Killing Castro (8 page)

The simple way. He stood up, naked and hard-muscled, and walked to his window. He’d been careful to get a room with a window facing on the square. The square was La Plaza de la Republica, a small park surrounding the Palace of Justice. Parades with Fidel at their head made their way up a broad avenue to that plaza. Then Fidel would speak, orating wildly and magnificently from the steps of the palace. From his window Garrison could see those steps.

With the rifle properly mounted on the window ledge, he could place a bullet in Fidel’s open mouth.

He drew the window shade and returned to the bed. Maybe he wouldn’t even have to use the gun, he thought. Maybe one of the four idiots—Turner or Hines or Garth or Fenton, wherever the hell they all were—would save him the trouble. He was in no hurry. If one of the others killed Fidel, that was fine. He got his twenty grand just the same, with no risk and no work. If not, then he set up the gun and squeezed the trigger. The rifle would be dismantled and tucked away in the room before Fidel knew he was dead. The Beretta could stay where it was, in the television set. And he would be on the next boat to the mainland.

There was a knock on the door. He sighed, raised himself on one elbow. “Who is it?”

“Estrella. Let me in, ’arper.”

The name on his identification papers was John Harper, a simple enough name which happened to begin with the one letter Estrella couldn’t manage. He stood up, wrapped a bath towel around his middle and opened the door for her. She came inside.

She was very young and very beautiful. She had a tiny waist, solid breasts and hips, a red rosebud of a mouth and deep brown eyes that a man could get lost in. She was a prostitute; Garrison had managed to pick her up without trying very hard one night in the hotel’s bar. Now she came to his room every evening. Sometimes she would tell him that she was in love with him. Other times she would not say a word, would simply make love with him in fiery silence.

Now she ran a soft hand over his chest. “You take a bath,” she said. “All you Yankees, every minute you take another bath. You take too many baths, ’arper.”

“And you don’t take enough.”

She pouted. “You don’t like how I smell?”

His hands cupped her taut buttocks, drew her close. She was a full head shorter than he was. He lowered his face and inhaled the sweet animal fragrance that rose between her breasts.

“I like how you smell,” he said. “You smell of sex. You smell like you want to get into bed.”

“And you? You don’ wan’?”

“I wan’, Estrella.”

“You make fun how I talk. Don’ I talk awright?”

“You talk like a magpie. Come here, Estrella.”

She came into his arms again and he held her close. She wore a thin white cotton dress with nothing under it. He could feel the heat of her body through the thin cloth. She squirmed against him, and her hands found the towel around his waist.

“You don’ need that towel, ’arper.”

“You’re right.”

“So,” she said. The towel dropped to the floor and she stepped back, looked at him, grinned. “You’re naked,” she said. “I love you, ’arper. I love you, you bastard.”

He reached for her, caught her. She squealed with delight as he lifted her into the air and dumped her down on the bed. Then he was on the bed beside her, his hands busy with the white cotton dress. She laughed and giggled, pushed his hands away playfully. He grabbed her and kissed her. His tongue went between her lips and suddenly she moaned out loud; all the playfulness turned instantly to passion now and she was urging her body against his, kissing hard, holding tight.

They took her dress off. His hands went over her body, stroking the silken luxury of perfect skin, rubbing the slightly rounded stomach, cupping full breasts taut with womanliness, then kissing the upthrust nipples while she writhed wantonly on the bed. She said
’arper, ’arper, ’arper,
repeated again and again a name that was not really his.

There was no element of time, no sense of space. Reality was suspended momentarily; rather, reality consisted only of Garrison and the girl, only of the meeting of bodies. There was one instant of irony when he realized again that they were making love on top of a high-powered rifle, but the thought was submerged by a wave of passion.

Then he was on his back looking at the ceiling without seeing it, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, opened them again. He turned and saw her beside him, her eyes watching him. She looked like a cat by the fireplace, like an infant in the fetal posture. She looked beautiful.

“’arper,” she said, her sleek, naked body arching toward him.

“Mmmmm?”

