Cuba (38 page)

on the bottom shelf might prove as interesting as

those on the top. The bag would be heavy, but he could

lift it. He transferred the files to the bag as

quickly as he could.

When he had all the files, he hoisted the bag

experimentally. Eighty, pounds, at least. Room

for a few more things…

What else did Vargas keep in his safe? A

small laptop computer. Well, he certainly

didn’t need that anymore. Into the bag with it.

He was pawing through one of the side drawers when he

sensed movement behind him.

As he turned Santana’s fist grazed his jawhis

turn had been just enough to save his life. The headband and

light flew away, somewhere, the little beam flashing around

crazily.

He groped for his sap, swung it in a

roundhouse right and connected with bone.

Santana went sideways to the floor.

No time for this! The man is too dangerous!

He pulled out the Ruger, thumbed off the safety and

was ready when Santana came off the floor again.

The pistol coughed.

Santana’s momentum drove his body forward and he

collapsed against Carmellini’s feet.

The American stepped around the body. He put the

pistol away, stowed the headband light, zipped the

duffel bag closed.

After a quick last look around, Tommy Carmellini

went

to the door, made sure it would lock behind him. He

came back for the duffel bag, hoisted it to his

left shoulder.

Out in the dark hall, he pulled the door shut,

made sure it was locked, then walked quickly down the

dark hallway for the stairs.

Tommy Carmellini held the Ruger down by his

leg as he descended the stair and walked across the

lobby toward the shadowy figure standing hi the

doorway.

As he walked the lights came on. Instantly an

alarm sounded, loud enough to wake the dead.

He squinted against the light. That was Chance standing hi

the doorway.

“Into the car, quickly nowea”…Chance said. The alarms were

wailing and every light hi the building was on, wiuThat not

a soul in sight. If they could be gone before the

lieutenant and his men got back up here, he

wouldn’t have to kill themthey couldn’t have seen his face very

well in the darkness.

His watch read 2:04 A.m.

Chance stood in the doorway with euphoria flooding

over him while Carmellini stowed the bag hi the

backseat of the car, got into the driver’s seat, and

started the engine. Three long strides, he jerked

open the passenger’s door and jumped inside, and

Carmellini fed gas.

The lights hi the rest of the city were still off, however, so

when the car pulled away from the building the night

swallowed it.

“What did you get?”

“I got the safe opentook two drawers full of

files, everything made of paper that was in there, some

files from a desk. Got a laptop, too.”

“Well done.”

“Someone came hi while I was there. Santana,

I think. Left him for dead.”

“I didn’t take the time to check, and to be honest,

I really don’t care one way or the other. I

put six bullets into the son of a bitch and whaled

on him a while with the sap. If he isn’t dead he

ought to be.”

Chance flipped on the interior light of the car, just

long enough to check Carmellini’s face. “Looks like

he got a piece or two of you.”

“Oh, yeah. He was damned quick.”

“Did he get a look at your face?”

“I don’t think so. Pretty dark. And he’s

probably dead. Don’t sweat it.”

Chance grunted and stared out the window at the dark,

decaying city.

The voyagers on the

Angel del Mar

saw a ship during the night. It came out of one

dark comer of the universe and passed within a half mile

of the derelict as the people aboard shouted and waved the

single working flashlight.

The ship was a freighter of some type, huge, with

lights strung all over the topside and

superstructure. It raced through their world and disappeared

into the void as quickly as it came, leaving the people gasping

on deck, exhausted, starved, devoid of

hope.

A child had died earlier in the evening, just at sunset,

and some of the people aboard had wanted to eat it “She is

beyond caring, and her body can give us life,”eaone man

said, a sentiment several agreed with.

The old fisherman went below to tell Ocho, who was

taking his turn on the pump, which meant he had

to pump out the water that had accumulated because the man

before him could not keep abreast of it, as well as the

water that came in on his watch. He was on the ragged

edge of total exhaustion, but he listened to the old

fisherman as he struggled with the pump handle.

“Maybe…”…Ocho began, but the old man would not

listen.

“To eat her would be sacrilege, the moral death of

every

onp who tastes her flesh or watches others eat

it. All flesh must die, but to face God with that on

our souls would be unforgivable. Come with me!

Come!”

He half dragged Ocho up the ladder. Together they

swung hard fists left and right, reached the corpse,

and tossed it into the sea.

In the fading light the old fisherman stood with his

back to the wheelhouse and shouted at the

others, some too weak to move. He damned them,

dared them, kicked at those who came too close,

punched one man so hard he nearly went overboard.

The child’s body floated, supported by the great vast

moving ocean, just out of reach, moving with the rise and

fall of the swells. Some of the people looked at it,

others refused to. When the last of the light faded the

body disappeared into the total darkness.

Ocho went back down the ladder to the hold, which

reeked of vomit and filth. He worked the pump

handle like an automaton.

Finally the fisherman relieved him, helped him up

the ladder.

He was lying by a scupper when the ship went by. He

roused himself, stood with a hand on the rail, tried

to shout and found he had no voice left.

Then someone tried to push him overboard.

There was no mistake. The hard shove in the back,

the continuing pressure.

Only his raw strength saved him. Ocho turned and

swung blindly, felt his fist connect with cartilage

and bone, swung several more times before the man went

down.”

