Killing Castro - Lawrence Block [46]
Her eyes were sheer hatred.
Garth laughed. He looked at Fenton—conscious now, on his feet again, and able to function. Fenton had his gun back. And Maria moved to pick up hers.
“C’mon,” he told them. “We gotta go up against this Castro guy. Then we can have some more fun.”
He turned his back to them and started through the brush again, back to the camp site. Either one of them could have shot him. But he knew they would not. In both their minds, Castro came first.
And no one shot him.
Ernesto took a small sip of sour red wine. The heavyset Cuban put his glass on the table and smiled broadly.
“My friend,” he said. “You have decided to stay in Cuba, true?”
“I’ve decided to stay,” Turner said.
“And you will obtain papers? You will become a citizen?”
Turner nodded.
“A thought has come to me,” Ernesto said. “I have a friend, an official in the Department of Immigration. He is not busy these days. More people seek to leave Cuba than to enter here. This friend of mine, he is a fine man. You would like him, amigo.”
“You have many friends, Ernesto.”
“So? Can a man live without friends? Friends are the strength of a man. But to continue. This friend of mine, this official, might make matters simpler. There are complications to becoming a citizen, even in Cuba. What you Americans call pink tape.”
“Red tape.”
“So. My friend could cut this red tape. A preparation of papers, a signature, the application of an official seal, and you are a citizen of Cuba. Is it not simple?”
“Shall we go to this friend?”
“Very simple.”
Turner considered. “I have no money,” he said. “Wouldn’t it cost some money for this friend to expedite things?”
Ernesto sighed, extended his hands with his palms down. “This is a friend,” he said. “Not an acquaintance but a friend, as you are my friend. Once I was able to do a great service for this friend. Once he was in great trouble with the man Torelli of whom I spoke. He was a croupier, and there was the matter of a shortage. I was able to cover for my friend. Thus he would be happy to do a service for me in return. There will be no need for money in this case.”
“Well,” Turner said. “That’s different.”
“So. Let us go, my friend. And in an hour you shall be a free citizen of Cuba. Then we shall go again to the bordello, yes? I am in need of a woman. And we shall celebrate your citizenship.”
Two hours later Turner was a citizen of Cuba. The three of them—he, Ernesto and the Immigration official—had a drink in celebration. Then they taxied to a bordello which Ernesto liked. Turner was happy now. He was safe. He did not have to think of murdering Castro.
Castro’s convoy was sighted at seventeen minutes past six.
One of the new men had the watch. He saw the lead Jeep pull into view, saw it far off down the road. He gave the signal, and the rebel band began drifting into position, stationing themselves in strategic spots along the rock formations on either side of the road. Fenton was ready, gun in hand, heart hammering. He braced himself with his back against a boulder, then shifted and stretched prone in the gap between two huge rocks. He lay down on his belly and pointed his weapon at the road.
Time.
A Jeep with four uniformed soldiers led the procession. Directly behind it was a truck covered with a canvas top. There were men in it, Fenton knew. Soldiers, armed with rifles and machine guns and grenades. And behind the truck was another Jeep, with more soldiers.
So Castro was expecting an ambush. That was obvious—you didn’t travel with the entire militia around you if you thought you were one hundred percent safe. There was a third Jeep, with more soldiers. Then a long Lincoln, a limousine, with the shades drawn.
Castro had to be in the Lincoln. He would be traveling there, behind drawn shades, probably cool and comfortable in an air-conditioned car. And there was a pair of Buicks behind the Lincoln, then a slew of Jeeps with still more soldiers.
Fenton drew a deep breath.
The convoy crawled forward. Fenton began to ache inside for a cigarette, for a cup of coffee,