Adios Muchachos (17 page)
Authors: Daniel Chavarria
The dark man with the moustache looked around to make sure that no one was watching as he stopped to put on his latex gloves. He then walked to the end of the long hall in the Triton Hotel where he already knew room No. 306 was ready and waiting. Inside the room, he took off his light jacket, hung it neatly in the closet across from the bathroom door, and walked over to the dressing table.
Looking into the mirror, he carefully took off the wig and the moustache and placed them in the top drawer, alongside the stationery, ballpoint, and tissue paper. Satisfied that everything was in order, he reached for the cell phone on his hip and pressed the redial button. A second later he said, “I’m here. The door is unlocked.”
Victor turned off the phone without waiting for a reply and walked into the bathroom to wash his face. Refreshed and dry, he returned to the room and looked around for the minibar, found it inside the closet, and took a serving of whiskey, a bottle of mineral water, and an ice tray. He freed one of the glasses from its antiseptic wrapper and made himself a “refresher” drink, as he called them, with just enough whiskey to blot out the taste of the water.
Lighting a cigarette, he walked to the window, pulled the curtains open just a slit, and checked in all directions. Satisfied that no one could see him, he pulled the curtains open all the way and sat back to look out at the sea.
When masses of cold air move in on Havana from the Gulf of Mexico, they momentarily create what people in Havana call “winter conditions.” If you look out over the ocean, you can literally see the steel-gray cold front moving forward, and long trains of waves smashing against the rocky coast, shooting clouds of spray several stories into the air.
This November 16 was just such a day, and Victor found soothing solace in the endless majesty of the sea. It was the day before the scheduled delivery of the ransom money; his nerves had been taut all day. He had already gone through several sessions of the “silent breathing” exercises learned from a Chinese cellmate in Mexico, and now the infinite sea was mellowing him down to a soft purr.
When he was about to reach for his second “refresher,” the door opened and Alicia strode in with her hands in the air in the fashion of a surgeon awaiting his gloves.
Victor rose, gave her a peck on the forehead, and slipped the latex gloves on her hands. He sat her in front of the window, removed her wig, and put it in the same drawer with his. Ready for work now, they spent the next half hour going over every detail of the last tasks they were to perform that day and the ones that had to be executed on the following day. Victor showed Alicia exactly how the operation was going to be carried out and had her study the room to learn everything by heart. When they were both satisfied that the other had everything down pat, Victor donned his Spaniard persona again and sat behind Alicia to stroke the front of her thighs while nibbling at her butt.
“Don’t you start, now. Let’s leave that for tomorrow so we can see how rich people feel when they make love. And by the way, you haven’t told me what your plans are for
us
when we’re millionaires.”
“I’ve got the most amazing plans for you …”
“For
me
… or for
us
?”
“Us,
mi niña.
With us working together and a million-dollar stake, there is nothing we can’t do,” Victor rambled, putting on his dark glasses.
A minute later, Alicia was laughing at Aunt Cornelia’s culinary mischief as she and Victor stopped by the door to check their watches.
“I’ll be in the office in about fifteen minutes. You wait twenty before calling. I want to make sure I’m there when the call comes in.”
“Aunt Cornelia’s creation was smoked eel with mango sauce, and she called it Tropical Baltic. Do you have everything ready for tomorrow morning? You’ll be hearing from us between 10 and 11 am,” Alicia announced, hanging up immediately.
Bos also hung up and threw his hands into the air, making the sign of victory. “Cornelia, smoked eel with mango sauce, Tropical Baltic, everything exact.”
Victor whistled and applauded. “He’s alive; that’s wonderful!”
“Thank God,” Bos exclaimed, hitting the intercom to call Jan in and put an end to his worrying.
But just then, Jan van Dongen walked in. When he heard the news, he did not cheer or applaud, but stood there, pensive. “Are you absolutely certain, Karl, that those were their exact words?”
“Yes, man: Cornelia, smoked eel with mango sauce, Tropical Baltic. What more do you need?”
