Valley of the Templars (25 page)

William Copeland Black sat at the table in the crumbling building beside the dirt airfield and tried to think his way out of their present problem. Laframboise, the pilot, and Arango, their supposed guide, were both on the floor, snoring away. Carrie Pilkington was staring up at the ceiling. Finally she looked down, staring at Black.

“Some analyst I am,” she said angrily. “I couldn’t analyze my way out of a wet paper bag.”

“Analyzing information isn’t the same thing as figuring out how to escape from a windowless jail in the middle of the jungle surrounded by armed men,” said Black. “The era of Richard Hannay and James Bond is over.”

“Richard who?” Carrie said.

“The first fictional heroic spy of the twentieth century,” said Laframboise, coming out of his doze. “He was the star of several books by John Buchan. The most famous was
The Thirty-Nine Steps
. Alfred
Hitchcock made it into a movie in the nineteen thirties. Buchan was also known as Lord Tweedsmuir, the governor general of Canada.”

“Good Lord,” said Black.

“I had the best paper route in Ottawa,” said Laframboise, sitting up and yawning. “Governor generals to the British high commissioners with half a dozen embassies, the prime minister’s residence and City Hall, all on the same street. Learned a lot of history that way.” He shook his head, smiling as he remembered. “At Christmas the prime minister and the French ambassador used to compete to give me the biggest tip. I made out like a bandit.”

“Cute story,” said Carrie. “Irrelevant but cute.”

“Divide and conquer?” Will Black said.

“Something like that,” said Laframboise.

“I don’t get it,” said Carrie.

“Five or six hours ago we heard a lot of activity—orders being bawled out, soldiers moving around,” said Laframboise. “Then an hour ago three of those fighters out there took off and half an hour later they were back. Somebody’s making a fuss out there and I don’t think anybody’s thinking about us.”

“They have not thought of us since we landed here like flies in a spiderweb,” snorted Arango. “They knew they were going to kill us from the start, or at least
el Italiano
did.”

“Then why aren’t we dead?” Carrie asked bluntly.

“Poker,” said Lafamboise. “That Turturro guy’s an old soldier. We’re bargaining chips in case it all goes wrong.”

“Mr. Laframboise is probably right.” Black nodded. “Turturro’s a firm proponent of what my late father referred to as the ‘snafu’ principle.”

“Qué?”
Arango said.

“Situation Normal, All Fucked Up,” explained Black. “These people aren’t playing at being rebels in the mountains trying to stir up the locals; this is an attack force. Something big is in the works, and if there’s a snafu, Turturro wants something to trade on.”

“Us,” said Carrie.

“Us.” Black nodded.

“So what do we do about it?”

“One way or another, all of us are going to be an embarrassment, whether it’s Turturro’s people or the agency,” said Black. “We’re going to get swept under the rug, so to speak. I say we get out and we get out now. Turturro’s probably off with those soldiers we heard gearing up this afternoon. It’s getting dark. They should be bringing us something to eat pretty soon. It might be our only chance.”

“What chance?” Carrie asked. “We’re going to stab them with plastic forks? These guys have got guns!”

“There is a loose floorboard in the toilet,” said
Arango. “Pull it up. There might be nails in it. Rusty ones. A weapon of sorts.”

“I saw a kid in high school throw a cafeteria table at a teacher once. Caught him by surprise.” Laframboise shrugged. “Might work.”

“I’m stuck back at plastic forks,” said Carrie.

“We use the chairs,” said Black. “Carrie and I stand on opposite sides of the door, each with a chair folded up. Arango has the piece of floorboard and both he and Laframboise heave the table at the first guys through the door. If we’re lucky we’ll catch them off guard and manage to disarm at least one of them.”

“And if we don’t?” Carrie said.

“Then we probably die,” said Laframboise.

It was seven sixteen in the evening and the last of the sun was disappearing over the western sea as
Sandpiper
arrived at the Marina Hemingway. Father Ronan Patrick Sheehan hit the air horn, requesting entrance through the breakwater passage. Receiving approval, Sheehan piloted the Hatteras Express to the harbormaster’s office at the main jetty, where he was boarded by a customs officer and a harbor official.

