When Valdés came awake, he thought at first it was simply more of his troublesome dreams. The bed beside him, where the old man had lain, was empty. A food tray lay tumbled to the floor, and Valdés wondered if that was the sound that had wakened him after all. How could he have slept through such a thing?
In the other bed, where the lunatic normally lay bound and often gagged, the news was worse. Truly the stuff of nightmares, Valdés thought, as he stood uncertainly, trying to steady himself with a grip on his folding chair.
The lunatic was naked, his body covered with blood—face, chest and legs—his bedclothes drenched in it. The man had managed to work himself loose from his heavy restraints and was sitting with his legs tucked under him, holding something in his hands to which he crooned an unbroken litany.
“
Matanza
,” Valdés heard. And other, even more troubling things as well.
Valdés reached for the pistol at his belt and groped about for a moment before he realized that his weapon had disappeared. He glanced up quickly, reassuring himself that it was not his pistol that the madman held.
After a moment, Valdés stole closer to the lunatic’s bed, close enough now to see what it was that he held. The realization sent an icy shock through him. Valdés clutched at his own groin in reflex and fought to repress the pressure that rose in his throat.
Lunacy incarnate. A man talking to his own dismembered manhood, Valdés thought, his mind reeling. How could he remain upright?
And what had become of Diaz? he wondered, staggering away toward the nurses’ station. He felt glass crackle beneath his shoes. Something else broken, he thought. Something else he should have heard.
He found the nurses’ station empty, the nearby lounge deserted as well. He snatched up the phone but found it dead. It took him a moment to register the slashed and dangling line.
He dropped the phone and hurried back down the hallway toward the elevators. Fear had enveloped him by now, and he glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, certain that someone was about to burst from one of the darkened doorways to snatch at him without warning.
He was so distracted that he missed the inert form that lay sprawled across the hallway in front of him. He felt his feet tangle and slide out from under him, felt himself go down so hard his breath left him momentarily.
He was pushing himself up from the floor when he saw what it was that had brought him down. Diaz’s body, an awful trail of blood behind it. He took in the awful slit at Diaz’s throat, then his eyes drifted down to an even worse defilement.
The lunatic, Valdés thought, scrambling to his feet, his hands slick with gore. He rushed to the elevators, slamming his bloody palm against the call button repeatedly, whimpers escaping his throat. At any moment, the lunatic would appear in the corridor behind him, and what had befallen Diaz could befall him as well.
His fear was pathetic, but he did not care. All he wanted was escape.
He heard the approach of the elevator then, and turned, tears of relief and gratitude beginning to brim at his eyes. The doors slid open—maddening in their pace, easily long enough for a madman to come bounding down that hallway—and he leaped inside, jabbing wildly at the buttons. Any floor, he thought, anywhere but here.
The doors closed—no gory claw reaching in to snatch at him—and Valdés slumped back against the side of the compartment, breathing a sigh of relief as the car began to descend. Safe, he thought. Safe at last.
And that is when he noticed the others in there with him: the doctor and the nurse bound and gagged in one corner. And worse yet, the man they called Machado, hands tied behind him, feet bound. Gagged. His gaze burning up at Valdés in a way that made him understand that
safety
was a word that no longer had meaning, not in this world at least.
“Hate to do this every day,” Russell said, cutting a quick glance at Driscoll. He was at the wheel of the Caddy, inching down one of the narrow cobblestone streets of the old city, Driscoll poring over a street map with a penlight clutched between his teeth.
“Take the next left,” Driscoll said, glancing up from the map. He craned his neck out the passenger window as Russell made the turn. “Okay,” he added, “stop here.”
Russell switched off the engine and doused the lights. Squirreling down these narrow streets was no picnic, but driving this machine reminded him of being back home in Georgia. He’d had a great-grandfather owned an old Buick nearly of the Cadillac’s vintage. He’d played at driving in the springy seat of that old car. That was back in the days when the purpose of life was enjoyment, he thought. He wondered just when everything had begun to change.
“About a block down that way, if this map’s right,” Driscoll said at his side.
“Looks like it,” Russell said. He noted an open courtyard on their left. It seemed like the one they had passed a few days before. He turned back to Driscoll. “I still don’t see why we’re doing this.”
Driscoll stared at him, exasperation evident even in the moonlight. “Because that’s what you do, Russell. You knock on all the doors, you rattle every single chain. You hope something leads to something. Right now, let’s have a look at Vedetti’s.”
Russell gave him a grudging nod and opened the door of the Caddy, then closed it softly. With this beast in the way, there wouldn’t be anyone coming or going along this path, he thought. Barely enough room for the two of them to squeeze between the car’s bulk and the chiseled walls on either side.
As they made their way along the passage, he could see that this was indeed the route they’d used to approach Vedetti’s gallery earlier. Up ahead was the old-timey drug-store he’d marveled at the first time. The shop was closed now, of course, steel grates pulled down over the broad windows, but the big urns of green and red and amber liquids were illuminated, glowing in the darkness like giant night-lights.
“The back entrance is right over there,” Russell said quietly to Driscoll. “Maybe we ought to go around front…”
“Maybe,” Driscoll said. He put his hand out to try to the door, then turned back, surprised. “It’s open,” he said.