“Are you satisfied, now, Jan?” Victor asked, throwing his arm around van Dongen’s shoulders.
“Yes, there are no more doubts in my mind,” he muttered, avoiding the others’ eyes. “Excuse me, please; there’s something I must do now.”
Jan van Dongen knew that the one thing he had to do at that moment was to hide from all of them, especially Victor, so that his nerves would not give him away. He needed time to think. His secret hope that he would be wrong in his suspicions had exploded in his face; he had to settle down before doing anything else. He walked into the public bathroom at the end of the hall, locked himself into one of the stalls, and sat on the toilet seat.
That murderous little snake! How could he? The sonovabitch knows I’m on to him about his past. How could he be so stupid? Well, maybe he isn’t so stupid. Maybe he didn’t murder Rieks.
He felt the knot in his solar plexus begin to loosen, and his breathing returned to something closer to normal. Yes, the situation was not clear-cut. There were dark corners that needed light before he could make any decision.
Stay calm!
Ten minutes later, Jan van Dongen was driving slowly through the tunnel leading to Miramar. He turned off immediately on Second Street and parked in the premature darkness of the huge banyan trees. The trip from the office had taken just a few minutes, but his travels through his own soul had taken him far afield in his quest for guidance and answers.
The initial impact of imagining Rieks foully murdered by Victor had driven all semblance of logic from his mind. For the first fifteen minutes on that fateful toilet, all he could think about were schemes for revenge: turn him in to the Cuban police—that would serve him right; shoot the guy himself—too fast and dangerous; turn him over to Vincent to reap a little reward for himself—after all, it was his idea that put the noose around Victor’s neck. And on and on he schemed, but something in the back of his mind insisted that whatever he did had to be done after careful consideration.
It was only after he analyzed Victor with fairness and justice that he came to the conclusion that the man was too much of a slippery, conniving prick. He would never do something so stupid. At last, he could think clearly.
Whatever!
If he had murdered Rieks, there would be time enough for revenge. Right now, a hot bath and his Carmen were what the doctor ordered.
He got home a few minutes after seven and night had already settled in. Finding the house completely dark and empty, he remembered with a sigh that Carmen had told him that she had night duty at the hospital. OK, so it would be a hot bath and a bit of the ice-cold jenever he kept in the freezer.
Drinking jenever always had a sobering effect on him. Only the Dutch could drink that horrible stuff, and he was definitely Dutch. Being Dutch meant order and discipline, and that was exactly what the situation called for.
At 7:45 he was squeaky clean, blood pressure at onetwenty over eighty, pulse at seventy-six, and flat on his back, in what might be called a heuristic trance, reviewing every possible variant and discarding those that were improbable. At 8:20 he saw clearly that Victor King could not have murdered Rieks.
Impossible!
Rieks was his protector in the company; Rieks was his ticket to fifteen million dollars over ten years; Rieks was his cover for the Victor King alias; Rieks would keep him exploring the ocean floor, which was his passion; and Rieks was in love with him. In a situation where there was nothing to gain and everything to lose, Victor King could be trusted to do the right thing, and Rieks’s death was not the right thing. Vincent would have him in prison or on the street in no time, and love it.
Of course, to be absolutely thorough, van Dongen considered that Bos knew the story about Aunt Cornelia, too. But van Dongen knew him too well to even consider the possibility that the jolly red giant could be involved in anything that might hurt Rieks.
The only logical explanation was that Victor had killed Rieks involuntarily, or was present when Rieks had an accident, or something of the sort. Rieks could have died from any number of causes: an overdose of barbiturates, alcohol poisoning, an allergic reaction (like that time in London when he almost died from stuffing himself with seafood), or he might just have had one of those freak accidents you hear about.
Then again, Rieks might have had a jealous fit and attacked Victor. He certainly was capable, and Victor might have killed him in self-defense. Well … maybe. But premeditation was out of the question.
