Cuba Straits (7 page)

“Santería, my brother.” Figgy whispered the words as if they explained everything.

To Tomlinson, they did. Santería, voodoo, were mystic religions, and even a
Santero
, which was a novice priest, would have powers far beyond the norm. A Russian, not so much, but formidable—the guy had resembled the fruit of a Cossack screwing a grizzly. Tomlinson took stock. He squinted again, seeing rows of stones and flags and miniature stone mansions that were . . . mausoleums?

A
cemetery
 . . . Christ, how had they stumbled this far off course?

Figgy nudged him. “No . . . he’s behind us.”

A turn of the tiller. Streetlights on Southard spilled pools of yellow onto asphalt, each pool smaller, block after block. Banyan trees shadowed sidewalks and the occasional utility gizmo, such as a fire hydrant or a post office drop box. After many seconds, Tomlinson relaxed and pointed. “Is that what scared you? It’s just a mailbox, for christ’s sake. How tall is this guy?”

“Even bigger than me, but that’s not him. He must’a moved, the son of a dog.” Figgy shuffled closer to the drop box, shoes clicking like a shod horse.

“Tell me something. Did Cerci give you a pill to eat?”

“Maybe. And some dollar bills that got the wrong pictures on them.”

Deutschmarks,
Tomlinson translated. “Not the German. I’m talking about the Cerci with small
chichis
. Or she could have roofied your beer. Frankly, I don’t think that my little Wolverine is the squared-away feminist she pretends to be.”

Figgy did it again: froze. His head swiveled shoreward to an antebellum house dark beneath trees, a few stars, but no moon showing.
“Madre de Dios,”
he murmured.

“Now what?”

“He’s coming, brother—
run
.”

The Cuban’s spikes sparked toward the cemetery, briefcase swinging, while Tomlinson hollered, “Dude . . . you can’t outrun mescaline.”

Too late. Unless . . . unless the little shortstop’s fears were reality-based. If so, darker forces might be at work here.

Beelzebub—still on my trail, huh? Good!
Tomlinson, a pacifist by choice but a spiritual warrior by nature, had been anticipating such a visit. He hollered toward the shadows, “Pleased to meet you—now kiss my ass.”

A fence of wrought iron separated the house from the street, metal cool to the touch. The gate wasn’t locked when he tried it. Beside the porch, bushes parted with the tinkling of wind chimes. Two creatures appeared in the form of human shapes, one bear-sized, the other smaller. Teeth flashed a Rottweiler grin, followed by a cough of Russian.

Tomlinson stood his ground. Waited, expecting the worst, but the specters retreated. Soon vanished, as if circling behind the house.

More wind chimes on this dense, still night.

Tomlinson yelled after them, “Now who’s the pussy?”

U
pstairs in the rental cottage, Gen. Rivera said to Ford, “He came to assassinate me with a Beretta? I, too, like Berettas. At least that shows some respect.”

Ford put the gelatin listening devices in the freezer and closed the door. “You need to pack up and get out of here, that’s what it shows. Where’s your suitcase?”

“You don’t understand. I was on the phone with . . . well, a person I trust. He warned me about something they might try to do to me. Radiation poisoning—a horrible thing. Your hair falls out, and you shit yourself to death.” At the window, Rivera opened the blinds to see where the Suburban had been parked. “You should have brought that
puta
to me. I know ways to make men talk.”

Hector had talked, but Ford hadn’t volunteered all that he’d learned. “Poison? Why?”

A shrug. “A microscopic grain of something, an isotope—already the name is gone. They jab you with a needle or slip it into food. From their rocket program. It’s the way that . . . the way they do things now.”

Jesus Christ.
Rocket program—it had to be the Chinese or the Russians. No, it was the Russians. The overcomplicated, Cold War style left little doubt. Ford asked, “Are you sure?”

“Two of my contacts in Cuba are dead. I just found out. Another is in intensive care. A woman . . . quite beautiful”—Rivera sounded sad and a little wistful—“who has, over the period of a week, lost her beautiful hair. A bullet—I’d much prefer a soldier’s death. Shitting is no way for a man to die.”

An hour after sunset, they dropped the Mustang at Hertz. On the way to the airport, Ford turned the radio off and said, “General, I need to know what’s going on.”

The former dictator replied, “I can’t fly out until I’ve found Figuerito. How many times must I say this? That stadium sign we passed, why not stop and have a look?” They had already passed the Twins stadium, but the Red Sox complex was ahead, the lights of the practice fields aglow.

Ford seldom lost his temper but came close. “Goddamn it, Juan, I just saved your life. Enough with the bullshit. Why are they after you?”

Rivera stiffened but let it go. “The world has turned savage, old friend. I knew I was being followed, but I thought it was because of my new sports agency business.”

“Smuggling baseball players, you mean.”

