Cuba Blue (28 page)

He churned the waters around the speedboat, its bow slapping the ocean surface as he throttled forward, anxious to finish this day’s work, anxious to get back to his routine duties, anxious for things to return to normal. All of this intrigue, doing for Humberto while being kept in the dark, taking on the role of Alejandro, while Alejandro must know something was up—all of it felt topsy-turvy, off kilter, out of sync, ungainly and incalculably dangerous. He felt certain that the balance of power within the SP was at stake, and that his own position within that balance was also in jeopardy. Any error on his part, and Humberto would have Alejandro installed in his job. Worst of all, Ruiz might wind up in the Castillo Atares, a prisoner in one of the stone cells, or
disappeared
if Humberto so wished. Well…this would not happen, not after today.

At Tomaso’s bed and breakfast, Miramar

With his pregnant wife Carmela and their four-year-old daughter Soledad,
Sergio Latoya stood with Tomaso Aguilera in his courtyard explaining that he had word from Qui. He quickly brought the older man up to date. Tomaso immediately replied, “Your family will be safe here, Detective Latoya.”

“I cannot impose,” Sergio said, “besides, we’re not far enough from Havana to be safe here.”

“But you will be. Guests are arriving from all over the world, trade delegations. No one, not even the SP, would dare disturb these people or their families. Carmela and Soledad will go unnoticed; in fact, Carmela can help Maria Elena, and the children can play together.”

“Sergio, I knew Montoya. Not well but well enough to’ve observed him as a cautious fellow. He may’ve kept records elsewhere. In fact, I’ve known him to bring work home with him…here.”

Tomaso led him to Qui’s apartment where they entered in semi-darkness. The light entering from the doorway showed that Qui had left in a rush, nightclothes scattered across the unmade bed. “You may want to look around. You have my OK.”

“Yes, with the PNR, I know. Quiana’s partner in this business with the Sanabela.” Yuri extended his hand to the detective, saying, “Anyone on Quiana’s side in this unholy mess is a friend. Glad to meet you.”

The men shook hands before the three began searching the apartment for anything unusual or hidden. They quickly rifled through Montoya’s collection of medical journals. From inside Qui’s closet, Tomaso called out, “Here, there’s something here, a loose board.”

Sergio pried loose the board and a horde of paper flooded out onto the floor. “Jackpot.”

Sorting the papers and files, they discovered records that implicated Montoya in a host of illegal activities: black market dealings in medicines, money from coded donors, records of supplies purchased illegally and from whom, a list of who received these items and when they’d need replacements. A damning collection if it ever got out.

“I knew there was something he was hiding, something not quite right.” Tomaso grimaced in distaste. “He never complained about the system, not like a normal, competent person.”

“Seems he wasn’t happy with Fidel’s healthcare system. Supplementing patient care with illegal goods.” Sergio shook his head. “How’d he ever get them to stay quiet?”

Examining the records, Yuri looked up and said, “Likely mixed it in with herbal concoctions. Bitter tasting stuff anyway. Mixed in a salve. No one’s the wiser. ‘Cept his patients always get better. Bet he didn’t do it with everyone—too noticeable.”

Tomaso continued. “Estaban did things his own way, wouldn’t listen to anyone. Clever man, but not clever enough to keep himself from being killed

Ever suspicious, Sergio asked, “How could he afford this? Where did the money come from? He was a doctor, not a criminal.”

“Everyone cheats the system—it’s the communist way. Lotta antibiotics listed. Hard to get for years now. Only the very sick and the tourists get them.”

Yuri added, “So he cheated to save lives—is that wrong? Better man than I imagined.”

“But still, not legal. Dangerous too. Qui was right, he
was
murdered.” Pausing for a moment, Sergio waved his hand at the records. “These are a risk to all of us. Better left hidden for now.”

Yuri nodded. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s leave them here.” Turning to Tomaso, Yuri added, “Your suspicions were right. There was more to Montoya than met the eye.”

“Like an iceberg, yes,” agreed Yuri.

Sergio asked, “But of all of these dealings, which one got him killed?”

28

Somewhere along the leeward coast of Cuba, aboard the Sanabela
 

Still standing beside Estrada, Qui quietly asked, “Other than the lock, did you find anything else this morning? Anything unusual, out of place?”

When Estrada failed to answer, appearing lost in thought, some drama playing out in his head, Qui immediately knew there was more he hadn’t told them. “You know every inch of this trawler, every nook, every cranny.” She tore her eyes from Estrada and exchanged a knowing look with JZ, who’d joined them on the deck.

