Authors: Robert W. Walker
“I intend to find out, right now.”
“Wait! You can’t leave the scene!”
“Just watch me.”
“Hold on! Colonel Gutierrez wants to speak to you!”
She reckoned that the wily old fox had been listening in all along on a speakerphone. Distrusting both men, she switched on a nearby radio, dialed between stations for static, turned the volume full-blast, and waved her cell phone before it. Screaming static tore at Gutierrez’s ears, as she spoke over it. “I’m…’av…trouble ‘earing you…sir.”
“Detective Aguilera!”
“Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?” she asked repeatedly through the static. “…not hearing you so good, Colonel!”
JZ smiled to hear Gutierrez’s protests coming over the phone as she cut off communication. “Clearly pissed off.”
“When is he not?” She gave him a smile. “OK, let’s go before Peña shows up with a list of unanswerable questions.”
Same time, atop a sugar warehouse along Havana Bay
An exasperated, frustrated Cavuto Ruiz paced the rooftop, his distinctive Panama hat providing minimal protection against the glare of sunlight and none from the heat. Perspiration ran down his microphone cord, leaving dark splotches on his beige guayabera shirt. He held up both hands, one filled with a smoking cigar, to combat against the bright sunlight reflected off the bay. “Sun is a bitch…and where the fuck is Aguilera?” he muttered, then spoke more loudly for the microphone, “Will you be able to see your targets in this glare?” At the other end were two hand-picked marksmen, veteran secret police officers in fatigues. Loyal men, who knew how to take orders—however unusual or unauthorized. They had taken up carefully selected positions, their high-powered weapons at the ready, simply awaiting two designated targets—Latoya and Aguilera—to join the men of the Sanabela. In unison, the sharpshooters grunted into their throat mics.
“That old bastard, Estrada, called Aguilera an hour ago.
Where
is she?” Cavuto asked, unaware that he was also being heard and watched from an adjacent rooftop.
Headset firmly in place, Alejandro Valdes wondered what new evil Cavuto Ruiz had in mind this morning. Was he operating on Humberto’s orders? Or, was the sadistic bastard operating independently?
25
Grateful to get away from Tino’s body, Quiana and JZ exited the home, now a crime scene, and wended their way down the walk toward the T-Bird, now bathed in full sunlight. Children stood about, admiring the classic car, the same children who’d earlier played about the streets. Qui asked one of the urchins staring at them to approach. “Do you know where the woman who lives here and her children’ve gone?”
“They left,” the boy replied.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yesterday?”
“Maybe.”
“Saturday?”
“Ahhh…maybe.”
An older girl, having listened carefully, called out to Qui. “They weren’t home Saturday.”
Qui asked the boy, “Is that true?”
“Maybe.” Then he blurted out, “Carlito’s my friend. He said he’d come back.”
“Then you saw them go away on Saturday?”
“Maybe.”
Qui felt a rising exasperation with the boy, so she turned to the girl, “Do you know where they went?”
“Off to the mountains…a vacation….”
All but Tino, who lay dead inside, and for how long? And for how long had he feared for his family’s welfare, and now this.
Qui thanked the children and joined JZ already behind the wheel.
The two now rushed for the marina where the Sanabela and the peculiar lock, which refused to stay put, hopefully awaited their arrival. They rode in bleak silence, their somber mood in stark contrast to the bright Cuba blue morning. Spilling from doorways, cafes, and windows along their route came familiar Afro-Cuban rhythms. Even on the docks, music escaped from boats where JZ pulled the T-Bird to a halt.
As Qui climbed from the passenger side facing the bay, she saw Luis Estrada stepping off the boat and coming toward them
,
a cloth bag in hand. Anticipation gripped her. “Finally, the lock.”
JZ had joined her on the pier, the boards beneath them sounding a dull cadence as they started toward Estrada. She’d told JZ about her ‘Uncle Estrada’ during the drive from Miramar to Tino’s. “So this is your Uncle Estrada?” he asked.
A sudden hail of gunfire exploded behind them. All in an instant, Estrada raced for the boat, clutching the package, while JZ and Qui, guns now extended, wheeled to witness the destruction to the Thunderbird: Windows shattered, chassis riddled with bullets, radiator spewing forth a sulfurous cloud. As Qui pulled him down, JZ screamed out, “Not the car!” With a loud
whoosh
, a fireball surrounded and consumed the red classic—the only gift of the inferno a rapidly rising black smoke screen affording dubious cover.
Bullets still sought them out, coming through the smoke, ripping gaping holes. Each exploding bullet coming nearer its mark, Qui screamed and tugged at JZ, who was returning fire, “The boat, JZ! Now! Come on!” JZ relented and the two of them, pursued by hellfire, dashed for the Sanabela and cover, the sound of bullets chewing up the wood near their ankles, urging them to move faster.
When JZ’d shouted laments over the T-Bird, Estrada’d gained the relative safety of his boat, shouting to his anxious crew, “Shove off!”
Bullets still buzzing about them like so many angry bees, Qui and JZ leapt onto the trawler as it began pulling away from the dock. An explosion made all heads turn back to the marina. The vehicle parked closest to JZ’s rental had disintegrated, spewing unidentifiable pieces high in the air. Chrome projectiles, melted metal, molded plastic shards, burning fluids—all rained over the charred and misshapen frame. Shinning bits reflected sunlight like so many spinning mirrors, mocking the scene.