“Phrase it how you like. What I’m telling you is, now I’m not so sure. I was cultivating a variety of businesses in Havana. At first, I thought the Mexican cartels, or the Cubans. That I might have stepped on the wrong toes. This American dream of yours can bite a man in the ass, which your propaganda fails to—”

Ford interrupted, “It has nothing to do with baseball. Russians don’t give a damn about Cuban ballplayers.” He had yet to allude to the contents of the briefcase but did now. “For the last decade, outsiders have been stealing collectibles from Cuba. Paintings, historic items. Suddenly, Russia and Cuba are allies again. You know what I’m asking you—the stuff you’ve been selling on the Internet.”

Rivera rode in silence until he realized the turn to Southwest Regional was before the Red Sox complex. He slapped the dash. “I have to find Figuerito! Must I write my orders on paper?”

“I didn’t enlist in your army, Juan. Tell me why the goddamn Russians are involved.”

“I didn’t say they were.”

Stubborn bastard.
Ford drove and used the silence to put together a workable premise. Letters written by Fidel Castro between 1953 and 1963—a tumultuous period. Batista ousted, 1959. The botched Bay of Pigs invasion, 1961. Next came the Cuban Missile Crisis; the Berlin Wall was erected. The CIA attempted to foil the execution of three hundred anti-Castro operatives, and they had botched the first of several attempts to take out Fidel. Then 1963: JFK assassinated, November 22nd. Oswald killed; Jack Ruby dies. The whole time, a lot of backdoor nastiness between clandestine agencies worldwide. Riots and protests fired by the accelerant of KGB money. East Berlin, Saigon, Nicaragua, El Salvador—same thing but financed by American dollars.

The biggie, of course, was JFK. Conspiracy theories about Ruby, the Mafia, and Fidel’s orders to “Kill Kennedy” were still believed today.

But it was bullshit. Decades later, for professional reasons, Ford had studied details of the event. He had filled a folder with notes from investigations by the Warren Commission, the House Select Committee, and had even played a much later role in debunking Congress’s antiquated confidence in so-called sonic experts. They had insisted that a lone gunman could not have fired three rounds—or was it four?—from a bolt-action rifle in less than six seconds.

Once again, bullshit. Yet, every twenty years or so, some esoteric government agency ordered that it be proven. Ford was not a gifted marksman, let alone a Marine Sharpshooter, but even he could put three rounds into a moving target from only fifty-nine yards away—and in less than six seconds. An FBI shooter, using a clone of Oswald’s rifle, had done it in only
four
.

But there was still one sensitive unknown out there. It had been overlooked even by fringe feeders like movie hack Oliver Stone and other conspiracy profiteers. The Castros didn’t kill JFK, nor did the CIA, the Soviets, or the Mafia. The only valid question was: Did Fidel and the Soviets know, six weeks before the assassination, that Lee Harvey Oswald had visited the Cuban embassy and vowed to do exactly what he did?

Love letters.
Ford tried to imagine why the Castros would reveal sensitive information to a mistress. It seemed unlikely . . . So why, fifty years later, did the Russians care?

“Damn it, Juan. Uranium poisoning? I’m not stupid. Talk to me.”

Rivera set his jaw and glowered. That did it. Ford pulled off the road, his truck’s headlights showing weeds and a yellow sign that read
Panther Crossing
while traffic sped past. “Okay, I’ll try another approach. What’s so important about that shortstop? He’s too old to sign with a major league team—don’t lie to me. Why did you bring him to the States?”

“
Lie
to you?” Rivera’s temper bordered on the berserk. He was famous for it. He shifted his weight in the seat and glared. “You are calling me a liar?”

A stare-down, but it was the general who blinked when he realized what he’d just heard. “Wait . . . How do you know Figuerito’s age? All I said was that he has no birth certificate.”

“Tell me why it’s worth risking your life to find him. Then I’ll explain.”

A light came on in the general’s head. “By god . . . you know where he is.”

Ford nodded, listened to a series of threats, before he repeated, “Tell me the truth.”

It wasn’t a long story, but he parked again—this time, in the airport’s cell phone lot—to listen to Rivera conclude, “That’s why I trusted Figuerito to keep the briefcase, even though I could find no electronic device inside.”

“You still haven’t what’s in there.”

Rivera used his hands to say
I’m not done.
“The point is, I was still being followed. Now I’m worried they are following Figuerito, too. That they’ll stick him with a needle, like my beautiful friend who has lost her hair. That’s why I must find him, then return immediately to Cuba.”

“I’ll be damned. You actually care about the guy.” Ford didn’t pose this as a question.

“He is a simpleton, that shortstop, but very honest—also crazy, from what I’ve been told. Perhaps these Russians will be the lucky ones if I find him first.”

“You mean he’s dangerous?”

Rivera replied, “I think not, but who can say what is in a man’s head? My friend on the phone continues to warn me that Figuerito is a violent psychopath. Even the warden I bribed described him as a serial killer without conscience, so . . .” The former dictator lowered the window to watch a plane land, his mind slipping back in memory. A bemused smile formed. “Of course, as you know, there are people who say the same about me.”

