Frame 232 (34 page)

HAMMOND STOOD
at the wheel of the
Wind Dancer
, wide awake in spite of the late hour. Galeno Clemente, seated on the starboard side with one elbow propped on the railing, appeared relaxed as he watched the miles go by. Havana was still visible in the distance, barely.

The brief walk from the apartment to the dock had been uneventful. Hammond had feared his attackers might return, perhaps with reinforcements, to exact vengeance. But Olivero once again negotiated a route that kept them in the shadows and, Hammond was sure, didn’t exist on any tourist map. Hammond overheard bits and pieces of the Clementes’ conversation as he readied the boat. Olivero said he would abandon his apartment, what with the storm of media attention that was surely headed his way, and move to Santa Clara to live with friends for a while. Then, he said, he would try to slip into America for a visit. When the two brothers embraced, it was the younger Olivero who struggled to maintain his composure.

Now Hammond repeatedly shifted his gaze from the open sea to his guest, doing his best to keep his wariness discreet.
Eventually, however, Clemente said, “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Hammond. I am not going to harm you. I told you before, my days of violence are long behind me and have been for a very long time.”

“Sorry,” Hammond said. “I just . . . It’s hard for me to imagine how someone can go from one extreme to another. I know people can change, but you’re talking about change of an amazing degree.”

Clemente nodded. “Yes, that is true. It did happen, though, and it happened like
that
.” He snapped his fingers as he had in his brother’s apartment. “In just a few days, sitting in that hotel room in Trinity, Texas.”

“How?”

“This might be hard for you to understand, but it was the death of your president that did it. That was the breaking point. I could not get the pictures out of my mind. I had seen so many deaths, but this one was very harsh, very . . . messy. And his wife, too. Such a beautiful woman. To see her on the back of the car, crawling to pick up the pieces of . . . It was truly horrible. I could not sleep, could not eat. I kept hearing the sounds of people screaming on the sidewalk above me, their feet as they ran in all directions. The hits I carried out were always done in secret, at night and in darkness. But this was done in the day, when everyone could see. Why did it have to be this way? I wondered about the children who were there. What did they think about it? What about
his
children? What must it have been like for them? Sooner or later, I am sure, they saw the film that the dressmaker Mr. Zapruder took. I cannot even imagine what they felt. And then to think that I would have fired myself if I had to, if Oswald had not. I was supposed to hit him just before he reached that highway bridge, the one they call the
triple underpass. I would have had a clear shot, and I would have taken it.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Sitting in that room,” Clemente went on, “I thought of something else too. Fidel Castro, my very beloved leader, must have known that I was not coming back. He must have known that I was to be eliminated after the hit. That surprised me and made me angry. All that I had done for him, all the other killings. All, I thought, for his great cause. I was young enough and foolish enough to believe that I would be treated differently, that I was special to him. But I was just another piece in his game to be moved about. I realized that then. I saw the man for the egomaniac that he really was. His revolution
 
—nonsense. Castro did not change Cuba to Communism; he changed it to Castroism.
He
was the political system and the legal system and the economic system. The Cuban people were there to serve him and not any grand political or ideological philosophy.”

Clemente was becoming more animated now, more passionate. Hammond watched with rapt fascination.

“Who benefited most from his policies?
He
did. He and his friends and his family. He promised everything for the working class. And yes, yes, he did make some improvements for ordinary people. But for the most part, there were only two classes in Cuba
 
—Castro and his circle at the very top, and everyone else on the bottom. The well-fed and the starving. And I had to live with the fact that I had helped build that system. I had played a part in its creation. I had fought for it, killed for it. But the worst part, Mr. Hammond, is that I killed
myself
, too.”

This was one of the most fascinating monologues Hammond had ever heard. He could not have torn his eyes
from Clemente at that moment if the moon had dropped out of the sky and splashed into the sea.

Clemente smiled. “I’m sure you won’t believe this, Mr. Hammond, but did you know what one of my ambitions was as a boy? I wanted to be a holy man. I thought about being many things, but that was one of them. My parents were devout believers who prayed every night and took us to church every Sunday. My brother and I did not resist this. Each night I would thank God for all the good things we had. I told him I would do anything to keep my family healthy and make my father richer and all of that. I obeyed my parents. I did my schoolwork. I was like an angel. But when our life started to fall apart, I felt as though God had betrayed me. I became very, very angry. I blamed him for everything that happened.” Clemente paused here to make sure he had his listener’s full attention, then said, “Just like you have been doing.”

