Authors: David Hagberg
Without Honor (37 page)
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By ten McGarvey, waiting across from the hotel in the park, was becoming impatient. Something might have gone wrong in Miami. Baranov certainly knew by now that Basulto was there. Perhaps he had ordered the man assassinated. It wasn't unthinkable considering everything else that had gone on. The Cuban had outlived his usefulness, hadn't he? Or was there a flaw in that thinking? Baranov had been celebrating last night, or at least he had put up a damned good show of it. Which meant, as far as Baranov was concerned, this business was as good as done. As it had last night on the mountain road below the Russian's villa, the thought raised the hair at the back of McGarvey's neck. Circles within circles. Lies within lies. Plots within plots. Baranov was the master.
Sitting on a bench watching the busy traffic he turned his thoughts to Evita; poor, frightened, abused little Evita waiting upstairs in the hotel room. He was astonished at his own behavior, and all the more guilty because he knew with certainty that Marta would understand. Or at least she would pretend to understand though he suspected she would secretly be hurt. But even more astonishing to
him were his feelings toward Marta which had surfaced in the morning. He was allowing himself to think for the first time in a very long time that he was actually in love with someone.
him were his feelings toward Marta which had surfaced in the morning. He was allowing himself to think for the first time in a very long time that he was actually in love with someone.
In Lausanne the apartment would have been cleared out by now and Marta would be in her own place. He wondered what her real home was like and if she went back there when he was away at work, only returning to their apartment when he was coming back. It made him sad to think how he had treated her during their last years, especially the last weeks.
He had taught her how to ski after she had cheerfully admitted she was probably the only Swiss in history who didn't know how. It was in the early days of their relationship. He had learned to ski as a boy in Colorado and Montana. They spent a week in Zermatt working every morning on the lower slopes, making love in their room all afternoon, and dancing in the evening in the lodge. On the first day he had spent a frustrating two hours trying to teach her the basic snowplow turn. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen an older man in knickers, a bright red and blue sweater and a Tyrollean hat leaning against his ski poles watching them. Each time Marta would lean into the turn she would fall until at last she got it right, and he had hugged her, lifting her right out of her skis. The man watching them executed a perfect jump turn and schussed off down the hill yodeling in the best Swiss tradition. Marta had noticed him from the beginning. She laughed.
“I don't know who had more patience, him or you,” she said.
The next week they found an apartment together and she learned just how impatient he really was.
A taxicab pulled up in front of the Hotel Del Prado, and Basulto, wearing a collarless gray sport
coat, the sleeves pushed up nearly to his elbows, a small black overnight bag clutched in his left hand, got out and went inside. It was fifteen minutes after ten. McGarvey remained seated on the park bench in plain sight. The morning was already beginning to get warm, and traffic had picked up. Behind him a couple of banners from last night still hung in the trees. By tonight there would be another demonstration here, but by then he figured he would be long gone and this business finished. He had been in other cities like this before. Cities under stress, cities in crisis. Santiago came to mind. He didn't speak Spanish, but no one seemed to mind. Keep a low profile when the bullets start to fly and you'll be all right. Strange advice for an assassin, he'd always thought. But then it was war; and one country's holy mission was another's terrorist attack.
coat, the sleeves pushed up nearly to his elbows, a small black overnight bag clutched in his left hand, got out and went inside. It was fifteen minutes after ten. McGarvey remained seated on the park bench in plain sight. The morning was already beginning to get warm, and traffic had picked up. Behind him a couple of banners from last night still hung in the trees. By tonight there would be another demonstration here, but by then he figured he would be long gone and this business finished. He had been in other cities like this before. Cities under stress, cities in crisis. Santiago came to mind. He didn't speak Spanish, but no one seemed to mind. Keep a low profile when the bullets start to fly and you'll be all right. Strange advice for an assassin, he'd always thought. But then it was war; and one country's holy mission was another's terrorist attack.