•   •   •

A
LITTLE BEFORE TEN,
Ford got an NA beer and sat at the computer in his lab. Across the room, the dog opened one yellow eye to watch, seeing Ford’s familiar size, lighted water boxes and odors behind him, then heard the man’s familiar voice.

“That damn Tomlinson, not a word since his stupid text. So maybe there’s an email . . . if he wasn’t too blitzed to find an Internet café.”

Sailing south on a righteous mission . . . don’t worry
the text had read.

Ford used two fingers to rap at the keyboard, his wire glasses silver beneath a gooseneck lamp, while he spoke to the retriever: “If there’s nothing to worry about, why the hell doesn’t he call? At least have the courtesy to give me an update. Oh . . . I bet I know—a waterproof phone case is pointless if he doesn’t use the damn thing. Or, just thoughtless. Yeah, thoughtless, that’s him.”

More typing. The dog’s yellow eye closed; he returned to sleep while the alpha figure spoke, occasionally, in a tone that communicated nothing, but tilted his head when he heard “What the hell?”

Ford’s neighbors Rhonda and JoAnn, who lived aboard an old Chris-Craft,
Tiger Lilly
, had sent an email, subject:
Man of the Year
. There were photos of Tomlinson, naked on a bed, posing with three topless women—two large-breasted blondes, the other dark-haired, younger and attractive, despite cat whiskers painted on her face. Little tufts of horns on her temples, too, which caused her to resemble a woodland creature with teeth.

Ford was no prude but closed the photo after reading Rhonda’s note:

Copied from Facebook just now before they took it down. 726 likes. Capt. Quirk went back to Key West?

Relief, is what he felt at first. A foursome negated the chances of radiation poisoning or a bullet. Yet, something about one of the blondes tugged at his subconscious. He opened the photo again . . . had to zoom in tight to avoid the distraction of her Teutonic breasts. Tomlinson’s boney thighs, thank god, vanished, too. Ford removed his glasses, cleaned them, and focused on a necklace the blonde wore: a silver shield transected by a tiny ornate sword. Atop the sword’s hilt was a star.

“Jesus H. Christ.” Ford pushed his chair back as the dog’s head bounced to attention.

“He has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. I’ll call Rhonda. It might help to know when this was posted.”

The dog didn’t bother to stretch, trotted to his side, while Ford, talking to himself, picked up the phone and muttered, “That woman, she’s with the goddamn KGB.”

Actually, the FSB—Russian Federal Security Service. No reason to explain to a dog that only the name had been changed.

•   •   •

M
OORED BETWEEN PILINGS
beneath the stilthouse was his boat: a 26-foot rigid hull inflatable purchased through friends at the Special Ops base in Tampa—a confiscated cocaine boat, supposedly, but he knew otherwise. It tugged at its lines on this night of calm and stars, no moon, no clouds, no wind or waves.

Weather blew through the tropics with the indifference of airplanes passing overhead.

Ford found the light switch. Mullet scattered; shadows of big fish drifted under the dock until the dog vaulted after them.

“Damn it. Now I’ll have to get a towel for the truck.”

Instead, he stepped aboard. The deck, mounted on hydraulic shocks, absorbed his weight without listing. Couldn’t hurt to check a few things, although he was a fastidious man who obsessed over his tools, from microscopes to fly rods, dive gear, and weapons.

Boats received special attention. This one was made by Brunswick Tactical in Edgewater, Florida. It had all the high-tech frills: a radar tower aft, a cavernous console, and an electronics suite above the wheel. The hull was Kevlar encircled by tubes of black carbon fiber that looked bulletproof—and maybe were, considering the agency that had commissioned it. To minimize radar signature, the boat was built low to the water with few right angles or vertical surfaces, and had a bow hood made of neoprene polymer sheeting that was radar-absorbent. When opened, the hood covered the bow like a tent.

For power: twin Merc 250s, top speed over sixty, a range of four hundred miles—almost to Cuba and back, or almost to the Yucatán.

Almost
being the operative word.

Ford checked fuel, oil, and plugged in the charger even though all four batteries were new.

At Jensen’s Marina on Captiva he had stored a fifty-gallon gas bladder, thinking he would never need it. He told the dog, “Let’s hope I don’t.”

•   •   •

F
ROM HIS TRUCK,
he phoned Scottsdale, Arizona, Colorado Springs, and an unnamed city in Maryland. The process was so complicated it resembled ceremony. Six calls, five recordings, and, finally, one human voice: Hal Harrington, an old associate who still owed Ford a big favor, but the conversation did not go well.

Harrington saying, “You dropped out. What do you want me to do?”

Irritating, the bland way he spoke. Before getting in his truck, Ford had sent the man an encrypted note, part of a text he had received from his pilot friend Dan Futch. Implicit was Ford’s request for help:

“Mexico such a shithole via Bahamas only safe route. Most likely San Andros, clear customs, use Bethells as residence. Approach from east at night, low altitude, fifty feet max, use mountains to obscure Fat Albert, and hope no boats in the area when we land.”