Hammond’s reaction was slow, a dawning kind of comprehension that the conversation had, in just one sentence, taken a hard about-turn and was now focused squarely on him. “I don’t know what you m
 
—”

“Yes, you do. I have seen it in your eyes. I know the look all too well. Your eyes held no fear when I was pointing the gun at you. Do you not think I know what this means? The fearless way you have acted since you came to Cuba? And your adventures all over the world. Seeking truth? Yes, I believe you seek truth. I believe you to be an honest man who wants to see justice done, yes. But there are other reasons as well. Am I right?”

Before, Hammond had not been able to pull his gaze away from the man. Now he found it impossible to keep it there.

“Yes,” Clemente continued, “I know something of this. You cannot do the deed yourself, so you put yourself in danger in the hope of having someone else do it.”

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Clemente delivered the next proclamation with chilling confidence. “You want to be with your family again, Mr. Hammond.”

Hammond was left speechless. Even Noah had never penetrated his psyche at such depth. And yet this man
 
—this
stranger
 
—had done so, though they’d met only a few hours ago.

“Let me tell you, Mr. Hammond, the path you are traveling might not be exactly the same as mine, but it is similar enough. They run side by side. You have not yet destroyed yourself as I did, but you will in time. Do not doubt me on this. Remember that time is one of the most precious gifts the Lord gives us. Mine is almost used up, but you still have much of yours left. And you have received many other gifts as well. You are intelligent; you are healthy; you are rich. You can do so much good in this world. Do not waste your opportunities. Do not waste
yourself
, like I did, by letting anger get ahold of you. It is not too late.”

Hammond slid his hands into his pockets and feigned a concerned glance at the boat’s control panel.

“You seek truth? Well, here is a truth I learned while sitting in that hotel room
 
—God was not responsible for putting Batista in power, taking my parents away, or ruining my childhood. Men did that. Ordinary men like you and me. Men who had more power than they should have. Men who had evil in their hearts and the means to use it. I have come to believe that God has given us this world as one gift, and the chance to live in it as another. But what we do with it
is up to us. If he did not want us to think for ourselves, we would not be able to. Misfortune is part of life, and evil is part of humanity. It is sad, yes, and it is angering. But it is not God. God did not take my parents from me, Mr. Hammond. And he did not take your family from you.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“He did not. Your greatest mistake was to turn away from God when you lost your family. In such times, your faith needs to become your refuge. You need to trust that he has a greater plan for you. Let him be your strength; let him lead you to the next chapter in your life. You have left no opening in your heart for this because your life has become empty. In many ways, it has stopped.”

“Maybe it’s my faith that’s stopped.”

Clemente grinned. “Do not try to fool an old man, Mr. Hammond. If you did not still believe, you would not be having this battle inside yourself.”

Hammond started to reply, then stopped. It occurred to him once again that the depth of this man’s insight into his soul was staggering
 
—and unsettling.

“If you do not trust in the Lord, then who, Mr. Hammond? In television celebrities? Professional athletes? Politicians? I put my faith into politicians, and look where it took me. Replacing God with someone else or with something else is the path to destruction. Life without God is not living; it is only existing. And that is the path you are on. What have you done since your family’s tragic death? Think about this.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t be trying to get to the bottom of all these mysteries? I’m wasting my time trying to provide closure for the families involved? And bringing criminals to justice?”

“I do not know the answer to that. Perhaps you
are
supposed to be doing this. Perhaps that is part of God’s plan. But how can you know when you’ve shut him out? How can you find the true answers? You focus on the terrible things that have happened. Look at all the gifts he has given you. You have so many opportunities, and you are a strong and courageous man who has been through much suffering. But you have stopped
listening
.”

Hammond turned away, setting his hands on the wheel.

After a while, he cleared his throat and said, “So what did you do after you left Trinity?”

“Well, I decided it was time to begin making up for my sins. That was the only way forward. In my head I believed I had already been forgiven and my soul saved by grace alone. But for me personally, that was not enough. I could not bring any of my victims back from the grave, but I could right my wrongs in other ways. I changed my name several times so the people who wanted me dead would think that I really was. Only my brother knew the truth. I eventually settled on the name Salvador Romero. Salvador means ‘savior,’ and Romero means ‘one who seeks enlightenment.’ I liked that. This new identity would, indeed, save me, and the person that I had been before really did die. I traveled around the world doing charity work with missionary groups. I went to many countries, Mr. Hammond, just as when I was killing for Castro. Only this time I was helping to preserve life rather than take it away. I have been in Haiti for the last few years, helping to modernize villages.”

“Then why did you come back? Why now?”

