If the Dead Rise Not (58 page)

It was probably just as well that I didn’t.

 

 

W
ITH ONE EYE on my rearview mirror and the army car tailing me, I drove east through the new tunnel underneath the Almendares River and then south through Santa Catalina and Vibora. Along the central divider of the boulevard, city gardeners were trimming trees into the shape of bells, only none of them was going off in my head. I was still telling myself that I could get away with making a deal with the devil. I’d done it before, after all, and with many worse devils than Lieutenant Quevedo. Heydrich, for one. Goering, for another. They didn’t come any more devilish than them. But no matter how smart you think you are, there’s always something unexpected that you have to be prepared for. I thought I was prepared for anything. Except the one thing that happened.

It got a little warmer. Warmer than on the north coast. And most of the houses here were owned by people with money. You could tell they were people with money because they were also people with big gates on their big houses. You could tell how much money a man had by the height of the white walls and the amount of iron on his black gates. A set of imposing gates was an advertisement for a ready supply of wealth for confiscation and redistribution. If the communists ever reached Havana, they wouldn’t have to look hard for the best people to steal money from. You didn’t have to be clever to be a communist. Not when the rich made it as easy as this.

When I reached Mantilla, I turned south on Managua, which was a poorer, more down-at-heel district, and followed the road until I came upon the main highway going west toward Santa María del Rosario. You could tell the neighborhood was poorer and more down-at-heel because children and goats wandered freely by the side of the road, and men were carrying machetes with which to work in the surrounding plantations.

When I saw the disused tennis court, and the dilapidated villa with the rusted gate, I held the steering wheel tight and rode the bump as I turned the Chevrolet off the road and through the trees. As I hit the brakes, the car bucked like a rodeo bull and made more dust than an exodus from Egypt. I switched off the engine and sat there doing nothing, my hands clasped behind my head, just in case the lieutenant was the nervous type. I hardly wanted to get shot reaching for my pocket humidor.

The army car pulled up behind me, and the two soldiers got out, followed by Quevedo. López stayed put in the rear seat. He wasn’t going anywhere. Except maybe the hospital. I leaned out of my window and, closing my eyes, pushed my face into the sun for a moment and listened to the engine block cool. When I opened them again the two soldiers had fetched shovels from the trunk of the car and were awaiting instructions. I pointed in front of us.

“See those three white rocks?” I said. “Dig in the center.”

I closed my eyes again momentarily, but this time I was praying that everything was going to work out the way I had hoped.

Quevedo came toward the Chevrolet. He was carrying his briefcase. He opened the front passenger door and slid in beside me. Then he wound down the window, but it wasn’t enough to spare me the smell of his pungent cologne. For a moment, we sat watching the two soldiers shoveling dirt, not saying anything at all.

“Mind if I turn on the radio?” I said, reaching for the knob.

“I think you’ll find I have more than enough conversation to keep your attention,” he said ominously. He took off his cap and rubbed his buzz-cut head. It sounded like someone polishing a shoe. Then he grinned, and there was humor in his grin, but I didn’t like the look of it. “Did I tell you I trained with the CIA, in Miami?”

We both knew that it wasn’t really a question. Few of his questions were. Most of the time they were meant to be unsettling, or he already knew the answers.

“Yes, I was there for six months, last summer. Have you ever been to Miami? It’s probably the least interesting place you could ever hope to see. It’s like Havana without a soul. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. And now that I’m back here, one of my functions is to liaise with the Agency’s chief of station here in Havana. As you can probably imagine, U.S. foreign policy is driven by a fear of communism. A justifiable fear, I might add, given the political loyalties of López and his friends on the Isle of Pines. So the Agency is planning to help us set up a new anti-communist intelligence bureau next year.”

“Just what the island needs,” I said. “More secret police. Tell me, how will the new anti-communist intelligence bureau differ from the current one?”

“Good question. Well, we’ll have more money from the Americans, of course. Lots more money. That’s always a good start. The new bureau will also be trained, equipped, and tasked directly by the CIA to identify and repress only communist activities; as opposed to the SIM, which exists to eliminate all forms of political opposition.”

“This is the democracy you were talking about, right?”