He offered Des Smith’s papers for inspection, had
them stamped and was then given a berth after paying an appropriate “document fee.” At the berth across from some sort of low-rise hotel complex, another set of officials boarded the boat, gave it a cursory inspection and were also handed what they called an “inspection fee.” The whole process took an hour.

Throughout the various official inspections, Sheehan had worn a plastic surgical boot on his right foot and ankle and had limped around using a very solid-looking knobkerrie walking stick. When asked, he told the officials he’d sprained his ankle doing a favor for a friend. Nobody questioned his story and they didn’t examine either the boot or the walking stick.

By the time Sheehan was alone again, it was fully dark. He had a quick, cold dinner of a tinned corned beef sandwich and a bottle of Kalik beer from the galley fridge, then lay down in the comfortable berth in the owner’s stateroom and was asleep almost instantly.

The door to the old hut at the airfield was kicked in with the wet sound of splintering, rotten wood, and as the first man came through the opening Montalvo Hernandez Arango swung the eighteen-inch-long floorboard with a pair of three-inch nails at the end
like a major league hitter belting a home run out of the park with a Louisville Slugger.

“Mueren, pedazo de mierda!”
Arango screeched.

“Santa puta Madre de Cristo!”
Domingo Cabrera raised his machete defensively with Arango’s medieval bat less than an inch from his skull. At the same time Pete Laframboise heaved the table toward the doorway, dipped his shoulder like a hockey player making a body check and heaved himself forward. As Holliday and Eddie stepped into the hut, both Carrie Pilkington and Will Black swung their folded chairs.

The table and Pete Laframboise hit Holliday square-on and Eddie was struck high and low by the chairs. Everyone went down in a heap except for Arango and Domingo, who just stared at each other, dumbfounded.

Pete Laframboise found himself staring into the angry face of a mud-spattered, scar-faced, one-eyed man with an MP5 machine gun pointing at him. Eddie staggered to his feet and Carrie Pilkington stared. “Oh my God!”

“Who the hell are you?” Laframboise asked, sprawled in the broken remains of the card table he’d driven into Holliday.

“I’m the goddamn U.S. cavalry,” answered Holliday. “Now get up.”

“You’re Colonel John Holliday,” said Carrie
Pilkington. “And this is your friend Eddie Cabrera. I recognize you from the photographs in your file.”

“We’ve got two dead guards outside and about five minutes before the shit hits the fan,” said Holliday. “So if you’re all finished with the Marx Brothers routine, can we all get the hell out of here?”

Lieutenant Colonel Frank J. Turturro returned from his mission to Aserradero still shaken by the slaughter he had seen in that mountain meadow. He was no stranger to death in war, but his conflicts had come in places where men died in ones and twos, not by the hundreds. The fight at the police post a few days before had been one thing, but he knew the wholesale slaughter he’d seen today would give him nightmares worse than he had ever known. A warrior was a man who fought other men and where the better warrior vanquished the lesser; it wasn’t a farmer slaughtering sheep. Blackhawk was paying him a fortune to lead this unit, but no amount of cash was going to help him carry this stone that now rested so heavily in his heart.

When he arrived back at the airfield just after dark, things went from bad to worse as his old friend and master sergeant Anthony Veccione reported the situation regarding the escape of the prisoners.

“How long ago?”

“An hour.”

“How many of our men did they kill?”

“Just two—the guards at the door, both cut down with a machete. They knocked out a man on picket duty.”

“Did he see anything?”

“There were three of them. Two black men, one white. They were all armed with MP5s just like ours. One of the blacks had a sniper rifle. An old one, he said. Russian maybe.”

Three men, just the way his contact had told him. The MP5s had to belong to Woodward and the ambush team he’d sent out. “Shit.”

“Who were they?” Veccione asked.

“The ones the bosses asked me to keep my eyes out for. An old soldier named Holliday and two of his buddies. With those prisoners of ours they could mean big trouble. Have you sent out anybody after them?”

“In the dark? In the jungle?” Veccione shook his head. “We’d be sitting ducks.”