They stared at each other for a moment, then Driscoll eased the door open wider. “You know the way,” he said to Russell. “Lead on.”
Russell nodded and stepped past him into the darkness, Driscoll close on his heels. They paused, listening intently. The sounds of rustling footsteps and vague conversation drifted down the passageway toward them, muffled by the heavy curtains that masked the entrance to the gallery itself.
Russell glanced at Driscoll, then started forward. Halfway down the narrow hall, he caught sight of a flashlight beam sweeping across a void where the heavy curtains joined. He flattened himself against one wall, holding Driscoll still with one arm. The beam of the light sliced across the face of the opposite wall, then disappeared.
Russell was about to move again when there came the sound of something falling to the floor, the crack of wood, and a faint curse. He took advantage of the commotion to move quickly toward the curtains, vaguely outlined by the glow of the flashlight on the other side. He paused at the gap in the curtains, peering out into the gallery space.
He saw a smallish Latino man bent over the shattered frame of one of the architectural drawings that had tumbled from the wall. He seemed to be examining something in the beam of his flashlight. Something familiar about the guy’s wizened face, Russell thought…then realized it was the street hustler who’d tried to sell Deal cigars and rum and women. So he was a sneak thief, too? Somehow it didn’t add up.
He felt Driscoll at his back, edging up for a look of his own. The little guy had bent now over the fallen drawing, reaching for something, his face glowing eerily in the reflection of the flashlight beam.
“
¡Mira!”
the old man said softly to someone in the darkness nearby. “
¿Qué es esto?
”
The man plucked whatever it was from the shards of wood at his feet and held it up to the light, turning it over in his hands. Russell moved closer, straining to see, his shoulders brushing the curtains now, his face surely visible should anyone turn his way: The little guy was holding up a wad of gum with an adhesive backing, Russell saw. The same device that he’d found in Deal’s hotel room.
Another shadowy figure stepped closer to the pool of light spread by the flashlight beam and extended a hand. The little guy handed the device over. Russell heard a muttered curse and a command barked out in Spanish. A woman’s voice, he realized—something familiar about it, as well. Then he realized there were footsteps hurrying toward him.
He ducked back, pulling Driscoll with him. In the next moment, he felt the curtain fly back and saw her shadow appear, silhouetted by the glow of her companion’s light. Driscoll’s own penlight popped on behind him and the woman stopped short with a gasp. She was frozen, momentarily, one hand thrust up against the sudden glare, her mouth a grimace of surprise. Still, there was no mistaking who it was.
“Delia?” Russell said, hearing the astonishment in his own voice. He saw that under one arm she had tucked a box crammed with folders and paperwork. She blinked, trying to see past the glare, at the same time calling out some command in Spanish over her shoulder. At the sound of her voice, the little guy’s flashlight winked out. Russell heard the sounds of footsteps crunching away through broken glass.
Delia tried to backpedal in the same direction, but Russell caught her by the arm.
“Let me go,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“You’re goddamned right, I don’t,” he said. “But you’re going to explain it to me.”
He turned to Driscoll. “Get the little guy,” he called, but it was a waste of breath. Driscoll was already pawing through the heavy curtains, his heavy shoes crashing through the mess on the floor.
“Please,” Delia said, twisting in Russell’s grasp. “It is dangerous. You must let me go.”
The familiar tang of her sweat rose in his nostrils, her hand came to press hard against his chest. What a difference a couple of days make, he thought. Same woman, same frenzied actions, slightly different results.
“Are you part of this Vedado Project? Is that what this is all about?”
“What do you know of it?” she spat back.
“It must have been important, what you were willing to do with me.”
“It is a job,” she said, still writhing. He’d seen how nimbly she could move. He didn’t remember that she’d been quite so strong as well.
“Where’s Deal?” Russell said. “Who the hell’s got him?”
“He is with friends,” she said. He heard something soften in her tone, and she seemed to relax for a moment in his grip.
That sudden shift of body language should have told him something, but he missed it. It was dark, he was distracted by the clamor of Driscoll’s pursuit, he’d felt the weight of her body go slack against him, had even had a moment’s flash of the first night they’d met, her head thrown back, her neck arched, as she had moved above him…
Whatever the reason, he never saw the kick coming, though he certainly felt it. As her knee drove up between his legs, he felt his grip loosen, his arms fold in reflex over his gut. The cruelest blow of all, he was thinking, as he doubled over. Her footsteps were already receding down the hall.
“Driscoll…” he managed. He heard a groaning noise, saw the gallery’s front door swing open and the silhouette of the little man dash outside into the street. A bulky shadow cut across the newly entered slice of moonlight—Driscoll in thundering pursuit.
Russell might have called out something more, but the sudden explosions from the street outside stopped him. One of the front windows of the place dissolved in a shower of glass. There were more shots and he saw a shadow spin about on the sidewalk outside, then tumble in through the shattered frame. The man’s body lay inert, one hand upflung, still clutching a pistol.