“No, you’re quite wrong to be sarcastic about this,” insisted Quevedo. “The new bureau will be commanded directly by the greatest democracy in the world. So that ought to count for something, surely. And, of course, it goes without saying that international communism isn’t exactly known for its own toleration of opposition. To some extent you have to fight like with like. I’d have thought you of all people would understand and appreciate that, Señor Hausner.”

“Lieutenant, I meant what I said when I told you I have no desire to see this country turn red. But that’s all I meant. My name is not Senator Joseph McCarthy, it’s Carlos Hausner.”

Quevedo’s smile widened. I imagine he could have done a pretty good imitation of a snake at a children’s party, if ever any children had been allowed near a man like Quevedo.

“Yes, let’s talk about that, shall we? Your name, I mean. It isn’t Carlos Hausner, any more than you are or ever were a citizen of Argentina, is it?”

I started to speak, but he closed his eyes as if he wouldn’t hear of being contradicted, and patted the briefcase on his lap. “No, really. I know quite a bit about you. It’s all in here. I have a copy of the CIA’s file on you, Gunther. You see, it’s not just Cuba where there’s a new spirit of cooperation with the United States. It’s Argentina, too. The CIA is just as keen to prevent the growth of communism in that country as it is here in Cuba. Because the Argentines have their own rebels, just as we do. Why, only last year the communists exploded two bombs in the main square of Buenos Aires, killing seven people. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

“When Meyer Lansky told me about your background in German intelligence, fighting Russian communism during the war, I must confess I was fascinated and decided to find out more. Selfishly I wondered if we might be able to make use of you in our own war on communism. So I contacted the Agency chief and asked him to check with his opposite number in Buenos Aires, to see what they could tell us about you. And they told us a great deal. It appears that your real name is Bernhard Gunther and that you were born in Berlin. There you were first a policeman, then something in the SS, and finally something in German military intelligence—the Abwehr. The CIA checked you out with the Central Registry of War Criminals and Security Suspects—CROWCASS—and also the Berlin Document Center. And while there’s no record of your being wanted for any war crimes, it does seem that there’s a warrant out on you from the police in Vienna. For the murders of those two unfortunate women.”

There seemed little point in denying what he’d said, even though I hadn’t murdered anyone in Vienna. But I thought I might explain it away to his political satisfaction.

“After the war,” I said, “and because of my experience fighting the Russians, I was recruited by American counterintelligence: first by the 970th CIC in Germany, and then the 430th in Austria. As I’m sure you’re aware, the CIC was the forerunner of the CIA. Anyway, I was instrumental in uncovering a traitor in their organization. A man named John Belinsky, who turned out to have been working for the Russian MVD. This would have been in September 1947. The two women were much later on. That was in 1949. One of them I killed because she was the wife of a notorious war criminal. The other was a Russian agent. The Americans will probably deny it now, of course, but they were the ones who got me out of Austria. On the ratline they provided for escaping Nazis. They provided me with a Red Cross passport in the name of Carlos Hausner and got me on the boat to Argentina, where, for a while, I worked for the secret police. The SIDE. At least I did until the job I was on turned into an embarrassment for the government, and I became persona non grata. They fixed me up with an Argie passport and some visas, which is how I fetched up here. Since then I’ve been trying to keep out of trouble’s way.”

“There’s no doubt about it, you’ve had an interesting life.”

I nodded. “Confucius used to think so,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. I’ve been living here quietly since 1950. But recently I bumped into an old acquaintance, Max Reles, who, knowing my background with the Berlin Criminal Police, offered me a job. I was going to take it, too, until he got himself killed. By now Lansky knew something of my background as well, and when Max got himself killed, he asked me to look over the shoulder of the local militia. Well, you don’t say no to Meyer Lansky. Not in this town. And now here we are. But I really don’t see how I can help
you
, Lieutenant Quevedo.”

There was a shout from one of the soldiers digging in front of us. The man threw down his shovel, knelt down for a moment, peered into the ground, straightened, and then gave us a sign that he had found what they were looking for.

I pointed at them. “I mean, beyond the help I’ve already given you with this arms cache.”

