59
HAVANA,
Cuba
It was well after midnight, and Paolina was curled up in the crook of Crosswhite’s arm, running her fingers through the dark hair on his chest by the light of a candle. He was thinking impossible things about an impossible future in Havana when she raised up onto her elbow and looked into his eyes.
“Me ves como una puta?”
she asked. Do you see me as a whore?
He combed his fingers through her hair and smiled. “I see you as the most beautiful girl in the world.”
She smiled back and kissed him. “How long will you be in Havana?”
He shrugged, the smile plastered to his face. “How long would you like me to be here?”
She curled back up in the crook of his arm. “How long, Daniel?”
“A few days,” he said. “Maybe a little longer.”
“Will I see you again before you leave?”
“Every night that you’re available.”
She raised back up, cracking a grin. “Then I’ll be available every night.”
“Good,” he said, pulling her down and kissing her. “You don’t have any regular clients that are going to be mad?”
She shook her head, looking sad for the first time. “While you’re here, can we pretend there are no other clients . . . that I’m someone else?”
He sat up against the wall and took her into his arms. “I don’t want to pretend you’re someone else. I want to know you . . . everything about you.”
“Will you stay the night?”
“Your father won’t be upset if I’m still here in the morning?”
She shook her head. “Not about you. He’s never drunk with anyone else who’s come here—never made friends.”
“This is hard for me. I’ve never . . .” He shook his head. “It’s very different for me.”
“I understand. But I have to survive, to help take care of my family.”
“It’s nothing about you,” he said. “It’s that I’m embarrassed in front of your parents.”
“Okay. But it’s not necessary.”
They were in the midst of making love a second time when his cellular buzzed on the table beside the bed.
“Shit,” he said in English. “Ernesto’s the only one with this number.” He picked up the phone and said,
“Bueno?”
“Señor? This is Ernesto.”
“Yeah, Ernie. What is it?”
“I told Fernando to keep his eyes open while I was on break. He says two men came to the hotel asking about you. He said they described you and wanted to know if you had checked into the hotel. He said they looked Cuban but spoke with a Miami accent.”
“Okay, Ernie. Where are they now?”
“I think maybe they’re going to Paolina’s house.”
Crosswhite got out of bed fast. “Why do you think that?”
“Because they asked where you had gone, and Fernando was afraid to lie to them, so he told them you left in a taxi—but nothing more. Then they asked him where to find the cabstand. I’m sure they are going to question the driver.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About ten minutes.”
“If you had to guess, Ernie, how much longer before they show up here?”
“At Paolina’s? Maybe twenty minutes. Is there anything I can do?”
“Keep your eyes open, buddy, and call me if you hear anything else.”
Crosswhite put down the phone and reached for his pants. “You’d better wake your father, sweetheart.”
Paolina sat up in the bed. “What’s wrong?”
“Wake your father,” he said gently. “You all need to go to a neighbor’s house for the night. There’s very little time.”
Paolina left, and Duardo came into the room a minute later looking concerned. “What is going on?”
“I work for the CIA,” Crosswhite said. “Two men are coming here to kill me—Americans. They have no interest in your family, but if I’m not here, they’ll hurt Paolina to find out where I’ve gone. You need to take your family to a neighbor’s house and let me deal with them when they arrive.”
Paolina’s father nodded his head solemnly. “I knew you were CIA when I first saw you, but I allowed you to stay. Will they have guns, these men?”
Crosswhite let out a sigh. “I can almost guarantee it.”
“I’ll send the women to my sister-in-law’s house, but I’m staying.”
“No, you can’t risk your life like that. You don’t even know me.”
“This is my house,” Duardo said, “and you are my guest. I’m stay
ing.” He went into the other room, telling his wife to take the children and leave right away.
Paolina came back in two minutes later and put her arms around Crosswhite. “I’m scared for you.”
“I’m scared too, but not for myself. You have to go right now.” He kissed her hair and held her at arm’s length. “I’ll be fine. Go now.”