“Fucking-A,” he heard from Driscoll as another volley of shots chewed across the front of the gallery. The big man dove for cover between the edge of the door frame and the blasted window, his head tucked as more shots blasted through the open doorway where he’d nearly run.
Russell gave one longing glance back down the hallway where Delia had disappeared but knew he couldn’t do it. He cursed softly to himself, then ducked through the gap in the curtains and rolled across the moon-striped floor of the gallery, coming up with his hand clutching that of the little man who’d been blown in through the shattered window.
He did his best to ignore the whine of shots that cut the air above his head, prying the pistol from the dead man’s hand. With the grip finally clutched firmly, he scrambled toward the far end of the window, then popped up and emptied the pistol in one rapid volley, spraying the second-floor balcony across the narrow street where he’d seen a series of muzzle flashes.
There was a cry, and a form toppled over a railing, then crashed to the cobblestone street. Russell heard the clatter of a weapon on the stones and thought briefly of diving out after it, but Driscoll was on him then, pulling him roughly toward the thick curtains.
“Out the back,” Driscoll growled, as shouts echoed in the darkened street outside.
Russell didn’t have to be told twice. In seconds he was up and through the curtains, leading the way back down the narrow hallway.
More shouts echoed behind them, along with probing gunfire. Russell, the sick pain in his groin long forgotten, hit the back door with barely a pause, his shoulder slamming the heavy steel aside as if it were made of balsa. Driscoll was on his heels as they flew out into the street, a figure backpedaling away from the two of them in surprise.
“What the hell?” a familiar voice called.
“Vines?” Russell said. He caught the man before he’d steadied himself, jerked him close by the lapels of his coat. “Is that your guys firing out front?”
“Let him go,” Russell heard from behind him, then felt the press of steel at his cheek.
He released Vines, kept his hands frozen high.
“It’s not us,” Vines said. He turned to the man who held the pistol beneath Russell’s ear. “It’s all right, Belsen.”
Russell felt the pressure release from his ear, had to restrain himself from striding forward, dropping Vines with a shot. There was another muffled gunshot from the far side of the building, then a second.
“Who is it, then?” Russell said. He glanced over his shoulder, saw that Belsen still had a pistol leveled his way. A second shadowy figure stood with a pistol trained on Driscoll.
“Our Cuban friends, I’m afraid,” Vines said. “That’s not good news.”
“No shit,” Russell said, glancing back the way they’d come.
“See if you can get that door locked,” Vines said to the man who’d been covering Russell. “Jam it if you have to.” The man nodded and went to work.
Vines turned back to the two of them. “Command has had a fix on the bug in Vedetti’s gallery for a few days now,” he said. “When they picked up signals from a transmitter that was moving and seemed to be approaching this place, I got the alert. I decided we’d come have a look, in case Deal showed up.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Cadillac. “We just got here, and realized the bug was in Fuentes’ car. It was jammed beneath the rear seat cushions. That’s why it wasn’t picking up audio.”
Another shot rang out in the darkness. “So maybe you’re not the only ones picking up signals from those transmitters,” Driscoll said. “Maybe El Comandante has more electronics capability than you give him credit for.”
“So it would seem,” Vines said. There was a grinding noise from behind them as the door to the rear entrance of the gallery slammed shut.
“It’s locked,” Vines’ man called.
“Time to go,” Vines said. He turned away as though they’d just had a casual meeting during an evening’s stroll.
“That’s it?” Russell said, glancing around the narrow street. “There’s a guy shot dead in there. And what about the girl?”
“What girl would that be?”
Russell glanced around the darkened street. “Delia, she called herself. She came out just ahead of us, a bunch of papers under her arm.”
“We didn’t see anyone,” Vines told him, starting away. “And we’re out of here. Direct engagement with our Cuban friends is way up on the no-no list.”
He waved the two men with him back down the alley-way and had turned to go, when a strange chirping noise arose from somewhere. Vines thrust his hand inside his coat and came out with a satellite phone. He was still hurrying back down the alleyway, phone to one ear, his hand against the other, when suddenly he stopped.
“You’re sure?” he said, his voice rising in the darkness. He cursed and jammed the phone back into his pocket, then broke into a sprint.
“What is it?” Russell called, snatching at Vines’ arm. Vines shook him off, ducking sideways past the hulking Cadillac.
“Fuentes’ boat,” he said. “They think they heard John Deal come on board.”
At that moment a car engine roared into life just across the narrow intersection where the Caddy was parked, and a pair of headlights blossomed, filling the passage with light. Russell threw up his arm to shield himself from the glare.
“Is that someone with you?” Russell called to Vines.
“I’m afraid not,” Vines said.
“Everybody in the Cadillac,” Driscoll called. “Show us your stuff, Russell.”
He flung open the passenger’s door of the Cadillac and slid inside, just as Russell mirrored his actions on the opposite side, Vines and his men piling into the back.
Russell jammed the key into the ignition, pressed the starter button and felt the big engines surge when he hit the accelerator. He levered the Caddy into reverse and floored it, disregarding the tinny sound of the horn behind them and the frantic flashing of headlights from dim to bright and back again.
“Hang on,” he called, his hands clamped to the wheel.