“For which I am very grateful, as soon I’ll prove to your satisfaction, Señor Gunther. I may call you that, may I not? It is your name, after all. No, I want something else. Something quite different. Don’t get me wrong. This is good. This is very good. But I want something more enduring. Let me explain: it’s my understanding that Lansky has offered you a job working for him. No, that’s not quite the truth. It’s rather more than an understanding. As a matter of fact, it was my idea—that he offer you a job.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I imagine he’ll pay well. Lansky is a generous man. For him, this is simply good business. You get what you pay for. He’s a gambler, of course. And like most intelligent gamblers he dislikes uncertainty. If he can’t have certainty, he’ll do the next best thing and hedge his bet. Which is where you come in. You see, my employers would like to know if and when he tries to hedge his bet on Batista by offering the reds financial support.”

“You want me to spy on him, is that it?”

“Exactly so. How difficult can this be for a man such as yourself? Lansky is a Jew, after all. Spying on a Jew should be second nature to a Nazi.”

There seemed to be no point in arguing with that. “And in return?”

“In return, we agree not to deport you to Austria to face those murder charges. You also get to keep whatever Lansky pays you.”

“You know, I had been planning a short trip home to Germany. To take care of some family business.”

“I regret that will no longer be possible. After all, if you left, what guarantee could we have that you would ever return? And we would have lost this excellent chance to spy on Lansky. Incidentally, for your sake it might be best if you didn’t report our conversation to your new employer. With this man, people whose loyalties are in any way questionable have a dreadful habit of disappearing. Señor Waxman, for example. Almost certainly Lansky had this man killed. It would be no different for you, I think. He is the kind of man for whom the saying ‘Better safe than sorry’ is a way of life. And who can blame him for being so cautious? After all, he has millions invested in Havana. And it’s certain he won’t allow anything to get in the way of that. Not you. Not me. Not even the president himself. All he wants to do is keep on making money, and it makes little or no difference to him and his friends if he does it under one regime or another.”

“This is fantasy,” I insisted. “Surely Lansky’s not going to help the communists.”

“Why not?” Quevedo shrugged. “Now you’re just being stupid, Gunther. And you’re not a stupid man. Look here, it might interest you to know that, according to the CIA, in the last American presidential election Lansky gave a substantial donation to both the Republicans, who won, and the Democrats, who lost. That way, whoever won would be sure to be grateful to him. That’s what I’m getting. Do you see? You can’t put a price on political influence. Lansky knows this only too well. As I say, it’s just good business. I’d do the same in his shoes. Besides, I already know that Max Reles secretly paid money to the families of some of the Moncada rebels. How do I know this? López volunteered the information.”

I looked back at the other car. López was asleep in the backseat. Then again, maybe he wasn’t asleep at all. The sun was shining directly on his unshaven face. He looked like a dead Christ.

“Volunteered. You think I believe that?”

“Eventually, I could not stop him from telling me things. You see, I had already pulled out every one of his fingernails.”

“You bastard.”

“Come now. That’s my job. And perhaps, a long time ago, it was yours, too. In the SS. Who can say? Not you, I’ll bet. I’m sure that with a bit more digging we could find some dirty secrets of your own, my Nazi friend. But that’s of no interest to me. What I should like to know now is if Reles gave this money with the knowledge of Lansky. And I should very much like to know if ever he does the same thing himself.”

“You’re crazy,” I said. “Castro got fifteen years. The revolution’s a toothless lion with him behind bars. And if it comes to that, so am I.”

“You’re wrong on both counts. About Castro, that is. He has plenty of friends. Powerful friends. In the police. In our judicial system. Even in government. You doubt me, I can tell. But did you know that the army officer who captured Castro after the Moncada Barracks attack also saved his life? That the court which tried him in Santiago allowed the man to make a two-hour speech in his own defense? That Ramón Hermida, our present minister of justice, made sure that instead of keeping Castro separate from all the other prisoners, as was the army’s recommendation, they were all sent to the Isle of Pines, where they’ve been allowed books and writing materials? And Hermida is not the only one in government who is a friend to this criminal. There are already those in the senate and the house of representatives who speak of amnesty. Tellaheche. Rodríguez. Agüero. Amnesty, I ask you. In almost any other country, such a man as this would have been shot. And deservedly so. I tell you this quite frankly, my friend. That I will be surprised if Dr. Castro serves more than five years in jail. Yes, he’s a lucky man. But you need more than good fortune to be as lucky as him. You need friends. And this leopard does not change his spots. The day Castro is released from prison is the day that the revolution begins in earnest. But I for one hope to prevent this from ever happening.”