Torchwood: The Men Who Sold The World (7 page)

Mr Wynter pulled up a stool at the bar and ordered a Daiquiri Natural.

He was approached before the barman could even begin making his drink. Possibly this was a gentleman’s agreement so the establishment
didn’t waste rum on customers that would soon be too dead to drink it.

‘You are American,’ said the voice at his shoulder.

‘Is that a question or are you just showing off?’ Mr Wynter turned around and smiled at the large Cuban behind him. The man looked to have been built from butcher’s offcuts. His face was lumpen with scar tissue and, when he smiled, he showed Mr Wynter little but gums. ‘You look perfect,’ Mr Wynter said.

‘Your eyesight must be bad for you to come in here in the first place,’ said the Cuban, ‘but you must be completely blind if you like my face. Maybe I’ll give you one to match?’

‘Then you wouldn’t earn all the money I plan on paying you for a few jobs I’d like taking care of,’ Mr Wynter replied. ‘Which seems a shame really.’ He turned to the barman. ‘Where’s my drink?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t got all day.’ The barman, looking somewhat surprised, turned away and began mixing.

‘What jobs?’ asked the Cuban.

‘Oh, you know,’ said Mr Wynter. ‘All the usual stuff – driving me around, sharing your local knowledge, beating people up.’

‘I’m good at that,’ the Cuban replied, offering another gummy smile.

‘I just bet you are,’ said Mr Wynter.

Rex moved through the busy harbour until he found a relatively quiet spot. Sitting down on a coil of rope, he called Esther.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘You found anything yet?’

‘Patience, woman,’ he replied. ‘I only just got here.’

‘Sorry,’ Esther replied ‘I’m just…’

‘What is it?’ asked Rex.

‘Penelope Lupé was found dead in her apartment.’

‘Dead how?’

‘Heart attack, apparently.’

‘Apparently?’

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘I think that if Gleason and his unit are here in Cuba but someone’s killing people that are connected, then you should keep your mouth shut, especially on an open line.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s OK. Don’t worry, I’m on this, and I’ll find out who killed her. For now I need you focused, yes?’

‘Of course.’ A slight pause as she tried to put a little more steel in her voice. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Damn right you are. Now… first problem: he’s going to call her, so… we have her cell?’

‘No, and guess what, according to company records she never had one. They are tidying this up so tight…’

‘Tight enough I can’t believe S.O.G.’s not involved. Seriously, Esther, this stinks worse by the minute.’

‘I know. Sorry. There is one piece of good news: I cleared things with Broderick. You have sanction in this until someone from higher up slaps his wrists.’

‘Broderick actually approved this?’

‘I know. I think it’s because he’s always had the hots for me.’

‘Not that he really likes and respects my work?’

‘He hates you, Rex.’

‘Can’t think why.’

‘You refused to hand over the route mapping in Venezuela.’

‘I suggested he would be better not interfering and let me get on with my job. I was perfectly friendly.’

‘You told him to suck your balls.’

‘The very definition of friendly. I don’t let just anyone suck them.’

‘He didn’t take it that way.’

‘His loss, they’re nice balls. Succulent.’

‘I’m hanging up on you now.’

‘I told you to do that five minutes ago.’

The phone went dead in his ear.

Rex got up and made his way towards where a collection of men were hauling crates onto the quayside.

‘Hey,’ he called. ‘Where can I hire a truck?’

They looked at him as if he was speaking Dutch.

‘My Spanish isn’t that bad,’ he said. ‘Where can I hire some transport?’

Eventually, one of the men pointed further up the quay and so began a slow game of tag as he worked his way from one group to another until eventually he found himself, by a general consensus of the people working at the harbour,
face to face with Juan de Marcos Rodriguez.

Rodriguez was a small man, sat on a tatty deckchair in the far corner of the harbour. He was looking out over the water, scratching at a stained patch on his vest and puffing on the ubiquitous cigar. From the smell of him, it wasn’t all he liked to smoke and Rex spotted pinprick burn holes in the fabric of the unbuttoned shirt he wore. Rodriguez, in turn, had Rex pegged as Customs from the off, and no matter how often the agent tried to convince him otherwise he was defensive to all his questions.

‘I just want to know if you hired out a truck,’ Rex insisted. ‘I don’t care how much you charged, what checks you made—’

‘I didn’t break any law,’ Rodriguez insisted. ‘It’s not my business where a boat comes from or what it carries.’

‘Of course not,’ Rex agreed. ‘You just hire out transport. That’s OK. I get that.’

