Lone Wolf #5: Havana Hit (9 page)

“I don’t think so,” said Wulff.

“I do.”

“You go right ahead.”

“If any man ever was, I’m entitled to a drink. I never thought I’d see this place again.” Stevens uncapped the bottle and drank from it straight, groaning as the gin hit his stomach, then doubling over, half-retching. “Never thought I’d see it again,” he said and collapsed on the bed holding the bottle, falling straight back, clutching it as his head hit the blanket. He put the bottle in his mouth and drank again. Wulff could see that as far as Stevens was concerned the night was over; he would use the gin to drink himself into stupor and then that would be the end of all things.

“What are we supposed to do?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Stevens said, “that’s kind of your problem, isn’t it? I told you that I’d give you a place to hole up, a place to get underground while you decided what to do next, and that’s exactly what I’ve done. It’s your move, isn’t it? I don’t see how I can help you.”

“I’ve got to find Delgado.”

“I know you’ve got to find Delgado and don’t you worry about it,” Stevens said, shaking his head, giggling, taking another swallow from the bottle. “You are in the right place to find him because don’t you think he’ll be calling in here sooner or later? He’s going to want to know where the fuck I am; that phone is going to ring.”

“I thought that you said he’d take us all for having been killed someplace.”

“He will,” Stevens said, “he definitely will, that’s exactly the way he thinks you see but he’s a man who covers all his possibilities first. He’ll call, check in just to make sure that I’m not here by any chance. That’s routine surveillance procedure, isn’t it? I mean, it makes sense that he’d check to see if by any chance I’ve returned.”

“So you’ll set up a meeting with him.”

“If you want,” Stevens said, “you see, I don’t give a shit about this anymore. If you want to use me as a setup you can go right ahead and do that because I’m finished. Do you mind if I pass out, Wulff? If it’s all the same to you I think I’m at the end of the line. You can use all the conveniences here. You can even go out in the streets and go looking for Delgado if you want. Help yourself. There are a couple of pistols on the bottom panel in that bureau in a dead compartment but I don’t know if they work or not. I’ve never touched them; I just carry them around for show. Actually I’m afraid to even handle a gun,” Stevens said and this seemed to bring forth his giggling all over again, the giggling became a wild, uncontrollable fit which clawed and heaved at him; he rolled on the bed groaning with the convulsions. “I wanted a quiet life,” he said, “a quiet life, a simple existence, no pressures, no politics. Look at me. Look at it now. I had it all figured out, Wulff. I’d freelance or soldier of fortune myself into a permanent crippling injury by the time I was forty and then I’d find myself a nice foundation to take care of me for the rest of my life. The whole thing was to get an injury or illness which wasn’t too painful but had a good foundation back of it so that you could get free room and board and plenty of sympathy. Muscular dystrophy? Retardation? Polio? But they wiped out polio years ago and anyway I’m really afraid of physical pain. In fact I’m afraid of almost everything,” Stevens said and quite neatly passed out on the bed, the gin bottle plopping to one side, his empty hand to the other, his mouth open, fishlike he groaned in air through his mouth, looking at the ceiling with fixed eyes and then his eyes closed. He slept.

Wulff looked at him. He had really bought it this time he decided. But bought or not it seemed that he had a companion. Stevens was right, for all of his posturing the practicality of the man was awesome. There was nowhere else to go now. He was safer in the hotel room than he would be elsewhere. And Delgado would be checking in.

He went to the bureau and just as Stevens had said, in a compartment slatted in above the bottom drawer was a small, rather seedy array of pistols, four of them in various stages of age and finish, looking up at him. He checked them out one by one and they seemed to be operative. A full clip was in each; the clips themselves were in the drawer. Probably the pistols would work if they didn’t blow his hand off first. He was not going to pump a few shots into the walls or ceiling to find out, that was for sure.

Wulff put the stuff in his pockets, secreting armaments like jewels in various crevices of his body. Then he looked at the sleeping Stevens and at the floor. The floor looked more inviting; he could probably get a few hours rest here.

