Games of the Hangman (23 page)

"Last
night," continued
Ventura
,
"my men picked up a certain Miguel Rovere, an enforcer for those American
friends of ours who like to support our economy by financing gambling,
prostitution, drugs, and similar examples of the American Dream.
 
Apparently he was better at inflicting pain
than receiving it.
 
By morning he was
screaming for mercy.
 
He said he had some
very important information fit for my ears only.
 
It was about a Señor Reston — the late Señor
Reston.

"Rovere
said that he and an imported hitman from
Miami
had killed Whitney Reston — and that the contract had been put out by you.
 
You know, I'm so used to hearing lies from
prisoners — people say anything to stop the pain — that I find myself quite
taken aback by veracity.
 
I find the
truth extraordinary in the literal sense of the word.
 
Because it is extraordinary, it is distinctive
and immediately recognizable.
 
Rovere's
smashed, bloody lips whispered the truth."

Kadar's mother
started to cry.
 
Then she shouted at
Ventura
that if he had
been willing to do something about Whitney in the first place, none of this
would have been necessary.
 
Was she
supposed to do nothing when her only son was being turned into a woman by some
perverted American?
 
And so it went on —
an outpouring of hate, frustration, and pent-up rage.
 
Much of it was garbled.
 
But Kadar didn't think Whitney was killed
simply for what he was supposed to have done to him.
 
No, Whitney's killing had come to symbolize
for her a way of getting back at all the people who had used and discarded her
over the years.

*
         
*
         
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*
         
*

"So she
knew," Dr. Paul broke in.
 
"Did
she speak to you about it?"

"Not a
word."

"I
suppose she knew it wouldn't have done any good."

"I
suppose she did," said Kadar.
 
"When the significance of what was being said began to sink in, my
reactions were disparate.
 
Part of me was
so stunned I had difficulty breathing.
 
Another part of me went very calm.
 
I was not altogether surprised at what I had heard.
 
The two killers had dressed like campesinos,
but their body language had been wrong.
 
They had borne themselves like city people.
 
I had trained myself to notice such things.

"Mother
sniveled for a while and then spoke.
 
She
sounded frightened.
 
She asked
Ventura
what he was going
to do.
 
He answered that for the moment
he would do nothing except keep her out of circulation until he could figure
out some answers.
 
Then she asked if he
was going to tell the CIA.
 
He was he
would have, but to be frank, he was afraid of being included in their
tidying-up process.

"Mother
had to go — I was sure of that.
 
Soon it
became equally inevitable that
Ventura
must be killed, too.
 
I had nothing
against him personally — indeed, I admired and had learned much from his
single-minded ruthlessness — but he had something I needed, and with him dead I
knew how to get it.

"For the
next few days I considered a wide variety of plans and methods.
 
I decided for security reasons not to involve
anyone else — look at how Rovere had implicated Mother.
 
Besides, I knew that I was going to have to
kill again in the future if I was going to make my way as planned.
 
I might as well make a good start.
 
I was aware that I suffered from
squeamishness — I disliked intensely the sight of blood — but I was determined
to eliminate such weaknesses from my makeup.

"Don't
get the idea that I was a total stranger to violence.
 
Quite the contrary, it would be hard to be
around
Ventura
for long without being exposed to one of the major realities of life.
 
Nonetheless, seeing someone killed is not the
same as doing it yourself.
 
It was
important to get hands-on experience.

"It began
to dawn on me that I had picked a tough target to begin with, of course, Mother
shared in
Ventura
's
protection.
 
Ventura
himself was a physically formidable
man and was always armed.
 
The house was
heavily guarded at all times, and when
Ventura
traveled, he was driven in a car fitted with bulletproof glass and armor
plating.
 
In addition, heavily armed
security police rode in Jeeps in front of and behind him.
 
The same level of security was maintained at
BRAC headquarters.
 
Many people wanted
Ventura
dead, and he knew
it.
 
He was an intelligent man.
 
His precautions were well thought out and
implemented.

"In the
final analysis I abandoned all my complex plans and high tech methods and opted
for a scenario that would exploit the one major security weakness, the lack of
guards indoors, and at the same time would allow me to lose my virginity and
exact retribution in a most direct manner.
 
It was a simple scheme, and it depended heavily on precise timing.

"I
thought of blaming the killings on either the CIA or the Fidelistas — either would
have represented a certain natural balance to the affair — but in terms of
access, neither was very credible without taking out some of the perimeter
guards.
 
I would have the advantage of
coming from the inside, something they would not be expecting, but even so, it
was a tall order for a novice.

"By a
process of elimination — and yes, I did think of the Mafia, which doubtless was
not too pleased by Rovere's disappearance — I came up with a traditional
motive, very Cuban in its fire and passion.

"Day
after day I practiced
Ventura
's
signature.
 
I have always had
considerable artistic ability, so the results were good.
 