The two doormen in front of the hotel were talking with each other when Basulto came back out. They didn't bother looking up. He walked to the curb and looked across the street directly at McGarvey. He started to wave but then thought better of it, turning instead and hurrying to the corner. The light changed and he crossed the avenue.
McGarvey watched him coming, watched him trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. But it was obvious the Cuban was excited. McGarvey could see it in his walk, in the way he held himself like a boxer ready to dodge the next jab, and in the way he kept looking around, his eyes always moving, watching for a tail. But there was no one behind him. No one watching them, no one to care, yet.
“Is it so good meeting out in the open like this?” Basulto asked nervously, coming up.
“Sit down, Artimé,” McGarvey said, not bothering to look at him.
Time, he thought, like truth, was such a precious
commodity and yet everyone seemed to abuse it, to squander it. Once it was lost, there was no going back. The same with truth. He was short on both just now.
commodity and yet everyone seemed to abuse it, to squander it. Once it was lost, there was no going back. The same with truth. He was short on both just now.
“You called and I came. I'm here. Are we going to burn him now? What's the plan?”
“Tonight. He should be down here by morning at the latest. Him and his pal Baranov.”
“Why here?”
“It'll be just like old days.”
“Why not Washington? Just shoot the bastard. Or arrest him. Why here?”
“His wife is across the street just now. She's going to telephone him at nine. Tell him that she's here waiting for him. That you're here, too, and want to make a deal.”
McGarvey glanced over at Basulto, whose eyes had grown wide. He looked as if he would jump off the bench at any moment and run, screaming, out into the street.
“What wife?” he squeaked.
“You might have to talk to him on the telephone. Convince him that you mean business. Convince him that you want to trade. But when he gets here, you're going to kill him instead.”
“You're crazy. He's got no wife.”
“Her name is Evita.”
“Never heard of her.”
“You knew her from the old days, Artime. She didn't think much of you. Thought you'd been working for Batista before you signed on with Yarnell and Baranov.”
“She's lying. I swear to God, Mr. McGarvey.”
“I don't think so,” McGarvey said quietly. He wanted to be almost anywhere but here.
“What can I say or do to convince you ⦠?”
“It doesn't matter. When Yarnell gets here tomorrow,
you're going to have to kill him. I'll give you the gun.”
you're going to have to kill him. I'll give you the gun.”
“What about you?”
“I'm going to kill Baranov.”
“I don't need this shit,” Basulto said starting to get up.
“Where will you go?”
“I got friends.”
“So do I,” McGarvey said, looking up. “And so does Yarnell. He knows you fingered him. Just like you fingered your case officer, Roger Harris.”
Basulto stood very still, as if he were afraid he would break something if he moved so much as a muscle. The morning sun glinted on his forehead and pomaded black hair. His eyes were filled with fear.
“You knew Darby Yarnell in those days. You knew who he was, and you knew that he worked for Baranov. But when Roger Harris came to you looking for a fellow agency officer who had turned traitor, it wasn't Yarnell he was after. It must have come as a big shock to you all. A big relief.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“I think you do. I think that Baranov told you to lie. You were all biding your time, waiting for the right moment to get rid of Harris.”
“I swear to God ⦔
“I know all about it, Artime. So do Trotter and Day. But our deal with you still stands if you'll cooperate. Nothing has changed. We still want Yarnell. After all, it was he who actually pulled the trigger on Harris. Not you.”
Tears began to fill Basulto's eyes. He sat down. “I loved Roger Harris. He was a good man to me.”
“He just got mixed up with something that put him in over his head,” McGarvey suggested.
“They knew about me.”
“Who did?”
“The Russians. Baranov. They were going to blackmail me. There was nothing else to do, nowhere to run.” He shook his head. “I should have went up into the mountains with Uncle Fidel when I had the chance, you know. Maybe it would have been different for me. There were a lot of heroes.”