She disappeared out the door with her mother and the girls.
Crosswhite stepped into the kitchen, and Duardo appeared from the back of the house holding a fourteen-inch WWII-era M1 rifle bayonet made by Union Fork and Hoe.
“This belonged to my father. He fought in Castro’s revolution. The government took away his rifle years ago. If we can kill these two
pendejos
, I have friends who can dispose of the bodies. Calling the police would be very bad for all of us.”
“Hopefully, you won’t need to get involved.” Crosswhite put out his hand. “I probably have a better idea how to use that thing than you do.”
“Do you like my daughter?” Duardo asked.
“Yes, I do. It’s too bad that—”
“She would make you a good wife; give you beautiful children.”
Crosswhite shook his head. “I’m no good for any woman. Can I have the bayonet?”
Duardo took an old M1917 .45 caliber Colt army revolver from beneath his guayabera shirt. “This was my father’s too. We’re not allowed guns in Cuba, so I’ve kept it hidden.” He handed the revolver to Crosswhite.
Crosswhite opened the gate and saw that it held only five cartridges. “I don’t suppose you have the sixth bullet?”
Duardo shook his head. “Those five are all I have—and they’re very old.”
Crosswhite closed the gate and stuck the revolver down the front of his pants. “If they’ve been kept dry, they’ll be fine.”
“So what now?” Duardo asked.
“Have a seat at the table to wait,” Crosswhite said. “I’ll be in Paolina’s room. When they arrive, they’ll knock at the door and ask to see her. They’ll be polite but firm. All you have to do is let them in and tell them you’re going to wake her up. Then go into the back of the house, and I’ll handle it from there.”
60
HAVANA,
Cuba
Ken Peterson sat talking with a local police captain named Ruiz in his modest house on the outskirts of Havana. They were discussing Peterson’s future in Cuba while they awaited confirmation that Crosswhite had been eliminated.
“So I’m going to need police protection,” Peterson was saying. “At least for a time.”
Ruiz took a drink from his bottle of beer. He had been on the CIA payroll for a number of years, and Peterson had always been his handler. “That is going to be difficult,” he said, putting down the bottle. “Police protection has never been part of our deal.”
“I understand that,” Peterson said. “The CIA wasn’t supposed to know that I’m here, but the circumstances have changed.”
“Yes, they have,” Ruiz said. “For one thing, you no longer have access to that big Yankee expense account.”
Peterson frowned. “I have money of my own. I can pay for any services that I need.”
Ruiz smiled. “I just want to be clear.”
“I’m sure you do,” Peterson replied dryly. He was more than a little rattled by Crosswhite’s unexpected arrival in Havana. He had planned for it to take Pope at least six months to figure out that he was in Cuba, still another month or two to pinpoint his location, and still another month to get the assets in place for a hit. However, he had woefully underestimated Pope’s drive for vengeance. In fact, had it not been for one of Peterson’s few remaining allies in Mexico, he would have had no idea that Crosswhite was even coming after him.
Fortunately, there were a number of Miami-born operatives living in and around Havana who didn’t know that Peterson had been exiled, so he still had assets of his own to call upon, freelancers that Langley knew nothing about. He had recruited the men himself, and he was their sole contact. The only problem was money. The cost of living in Cuba was cheap, but if Pope was determined to kill him, the cost of simply staying alive might easily get out of control.
His best chance was to have Crosswhite taken out fast, thus sending the message to Pope that Cuba was beyond his jurisdiction. There would be no guarantees, of course, but Pope was more than twenty years his senior, and he was confident that he could outlive the old bastard if he was smart about it. After all, the CIA had tried to kill Fidel Castro a number of times—once even succeeding in getting a female assassin into bed with him—but Castro had lived to the ripe old age of eighty-seven. The simple truth was that the CIA just didn’t have a very good track record in Cuba, and this was the reason Peterson had chosen to retire there.
“Will your associate Señor Walton still be joining you?” Ruiz asked.