‘I know, that’s what I tell you.’

‘So did you?’

‘Did I what?’

Rex restrained himself from shooting the man. It was broad daylight and there would be witnesses. ‘Did you hire out a truck to some Americans?’

‘I might have done, who can say?’ said Rodriguez. ‘I’d have to check my files.’

Rex sighed and reached for his wallet. He had already loaded up on local currency knowing full well he would have ample opportunity to spend it. He pulled out a couple of notes. ‘So check your files.’

Rodriguez pocketed the notes, scratched at his beard and then pulled out a piece of paper from the pocket of his shirt. Rex could see it was an advert for a local nightclub, nothing more. Rodriguez pretended that wasn’t the case, scrutinising the paper for a while and then looking back at Rex. ‘Yes I did. But I have no idea where they went.’

‘You let them drive off with your truck without taking an address? I don’t think so.’

‘The American man,’ Rodriguez smiled, ‘had a trustworthy face.’

‘And a bigger wallet than mine?’ asked Rex.

‘Much bigger.’

‘How much would it take for you to remember, do you think?’

Rodriguez thought of a number and doubled it.

Rex nodded. ‘I could pay that,’ he said, ‘or I could physically drag you over to the port authority and have them search you for marijuana. How would that work? Still pretty flaky about pot here, aren’t they? What would you be looking at, ten years? Twenty maybe, depending on how much is in that pocket you keep rubbing.’

‘You wouldn’t do that,’ said Rodriguez, whipping his hand away from his jeans and suddenly all charm. ‘I am just a businessman, doing nobody any harm.’

‘My friend,’ said Rex, ‘I have known you all of a couple of minutes, and I would already beat you to death with that deckchair if it meant I could get the address I want. I am a very driven man.’

‘You are a son of a bitch.’

‘That too. Now give me the address, or for the next ten years you’re going to be eating burned rice with one hand while the other covers your asshole.’

Rodriguez gave him the address.

Mr Wynter’s new employee was called Famosa, and he was the proud owner of his very own car. A yellow and green Chevrolet that wore its rust and dented bodywork as proud scars of battle.

‘This thing’s older than me,’ said Mr Wynter as he climbed into the passenger seat.

‘It goes forward and back,’ said Famosa with a laugh, ‘but the exhaust leaks inside so keep your window open, I do not wish to be poisoned.’

Mr Wynter shook his head in disbelief and kept his hand over his mouth as the car pulled out into traffic.

Famosa drove to the edge of the old town, following Mr Wynter’s directions. Eventually, they were at the end of the track leading to the Hernandez House.

‘Stop here,’ said Mr Wynter. ‘I want to walk up alone.’

‘What’s to stop me keeping the money you’ve given me and driving off?’ asked Famosa.

‘Greed,’ Mr Wynter replied, stepping out of the car and walking along the track.

After a few minutes, he came to the little house belonging to Angelo’s grandmother. The boy was sat on the front porch, poking at a gecko lizard with a stick.

‘Hello, young man,’ said Mr Wynter, his Spanish
accent good enough to hide any hint of his being American. Mr Wynter was the perfect chameleon when he wanted to be. ‘I wonder if you’d like to earn a few pesos?’

Rex pulled his little car up at the address Rodriguez had given him and looked out of the window. It was a gap between buildings, the result of old bomb damage at a guess.

Never really doubting it was a waste of time, he got out of the car and walked over. The rubble-covered ground was thick with weeds, grass and trash. Bags of it had been dumped there to cook in the sunshine.

‘Maybe the American wasn’t that trustworthy after all,’ he said. He went back to his car and drove back to the hotel

Mr Wynter stood in Angelo’s bedroom and looked out of the window towards the Hernandez House. There was no sign of movement, but the chain on the gates and the tracks in the dirt backed up what the boy had told him. For sure, this was the place. Now all he had to do was form a plan of action.

He looked around Angelo’s room for a piece of paper. Eventually he settled for pulling a poster of the footballer Lester Moré from the wall above Angelo’s bed and tearing a piece off it. Turning it over to write on the blank reverse, he jotted down the address of Angelo’s grandmother’s house plus a few general directions. He then folded the piece of paper and dropped it into his waistcoat pocket.

Arriving back at Famosa’s car, the Cuban was
resting on the bonnet, taking in the sunshine.

‘Come on, my friend,’ said Mr Wynter. ‘I have just one more job for you to do, and then we can call it a day.’

