Lone Wolf #5: Havana Hit (12 page)

When the panicked phone call from Delgado had come in DiStasio’s first impulse had been to seize the man, detain him to once. Certainly he had all grounds for reasonable detention simply based upon what Delgado was babbling. But on second thought he decided not to do this; detention was not the answer because it would put the transaction into official channels and he wanted that as little as Delgado would. No, everything had to be done sub rosa, worked out on a quiet level. Delgado was insistent about that himself. DiStasio could see the point.

So he had gone into Delgado’s office, verified for himself that the man was frantic but credible and had taken the valise from him. Delgado’s terms were a straight fifty-fifty split after he was able to make arrangements to leave the country and arrange for distribution. DiStasio had humored him in his heavy-handed way because he had already made another and better decision. Delgado was not going to get back those drugs. He was not going to get them back in any form or condition because he did not deserve them and furthermore, the man could not function under pressure of any sort. Already, just under the flick of the botched assassination, he was starting to come apart.

“You leave it to me,” he had said to Delgado. “You just let me take care of this and we’ll work out the final terms later,” and Delgado had nodded weakly, reluctantly: what, after all, could he do otherwise? By calling in DiStasio he had already ceded control of the situation. Delgado was no fool; he could see that. But there had been, as DiStasio left the room clutching the valise, just a hint, a brush of indecision in Delgado’s eyes which confirmed DiStasio’s original estimation: he would have to have the man eliminated. There was no room in this scheme for a partnership arrangement; Delgado would ruin everything.

He had taken the valise, given it to his chief clerk Alejandro Figueroa and told him to take it to his estate, turn it over to the garageman, return. Figueroa had taken the valise solemnly, without a word of comment and done exactly that. Figueroa would do anything that DiStasio asked and do it without comment; he knew that DiStasio could have him killed by whim, and that was sufficient reason and justification for a man like Figueroa. That was sufficient for all of them; DiStasio had worked himself through risk and difficulty to a position where he held that power over a number of people including all of his staff members. And, he understood, it was the only power that meant anything at all. It came down, at the end of it, to power, the ability to inflict pain and death and if that was the world in which he lived, unfortunate as it might be, it was how DiStasio would run things. There might be a different world, a little further down the line where things other than power were the ultimate authority but until he reached that point he would settle for this.

So he had the valise at his estate and a fairly good idea of how to move from there on, but there was still the problem of Delgado. Delgado would have to be eliminated. He had pondered this decision for a little while, giving it some minutes of concentrated thought, balancing off the fact of Delgado’s survival against the possibility of his death, seeing all of the implications and coming to the decision with hesitance. But once he had reached it, well that was the end, the one thing which DiStasio could not stand was uncertainty past the point of decision. Delgado would have to be killed because he was no longer necessary. From the moment at which the dangerous and valuable valise had been passed on he functioned only as a hindrance. It was not only that he would have to split responsibility, risk and income with Delgado—that was bad enough.

It was that Delgado was of an older breed, a generation back which in Cuba was a lifetime; he was of the revolutionaries who had spent time in exile and the trouble with these people was that their wasted years had burned purpose out of them and substituted a habit of thinking too much about too little. For every fragment of action which these people were able to cajole out of themselves they generated whole mounds of thought, of anxiety, of guilt and self-loathing … and these more than anything else made Delgado extremely dangerous. He was the kind of man who at one moment could turn over the valise and responsibility to DiStasio, beg him for assistance—and in the next his old revolutionary’s brain was apt to send out flashes which would illuminate all the circuits of fear, and in a torment of what he would call “conscience” he would renege upon the arrangement, take the full details directly to the premier himself … and DiStasio would then be in serious trouble. Not that the premier minded that much as long as the activities of his subordinates did not subvert the revolution, such as it was. But the premier could hardly ignore something like this, not with the amount of difficulty which Delgado was apt to cause. DiStasio would be in serious trouble. So Delgado would have to be eliminated.

He would do it as quickly as possible and third-hand. Then he would take the valise himself and arrange disposition. He might even leave the country, try a new life elsewhere. The valise would give this to him. The drugs were very pure; DiStasio had had that much experience. The drugs were of the purest variety he had ever seen, and distributed in the proper channels might be worth far more than the million dollars which Delgado had conservatively estimated. DiStasio, the head of intelligence, had been watching the regime from one vantage point or another for almost a decade now. The regime was not going to last forever; they could not change the landscape as much as they insisted that they could. Sooner or later the landscape was going to erupt on them.

At that time the regime would fall.

An intelligent man would be better off making provisions.

So DiStasio had already arranged in his own mind for Delgado’s murder, had arranged it so efficiently and with so little potential difficulty that it came almost as a shock to him when the disaster of September 15th occurred. (He knew that however long he lived he would always think of it in those terms; already the broadcasts were framing it that way:
the disaster of September 15th
). Delgado was not supposed to be assassinated, the building destroyed, fifteen people killed in the explosion, another seventy-five injured, none of this was supposed to happen. Delgado had already had another kind of death prepared for him and so complete was DiStasio’s conviction within himself, so deep was his faith that he found that his primary response to the events was one of absolute fury that matters had been taken out of his hand. DiStasio was the head of the intelligence division; he controlled everything in the country. Nothing which occurred could be unexpected because he set in motion almost all of the events.

Nevertheless, there was the building destroyed and Delgado murdered. And nothing to be done about it.

How could this be done to him? Yet, almost immediately after this first reaction coming on top of the conveyance of the news, then the hurried series of phone calls through which he was able to verify that all of this was true.

