Robert Walker - Cuba blue

“Fortunately, he hates Arias as much as I do. I don’t know why.”

“I do know why, but it’s from the confessional. Still, are you sure his hatred’s enough to make him forego a large payday?”

“Luis loves Rita, respects you, and he knows what Arias did to us all.” With a grim look of determination, he added, “I completely trust him to do the right thing.”

Pasqual considered this for a moment, and nodded. “Over the last day or so, I’ve had to revise my opinion of Luis. He’s got more sides and angles than a rough-cut stone.”

Alejandro thoughtfully said, “Cevalos once told me that as a young man, our father apprenticed as a stone cutter with a master jeweler. Under his artistry and skill, a rough-cut stone became a gem.”

“I don’t remember anything about our father.”

“I do remember his kissing our mother and hugging us when he came home, but not much else.”

Pasqual saw that familiar glimmer of emotion in his brother’s eye, but as always Alejandro quickly killed all sentimentality and changed the subject while looking at his watch. “It’s getting late.”

“Late for whom?”

“I’ll see Aguilera and Zayas now.”

Qui Aguilera and JZ pushed past the unlocked door to Alejandro’s room. They found him standing on the balcony overlooking Santiago bay. Without turning to face them, he said, “Have you two ever heard of the Lago de Sangre?”

JZ murmured his translation, “The Lake of Blood?”

Alejandro turned where he stood in the doorway, the wind lifting the curtains about him, creating a red cloak around him. “It’s where my father’s body lies,” came the admission. “Along with the other men who were murdered at El Cobre.”

“Where the lock guided us,” JZ said.

“Actually, I suspect, where Mr. Valdes guided us,” corrected Qui cocking her head to one side and quizzically studying him. “The unseen helping hand?”

“Very good, Lieutenant Detective.” Alejandro bowed slightly. “A belated welcome to my Santiago, Quiana Magdalena Aguilera, Mr. Julio Roberto Zayas.”

“Ahhh…Mr. Alejandro Carlos Pasqual y Valdes does his homework,” Qui fired back.

“Touche!”

“What is this about the Lake of Blood?” asked JZ.

“Are you referring to the lake below the chapel?” asked Qui. “Near the basilica?”

“Yes…that night many years ago, I saw lights in the distance, far from the fire. I was a child…not knowing then that I was watching my father’s burial on the heels of my mother’s murder.”

“And you never told Pasqual?” she asked.

“To what purpose? Besides, I didn’t learn the truth of it until recently myself-and this from a dying man who had no reason to lie.”

“This dying man?” asked Qui. “Was he one of the soldiers?”

“Yes, Arias’s second-in-command as he told me over drinks. Poor devil felt abandoned in his old age. Blamed the cancer on his guilty conscience…said it ate him up over the years.”

“The cancer or his conscience?” asked JZ, not expecting an answer.

“He said he’d once been a good man, an honorable fellow, but that was before he was sent here to Santiago under the command of a man whose own troops called him El Diablo.”

“Just following orders?” commented JZ. “The Nazi excuse for carnage.”

“History repeats itself, Mr. Zayas. Who better than an American knows this?”

“That old soldier, why should we believe you didn’t kill him?” asked Qui, skeptical.

“I heard you were direct, Lieutenant. Luis speaks highly of you.” The handsome Alejandro strode deeper into the room, lifted a glass from the table, then pulled a wine bottle from ice that’d melted the night before. He drained what was left of the Cabernet into his glass. Toasting the air, he replied, “How the man died? Unimportant really. Whether he died naturally or with a little help, he was close to dying anyway and in great pain.”

Qui felt the cold cunning of this man chill the room, despite the heat and humidity pouring in from the open balcony. The curtains continued to play in and out of the entryway, ghostly, red streamers reaching out to snatch at the living.

“No, Pasqual doesn’t know about our father,” continued Alejandro as Qui studied the features so like Pasqual’s. “No one does, not even Father Cevalos who thinks the rumors of Blood Lake are just that…rumors and superstitions.”

“Pasqual has no memory of his father, does he?” she asked.

“None but what I’ve told him. In many ways, Pasqual is innocent. As for my father, he was a lot like Pasqual. A kind man, deeply committed to his beliefs, or so say those few who remember him.”

“Perhaps you are not so different,” suggested Qui. “From where I stand, I’d say you’re just as committed to your beliefs.”

He ignored her implication, sipping at his Cabernet. “As I said, facts spilling from the lips in a deathbed confession. Better than words from the living, whispered in one of Cevalos’s confessionals, I think.”

“Qui,” began JZ, “we’ve found a much needed ally here, one who can drop the last pieces in place.”

“You think so, Mr. Zayas? Perhaps you’re more astute than we give you Americans credit for.” His dark eyes stared at JZ. “Then, again, perhaps you presume too much.”

“Is JZ right, Mr. Valdes?” she asked. “Can you answer our questions?”

“More than you may wish to know, but I have stipulations before I answer any question.”

“And your demands?”

“I require absolute anonymity and immunity, Lieutenant Detective,” he announced. “No one, here in Cuba,” he paused to look at JZ, “or in your respective institutions in America, are to know I have talked to you about these matters. No one.”

“I can grant you both so far as the American Interest Section is concerned, and I’m certain there’ll be no problems with the other ‘institutions’ as you put it. I have full authority to get answers, and I can assure you, if you help us, we’ll help you.”

“I want it in writing,” countered Alejandro, “with your signature affixed, Mr. Zayas.”

“Done,” JZ said firmly. “Do you have pen and paper?”

“On the desk.”

“Not so fast,” said Qui as JZ sat at the desk and began scribbling. “I don’t have such authority; I’m only a PNR detective, and I don’t trust my colonel as far as I can throw him. In fact, I don’t know who I can trust.”

“You can trust Colonel Emanuel Cordova of the Santiago PNR. He’s a rare man, incorruptible.”

“And the SP?” Qui asked.

“Leave the SP to eat itself alive within the next day, maybe two.”

“You know something we don’t know?”

Alejandro looked at her, nodded, and smiled, “I have many secrets. Not all of them can be shared.” He tipped his wine glass at her, “Your father is right to call you ‘little bird,’ Lieutenant Detective. It suits.” Downing the last of the wine, he continued, "Do you know the American bird, the Peregrine?”

“No. And what has it to do with this case?”

“The Peregrine falcon, although small, is quite ferocious. At hunt, it can dive at extreme speeds, 200 miles per hour, headfirst, catching its prey completely unaware.”

JZ, signed paper in hand, smiled at the apt comparison. “So if Qui is the falcon, who is the prey?”

“Our little bird is not sure she can trust me yet, Mr. Zayas. She thinks I want her tethered, that I feed her morsels and not the whole kill. So we will not trade facts at this time.”

Qui glared at the man and repeated, “I do not have authority to make such an offer of silence, of anonymity to you. There is no one I can get such assurances from.”