Ben Walton was another checkmark in the plus column. He was an old CIA hand, and he would have some additional ideas for keeping Pope at bay. He also had money, so if he and Peterson could agree
on a way to pool their resources, they would double their chances for the long term.
“Yes,” Peterson said. “He arrives in the morning from Spain. He’ll be staying with me at least until we can get things arranged between us.”
Ruiz took another drink. “Walton will have to pay as well.”
“That’s understood. You’ve never had trouble receiving payment, Captain.”
“You were never an exile,” Ruiz said. “Now you are, so I can extend you no more credit. From now on, our business requires payment up front.”
Peterson could feel the walls starting to close in on him, but he reminded himself to look at the positive side. Pope’s handpicked assassin would soon be dead, and it would be some time before he could find someone else qualified to penetrate Cuba for a second attempt. In the meantime, he and Walton would formulate a plan to mitigate future threats.
“I kind of like being called an
exile
,” he said thoughtfully. “It has an exotic ring to it.”
Ruiz snickered. “So does ‘hermaphrodite,’ but I wouldn’t want to be one.”
The phone rang in the kitchen, and Peterson went to answer it.
“Digame.
”
“It’s Roy,” said a male voice. That was not, in fact, his name, but he was Peterson’s contact in Mexico City.
“What can I do for you, Roy?”
“I thought it might interest you to know that His Majesty has gone off the grid.” Roy was referring to Tim Hagen. “Disappeared from his hotel room without a trace.”
“Well, that’s not surprising. I knew he’d run sooner or later.”
“I don’t think he ran. I think he was
taken
. One of Pope’s pipe hitters was here in the city when he went missing: an ex-Delta operator named Crosswhite.”
“Do you have anything else?”
“Only this: Crosswhite was seen in the company of Antonio Castañeda while he was here. There was a female agent with him, but I don’t have a name on her yet.”
“It’s probably Mariana Mederos,” Peterson muttered. “Crosswhite’s already here in Havana.”
“Then Pope is definitely cleaning house,” Roy said. “You’d better think about getting the hell out of there.”
“There’s nowhere else for me to go. All my money is invested here.”
“In that case, I wish you luck. You’re going to need it.”
61
HAVANA,
Cuba
Crosswhite stood watching out the window from Paolina’s bedroom as the CIA assassins pulled up in front of the house in their own car. There were three instead of two, and that immediately complicated matters because Crosswhite knew one of them would remain outside to watch the street. As they dismounted the vehicle, it became immediately obvious they were ex-military. All three were of Cuban descent, muscular, confident, and alert, with their hair cut high and tight.
Crosswhite looked at the .45 revolver in his hand. It was far better than nothing, but every round would have to count.
Two of the men stepped up to the house and knocked. Crosswhite went to watch through a crack in the bedroom door as Paolina’s father got up from the table.
“Who is it?” he asked in Spanish.
“The police. Open the door.”
Duardo opened the door, and the men stepped inside without waiting to be invited. “We need to speak with Paolina,” the driver said, his Miami accent obvious.
“May I see some identification?”
The driver lifted his shirt to reveal the butt of a Beretta pistol. “We don’t want to hurt her. We need to know about the American she was fucking earlier tonight.”
“I’ll get her,” Duardo said, holding his temper as he turned to leave the kitchen.
One of the men followed him into the other room, and Crosswhite pulled back the hammer on the .45. He stepped into the kitchen and blew the driver’s brains all over the wall.
The other man ducked into the bathroom and started firing into the kitchen, sending Crosswhite diving into the corner for cover. The third man, who’d been left outside to watch the street, kicked open the door a second later, and Crosswhite shot him in the chest. He flew backward but did not go down. Crosswhite shot him again, and still he didn’t go down.
The man fired a shot and hit Crosswhite inside the left thigh.
Crosswhite fired a third time, hitting him in the base of the throat, and this time the man crumpled to the floor.
“Duardo!” Crosswhite shouted. “You okay?”
“I’m okay!”