Almost immediately after that, DiStasio succumbed to a different and older emotion and that was one of fear. He did not need extended analysis or any amount of reports to make clear to him exactly why Delgado had been killed and all of this had happened. It tied in with the drugs. The drugs were the key and the key to
that
was the man who had brought them into the country, Martin Wulff. Wulff was responsible for this. If the fools at the upper levels could not see that immediately, then it was their problem and stupidity, but it was obvious, should be obvious to the rankest fool exactly what was going on. Now Wulff would be coming to DiStasio in search of the valise. He understood felons of this sort. He knew their thought processes as well as he knew (or thought he knew) the internal workings of his body. Somehow, before the September 15 disaster, Wulff would have tortured from Delgado information on the whereabouts of the valise and he would be coming to retrieve it from DiStasio. He could see it all clearly. He could see everything clearly. That was one of the virtues of being chief of intelligence; your mind worked in clear, preordained channels, and there was no sense of mystery. None whatsoever. Everything fell into place.

DiStasio was home when it happened. Reports came to him over the telephone of the wreckage, the fire, the deaths. He listened to all of them impassively, managing to control his hands, his voice. No one would suspect his reaction. He was entitled to be home on that day; it was his certified leave time. Everything had been cleared through the highest levels. Ha said that he would immediately take over the processes of investigation. The country was in a state of emergency alert, of course. That would make it easier for the intelligence arm to function without interference. DiStasio said that he would get right to it. They wanted him to come to the capital of course but he said that he did not think that this was necessary. He would be able to assume control of the situation at home and would be in tomorrow. Certainly if a state of guerilla siege was starting (this was what the premier thought; he had no idea of the true meaning of the events, of course), it would make more sense if the government was scattered; if high officials were not seen as being concentrated in a specific area where they could, one after the other, be attacked. The caller agreed with this. He praised DiStasio’s judgment and said that he would be in touch.

DiStasio hung up the phone, shaking. He called in Figueroa immediately. That was Figueroa’s function: to be always available. When valises were to be dropped off he did that; when DiStasio needed counsel Figueroa was obtained. Also Figueroa served as a sexual receptacle of sorts, not that DiStasio would even think of that business now. Everything in its place. Passion could not be contemplated in this moment of extreme danger. “We’re going to have to prepare to leave the country,” he said to Figueroa.

“Ah,” the man said. “I will make the arrangements.”

That was Figueroa. Unquestioned obedience. If the premier had the kind of unquestioned obedience from subordinates which Figueroa gave
him
, the government by now would have conquered all of Latin America. Then again, Figueroa was extremely stupid. This had to be taken into account. You could not sentimentalize a man who believed that his only purpose was to make himself fiercely agreeable.

“We will probably have to go to Bolivia,” DiStasio said.

“Bolivia is excellent. Bolivia is an excellent country. I have always wanted to see—”

“Then again, perhaps, we should go to Buenos Aires.”

“Buenos Aires is also a good possibility,” Figueroa said, “I have always delighted in Buenos Aires, its fragrances, it’s sophistication, its women—”

“It will be necessary to make arrangements for a pilot and plane. It is official business, of course.”

“Of course,” said Figueroa.

“We will have to leave immediately. By midnight in any event. We must be airborne within six hours.”

“This must be a very important mission,” said Figueroa.

“It is. It involves the whole security of the government.”

“Does it have anythiing to do with today’s difficulties?”

“It has everything to do with today’s difficulties.”

“That was a very bad business,” Figueroa said. He looked at the carpet, a delicate man whose posture gave an appearance of gravity and depth. On this basis alone he suited all of his assigned functions. “A very tragic business.”

“Life is tragic,” DiStasio said. He stood from his desk, looked around the enormous study. “We will have to take the valise with us.”

“The valise which I brought back here?”

“Exactly. The same one.”

“It must be filled with important materials.”

“It is filled with important materials,” DiStasio said. “All of our security may depend upon our getting them safely out of the country.”

“Ah,” said Figueroa. His face became very serious. “I understand.”

“The stakes are enormous. We cannot afford to fail.”

“We will not fail,” Figueroa said solemnly. “It is absolutely impossible that we will fail.” He smiiled but for just an instant a whiplash of confusion crossed his face as if he had heard voices from the yard outside the huge windows. “Why are we going to Bolivia?” he said.

“Important governmental business. A vital question of alliance with revolutionary elements—”

“We are going to carry the revolution to Bolivia!”

“Exactly,” DiStasio said, “and that in turn will increase our influence throughout the Americas.”

“Of course,” Figueroa said. “Politics is very intricate. I wish that I understood more about it. You realize that it has always been my favorite science.”

“Of course,” DiStasio said.

“Maybe I could have been a politician, if I had had university training,” Figueroa said. He paused, the look of confusion returning. “Exactly what kind of benefits can we offer the revolutionaries—”

“That is not necessary now,” DiStasio said curtly. Sometimes the man, despite his abysmal loyalty, annoyed him. It was impossible to treat Figueroa as if he were a rational person. “Just make the arrangements.”

The sharpness of the tone made Figueroa quail. His skin assumed the transparency of paper. “Of course,” he said, “of course.” He left the room quickly, moving sidewise, trying to get to the door as rapidly as possible without showing disrespect. In the hallway, then, he broke into a full run. DiStasio could hear his footsteps and then they were gone.

Less than half an hour before flight if Figueroa acted with his usual efficiency. Surely he would; at what he did, the man was the best that there was. DiStasio went to the door, secured it with a bolt and went back slowly to the cabinet half-hidden in the wall, threw back the panels and took out the valise. For the first time since Delgado had made the transfer he permitted himself to touch it, ran his hands over the leatherette tenderly, feeling an almost sensual pleasure in the pattern the texture gave back to his palms, then slowly he opened the clips the way he might unhook a woman from her clothing and lifted the top. He looked straight into the valise.

And saw it then iin its purity, the little solid bricks of it planked up under the straps, pure white and glowing, the grains at the top of it glistening.