The Cuban smiled. ‘Easy money.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ said Mr Wynter, patting the Cuban on the back and slipping the piece of paper into the pocket of the man’s shirt without his noticing. ‘We’re at the “beating people up” part of the deal.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ insisted Famosa. ‘I told you I’m good at that, didn’t I?’

‘So you did, so you did,’ Mr Wynter replied.

Back at the hotel, Rex ordered a cold drink from the bar and took it straight up to his room. He wanted to cool down and clean up. Maybe, once he felt a bit more human, he’d head back into town and grab some food. Act like a tourist for the rest of the day – there seemed little else he could do right now.

He necked the soda in a couple of long draughts and then went through to the bathroom to check out the shower. After a godawful – and hardly hopeful – groan from the water tank, the water began to flow and Rex was relieved to find it both hot and strong.

He stripped off, climbed into the bath and pulled the shower curtain across.

For a few minutes he just stood there, letting the water gush over his head and down his body. He felt the last couple of days go with it. A sense of calm pouring over him.

The water might be hot for now but only a fool would be optimistic for the long term, so he grabbed the soap and lathered up, scrubbing hard until his skin tingled. He looked around for shampoo and saw nothing.

‘Typical,’ he sighed, pulling the curtain aside to look across to the sink in the hope of spotting a complimentary bottle there. He came face to face with Famosa, who was stepping through the bathroom door, a stubby pocket knife in his hand. Famosa looked just as startled as Rex, though not for long. He lunged at Rex who jumped sideways to avoid the knife, slipping in the bath and tumbling against the far wall.

He snatched at the shower curtain, twisting it over the extended knife and throwing all his strength at spinning Famosa round so he would have his back to him. Famosa moved more easily than Rex had expected and, as he reached around to put a choke hold on the man, he found out why. Famosa grabbed Rex’s arm and threw him over his shoulder. Rex crashed against the bathroom door banging it closed.

‘Hey,’ called an English voice from next door. ‘Keep the noise down, would you? Some of us are having a siesta!’

Lucky old you, Rex thought, rolling towards the sink as Famosa uncurled the shower curtain from his knife hand.

‘You should just relax,’ said Famosa. ‘Let me kill you quickly.’

‘Of course I should,’ said Rex reaching for the large round shaving mirror hanging above
the sink. ‘What great advice.’ He unhooked the mirror and swung it towards Famosa, who kept backing away, the wind whistling as Rex swept it back and forth. Rex swung the mirror at the knife and managed to knock it from the man’s hand. Famosa shrugged, raised his hands in the air and charged at Rex. Rex ducked and thrust the mirror, sideways on, so that the frame jabbed the big Cuban between the legs.

Famosa grunted and twisted to Rex’s left. Rex brought the mirror up and smashed it down on the Cuban’s head. It shattered, and cut a line in Famosa’s forehead that instantly began to bleed.

Famosa swore at Rex, one hand shooting out and punching him in the face. Rex staggered back against the bathroom door, vision blurring and head spinning. He heard, rather than saw, the Cuban charge at him. He stepped to the side and was relieved to hear Famosa’s fist burst through the cheap, chipboard panel of the bathroom door. Rex knew he had to keep moving while he had the advantage. He opened the door and swung it back so Famosa was trapped behind it, wedged against the wall. Rex yanked the door and then slammed it again and again at Famosa, whose wedged arm swung around through the hole in the door, bloodied fist opening and closing as he tried to get a grip on Rex.

Rex’s feet slipped in water spilling from the still-running shower, and he lost his momentum. Famosa’s free hand snatched at the back of his head and pulled it forward to slam against the door. Falling to the floor, Rex just managed to
scoot backwards into the bedroom as Famosa yanked his arm out of the hole in the door, crying out as the splintered wood gouged a rut along it.

‘Seriously,’ came the English voice again, banging on the wall. ‘Whatever you’re doing in there, I’m sure it’s great fun but the rest of the hotel doesn’t need to hear it.’

‘Great fun,’ Rex murmured, getting to his feet and looking around for his gun. Famosa lunged forward, and Rex moved to one side, grabbing the back collar of the man’s shirt and using it to yank the man backwards. Famosa fell to the floor with enough of a crash to make a decorative vase on the sideboard jump up in the air and smash on the floor. Rex punched down into Famosa’s face as hard as he could, slamming the palm of his hand into the bridge of the man’s nose. Not waiting to see if that was enough, he yanked the disorientated man forward, slipped beneath him and twisted his neck around as hard as it would go. There was a low crunch and Rex fell back onto the floor, the now dead Cuban lying on top of him.