Then his attention was caught by the phone. It was there; it leered at him temptingly, surely in a place like this no one could possibly perform a tap. Technology, even with the new regime, had to be at least forty years behind the United States here. They had not yet had the advantage of defoliants, phone tracers, organized systematic distribution of drugs … Oh, they had a lot to look forward to if only the regime could keep on going and bring them to the point where America stood. Probably they could make it. If nothing else, in a few years one of the corporations or a mass of them would simply buy up Cuba wholesale. For a tax write off.

He picked up the phone.

That was when he called Williams.

Delgado was trying to stay calm. Stay calm, he was telling himself, do not panic, but it was difficult to contrive this mood, more difficult than it had been in a long time and he knew that he was showing the visible signs of a man disintegrating. Only the fact that he was in his office, that the door was locked, that there were definite orders that he should not be disturbed for any reason were preventing everyone from seeing his deterioration. His hands were shaking, sweat was pouring from his cheeks. He was not acting like an old revolutionary but like some nineteen-year-old peasant, trapped in the hills by the militia, pouring out his heart and guts to them for fear of being castrated by their knives. He could not go on this way. He had to get hold of himself.

The copter was missing; the men had not returned. Their whereabouts were unknown. Obviously something had botched the job; they had not killed the American. It had been a simple flight, a simple assignment: two men should have been able to handle it easily. What was there to do? The American was unarmed, helpless, he had been sent up with a skilled gunman and an equally skilled pilot. Two against one in the air and the American weaponless. Nevertheless the assignment had not been carried out. Somehow the American had overcome the situation, probably killed both pilot and gunman and had gotten the copter down and away.

Where had it gone wrong? Had he gone wrong? Should he have sent out more men? But that was the problem; he was playing this situation as close as possible: the more men he sent out the higher were the chances that he, Delgado, would be found out. Still, two men had obviously not been enough. He should have taken the risk. He could have found another and another, two more reliable men. One risk outbalanced the other. His mistake. He had underestimated the American. And he knew who the man was. What he had done! How could he have been so stupid? A streak of self-loathing went through Delgado like an electric bolt, so jolting that it was almost purifying, it cleansed him in a way. It was his own fault. There was no one else to blame. He stood alone; he took the blame, he would now have to save the situation himself.

Somehow the American had escaped and doubtless was bearing down upon Delgado. He would be looking for vengeance. This man was a killer. It was not enough for him to merely escape; this man killed because his purposes as he saw it was to abolish evil and Delgado would seem evil, at least from his point of view. The American would not leave Havana let alone the country until he confronted Delgado and although that was bad because Delgado did not want to face a man who would kill him it was also good because it provided a certain sense of security. There would be no loose ends. He would not have to think of the American somewhere in his own country, outside of the borders of Cuba, planning for revenge—waiting months and years for
that
hammer to strike. No. It would not be that way. The American would not leave until he had performed his mission and that meant that the situation would be settled quickly and between the two of them. All right. All right, he could deal with that.

The drugs were in his possession. He knew exactly where they were and he could get his hands on them instantly. The temptation would be strong, Delgado thought, to take that valise and make his own run for freedom. A less judicious man than he would have done it. He would already have arranged his flight, plotted out the means of disposition. This less cautious version of himself would be in the United States by now, frantically seeking connections through which he could unload close to a million dollars worth of heroin. This less cautious version of himself would have been killed, too. The American was no fool. The arrangements which Delgado would have been trying to make would have drawn attention like carrion drawing the restless animals of the desert. The American would have picked up the rotten scent and closed in. No, there was nothing to do but wait. Take care of that business first. First things first as the Americans put it. Until Wulff was out of the way he would sit tight, make no moves, attempt no disposition. It should not take long. Then, Delgado thought, then he would be home free.

He would have the drugs then and no one who knew their possessor, no one trying to take them away. His title would be clear. It would be absolute; the interests in the United States, if nothing else, respected property rights and the fair interest of the holder and they would be doing business with him, not threatening attack. They respected property these people. Once the American was out of the way: clear sailing. And how could he lose? He had the full and righteous force of the government behind him. The American was a felon, in two countries now. He had no rights, no means, no defense. The full force of both governments were mobilized to find and kill him and Delgado not only had the valise, he had government sanction to use all forces to kill him. How could he lose?