Crosswhite grabbed the Beretta from the driver’s pants and checked to be sure there was a round in the chamber. “Hey, asshole!” he shouted in English at the man in the bathroom.
“What the fuck you want?”
“Cops are comin’!”
“That’s a bigger problem for you than me,” the Cuban called back in perfect English. “I got friends inside. You won’t last twenty-four hours, white boy.”
Crosswhite knew that was probably true. He looked at the floor
where the blood was pooling on the tile between his legs. “Throw out your gun, and I’ll let you go.”
“Fuck you! Throw me
your
gun, and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out with it!”
Crosswhite laughed. “You’re a funny motherfucker! I’ll remember that when I take a piss on your dead fuckin’ body!” He glanced out the open door, knowing he should take off in the car, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon Duardo.
“Hey, where’s the little whore?” the Cuban called out.
“Your mama? Last I heard she was still takin’ it in the ass for five bucks a carload.”
The Cuban laughed. “Stick around, asshole. You’ll be takin’ it in the ass pretty soon yourself!”
“Listen, I got an idea,” Crosswhite said in Spanish. “How about you let my man pass? That way we can all get the fuck outta here before the fuzz shows up.”
The Cuban was quiet for a moment. Then he answered in Spanish, “Okay. He can pass.”
“Duardo, what do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Duardo answered. “What do
you
think?”
“He knows if he kills you, I’ll never let him out of here, and we’ll
both
go to prison. That’s all I can promise.”
“Get the fuck outta here!” the Cuban said. “I’ll catch up to you two
pendejos
another time!”
“Okay, I’m coming out,” Duardo said a few seconds later.
As he was passing the bathroom, the Cuban grabbed him from behind, screwing the pistol into his ear.
“Ni una palabra!”
he whispered, using Duardo as a human shield as they approached the kitchen. Not a word!
Duardo opened his hand and let the bayonet slide down out of his shirt sleeve. As they neared the kitchen doorway, he jerked his head away from the pistol and stabbed the blade deep into the Cuban’s thigh, striking bone.
The Cuban howled, and Duardo spun around, knocking the gun from his hand and kicking him in the groin. The stricken assassin dropped to his knees, and Crosswhite bound into the room, shooting him in the head with the last round from the .45.
“Well done!” Crosswhite said, patting the older man on the shoulder. He then grew dizzy and dropped down on the couch. “Rum?” he said in English. “Shock.”
Duardo didn’t speak much English, but he understood “rum,” and he understood “shock,” because they were essentially the same words in Spanish. He helped Crosswhite back to his feet and grabbed the bottle from the kitchen table on their way to the car.
A few minutes later, they arrived at his sister-in-law’s house five blocks away.
“My God!” Olivia cried, seeing the blood as her husband sat Crosswhite down at the kitchen table.
“What happened?” asked Duardo’s sister-in-law Carmen.
Duardo began to explain, and Paolina went into the bathroom, coming back out with a box of sanitary napkins.
“Good idea,” Crosswhite said, shrugging his trousers down to his knees. “Here, let me grab a couple of those things.”
A short time later, he was lying on a bed in the back of the house. The bleeding had stopped, and Paolina sat beside him on the mattress.
Duardo and Olivia were in the kitchen trying to calm Carmen. “What the hell are you going to do with him?” Carmen demanded. “He can’t stay here.”
“He has to,” Duardo said. “We can’t give him to the police. He’s CIA.”
Her eyebrows soared. “I can’t have CIA in my house!”
Olivia was concerned too. “Won’t the police look for him here?”
“They may,” Duardo admitted. “But we have to think of something, because in jail he’ll be killed.”
Paolina appeared and stood leaning in the kitchen doorway. “Go back to the house,
Papi
. Tell the police the man you stabbed was
with me when the others came to kill him. No one has to know an American was ever there.”
Carmen looked at her. “You’re going to lie to the police for a stranger? For the CIA?”
Paolina looked at her aunt with her soft brown eyes, innocent and guileless. “His name is Daniel.”