Cuba (22 page)

students laden with backpacks. The students sat

around in circles, sharing cigarettes and talking

animatedly as they waited for their trains.

Maximo Sedano had no doubt that Rail was a

killer. He didn’t know anything about the man

except what he had said, but he knew Alejo

Vargas. Vargas was just die man to order a

killing, or to do it himself. The list of Castro’s

enemies who had disappeared through the years was

long enough to convince anyone that Vargas’s enmity was not

good for one’s health.

Maximo could hear footsteps behind him as he walked

through the train station.

A few students looked up at him, glanced behind

him “at whoever was following….

That had to be Rail.

What if it were someone else? What

if

Rail were not alone?

If there were two men, he was doomed. He

was’betting everything that there was only one man, one

man who thought him an incompetent coward.

Well, he was a coward. He had never had to live

by his wits, face physical danger. He was

frightened and no doubt it showed. He was perspiring

freely, his temples pounding, his breath coming in

short, quick gasps.

He entered a long, dingy hallway, following the

signs toward the men’s room. The hall was empty.

He could hear the footsteps coining behind, a steady

pace, not rushed. The man behind was making no

attempt to walk softly. He was confident, in

complete control, die exact opposite of the way

Maximo Sedano felt.

He fought the urge to run, to look over his shoulder

to see precisely who was back there following him.

Time seemed to move ever so slowly. He was aware of

everything, the noise, the people, the dirty floor and

faded paint, and the smell of stale urine and feces

wafting through the door of the men’s room as he entered.

No one in the room. The stalls, empty.

Maximo walked to the back wall, turned, and

faced die

door. He kept his hand in bis pocket. He

grasped the butt of the pistol tightly, his finger

wrapped around the trigger.

Rail walked into die room, stopped facing him.

“Well, well. We meet again.”

Maximo said nothing. He swallowed three or

four times.

“Are you going somewhere on the train? Am I

delaying your departure?”‘

Maximo bit bis tongue.

“What do you have in your pocket, little man?”

He tilted the barrel of the pistol up, so mat it

made a bulge hi bis trousers.

Rail grinned. The naked bulb on the ceiling

put the lower half of his face hi shadow and made his

grin look like a death’s-head grimace.

The German reached into his jacket and pulled out

his pistol. He leveled it at Maximo.

“If you are going to shoot me, little man, go ahead

and do it.”

Sweat stung Maximo’s eyes. He shook his

head to clear the sweat.

Rail advanced several paces, moving slowly.

“Take your hand out of your pocket.”

Now the German leveled his pistol. Pointed it

right at Maximo’s face. “I will shoot you with great

pleasure unless you do as I say.”

“Everyone will hearea”…Maximo squeaked, and withdrew

his hand from his pocket. Automatically he raised

both hands to shoulder height.

Rail kept advancing. When he passed under the

lightbulb his eye sockets became dark shadows and

Maximo couldn’t see where he was looking.

Rail came up to him, slapped bun with his left

hand, then felt Maximo’s right trouser pocket.

At this distance Maximo could see Rail’s eyes.

His hands were together above his head.

“A gunff”…the German said with a hint of surprise in

his voice.

He reached for it, put his left hand into Maximo’s

pocket to draw it out.

As he did so he glanced downward.

With his right hand Maximo pulled the handle of the ice

pick loose from the strap of his wristwatch and drew

it out of his sleeve. With one smooth, quick, savage

swinging motion he jabbed the pick into the side Of

Rail’s head clear up to the handle.

Rail collapsed on the floor. Maximo kept

his grip on the handle of the ice pick”, so the shiny

round blade slipped out of the tiny wound, which was about an

inch above Rail’s left ear.

Maximo bent down, retrieved his pistol.

Rail’s pistol was still in his hand, held loosely

by his flaccid ringers.

There was almost no blood on the side of Rail’s

head.

Rail tried to focus his eyes. His body

straightened somewhat; one hand tightened on the pistol

in an uncontrolled reflex, then relaxed.

The German groaned. Muscle spasms racked his

body.

Maximo took a deep breath and exhaled

explosively. He wiped at the perspiration

dripping from his face. His shirt was a sodden mess.

Squaring his shoulders, he walked out of the men’s room

without another glance at the man sprawled

on the floor. As he walked down the hallway

toward the main waiting room he passed two male

students carrying backpacks, but he purposefully

avoided eye contact and they didn’t seem to pay

him any attention.

He walked at a steady, sedate pace through the

terminal and out into the night.

William Henry Chance sat in the back of the

van listening to the tape of Vargas’s conversation with his

generals. Normally the fidelity of this system was

acceptable. Every now and then a word or phrase was

garbled or inaudible, the same drawback that affected

every listening technology. People mumbled or talked at

the same time or turned their heads the wrong way or

talked while smoking. Still, this evening he was only

catching occasional words.

Chance strained his ears. Phrases, occasionally a

plain word, lots of garbled noise…

“Is mis the best we can do?”

“The sky was overcast, the window was in shadow with the

evening coming on.”

“What about the laser?”

If the crystals were illuminated with a laser beam

in the nonvisible portion of the spectrum, the

vibrations could be read with the large

magnification spotting scope at the usual distance.

The problem was getting the laser close enough to the

crystals. Maximum range for the laser was less

man one hundred meters, so the van with the laser had

to be parked literally in front of the building.

“We didn’t want to take me risk without your

permission.”