“When you go back to America?”

“Not tonight. I’ll be busy tonight.”

“Don’t kid aroun’. When you go back?”

“I don’t know. Not for a while.”

“When you go,” she said softly, “you take me with you. No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because I’m a killer,
he thought.
Hired killers don’t carry pretty little whores in their suitcases. They travel light.

“’arper? You married, ’arper?”

It was a convenient lie but he passed it up, shaking his head.

“Then why not take me with you? I love you, ’arper. An’ you love me. I get in your blood.”

“And I get in your—”

“Don’t talk dirty. Why not, ’arper?”

“I’m sleepy,” he said. “Stay here tonight. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Right now I want to go to sleep.”

“You wan’ me to stay tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“An’ when you leave Cuba, you take me with you?”

“Maybe,” he said. “We’ll see.”

That seemed to satisfy her. He watched her close her eyes and drift off to sleep almost at once, like the contented little animal she was. He did not fall asleep that quickly. He rolled over onto his side, found a pack of cigarettes, smoked one in the near-darkness. He watched the tip of the cigarette glow with life when he drew on it. When he had finished, he stubbed it out in the ashtray on the bedside table, and closed his eyes again. But sleep didn’t come.

Take her back to the States? That was a cute idea now, wasn’t it? Jesus, he thought, she’s just another little piece and Havana is full of a million sluts just like her. And they would all tell you how much they loved you. So he should bring this one home with him? Like a war bride, he thought. A goddamned war bride. Just another little piece, maybe a little better than most of them, but still nothing special. So why didn’t he hand her her walking papers and get rid of her before she got in his way? Why not?

And it was the damnedest thing. He didn’t like her calling him
’arper
. He wished she would call him
Ray
.

A dry, hot, lazy afternoon. Maria sat by the ashes of the dead campfire. She was cleaning her Sten gun. Only a fool let his gun become dirty. Once she had seen such a fool with a dirty gun. A troup of Castro’s forces had attacked, and one of their men fired his weapon. And it had blown up in his face, had disintegrated it.

She went on cleaning her gun, humming softly to herself. Her mind was busy with thought and she did not hear Garth until he was at her side.

Then she whirled. This big man frightened her; twice already he had put his hands on her, bothering her.

“You be nice to me,” he said now. “You be nice and we’ll have a good time.”

She did not understand the words; they were in English and she didn’t know the language. But the meaning was clear enough even though the words were unintelligible. He wanted her.

She tried to get to her feet. But he put his big hands on her shoulders and pushed. She fell down and he threw himself down beside her. She could smell the strong animal smell of his sweat. He was no man, this Garth. He was a pig.

She cursed him in Spanish and he smiled, not understanding her words. He reached out a massive paw that closed around her breast. He squeezed and she writhed in terror. He was hurting her.

“You and me,” he said. “We’ll have ourselves a ball.”

He was lying on top of her now, his breath strong in her face. She felt one of his hands forcing itself between her thighs, touching her. She twisted, got a hand free, slapped at his face. He only leered at her.

She saw the heat building within him, noticed the way he was breathing faster. She lay there, fighting him, waiting for the rape to begin, knowing he was stronger and she could not resist him. His hands were busy with her full, firm breasts, busy with her groin. She would have screamed but there was no one to hear.

He might have raped her, but he did not. There were sounds of men coming, sounds of the rest of the party returning to the camp. He stopped, listened, grunted.

“We got company,” he said. “Sometime soon, honey. We’ll have to get this finished, you and me.”

“I will kill you,” she told him in Spanish. “I will kill you. I will shoot you and watch you die.”

That night she spoke to Manuel. In Spanish, Maria said: “That Garth continues to bother me. Today he put his hands on me. Several times.”

“You have no man,” Manuel said. “He wishes to be the one.”

“I don’t want a man.”

“It is not natural,” Manuel said. “A woman without a man.”

“I do not want one. And even if I did, it would not be Garth.”

Manuel shrugged expressively. “If you took another man, perhaps Garth would cease to bother you.”