Ocho collapsed from the exertion. He crawled

forward, intent on beating the man as long as

he had strength to swing his fists, but Dora was there,

sobbing, and stopped him.

“No, no, no, my Godff”…she howled. “You are

killing him!”

“He tried to shove me over.”

“Oh, damn you, Ocho. If it weren’t for you, we

would be safe in Cuba.”

“Me?”

“You were Ms ticket out. You! This is your fault.”

“And you are blameless. With the baby in your body you

risked your life.”

“I am not pregnant! I have never been

pregnant! He made me tell you I was so you would

come.”…And she dissolved in sobbing.

Ocho lay in the darkness trying to think, trying to see

the boat and the people as God must see them, looking down

from above. His

Fortunately rain fell occasionally, enough to fill the

bucket and let people drink. Maybe God was sending

the showers.

He was starving, though, and oh so tired.

His whole life had dissolved into nothing and was soon

to end, and he didn’t care. He tried to tell

Dora that it didn’t matter but he couldn’t and she was

sobbing hysterically, and in truth he really

didn’t care.

After another turn at the pump, Ocho came back

on deck and looked for Diego and Dora, to say

somethinghe didn’t know what, but something that would make

their burdens easier to carry.

But Diego wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the hold

and he wasn’t in the wheelhouse and he wasn’t on

deck. Ocho scanned the sea, checking in all

directions, looking for a head bobbing amid the heaving

swells.

Dora was curled

in

a ball near the bow. He shook her.

“Where’s Diego?”

She. had a dazed look on her face, as if she

didn’t understand the words. He repeated the question several

times.

She looked around, trying to understand.

“I do not see himea”…Ocho said, trying to explain.

“Did he fall overboard?”

She stared at him with eyes that refused to focus.

Her face was vacant, blank. Finally her eyes

focused.

“He climbed the rail last night.

Jumped in the ocean.”

Ocho looked again on both sides of the boat,

staggered to the port side so he could look aft past

the wheelhouse. Then he returned.

She was lying down again, curled up, her chin against a

knee.

He left her there, lay down and tried to rest.

“Who did this to you?”.

Alejo Vargas asked the question of Colonel

Santana while he lay on a gurney in the

hospital emergency room being propped for

surgery. He had four bullets in him and a wicked

wound on his forehead where a bullet had ricochetted

off his skull. His jaw and one cheekbone were

severely swollen, his nose smashed, he had lost

two teeth, and he obviously had a concussion. The

pupil in his right eye was dilated and refused

to focus.

“I don’t knowea”…Santana managed. He tried

to swallow, almost choked on his tongue. After gagging

several times, he seemed to relax.

“American?”

“I do not know. Nothing was said, it was dark. He was

waiting behind the door when I went in.”

“One of the bullets penetrated the wall of

his chest, Ministerea”…the doctor said. “We must get

it out and stop the hemorrhaging. He needs a

transfusion and rest.”

Vargas left the emergency room. The car drove

him back to the ministry and he took the elevator

to his office.

The workers had the worst of the damage cleaned up.

Still, the door to the safe was standing open and the drawers

within were empty.

The priceless files on the generals and top

government people that had taken twenty years to compile,

gonelike a storm in the night. Every sin known to man

was somewhere in one of those files: marital infidelity,

theft, rape, incest, sodomy, even murder. Those

files were the key to

his power, to his ability to make things happen anywhere

hi Cuba. And now they were gone.

Hector Sedano was his fast suspect. Of course

Hector himself was hi La Cabana, but someone could

have robbed the safe on his behalf.

And it could be one of the generals, or Admiral

Delgado. Any one of those ambitious fools.

Raul Castro? A possibility, but he discounted

it. Then the fact that he thought Raul Castro an

unlikely suspect made him

suspicious. He would have Raul checked, followed

day and night, everyone he spoke to would be

scrutinized.

Truly there was much to do. Much to do.

The electrical outage made the burglary

possible. Four towers down, two dead

saboteurs.

There was a trail out there, and some diligent

investigating would eventually lead him to the man or men

who did this crime.

Not that it would do any good. Whoever had those files would

undoubtedly destroy them immediately.

All his plans, all that work… up hi smoke.

Alejo Vargas didn’t believe hi

coincidences. Whoever robbed that safe made

extensive preparations. This was no spur-of-the-moment

thingthe robbery was carefully, meticulously planned.

He looked again at the safe. Not a mark on it.

Someone had dialed the combination. He had heard that such

things were possible, but he had never seen it done.

Nor heard of it being done hi Cuba. Yesterday

he would have said there was not a man hi Cuba with that kind

of talent

And the files on the biological program were gone.

The day after the break-in at the lab.

The lab break-in wasn’t Hector’s stylehe

would have no reason to burgle the place, nor would

anyone else there was nothing there to steal.

Except poliomyelitis viruses. Would

Hector gain politi-

cal advantage by publicizing the biological

weapons program, proving its existence?

The Americans…

Alejo Vargas stood looking at his empty

safe, thinking about Americans.

The Americans were a possibility, he

reluctantly concluded.

He got a magnifying glass from the top drawer of

his desk, examined the door of the safe as carefully

as he could.

There were marks, scratches, several together. He could

see them. But how long had they been there? What were

they made by?

There was no one to tell him, and he decided finally that

perhaps it didn’t matter. The people who opened this safe

and stole the keys to Cuba had brought down the power

grid hi central Havana. That was where the trail

began.