Whatever the cause of Rieks’s death, it would be logical for Victor—desperate and aware that his brilliant future was almost as dead as Rieks—to stage this kidnapping melodrama to try and save something from his sinking ship.
That night, van Dongen made several decisions. First and second: wait until there was definite proof that Rieks was dead and for the autopsy to reveal the cause of death.
Third: be in on the payment of the ransom to observe Victor’s behavior and that of his accomplice or accomplices.
Fourth: do nothing to defend Vincent Groote’s money or anything belonging to the family—who had always treated him like shit (except for Rieks). He was sorry for Christina, Rieks’s widow, who was a nice person and had always done right by him, but in the final analysis, sooner or later she would have found out about his homosexuality, and she would have suffered bitterly. Furthermore, the four million ransom would be generously offset by his ten-million-dollar life insurance policy. Although she would never know it, she would come out ahead on both counts.
Fifth: although it was obvious that Victor was trying to milk the body for four million, Jan would not turn him in. In his position, he would have done the same thing, or something similar, with no conscience pangs. That was, if Victor
was
innocent of murder, and by this time, Jan was certain he was. Besides, he knew Rieks and was aware of the extent to which he could get hysterical and aggressive when he had his attacks of morbid jealousy and paranoia.
In the end, if time proved that Victor was a stupid murderer, Jan could easily enough have him put away or put out of the way in Rieks’s memory.
The strange man with the black moustache and dark hair walked into the Triton Hotel that morning at exactly 07:00 with what appeared to be a very heavy white valise. In fact, the valise contained about one hundred pounds of diving weights. He was dragging a black canvas bag about six feet long and a foot and a half in diameter. When the half-asleep bellhop came to help him, the man held onto the white bag.
“That’s OK; I’ve got it. But please take this case and be very careful; it contains a theolodite and some very delicate surveying instruments,” he explained in horrible Spanish intended to sound like a Dutch accent.
Strictly according to their plan, Alicia showed up half an hour later. She went directly to the room, where she put on her latex gloves and got to work with Victor.
“Is this valise big enough?”
“Yes. I brought it because it was large enough to carry the orange valise that van Dongen is going to use for the money.”
They immediately got to work setting up the heavy-duty fishing gear that was in the black canvas bag. Then they started in on the steel angle irons. By 08:20, Victor had finished putting together the six parts of a rectangular frame that he placed before the window giving onto the terrace. The front part of the frame had a fifteen-inch stainless steel tube welded to it. The inside diameter of the tube was just large enough to hold the handle of the thick fishing rod. The heavy fiberglass material would bend under a load of two hundred pounds, but it would take more than a thousand to twist it into a U.
When he finished locking the rod and reel into the frame with a safety screw, Victor opened up the white valise and began removing the lead weights. He pulled half the stuffing out of the leather ottoman and replaced it with the lead, setting the whole thing on the back part of the frame.
“Now what is that supposed to be?” Alicia asked, more than a little mystified.
“Well, this is supposed to be screwed into the floor, but with these damn terrazzo floors, it would take a friggin’ jackhammer to do that,” Victor explained. “In any case, your weightplus the weight of the lead, multiplied by the one-yard lever arm, will be more than enough to compensate for the weight of the money. Come on over and try it.”
Alicia got on the ottoman and started cranking the reel. Judging from Victor’s pleased expression, she deduced that everything was in order, though she was not all that confident in his technical and mechanical abilities.
“Are you certain this thing can lift seventy pounds?”
“Shit, Alicia, I’ve been deep-sea fishing for twenty years, and I’ve seen little old ladies bag three-hundred-pound Warsaw groupers with that kind of gear. Here, I’ll show you,” he said, looking around the room.
Victor finally dashed to the armoire and pulled out the mini-fridge, dragging it over to put it in line with the fishing frame. With the dexterity of an experienced fisherman, he tied high-test fishing line around it, leaving a loop on top, while Alicia watched in frank admiration.
“OK! This shit weights at least eighty pounds. Now, try to reel it in.”