“Dead heroes,” McGarvey said.
“They had respect.”
“So you told them about Harris?”
“Yeah, I told them.”
“Did you ever know the name of the man Roger Harris was really looking for?”
“No. I swear toâ” Basulto stopped. He shook his head. “No.”
“Did Baranov or Yarnell?”
“I think so. They were excited about it.”
“Frightened.”
Basulto managed a slight smile. “No. Not Valentin. Nothing frightened him.”
“Then what happened? I mean after the Bay of Pigs?”
“I ran, just like I told you.”
“Into the hills?”
“Yes.”
“But Cuba and the Soviet Union were allies. You must have known that Baranov would come looking for you.”
“They weren't allies at first. Besides, I hadn't done anything wrong in their eyes. And Valentin told me that I could get out any time I wanted. So I did.”
“And he never came looking for you?”
“Never.”
“Not even nine months ago? He didn't look you up, which at this point would have been very easy for him. He didn't look you up and tell you that he needed your help? âJust one more little job, Comrade
Basulto.' He didn't tell you to get yourself caught?”
Basulto.' He didn't tell you to get yourself caught?”
“No,” Basulto said.
“But if he had, you would have gone to work for him, like in the old days?”
Basulto's anger flared, but then he held himself in check. He lowered his head. “Probably. But it didn't happen, and I was sick of it. All of it. Living that way. I wanted out. I want out now.”
The Cuban had not told the truth before, and there was no reason to believe that he had told the entire truth this time. But McGarvey had a feeling that this version of the story was a lot closer to the truth than the others. Yet there was something missing. Something else. Something beyond his understanding, still, and he suspected beyond the understanding even of Basulto, who after all had been and continued to be nothing more than one of Baranov's pawns in a very large and complicated game.
“Not yet,” McGarvey said, “Not quite yet.”
With a strange intensity, Basulto threw up an arm. “I'll do it, Mr. McGarvey. Whatever it is you want of me. Because I'm tired and I want it to end. All the years.
Cristo.
You can't know. If you want me to kill him, I will. Just get me out. As one man to another, I'm asking you, just get me out.”
Cristo.
You can't know. If you want me to kill him, I will. Just get me out. As one man to another, I'm asking you, just get me out.”
McGarvey got to his feet, suddenly ashamed of himself without admitting why. “Come on,” he growled. “I want you to meet someone.”
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The sun shone in her hair from the open window, making it seem almost as if a halo surrounded her head. She turned, and McGarvey could see the shock of recognition in her eyes as she saw Basulto. Last night and this morning she had seemed vulnerable. At this moment she seemed diminished.
“You,” she said as if it were an indictment.
“It's all changed, I swear it,” Basulto said from the doorway.
She laughed. “Don't you know? Nothing changes.”
McGarvey thought she looked beautiful just then, and tragic. A lost soul barely hanging on to her sanity and her life.
“I'll be here for you,” McGarvey lied, looking into her eyes.
“We'll manage,” she said. “We're old friends.”
“By tomorrow it will be over.”
“One way or the other.”
It was getting late. Time to go, and yet McGarvey was having a hard time leaving her. He was getting old, he decided. And soft in the head.
“Call at nine tonight,” he said. “Put Artime on if you think it's necessary.”
She said nothing. They'd already gone over this. “I'll be here,” he said unnecessarily.
Basulto had been standing just within the doorway. He backed out. Evita said something to him in Spanish and he smiled, his eyes narrowing a bit.
He replied. “Si.”
She nodded, and Basulto turned and disappeared down the corridor to his own room.
“He is genuinely frightened,” she said.
“I think so.”
“So am I.”
McGarvey felt like a bastard leaving her like this. He didn't know where this story would end, but he knew that he would have to see it to whatever the conclusion would be. They would all have to see it to the end. He took out his pistol, laid it on the table, and then crossed the room and took her into his arms. “They're the bad lot, not us,” he said.
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