Paul Christopher: Valley of the Templars

“Does it still exist?” Holliday asked.

Braintree shrugged. “There’ve been all sorts of rumors over the years, just like the never-ending rumors of the original Templar, but soon after conquering Cuba, Velazquez fell out of favor with Diego Columbus during Cortez’s conquest of Mexixo, and stripped of authority, he died in Santiago de Cuba in 1524. Most probably the Brotherhood died with him.”

“Or maybe not,” said Eddie quietly.

The Air Canada A320 came in low over the sea, reaching land in the early afternoon. The gently rolling countryside below could just as easily have been rural France-fields, farms and small villages crouched in broad valleys or perched on low hills, all connected by country roads that led to broader highways.

“Mi patria precioso,” whispered Eddie with a choke in his voice as he stared down at the landscape from the window seat of the narrow-body jet.

“Let’s just hope we get out of the airport,” said Holliday.

“We will, mi colonel , but remember, after that you must listen very carefully to what I tell you about how things work in this place.”

“I promise to obey every command.” Holliday smiled. Eddie raised an expressive eyebrow. An instant later the slightly ominous whir and thump of the flaps lowering filled the interior of the aircraft and they began their final approach to Jose Marti International Airport.

Terminal 3 at Jose Marti was built specifically for international arrivals and departures, showcasing Cuba as a modern twenty-first-century country, which everybody, especially the Cubans, knows it is not. The architecture was slick: glass, steel and open-beam high ceilings with crisscrossing assemblies of pipe and I-beams, some of them hung with large versions of the world’s flags, including the Stars and Stripes. The Cuban government might hate American foreign policy and politicians, but they love American tourists. Although there have been no sanctioned flights to Cuba since 1960, the Cubans found ways around the problem almost immediately. Americans could reach Cuba by first going to Canada, Mexico or the Bahamas and flying onward from those countries. Instead of passport entry and exit stamps, Cuban customs provided the tourist with a small separate visa slipped into the passport on arrival and removed on departure. Although each tourist who visited Cuba from the United States could technically be arrested under the Trading with the Enemy Act, it didn’t stop more than one hundred and fifty thousand tourists a year from going there, although most of the guidebooks suggest that they shouldn’t announce their American citizenship too loudly and might even go so far as to wear a Canada pin, or a Canadian flag patch, on their knapsacks. On the other hand, there is a regular St. Patrick’s Day on O’Reilly Street in Havana, complete with a pipe band, green beer and a choir singing “Danny Boy” in a Spanish accent. After all, it was rumored that even Che Guevara had Irish-American roots, and of course, even Castro himself had an American connection-in the late 1940s Fidel had been offered a five-thousand-dollar signing bonus by the New York Giants.

Holliday shuffled toward customs in the big, noisy terminal trying to figure what the impact on the world would have been if Castro had signed with the team and had a career as a major league pitcher. Perhaps there would have been one Batista after another for the next fifty years, all with a cozy relationship with the United States. American sugar, fruit and tobacco interests would have flourished, and so would the Mafia. Cuba could have stayed as corrupt as any of its neighbors to the south, or its slightly wackier compatriots in North Africa and the Middle East. American servicemen from Guantanamo on leave in Havana, picking up hookers in the bars and clubs and gambling in the casinos like the Riviera, the Capri or the Sans Souci. Blacks still unemancipated, working as cane cutters or in the tobacco fields, the vast majority of the country illiterate and poor.

He reached the head of the line, put both bags on the big industrial scales and waited while the weight figure was computed, paying the fee in U.S. dollars. Then he was signaled to the customs counter.

“Passport, senor,” demanded the uniformed customs agent. Behind him sat two men in suits and dark glasses, both reading Granma , the official newspaper. These would be the airport police that Eddie had warned him about.

Holliday handed over the blue-covered Canadian passport identifying him as John Leeson, smiling pleasantly.

“You are Canadian?”

“Yes.”

“You have traveled to a great many places, senor,” said the customs official, flipping through the pages. Holliday had been very specific to Hartog the forger about the stamps he wanted, including five countries with UNESCO Preservation sites, among them India, Japan, Peru and New Zealand.

“So I have,” said Holliday, keeping his tone genial.

“You are here on business or pleasure, senor?”

“A bit of both, mostly business.” He handed over the business card he’d made at the Hyatt in Toronto.

“You pay to fix our great buildings, yes?”

“I just take the pictures for the bosses. All of us have our bosses, right?”

“That is correct, si. ” The customs official smiled. “We all have our bosses. Please, senor, put your suitcases on the counter and open them.”

Holliday did as he was told. Once the cases were on the counter, he unlocked them and pulled them open. The customs official rummaged through the clothes, felt the sides, bottom and back, then indicated that Holliday could close the first up. The customs man checked the second suitcase.

“A lot of camera equipment,” commented the official. At some invisible signal the two men reading newspapers stood up and stood beside the suitcase. As well as the camera case, there were round slots for thirty metal film containers. The taller of the two security men opened a few of the film containers at random while the other watched for a reaction from Holliday. There was none. The tall security man then told Holliday to take out the hard foam insert. Holliday handed it to the man, who checked the bottom before setting it aside; if things could be inserted into the foam from above, it was logical that they could be inserted from below. He turned his attention to the red nylon lining, poking at it with a long finger.

“It is…soft,” said the taller man in the dark glasses. “Why is this?”

“I put a foam pad behind the lining as more protection for the camera equipment.”

“Show me,” said the man.

Holliday did so, pulling aside a four-inch section of the nylon lining that he’d left loose after gluing the section of yoga mat into the suitcase. It was the mark of an experienced traveler who had to explain the same thing to other customs and security people at airports all over the world.

“Why do you not use one of those aluminum suitcases, the square one?”

“That’s the best way I know to get your equipment stolen. The only people who use Halliburton cases do so because they’ve got valuable stuff inside or because they’re trying to look cool. I prefer any old suitcase myself.”

The security man gave Holliday a long look, then nodded to himself. “What hotel are you staying at, senor?”

“The Nacional,” answered Holliday. “Where else?”

“Of course,” said the security man. “You may close the suitcases now, senor. Welcome to Cuba.”

And that was that. He closed the suitcases, found his way to the exit and stepped outside into the blistering heat to wait for Eddie. He spotted half a dozen taxis, including a 1949 Ford Victoria, a ’41 Dodge four-door sedan in powder blue and a Cadillac El Dorado convertible in bright pink. There was even a ’31 Ford Model A in two tones of green with cream-colored wheels, whitewall tires and a steel luggage rack at the back.