“I cannot. Not any man. You know what happened.”

What happened was simple. Four months ago Maria had had a man, a husband. She and her man fought in the hills with Manuel. Then one day the Castristas caught them both on patrol. There were four of the Castristas. First they killed Maria’s husband by shooting him in the head with a machine gun until he had no head left. That was a picture which never left Maria’s mind, the picture of Carlos lying on his back in the dirt with his body ending at the neck, with blood everywhere.

And then she had been raped. The four of them took her in turn, and it didn’t do her any good to struggle, but she struggled nevertheless. She kneed one soldier in the groin and tried to gouge the eyes of another. To punish her for this, the four of them burned her breasts with a cigar after they had finished with her. They did not kill her. They left her on the road, living but in fearful pain, as an example to the others. And for dramatic effect they placed Carlos’ dead body upon her and tied the two of them together.

Her breasts still bore scars from the cigar burning. And she wanted no man now, no man at all.

“If this Garth bothers me,” she said levelly, “I will kill him.”

“This would be unfortunate. He is a good fighter.”

“He is stupid.”

“That is true,” Manuel said. “But he is fearless and strong. He helps us. And he will help with the ambush, when Castro rides his Jeep through the valley of death. He will be helpful. It would be good if you did not kill Garth.”

“If he bothers me—”

“After Castro is dead,” Manuel said, “then you may kill Garth. I will help you.”

“You could tell him to stay away from me.”

“I have told him this.”

“And it does no good?”

“He is not a man who thinks,” Manuel said slowly. “He is a man who decides, and who acts. One cannot reason with him.”

Maria looked away. It was night; the rest of the band slept. The moon was high overhead, a thin crescent.

“We must kill Castro soon,” she said.

“I have heard reports. They say he will travel to Santiago one week from Sunday. He will come on the road from Bayamo and Palma Soriano, of course. We may have the ambush between Palma and Santiago.”

“There will be patrols.”

“Many patrols, many guards. It is a chance.”

Maria nodded thoughtfully. “We must kill him soon,” she said. “Because very soon I shall kill this Garth. I shall shoot him and watch him die.”

Turner stretched, stood up. He took his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and put them into his shirt pocket. They were Cuban cigarettes which Señora Luchar had given him. He had discovered that he preferred them to American cigarettes.

“I’m going out,” he told Hines.

“You kidding?”

“No. Why should I be kidding? Because I might get picked up by cops? To hell with that.”

“Well, you might.”

Turner was shaking his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Look, I know the fugitive routine. I went all over the States with the police looking for me. I got used to looking over my shoulder every time I took a leak. I don’t have to do that here. Nobody’s on my tail.”

“I still think you’re taking a chance.”

“Then you still don’t get it. Hell, you don’t know what it’s like to be hunted. It’s like nothing in the world. You don’t relax. I told you about what happened, didn’t I? About the girl and the pig with her?”

“You told me.”

“Yeah. Afterward I got drunk and slept it off. Then I woke up and remembered. Since then I never relaxed, not once. I kept running and I kept hiding and I kept looking over my shoulder. It’s quite a feeling. Not a good feeling.”

Hines didn’t say anything.

“Now we’re in Cuba. And it’s a hell of a thing, Jim. Nobody’s looking for me now. If I went out in the streets and told the world I killed a whore and her customer in Charleston they wouldn’t give a damn. I’m a free man. I don’t have to spend my time in a stinking basement. I can get out in the open air.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’ll chance it,” he said. “Take it easy.”

Hines stayed on the edge of his bunk. He picked up an American magazine that the Luchar woman had brought, leafed through it absently. He tossed it onto the bed and wandered over to the heavy wooden work bench. It was like the one his old man had in the cellar. The old man used to like to make things. They were always things that he could have bought for half the price it cost him to make them himself, and they always came out a little wrong, but his old man got a kick out of it.

His old man had never made bombs. And that was what they were making now. Impact bombs with a power charge of TNT that would go off on contact. You took the bomb, gave it a heave, and when it landed it went off like … well, like a bomb. What else?