Delta Factor, The (8 page)

 

By sunup we were on the road, picked up the Florida Turnpike and headed toward Miami. Traffic was light, but every twenty miles we'd have to bust our way through a thunderstorm and with the windows up the car was like the inside of a Bessemer Converter. I made a quick stop at the bank where Gavin Woolart had established an account for me, got a checkbook and with the first one drew out twenty thousand in handy denomination bills and folded them into my pocket. No one seemed concerned about the transaction, though there were several curious glances thrown my way. I figured Woolart had set up the deal so that I'd look like one of his own people and no questions were to be asked. Kim was mopping her face when I got back in the car and it felt like it was still getting hotter. I picked up the Palmetto Highway, swept around the Miami area and headed down into the Keys. Both of us were soaked in our own sweat by the time we reached the Grove Motel.

While Kim headed for the shower, I went down the road, brought a six-pack of Pabst and put in a call for Art Keefer from a pay station. He said he'd be by in an hour, so I went back to the motel, parked in the slot beside our room and went inside.

Kim wasn't there, but her clothes were hung up near the air conditioner and her suitcase was open on the bed. From the back I could hear a couple of kids yelling around the pool, looked out and saw the back of her head in one of the lounge chairs, then showered, climbed into my trunks and went out with a can of beer in each hand.

And almost dropped them.

In a black-and-white bikini that would have been invisible had it not contrasted so sharply with the gold of her skin, she was stretched out languidly, her lovely body lying in a provocative S curve. It was a dizzy, instant experience to see the heady swell of her breasts that dipped into the hollow of her stomach, then flowed into the rise of her hips and melted into the warm, sweeping fullness of her thighs and calves.

I sat on the end of the lounge quickly and handed her a can. “Have a cold one.”

A smile danced around her mouth as she took it. “I didn't think you could be affected like that.”

“When I marry I sure can pick them,” I said. “Sorry, but you surprised me.” I tasted the beer, licked my lips and let my eyes roam over her again. “You have a hell of a shape, baby.”

“So I've been told. At times it's useful to disconcert somebody.”

“I'm disconcerted. You did a magnificent job.”

The little smile drifted away then. “Don't take it to heart. It's only a temporary arrangement.”

I couldn't let her get away with it. I let my mouth twist in a nasty grin and said, “Only if I want it that way. Don't forget it.”

The way her stomach sucked in a fraction said she got the message but she pretended to ignore it with, “Did you make your contact?”

I nodded.

“Can you tell me now?”

I finished the can of beer and tossed the empty in a wire basket behind me. “Tomorrow we charter a fishing boat that leaves from a private docking area. At noon we'll be out about twelve miles; Art Keefer will pick up up in a seaplane, fly us offshore a mile from our destination where we'll be met by another boat and taken in. After that we'll play it by ear.”

“Is this ... the usual arrangement?”

“The pattern varies,” I said. I let out a small laugh. “After all, people like us don't like being nailed by the cops. It's a way of life.”

“A stupid way.”

“Maybe for you, kid. It's hard to explain. I'm assuming you're smart enough not to try to bust any of these people. Not that you can. They're clever enough to keep themselves covered.”

“My orders read that way,” she said. “We're not interested in the little people.”

“Kid, you got a lot to learn,” I told her. “My friend is doing us a favor. Taking us in will be easy. He's putting his neck on the line getting us out.”

“No he isn't.”

I turned slowly and looked at her. She focused her eyes on my face and said, “The return trip will be under our direction. You see, we're not taking any chances on losing you along the line.”

“You're crazy, sugar. What makes you think I won't cut out anytime?”

“Because you're made like that. Now you're having fun.”

“I've changed my mind before.”

“That's why I'm wearing the bikini,” she said. “At least it will keep you thinking of other things. Not that it will do you any good,” she added.

My grin got nice and tight this time. “Why does the female have the unholy idea she can conquer the male?”

“Can't she?” There was the slightest haughty tone to her voice.

“Only some,” I said. “Only some, baby.”

Then Art Keefer came up and rescued us both from the conversation. He was a big, rangy guy with corded forearms and hair bleached almost white from the sun, skin like tanned leather and bright green eyes that had looked on the world and thrown it away. He had the indelible stamp of the adventurer, a perpetual cynical twist to his mouth, scars from a dozen battles etched into the lines of his face.

His reaction to Kim was almost the same as mine, the sudden appreciation but tempered with regret because right now she belonged to me. I hadn't seen him for seven years, but nobody would have known it. He threw me a wink and said, “Hello, jailbird.”

“They didn't keep me long enough to rate the compliment, Art.”

“Somebody should have clued them in. How'd you do it?”

“Rubber bars,” I laughed “Meet Kim Stacy ... or rather, Mrs. Morgan.”

“My pleasure,” he said.

Kim held out her hand and he took it, but the introduction was one of two animals sizing each other up. When he stepped back he looked at me quickly and I got his meaning. I said, “It's a clean deal, Art. No repercussions.”

“You're nuts, buddy. There are other ways.”

“I like it this way.”

“Sure, you always did. But then, you always were nuts too.”

“Everything ready?”

Art said softly. “Six A.M. at Raymond's. Travel light. I want as much fuel aboard as I can carry. How much does she know?”

“The works.”

“There's something else. You're expected. Vince got the word an hour ago and sent it out on shortwave. Who planted it?”

Kim said matter-of factly, “We did.”

Art looked at me, his eyes curious now. “That okay with you?”

“They had to expedite matters.”

“You're going to have plenty of company, then. Right now their regime is damn rocky and with that loot they think they can extract from you they can get back on their feet. They're going to want to expedite matters too. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes.”

I glanced at Kim and laughed. “The hell you wouldn't.” Art grinned and shrugged. “I don't know how you always get the best end of the deal.”