“First light, then,” said Turturro. “Just a few men. You and Nick Cavan take the lead. I need guys who’ve had real combat experience on this. No more than four or five men or they’ll hear you coming from a mile off. Report in on the hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is serious, Tony. Catch these sons of bitches or we could really find ourselves in the weeds.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ramiro Valdes, director of the Cuban Ministry of the Interior, sat eating dinner in his executive suite at the Hotel Inter-Continental in Caracas, Venezuela. Eight floors below, the evening traffic swirled along the Avenida Principal, while through his dining room window the man with the white, military brush cut could see the looming ranks of the Avila Mountains rising in the distance, blacker shapes against the night sky.

The chief of the Cuban Secret Police sliced a piece off his lobster tail with surgical precision and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. As he chewed, he carved a small piece from one side of the blood-rare Kobe beef tenderloin. He looked across the starched white tablecloth at his dinner guest, the sour-faced Brigadier General Luis Perez Rospide, head of Gaviota, the corporation that oversaw every aspect of Cuba’s tourism industry. Between them they had an enormous amount of power, and both the Valdes and Rospide families had long been members of the Brotherhood.

“I cannot convince Raul to build a cruise ship terminal. The man is impossible,” said Rospide, eating his
pabellón criollo
, the Venezuelan version of
ropa vieja
, or “old clothes”—a dish of rice, beans and shredded beef that had once been famous in Cuba but had disappeared over the past thirty or forty years for lack of beef to shred. “I gave him the numbers—three ships a day, two thousand passengers a ship, each spending two hundred dollars. That is one point two million dollars a day, Ramiro. A million dollars a day! The cruise ship season lasts from December to May. That’s billions of dollars being thrown away!”

“Brother Raul is too old and too sick and too stupid. All he wants to do is retire to that ranch of his in Spain before the people rise up and hang him from a lamppost in Revolución Square. That idea of selling off everything in the museums of Havana last year was the last act of a desperate man,” Valdes said. He sliced himself another piece of lobster meat. “At any rate, we have more important things to think about. That is why I called you here.”

“I am always glad to get away from Havana these days,” said Rospide. “It is claustrophobic. The Germans laugh and my staff steals chickens from the kitchens.”

“The American colonel just called me. The CIA agents he caught have escaped. From the description given by one of the guards, there were two blacks and a white man. One of the black men sounds like it was Domingo Cabrera.”

“Espin’s bodyguard? The one who disappeared?”

“It would seem so.”

“Why would Cabrera rescue these men? How would he even know about them?”

“One of the companions of the CIA people was Montalvo Hernandez Arango.”

“So?”

“Montalvo Hernandez Arango was Domingo Cabrera’s
capitaine
during the War of the Bandits. He knew as well as anyone where the Cuevo del Muerte was, the cave where the missiles of San Cristóbal were stored.”

“Maybe it is just a coincidence,” said Rospide.

“It might be but I doubt it,” said Valdes. “The American colonel described one of the CIA people as being from England and speaking fluent Spanish. He sent a photo by telephone. The man could well be one of the people who picked up Dr. Sosa in Dublin. He is MI6.”

“Then we are ruined!” Rospide said, pushing his plate of food away as though it had been poisoned.

“Ruined, no, but we must be careful. As you well know we have powerful Americans on our side. The question is, how much can we trust them? One of my surveillance agents in Florida reported to me that the woman who owns Blackhawk was seen in the company of none other than Julio Lobo.”

“Maldita sea!”
Rospide exclaimed. “She wants to put him in power instead of us?”

“I would not be surprised.” Valdes dipped another morsel of lobster into the silver bowl of garlic butter. “The woman is a two-faced bitch, and worse, she is an American two-faced bitch.”

“Is it too late to stop all of this? To abort the operation?”

“No, it has gone much too far for that, I am afraid.”

“Then what do we do,
compañero
?”

“We kill them,” said Ramiro Valdes. “We kill them all.”

Cardinal Spada and Father Thomas Brennan walked slowly through one of the old sections of the Vatican Gardens that covered most of the Vatican Hill. The early-summer sun was at its zenith and Spada wore a wide-brimmed red felt “galero” to give himself shade. Brennan was bareheaded and smoking one of his inevitable cigarettes.

Spada liked the quiet here; the tourists generally went to the Belvedere Gardens at the Vatican Museums, and only the gardeners and people going to and from their offices at the Vatican Radio Station and the Academy of Sciences used these old paths.