reminded him of a luxury hotel. The man sat him in one of a cluster of low chairs in the center of the room and disappeared. An elegant woman in her mid-forties joined him and sat down. “Good evening, Señor Marsten.” She smiled at him. “This is terrible, but first we must take care of what you Americans call ‘business.’ Our basic price is eight hundred dollars. That includes this suite until noon tomorrow, food, drinks, and two girls. If you desire, other extras can be negotiated. We prefer U.S. dollars, but other currencies are acceptable. I’m sorry we do not have the banking facilities to use credit cards, but we soon will.”

Marsten handed her eight one-hundred-dollar bills, and she slipped the money into her pocket without counting it. A hard smile flickered across her mouth. “Would you like to meet some of our young ladies?” He nodded, and she raised her right hand, making a beckoning motion. Five girls immediately walked into the room and draped themselves over the chairs. They all wore attractive but revealing dresses that left little to the imagination, and all spoke excellent English. “All our girls speak three or four languages,” the woman explained. “Thank God they don’t have to speak Russian anymore. Such an ugly language.”

“So lovely,” he murmured, wondering what he should do next.

The woman spoke a few words in Spanish, and the girls slowly shed their clothes. They were all young, firm, and beautiful. Marsten said nothing, and the girls picked up their clothes and walked away, to be replaced by five more girls. Like the first group, they were young, beautiful, and wore expensive clothes. “If you would prefer to be with one at a time,” the woman murmured.

“A friend mentioned Angelica,” he said. The woman murmured something in Spanish, and the girls quickly left. Moments later another girl walked in, this time alone. Her hair fell to her shoulders, and her strapless gown was split dangerously high on the left side. He fought to catch his breath as she moved toward him and sat down.

She reached out and took his hand. “Good evening, Mr. Marsten,” Rosalinda said.

Marsten’s eyes were riveted on Rosalinda as she poured him another drink. They were alone in the suite, the lights were turned down low. “I—I don’t understand,” he stammered.

She gave a soft laugh. “Why I’m doing this? How else can a girl help her family survive?” She gave him a sad look. “Occasionally Ernesto works here. This is how we find the dollars to pay the bribes. But thanks to guests like you, soon my parents will no longer need the money I earn. Then I can save for my dowry and quit.”

“How long will that take?” he asked.

“Maybe another two years. Sooner if things change.” She sat next to him and held his hand as she spoke in a very low voice. “On Saturday when we were at the Plaza de Armas, I watched your face. And this morning, at the cathedral, I saw you pray. You’re a good man.” She dropped her voice even lower. “Do you want to help us?”

Marsten had made contact.

A chill swept through him, and for a moment he was back in Eritrea on the edge of a dangerous venture. His hands shook, and he felt the overpowering urge to relieve himself. It was still not too late to cut and run. But what would L.J. say? She would understand and forgive him. But could he fail her again? He knew what he had to do. “I want to help.”

She gave him a solemn look. “It is dangerous,” she murmured. “Very dangerous.”

“I understand.”

She touched his lips. “Speak very quietly,” she warned. “We must be very careful, and you must do exactly what I say. The secret police are everywhere.”

“Agreed.”

Rosalinda stood and walked to the door. She spoke to the man who had originally escorted Marsten inside. Then she returned and sat on his lap. “Act naturally,” she whispered. She wiggled in his lap as she kissed him, her lips warm and full. The door opened, and a young girl and man entered. He guessed her age at sixteen, the man’s at least thirty.

“You wanted a show?” the man said as they sat down.

“Act like you’re negotiating the price,” Rosalinda whispered in Marsten’s ear. “The camera is hidden in the chandelier, but the microphone is too far away to hear us if we speak in a low voice.” She moved in Marsten’s lap and unzipped her dress. It fell away, and she sat naked as her arms wrapped around him, her lips on his neck. “This is for the cameras,” she murmured.

Marsten moved his hands down her bare back, hardly believing they were talking in such bizarre circumstances. Caution told him to go slowly and that he was talking to the negotiator who spoke for the rebels. “I want to see a new show,” he told the negotiator. “One that has not been seen in Cuba for years, one that your children can be proud of.”

“A free Cuba?”

Marsten gave a little nod.

“Tell me,” the negotiator demanded, “why are you so anxious to help us? What’s in it for you?”

“Before I answer that,” Marsten replied, “who am I dealing with?”

“Don’t ask,” Rosalinda whispered in his ear.

“Then there’s no deal,” Marsten said.

The negotiator stared at Marsten for a moment, making a decision. He whispered a few words in Spanish to Rosalinda, much too quickly for Marsten to catch. “We are the Guardians,” Rosalinda murmured in English. “We are going to build a new Cuba on the ashes of the old.” She nuzzled his ear for a few moments as she told him about the group, her words filled with the idealism of youth.

“Our people are everywhere,” the negotiator said, barely audibly. “But Castro is still too strong for us to act. Our time will come when he dies. Then we can capture the government. So for now we prepare. But when we rule Cuba, we will reward our friends and punish our enemies.”

“So how can we help?” Marsten asked.

“We need money. It is necessary to organize and survive.”

“How much?”

“We are not fools,” the negotiator replied. “Nothing is for free, not for you, certainly not for us. May I repeat myself? What’s in it for you?” They had come full circle, back to the key question.