“Pure good luck,” I said. “All the other details standard or have things changed?”

“Four points up on the old wavelength and use the same Kissler code. They still haven't broken that one. Somebody will be monitoring around the clock and if you need a contact, try the one at the Orino Bar who'll sing our old song as a recognition gimmick.”

“Any heavies in the act?”

“Watch out for one called Russo Sabin. He's a hatchet man for Carlos Ortega who's about to take the power away from the present government. He has civilian and military personnel behind him and we know damn well he's been buttering up to the Commies, who will jump right in and back him if he wins this political battle. All Ortega needs is a few million to grease the right palms and we're going to have another Cuba on our hands.”

“How does it look?”

“Right now, all in his favor. You're going to be a welcome addition to his program.” Art paused and looked at the both of us a second. “Any interagency cooperation here?”

“Why?”

“The Navy and the Border Patrol are pretty damn tight, old buddy.”

“Good. It has to look right. They haven't been alerted, so it's all your operation.”

“As long as I know.”

“If we get hit it will be our own fault. Nobody gets off the hook.”

“They haven't caught me yet,” Art said. We shook hands; he nodded to Kim and stalked away with a fierce stride, disappearing around the corner of the building.

Kim watched him go, then said, “He seems very proficient.”

“He has to be,” I told her.

Something made her look at me sharply. “Who is he?”

“One of the men you said was dead. We were part of that team that operated behind the lines in Germany during the war.”

“But ... there was no Keefer ...” she started.

I laughed and shook my head. “He was in the Army under a different name then.”

Her eyes looked almost black under the frown. “Then the other three ...”

“Oh,
two
of them are dead, all right.”

She kept studying me and I knew what she was thinking. I shook my head slowly and said. “He wasn't any part of that forty-million-dollar haul, sugar. Forget it.”

Overhead there was the dull rumble of thunder and the sun slid behind an ominous bank of black clouds. The two kids in the pool came out of the water and scurried into their room. I took the empty can from Kim's hand, tossed it into the basket and waved my thumb at our door. “Go get dressed. I'll give you five minutes.”

She uncurled from the lounge, stood up and stretched deliberately, legs spread apart, back arched so that I could see every glorious inch of her undulating in the posture. Then she relaxed and looked at me with a chuckle. “You'd better wait ten,” she said. “There may be people watching. You wouldn't want them to see you like that, would you?”

WE LET DOWN offshore, circling into the stream of the flare Art had dropped. Less than a mile away the stark white crescent of a beach sparkled in the blazing sunlight, like a shark's mouth against the somber green of the hills beyond it. Beneath us a small boat waited, its exhaust puffing little ringlets of smoke.

The touchdown was gentle and Art taxied up to the boat, waiting, facing the wind while the swarthy little guy at the wheel pulled up alongside us. I handed out the bag Kim and I shared, then helped her onto the strut and watched while she leaped to the deck as graceful as a cat. Then Art gave me a few final words of caution and advice before I followed her.

Kim had said little during the flight, preferring to study our backs from a seat behind us. Our easy familiarity had made an impression on her. It was evident our association was of long standing and that without hesitation we had fallen into habit patterns formed by long training and longer experience. It was a situation she didn't like and if I hadn't taken the precaution of jimmying the phone the night before and locking us both in the room she would have phoned in a report of the unusual occurrence. At least it had made her mad enough so she tumbled into bed with her clothes on, ignoring me in the big chair by the door. Once near dawn I heard the metallic snick of the safety going off on her automatic, so I deliberately thumbed back the hammer of the .45 with an audible click that told the whole story once and for all and she never moved the rest of the night.

Now she watched me wave Art off, her face impassive. The little guy at the wheel grinned and said, “I am José, señor. If there is anything?”

“How long will it take to get ashore?”

“Possibly an hour. Your country's patrol planes search overhead watching for”—he waved a hand in our direction—” such as this. Ever since Señor Camino escaped your police and came here and when Professor Francisco Hernández was abducted on Señor Ortega's orders, they search.”

“These aren't U.S. territorial waters,” I reminded him.

“Neither is Cuba. There are, how you say, overflights for preventive measures. For that we are rather grateful. There are those who wish to flee this cursed place and your search plans have been useful to stopping pursuit and rescuing those attempting to escape.”

“How many get away, José?”

“Very few, señor. It is regrettable. Carlos Ortega has many ways of preventing such democratic action.” Very casually he glanced my way. “You are aware, of course, that he knows the Señor Morgan is coming with his wife.”

“So I hear. He could have made it easier.”

José shook his head with quiet emphasis. “No, señor. He would not wish to antagonize your country if it should be known as such. Not at this point, at least. He has far greater power over you when your entry is illegal. I hope you do not regret your decision to come here.”

“There aren't many places left to go.”

“True,” José agreed, “but be careful. It is not a friendly place.”

While we were talking, José had crowded the shoreline, skirting the beach until we picked up a narrow inlet that was nearly invisible in the tangled growth. Without hesitation he nosed the boat through the vegetation into a passable channel and wound around its contours for a half mile. At the far end were a dock and a large ramshackle building that had listed under the unrelenting pressure of years of offshore winds.

“It will not be long now, Senor Morgan,” José said. “I have a car waiting to take you inland.”

 

The city of Nuevo Cádiz raised its magnificence in the midst of squalor, a modern monument to graft, corruption and open gambling that made pre-Castro Havana seem archaic by comparison. Military personnel in flamboyant uniforms were everywhere, officers sporting sidearms in spit-polished leather holsters, the enlisted troops strolling casually, rifles slung over their shoulders, a constant reminder to the populace that control still came down through the chain of command. Police officers were unduly officious, doing little more than directing traffic, knowing how minute their authority really was and resenting it.