He couldn’t lose. All that he had to do was to keep the search parties going, cover every alley in Havana, which he could do with a telephone and meanwhile stay under the perfect security which was afforded him by his office and his rights as a public official. He represented the government of the country; in his defense all force could be exerted and against that what could the American do? He had no troops, armaments, possessions, plan. All that he had was an imperfect knowledge of the situation, so could it be more than a matter of time until Delgado closed in on him? No. It could not. It could not be, the situation was totally in control, he had everything in hand and why then, Delgado thought, having reached this completely optimistic and absolutely true assessment of the situation … why was he shaking like this? Why am I so frightened? he asked himself.

Because—the perfectly reasonable interior voice of the old revolutionary he had carried around inside himself like a jack-in-the-box for fifteen years said—because, the old revolutionary told him, the American is of a type with whom you have never dealt before.

That’s ridiculous, he said. I was in the mountains.

You were in the mountains; a lot of people were with you in the mountains. You were sustained there by others. Also, you had faith which is something that you do not have now. You had a deep and persistent belief in the feeling that you were right.

That has nothing to do with it.

It has everything to
do
with it. You had an ideology then, you were fired by political idealism. What are you fired by now except greed?

Idealism has nothing to do with it either, he told the old revolutionary. Idealism is for the young or for the disenfranchised. It has no connection to those who have or are near power. Which is the situation that applies to me now.

That is why you are a fraud, Delgado. You are no longer what you were. You have been abandoned, you have completely abandoned yourself.

I have abandoned nothing.

You have abandoned everything.

I see a reasonable chance to make a new life for myself, he told the old revolutionary. The drugs can give me a way to a new life. It is not as if I am doing anything that would not be done otherwise. Americans are deeply involved in the drug culture, the people who sell it are merely answering a human need. Is it wrong if I get some of this for myself? It will change nothing. It is not as if I am taking drugs myself or I am creating a sickness that does not exist.

You are a liar, Delgado, the old revolutionary said. You are a cheat, you are a fraud and you are also very frightened. And do you know why you are frightened? Because you no longer are held up by idealism, by a series of beliefs. That is why you felt no fear in the mountains and why you are dying inside this time. Because you have become one with the Americans. It is not belief but merely the lust for money which is driving you now.

That is insane foolishness. You are talking to me like a schoolboy.

All idealists are schoolboys, Delgado. Why are you sweating? Why are you shaking so, why are you terrified of what the American, despite all the protection around you, might do to you? I will tell you. It is because in the mountains you felt no guilt, you knew that you were on the side of justice, and now you do not have that sense. You are guilty. What is holding you up now, Delgado? What do you have other than guilt?

The revolution is finished. Idealism is finished.

This revolution is finished. But the revolution as an abstract goes on forever. You have fallen away, the government has fallen away, but that does not mean that the revolution no longer exists. Just as in 1958, it is up there in the mountains. But you can no longer seek it, can you? You are crippled.

Go away, he said to the voice, I do not wish to continue this further.

Do you think that I really can go away, Delgado? I am yourself, I am as much a part of you as you are.

Nevertheless I want you to go away. I want no more part of this.

But you do, the old revolutionary said, you were the one who summoned me up, Delgado. I can do nothing unless you want me to speak.

Why won’t you leave me alone?

It was your decision, Delgado. All along the choices were yours. You have no one else to blame; you cannot pass off the responsibility.

Enough! Delgado screamed. Enough: get away from me! And the old revolutionary laughed, he laughed maniacally through all the alleys of Delgado’s skull and he rose from the desk to seize the old revolutionary by the throat and shake him to death and only then, only then did he realize that the revolutionary was indeed inside but the screaming had been outside and two security guards posted outside the door had come in to look at him with faces as blank as dishes, as puzzled as the animals that had scattered before them in the mountains fifteen years ago, the mountains that he could still see before him … and would never touch again. Finally, he went to the phone.