“You were one reason. When I saw you on television and saw that you had the woman’s film, I knew it was time. I felt this very strongly inside. But I had also come to believe that all my charity work had not been enough. I need to do things
that will have a direct effect on the sins I committed. Coming back to America to reveal my part in your president’s assassination might change history for some, Mr. Hammond, but for me it is just one step. I would also like to give information about the others who were involved. Maybe it will help provide some measure of peace. So this is where it begins for me. And, I am guessing, where it will end as well.”

Hammond had no response to that.

BERNARD KANTER
awoke with a start. He was a huge man with a beefy, Germanic face framed by waves of white hair that had remained thick despite his age. He looked around the room confusedly, almost fearfully, until the last of the transitional sleeping-waking residue had evaporated and the recall machinery could fire up
 
—
the town house in Florida, the factory disputes . . .
His eyelids sagged to a close as he expelled a long breath.

The factory was one of sixty-two manufacturing plants around the world that operated under his ownership. This particular facility produced aftermarket automotive parts, and it was one of his most profitable. However, human resources had been remiss in their interpretation of the hiring guidelines he had set out for all his enterprises, and a few rabble-rousers had slipped through the net. Now they were pushing for unionization for the third straight year. Kanter would not permit one of his factories to unionize if the future of humanity depended upon it. The fact that he knew the complaints were fully justified
 
—he was working them half to death while subtly maintaining layoff threats
to smother the possibility of raise requests
 
—was immaterial. If they successfully voted to unionize, he would pack up the show and move it to a site in the Philippines. One of the rabble-rousers had told him the day before that they’d sue if he tried that. He’d nodded mindfully, feigning deep concern, but he was laughing inside. Billionaires didn’t worry about lawsuits from blue-collar bozos who could barely afford to make their minimum credit card payments, or from loosely organized unions that had been rendered impotent by their own corrupt and incestuous behavior.

Kanter peered at the clock on the nightstand
 
—4:22. He swore into the dimness with a chicken-like thrust of the head. Staying asleep had never been a problem until recently
 
—more to the point, until his prostate had decided to start acting up. He’d enjoyed good health all his life and hated the idea of having to submit to surgery at the age of eighty-six. But three months of random waking, which left him feeling heavy-headed during the day, was gradually recalibrating this opinion.

He peeled the sheets back in a huff. This did not disturb anyone on the other side because there was no one there. He’d had three wives, but the last one had been ushered out of the picture almost fifteen years ago. He didn’t speak with any of them now and had scant contact with only two of his eight children. He had been an indifferent husband and father at best and did not feel the least bit guilty about it. As with most selfish people, Kanter was solitary by nature and, in fact, felt distinctly uncomfortable in the company of others. The dollar would always be his one true love, and he had no trouble living with the things he’d done in pursuit of it.

Including the funding of a presidential assassination in late 1963.

Kanter had not viewed Kennedy as his nation’s leader but rather as someone standing in his way. The very notion of reducing American involvement in the Vietnam War while Kanter was trying to secure multibillion-dollar defense contracts was simply unacceptable. Kanter knew the military-industrial complex that had been ushered in by Eisenhower and others during World War II would never have tolerated such a policy. So, when approached with the idea of lending a hand with the finances, he had not hesitated.

When his secretary came running into his Manhattan office on the afternoon of November 22 with tears running down her cheeks, Kanter had feigned concern as well
 
—a shake of the head and a mumbled comment about what a shame it was. Then he had gone back to his paperwork. In the years since, he had scarcely given the incident a thought. Kings and queens were removed from power all the time, after all.

He went into the adjoining bathroom, cursing bitterly, then returned to bed. Before he lay back down, however, he felt the call of his only other vice
 
—food. There were leftovers in the refrigerator from an excellent Thai meal he’d had the night before. He shuffled into the kitchen, which was luminescent with moonlight, and opened the fridge door. This bathed him in a different kind of light: a spotlight of sorts. He stood there in his boxer shorts and crew-neck T-shirt searching for the Styrofoam box. It was on the top shelf, right side, with its lid open a crack.

He heard the sharp pop as he reached for it, and he turned. There was a small and perfectly round hole in the window over the sink. Kanter had time to wonder what had caused it; a bullet never entered his mind, figuratively speaking. Then his perspective continued rotating
 
—albeit
involuntarily
 
—first to the recessed light over the window, then the ceiling, and finally the etched-glass dome. Then the world began to spin away in a reverse cascade, higher and higher until it zoomed out of existence and all became dark and silent.

The cleaning woman found his body, stuck to the floor due to the coagulated blood, shortly after sunrise. Her screams awoke several people in the complex.