“This might best be discussed in private,” JZ suggested. The three returned to the pilothouse. Inside, out of the wind, JZ continued. “Luis, maybe it’s a good idea for us to search your vessel for anything unusual.”

“Tino got aboard with proper authority to do an improper thing,” Qui corrected him. “He mayn’t’ve been the only one to come aboard.”

“But why rig my boat for destruction?” Estrada remained doubtful.

“They drove us onto your boat with their gunfire, Uncle. They wanted us here. Either an incendiary device or they plan to attack us at sea.”

“Not so small, Qui. She’s seventy-two feet long with an eighteen and a half foot beam.” Luis went to his charts and pulled out the ship’s plans. As he spread the yellowing blue-pencil sheets across the chart table, he said, “In case you need to know, I keep these handy. Every corner of my boat at a glance.” The Sanabela was a typical wooden trawler, her hull planking, partitions, and pilothouse made of cypress, her bow stem and ribs of white oak. Some 27,000 board feet of timber went into her construction. Carrying 8,000 gallons of fuel and 900 gallons of fresh water, her 220 horsepower diesel engine enabled cruising at twelve knots and trawling at three. Typically, trawlers were iceboats carrying nearly a ton of ice for each day of cruise, which could last up to fifty days. Built to last some thirteen years, Estrada and his men had stretched out her diesel soul to more than 40 years. A good operator could pay for his boat in a free country in four to five years of hard work. But this was Cuba. While Estrada considered the Sanabela his, the hard truth of the matter was that it would always belong to the government.

JZ said, “We must search from bow to stern, top to bottom. These plans will help.”

Qui added, “We’ve gotta find it—
if it exists
—before it detonates.”

Estrada called to Giraldo and Adondo, informing them of the circumstances. The two crewmen remained stoic, calm trying to outdo calm.

“Giraldo, take the wheel. Adondo join us at the chart table. Less experienced in piloting, Adondo, being smaller and more agile, was the obvious choice to ferret around in the hull.

Going about the trawler now, the four splitting into pairs, they began to surreptitiously canvass the Sanabela, knowing at any moment a bomb might go off.

Alejandro felt the tension in his shoulders and his neck from a pounding headache. It’d been a bitch from the beginning. First the excitement on the marina, overhearing Cavuto and Humberto’s conversation, then learning Cavuto had made a fatal error in, one that could cause Humberto’s world to collapse, the whole empire—from the antiques to the underworld hotel casino to their dabbling in medical espionage and their interference in the workings of the SP.

If he couldn’t find Cavuto and keep him from blowing up the Sanabela, the American official would die. The ripple effect from this could tumble Humberto but also anyone associated with him—including Alejandro himself. Not to mention what repercussions might come out of Washington and threaten his beloved Cuba. They could not afford to have yet another American turn up dead in Cuban waters. As it was, no one readily believed the story the SP had put out about the dead doctors’s involvement with the Cuban underworld in drug trafficking. A prestigious Canadian researcher and two squeaky-clean, respected directors of an HIV-AIDS treatment clinic would scarcely sacrifice their careers to become drug traffickers.

After leaving the debacle at the marina where it was a miracle that no innocents were killed, Alejandro had gone back to Humberto. There he laid out his case before the older man, and Humberto finally realized the danger that Cavuto posed. Another American death due to Cavuto’s overconfidence spelled disaster.

Unable to reach Cavuto by phone because he was well out of cell phone range, Humberto now fumed when Ruiz did not answer his marine radio. Unknown to either man, the radio antenna had been broken sometime earlier by vandals, in such a way that it could not be detected until put in use. Humberto immediately ordered Alejandro to stop Cavuto; it was then that Alejandro’s headache had first begun.

Humberto insisted, “Take the helicopter and put a stop to it. Whatever it takes.”

Alejandro knew he had checkmated Cavuto, but only if he could catch him in time. However, Alejandro had made his own error in judgment, in telling the pilot to turn northeast. The Sanabela with Cavuto following were hours away in the other direction. Things only worsened when the pilot indicated the chopper needed refueling. More precious time lost.

Following the repeated broadcast of the news indicting the foreign doctors as having brought on their own deaths, thanks to their chosen lifestyle, Tomaso became increasingly agitated and fearful for his daughter’s safety. He called Arturo Benilo to set up a meeting, feeling he must do something.