Alicia began to crank the reel and saw how the little refrigerator leaned slightly toward her and then left the floor almost effortlessly. Amazed by her own increased strength, she went on reeling until the fridge was a full yard in the air.
“Well, how about that. Tell Arnold to move over.”
“It seems you’re convinced. Now, whenyou reel in the bag with the money, you put it into the white one. Then you pack up the gear. Take your time; you don’t have to hurry. In about five or seven minutes, you’ll be in the elevator. You won’t have any difficulties. The important thing is to look like a tourist going on one of the excursions. All right?”
“I guess so,” she said, looking down at the junk on the floor. “So what happens when they find all this crap?”
“Nothing happens. The room was paid up for a week, so when they find all this stuff, the only connection they’ll be able to make is with the dark man with the Dutch name. The police will assume that the kidnappers used the passport for what they in fact did. And Hendryck Groote will not be available for verification of anything.”
Alicia did not want to leave the slightest detail to chance. “What if one of the bellhops describes the fishing gear bag to the police? It was your bag.”
“Well, yes, officer,” Victor mimicked, “Mr. King does own a gear bag. Yes, I remember it; it’s blue, has a large yellow dolphin on it, and a garish collection of contest stickers and patches. Yes, sir. We all thought it was a very silly bag.”
They broke into laughter at the same time and Alicia teased, “You’re an evil genius. You should be in
Batman
. But—”
“I ripped off the patches and the dolphin and painted it with shoe polish.”
Sobering up from the laughter, Alicia asked, “How much does the gear weigh?”
“About fifteen pounds. Why?”
“It’s just that one hundred pounds of money, plus fifteen pounds of gear on that flimsy little cart … I don’t know … Won’t it be too much for me … or for the cart?”
“This thing may look light, but I can assure you it’s very strong. These rods are made of steel,” Victor said, as he grabbed the handle and squatted on the rack.
“Go ahead. I weigh 180 pounds; take it and pull me around the room.”
As she struggled, Victor caressed the back of her legs and the cleft between her thighs, which did nothing for her concentration. She took a while to move the thing without dropping Victor, but when she got it down, she saw that everything he had said was true. Carrying the bag would be a breeze, and despite the distraction of his caresses, she wheeled him around the room several times, just for the practice.
Karl Bos was operating the automatic counting machine that had been delivered from their bank in Venezuela. With a sigh of relief, he took the last bundle out of the machine and handed it over to Victor, who placed it endwise into another machine that put a transparent plastic band around it. The band material was specially designed to stick to itself, but not to the bills, and every two inches it showed a consecutive number and the text
ABNAMRO
in a blue oval.
“Now you count it, Jan, just to make sure …”
“That won’t be necessary, Karl, the bands all have consecutive numbers. Look at the last four we did. You see? 397, 398, 399, 400. Four hundred bundles containing $10,000 each makes four million. No problem.”
As Bos made a gesture of mock admiration, Victor bent a packet over and let the bills fan through his fingers. Then, exaggerating the motions of shooting a free throw, he tossed the bundle into the bag, where it landed almost exactly where it was supposed to go.
Taking the cue, van Dongen lifted a rose from a thin silver vase and, with a theatrical flourish, placed it in the bag.
Karl Bos failed to appreciate the levity of his two colleagues and glared at van Dongen over his reading glasses. “Now what was that supposed to be, Jan?”
“Damn the kidnappers, but a rose to the kidnapperess,” he recited, provoking a hearty laugh from Victor and a grudging “heh, heh” from Bos.
When they had the bag closed and locked, Victor grabbed it by the loop on the end and started pulling it around the room, over the edge of the rug and along the terrazzo floor. “It works great. The wheels are sturdy and big; they won’t get stuck in the cracks in the sidewalk. You’re not going to have any trouble with this bag, Jan.”
“Well, it looks like we’re ready,” Bos said with a huge sigh.
Van Dongen nodded and looked at his watch as Bos wheeled the bag into the safe and closed the door.
“The call should be coming in any moment now. Damn, I wish this nightmare were over.”