As suddenly as it’d erupted, the gunfire ceased—a deafening silence in the wake of such nerve-shattering events. Qui looked back toward the marina as Estrada’s crew got the Sanabela further and further from the mayhem. Sirens filled the air around the marina as fire trucks and police units rushed in. At a further distance, high on a factory rooftop, she saw a lone man in a Panama hat and the common four-pocket bush shirt, called a guayabera, lift a hand to his face. From his stance and movement, body shape and size, she guessed the figure to be Cavuto Ruiz. Someone she didn’t wish to tangle with, not if rumors circulating about him were true.
JZ followed her gaze. “Who is he?”
“A kingpin in the Secret Police, General Cavuto Ruiz. Ever hear of him?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have heard of him. I’m told he is ruthless at poker and interrogation.”
“People taken to the
Castillo Atares
—SP headquarters…never come back.”
“But why is a man like General Ruiz shooting up my rental car and trying to kill us? Why is he involved? Three foreign doctors get tortured and killed and anyone who knows anything about it gets killed or shot at. Why?”
“I don’t know, JZ. Why these three doctors? What did they know, what did they have? Why the Secret Police? Too many questions, too few answers.”
“Ruiz might’ve abducted us at any time, so then why aren’t we simply among the
disappeareds
?”
“Ahh, I see you’ve been here long enough to know our euphemisms.”
“Yes, and long enough to miss my American freedoms, especially the freedom of speech.”
She gave him a long look, “I can only imagine it…what it must be like to speak freely anywhere…anytime. To make real choices in life.”
“Different than here, that’s for damn sure.”
They stood quietly, watching, lost in thought as the Sanabela continued out to sea, too distant now even for the marksmen.
JZ turned to Qui and asked, “They were using precision military weapons, so why’d they deliberately hit the car and miss us? Why is that?” He ran a hand through his hair before continuing, “Answers, Qui, we need answers. And, the car, how am I going to explain the car?”
“I’m sorry about your car, but you’re right. If they wanted us dead…. The SP’re excellent marksmen,” she commented. “So why were we herded like goats onto the Sanabela?”
“Maybe a warning,” JZ suggested. “Not quite so final as killing us. But a warning of what?”
She shook her head. “It seems the path to the truth just became more convoluted than before.” As questions raced pell-mell through her mind, the slight rolling motion of the trawler made Qui long for a place of peace and calm to sort through recent events. “Who really fired on us? Who ordered it? Who can I trust…who do I dare trust? Sergio, my god, I’ve got to warn him,” Qui exclaimed, “he may also be targeted.”
Knowing it was Sergio Latoya’s day off, Qui immediately dialed his home number. JZ listened to the one-sided conversation, thinking of the call he needed to make and debating how much to say about events.
“Hello…Sergio? Sorry ‘bout waking, but things are falling apart…shut up! Just listen! Something awful to tell you. Quiet! Listen. Estaban Montoya and Tino Hilito are dead.” She paused to allow him to absorb this news. “Look, in both cases, I suspect murder. Disregard that! You can’t go by official reports. Not now. Both were staged to look like death by accident and by suicide, and it became apparent this morning that we’re
all
in danger. Yes, that’s why I’m calling you! I think it’s murder!” she repeated. “And now…at the marina, some of us came under automatic weapons gunfire! Yes, this morning, damn it, and I saw Cavuto Ruiz on a rooftop.”
She listened for a moment. “I’m unhurt, just terrified. Peña’s investigating both deaths. But Gutierrez got on the phone this morning when I called in Tino’s body. Don’t know…can’t say. Maybe he is involved. Who can say? Listen Sergio, I don’t trust him or Pena, so be careful.”
JZ agreed, “I never trusted that man.”
Qui continued speaking into the phone, “The less you know about that now the better; I’m safe here. Sergio, I fear for your life and your family. Get outta Havana now! Don’t delay.” There was another pause.
“How did you know about the switched lock? He wrote what? Cavuto Ruiz was behind it?”
JZ listened more attentively.
“Hold onto that note, it’ll be important later.” Qui nodded vigorously several times. “I’m safe now, quit worrying. Yes. No. Not alone.” She sighed heavily into the phone. “I’m with Julio Zayas from the American Interest Section.” She laughed. “No! Sharp, catches on quick.” She glanced at JZ.
“Ruiz is a nasty piece of work, Sergio, and should he get hold of you… Sorry, but I can’t tell you where we are…. All I know is that those dead doctors and the lock hold the key to something big. Ruiz will stop at nothing to silence people like us… Radio? No I haven’ heard one. Those bastards! It’s a lie!”
JZ couldn’t stand it any longer; he had to interrupt. “What’s this about?”
Qui turned to him and explained that the SP had made an announcement saying that the three foreign doctors had lost their lives due to drug trafficking and that an official investigation was underway.
Sergio caught her attention again, and she said into her phone, “Be careful what you say, not sure but the SP may be able to tap into wireless calls.” Qui shaded her eyes from the wind. “Whatever you do,” she asked, “call my dad at the B&B and let him know I’m safe, that I’ll call when I can, and no one is to talk to anyone. Anyone like Peña or the colonel asking, you don’t how where I am—haven’t heard from me—understand?”
She waited for him to agree. “Oh, papa knows about the lock but nothing about Tino, and please leave out the part about my being used for target practice. Now, go hide your family.” She ended the call, satisfied she’d done everything in her power to warn Sergio and her father.
JZ took a moment to call his superiors, asking for time to track down leads, and to not believe the news accounts about the missing doctors. Anxious for anything to shake loose that would dispute the smear campaign against two Americans, his AIS boss gave him the go-ahead. Ending the call, JZ turned to Qui and suggested, “Let’s find out what your uncle knows.”