Meanwhile,
Ventura
and Mother played into my hands.
 
They fought in front of the guards and
servants.
 
There were long periods of icy
silence between them, and both drank heavily.
 
The tension increased as it became clear that Batista was going to be
overthrown.
 
The exodus of Batista
followers had started.
 
Mother screamed
publicly that
Ventura
was planning to leave her to be executed by the Fidelistas.
 
This was good stuff.
 
It provided a credible motive.
 
Now it was down to nerve and timing.

"The
house was a large three-story building.
 
The guards protected the gate, the walls, and the various entrances to
the house itself.
 
There were five
servants, but only two lived in.
 
Their
quarters were over the garage, with an access door leading directly to the
first floor.
 
That door was padded to cut
down noise.
 
It didn't seem likely that
the sound of shots would penetrate, but sound carries at night, and I had to be
sure.

"I typed
a note on
Ventura
's
study typewriter, signed it with his signature, and addressed it to
Mother.
 
I placed the note in my
pocket.
 
I had already taken a small .22
caliber automatic pistol that
Ventura
had given my mother several years before.
 
I checked that and place it in the other side pocket of my robe.

"They
tended to go to bed late.
 
Through my spy
hole, headphones in place, I monitored their progress.
 
As I watched each action, I thought, there,
they are doing that or that for the last time.
 
It gave me an odd feeling, almost of omniscience.

"
Ventura
climbed into bed
naked.
 
He drank some brandy and leaned
back against the pillows.
 
He was smoking
a cigar.
 
His automatic pistol lay, cocked
and locked, on the bedside table.
 
Mother
sat in front of the dressing table.
 
I
knew she would be there for several minutes.
 
She no longer enjoyed sharing a bed with
Ventura
.

"I left
my door open and descended to the floor below.
 
I knocked tentatively on the door and announced myself.
 
Mother let me in.
 
‘I need to talk,’ I said.

"
Ventura
looked both
irritated and amused.
 
His glass was
nearly empty.
 
I walked over to his side
of the bed and refilled it.
 
His chest
was matted with black hair, and he was sweating.
 
"Thanks, kid," he said.
 
His voice was friendly.

"My
mother had her back to us as she finished at the dressing table.
 
I replaced the brandy bottle on the bedside
table.
 
Beside it there was a hand towel
that
Ventura
had been using.
 
It was damp with is
sweat.
 
I wiped my own hands with it and
reached into my pocket for the .22.
 
I
shot
Ventura
twice in the chest.

"I turned
as Mother turned and in three swift steps was in front of her.
 
I went down on one knee.
 
Over my shoulder she could see
Ventura
.
 
She stared, mouth open, too shocked to
scream.
 
I placed the pistol in her
mouth, angled toward her brain, and squeezed the trigger.
 
There was less noise than you'd expect.

"I heard a faint gasp and walked back to
Ventura
.
 
He was still alive, though his eyes were going dull.
 
Blood mixed with brandy was staining the
sheets.
 
He was saying something.
 
I leaned over to hear, being careful to avoid
the mess.
 
‘But why me?’ he
whispered.
 
‘Why me?’

"I pulled the note from my pocket and showed him his signature.
 
A look of understanding crept into his
eyes.
 
I recited a number to him and an
amount:
 
‘One million, three hundred and
twenty-seven thousand dollars.’

"‘I was aiming for two,’ he whispered, ‘but that fucking Castro has
screwed things up.’

"I shot him again, twice, this time in the head, then tore up the
note and scattered the pieces over his body.
 
It announced, in my best version of
Ventura
's
style, that
he was leaving
Cuba
and that Mother would have to
look after herself.
 
I placed the pistol
in Mother's hand.

"Nobody heard a thing.
 
I
didn't have to be found screaming as if I'd run into the room after having
heard the shots.
 
I waited ten minutes
and adopted the second option.
 
I locked
their bedroom door and went upstairs to sleep.
 
I slept like a log.
 
In the morning
the guards broke down their door, and the crashes and shouting awoke me.
 
It was easy to drop Mother's door key where
it would have been flung out of the lock as the door was burst open.

"I met my new mother three days later.
 
Father gave me a strange look when I shook
hands with him, but he didn't say anything."

"What did you feel after you had killed your mother?" asked Dr.
Paul.

"I wished I'd used a shotgun."

*
         
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*
         
*
         
*

They dined
simply:
 
salad, potatoes, cheese, and
fruit.
 
There were candles on the
table.
 
Throughout the meal they talked
about memories, mutual friends, food, and wine, but rarely about the
future.
 
From time to time, in unguarded
moments, Fitzduane perceived a flash of sadness in Christina's eyes.
 
Mostly she projected warmth, tenderness, and
a deep, caring affection.
 
He realized
that Guido, despite his pain and approaching death, was quietly content.

They talked
about the recent riots in
Zurich
and the youth movement.