Paul Christopher - Valley of the Templars

Ortega reached out and snapped the box shut, then slipped it into the pocket. “Good. I will do it.”

“You know when it is to be done?”

“The feast of St. Lazarus. It has been his favorite saint’s day since his diverticulitis. I am always invited to give the blessing. The older he gets, the more Catholic he becomes.”

“A common trait among old men,” said Musaro. He sat forward in his chair, placing his hands flat upon the polished inlaid desk. “The Feast Day of St. Lazarus is on the twenty-first day of the month. The deed must be done on that day. A great many people are counting on it, Jaime. A great many people are counting on you , Jaime.”

“And my reward for committing murder?”

“On the night of his death, you and I will be flown to Rome on an Air Canada 777. On the day after your arrival, the cardinal electors will meet to select a new dean since the ever-controversial Cardinal Soldano is over eighty and no longer eligible to vote in any future conclaves. You will become the next dean of the College of Cardinals.”

“It is an elected position. How can you guarantee such a thing?”

“There are currently ninety-four cardinal electors. I am owed favors of one kind or another by seventy-six of them, more than enough to obtain a two-thirds majority of sixty-two.”

“You’ve taken care of everything,” said Ortega.

“I am the apostolic nuncio, the envoy of the pope and therefore the envoy of God to this country.” Musaro lifted his shoulders and smiled, the light from the big bow window behind him turning his hair into a halo with a tropical Garden of Gethsemane at his back. His voice was soft but filled with the power of a man saying Mass in a cathedral. “‘ Deos enim religuos accepimus, Caesares dedimus’ : The gods were handed down to us, but we created this terrible Caesar ourselves, Jaime, and having created him, we have the responsibility of removing him from this world. Alea iacta est, Jaime. For Fidel the die has been cast and you have been chosen to be his Brutus. Deus animae tuae misereatur . May God have mercy on your soul.”

It took another three days for the Tiburon Blanco to make its way up the broad valley of the Agabama to the small town of Condado, once a rail center for agricultural goods from the small surrounding farms. The rail line that had once served the town had died with the revolution, the tracks overgrown with weeds, an ancient steam engine enduring a humiliating and rusting demise, the single glass eye of its enormous headlamp pointing the way down a track that was no longer there. Mountains rose on three sides, and only a few miles ahead the valley narrowed to its end. Ahead lay the much narrower Valley of Death, the river winding and curling deep into the heart of the Sierra del Escambray.

In the time that had passed since his arrival in Cuba, Holliday had developed a deep mahogany tan. In a pair of grease-covered cotton pants, rubber tire sandals and an old Bruce Springsteen Darkness Tour T-shirt, he almost looked like a local. It was Eddie who suggested that he wear a bandanna low over his fresh scar and his ruined eye. The bandanna looked a little odd, but the scar was too terrible to miss and too easy to describe. If they didn’t need supplies for the boat, the prudent thing would have been for him to stay behind. They had filled the boat’s huge hidden tanks at the little harbor in Tunas de Zaza just before reaching La Boca and the mouth of the river, so at least fuel was no problem.

Arango guided the boat upriver toward the town with special care. Even with the shallow five-foot draft, the Tiburon Blanco had almost grounded several times as they approached Condado. As the summer progressed, the water would become even shallower, making passage up or downriver impossible. The old man eventually found a short stretch of stony beach and Eddie threw out a concrete block anchor to make sure the boat didn’t drift away downriver if Arango decided to take a nap.

Both men said good-bye to Arango, dropped off the side of the boat and down onto the beach. They began the half-mile walk into town, empty knapsacks carried over their shoulders. They found a narrow dirt road between fields of early wheat and tobacco and followed it, dust rising in puffs from their sandaled feet. The sun was relentless in a hot blue sky and Holliday no longer wondered why the average Cuban walked so slowly; to go any faster was to invite a heart attack.

“You trust him?” Holliday asked.

“Arango? Of course,” said Eddie.

“He was plenty upset by those pirates,” said Holliday. “What’s to stop him from heading back downstream and abandoning us?”

“Four things,” answered Eddie with a grin. “ Uno -he only has half his money. Dos -it takes at least two people to fire that machine gun. Tres -he knows I would find him and cut out his heart. Quatro -I have the glow plug relay fuses from both engines in my pack. He is not going anywhere.”

The town was small and almost deserted and its largest industry appeared to be a trucking company using old military vehicles to transport produce grown in a number of large greenhouses. The town square was almost empty as though the people had left on the last train out of town decades before. Doors were closed, windows were shuttered and the only movement came from little spirals of dust whirling in the hot breeze.

They found a carniceria that had some relatively fresh meat to sell, and the butcher gave them directions to a farm stand on the other side of town where they managed to find what they needed in the way of fruits, vegetables and even a clutch of fresh eggs. The old lady running the little stand was careful to pack the precious cargo in a paper bag lined with straw.

Their errands done, the two men headed back to the boat. “ Hola! Arango! We’ve found the huevos you wanted,” called out Eddie as they eased themselves over the gunwales. Both men froze as a figure stepped up out of the well leading down to the cabin. His skin was the color of teak, his hair snow-white. He was as tall as Eddie but not even close to being as muscular. He had dark, deep-set, suspicious eyes beneath heavy black eyebrows that were starkly at odds with the whiteness of his hair. He carried a big Makarov pistol in his right hand.

“Where is Arango?” Eddie asked harshly. Holliday was acutely aware that he was unarmed.

“El esta abajo, dormido. Borracho,” answered the white-haired man.

“Prove it,” Eddie said.

Without taking his eyes off them, the man with the white hair used his left hand to slide back the cabin door. Arango’s snores were loud and regular. “Esta usted satisfecho…mi hermano?”

“Speak English,” said Eddie.

“Why should I speak your Yucca friend’s language? It is the language of the enemy.” The white-haired man sneered. His English was at least as good as Eddie’s.

“Because it is polite,” said Eddie. “Or have you forgotten simple manners along with everything else our parents taught us?”

“Your parents?” Holliday said.

“Yes, mi colonel ,” said Eddie, his voice brittle with anger. “May I present you to Domingo Romano Cabrera Alphonso? My brother.”

“Why this place in particular?” Will Black said, paying the driver of the pristine 1953 Oldsmobile taxi, then climbing out into the superheated air.

“Because there aren’t that many places in Cuba that rent private airplanes,” said Carrie Pilkington. “In fact, this guy is the only one I could find.”

The faded sign on the rusted old corrugated hangar said SERVICIOS DE AVIACIoN P. LAFRAMBUESA. The hangar was located on what looked like an old, cracked, concrete hardstand at the northwestern perimeter of Playa Baracoa Airfield. Playa Baracoa was twelve miles west of Havana, its single runway within sight of the sea.