Ah, yes, risk. This equipment had been brought

into Cuba by boat. The four techniciansof

Mexican or Cuban descenthad arrived the same

Way.

Miguelito was from south Texas, the son of

migrant laborers. He didn’t learn English

until he was in his late

teens. He had recorded the conversations, listened to the

audio as the computer processed it “What did you

think, Miguelito”…”…Chance asked. Chance’s

Spanish was excellent, the result of months of

intense training, but he would never have a native

speaker’s ear for the language.

Miguelito took his time answering. “It is

difficult to say. I hear phrases, pieces of

sentences, stray words… and my mind puts it all

together into something mat may not have been mere when they said

it. You understand?”

Chance nodded.

“What I hear is a conversation about biological

weapons in Guantanamo Bay.”

“You mean using biological weapons against

Guantdnamo Bay?”

“That is possible. But my impression was that the

weapons were already mere.”

“Castro. Did they talk about Castro?”

“His name was mentioned. It is distinctive. I mink

I heard it”

“Is he still alive?”

“I do not know.”…Miguelito looked apologetic.

“Biological weapons inside the U.s.

faculty is impossible. They must be intending to use

them against the people mere.”

Miguelito said nothing.

“I’d better listenea”…Chance said.

“I will play for you the best partea”…Miguelito said.

“Give me a few moments.”…He played with the

equipment. After about a minute he announced he was

ready with a nod of his head. Chance and Carmellini

donned headsets.

Noise. They heard noise, occasionally garbled

voices, but mostly computer-generated noise as the

machine tried without success to make sense

of the nickering light coming through the high-magnification

spotting scope. Every now and then a word or two hi

Spanish. “Guantanamo… attack…”…Once

Chance was sure he heard the word

“biological,”" but even then, he wasn’t

certain.

Finally he removed his headset.

Miguelito did likewise.

“Perhaps they are talking about possible targets when

and ifea”…Carmellini suggested. “After all, they can

spray this stuff into the air from a truck upwind and

kill everyone on the base.”

Chance grimaced. What he had here was

absolutely nothing. He was going to need something more

definite before he started talking to Washington via the

satellite.

“They did a lot of talking about political

matters, people and districts, whom they supported and so

onea”…Miguelito said, “It is not much better than

what you have just heard they talked of this before the sun went

downbut I got the impression that Vargas wanted

Delgado and Alba to abandon any commitments they

had to Raul Castro or the Sedanos and throw in with

him.”

“Hmmmea”…sd William Henry Chance. He

tried to focus on Miguelito’s comments and couldn’t

Biological weapons were on his mind.

He recalled Vargas’s face, remembered how

he had looked as Chance had sat there discussing a

CubanAmerican cigarette company. The strong,

fleshy face had been a mask, revealing nothing of

its owner’s thoughts. That poker face… that was his

dominant impression of Vargas.

The man certainly had a reputation: he was

ruthless efficiency incarnate, a thug who smashed

heads and sliced throats and got answers from people who

didn’t want to talk. Every dictatorship needed a

few sociopaths-in high places. He was also

subtle and smooth when that was required. Nor had

he yet surrendered to his appetites, surrendered

to the absolute corruption that absolute power

inevitably causes. Not yet, anyway.

Yes, Alejo Vargas was a damned dangerous

man, one who apparently possessed the brains and

managerial skills necessary to produce biological

weapons and the brutality to use them.

El Gato may have shipped the Cubans material

that they could use to culture bacteria or viruses,

but as yet there was no hard evidence that the

Cubans had done so.

That tantalizing word, “biological.”…Why would the

interior minister and the head of the Cuban Army and

Navy use that word if they weren’t talking about

weapons? Sure as hell they weren’t talking about

barracks sanitation or the condition of the mess

halls.

If there was a biological weapons program,

Chance told himself, the evidence would be inside the

ministry, the headquarters of the secret police.

There must be paper, records, orders, letterssomething!

No one could run a serious project like that without

paper, not even Vargas.

The evidence

is

inside that building,

he told himself.

After Fidel died of poison she had handed bun,

Mercedes was locked in her bedroom by Vargas and

Santana. Which was just as well.

She pulled a blanket over herself and curled up

on the bed hi the fetal position. The silence and

afternoon gloom were comforting.

Amazingly, no tears came. Fidel had been

dying for months, she was relieved that he had

finally come to the end of the journey, the end of the pain.

hi the stillness she listened to the sound of her breathing,

the sound of her heart pumping blood through her ears,

listened to an insect buzzing somewhere, listened to the

distant muted thump of footfalls and doors

closing, people engaged in the endless business of living.

She saw a gecko, high on the wall, quite motionless

except for his sides, which moved hi and out, just enough to be

seen hi the dun light coming in through the window drapes.

He seemed to be watching her. More likely he was

waiting for a fly, as he did somewhere every day, as his

ancestors had done since the dawn of time, as his

progeny would do until the sun flamed up and burned

the earth to a cinder. Then, they say, the sun would

burn out altogether

and the earth, if it still existed, would wander the universe

forever, a cold, lifeless rock, spinning aimlessly.

Until then geckos clung to walls and God

provided flies. Amazing how that worked.

She wondered about Hector, wondered if he would

be found and arrested, or murdered and shoveled into an

anonymous grave. God knows she had done everything

possible to warn him. Perhaps the man didn’t want

to be warned: perhaps he knew the task before him was