Steve Martini - Guardian of Lies

At some point, he didn’t know how much time had passed, he was startled from his slumber by Castro’s shouting. He lifted his sleepy head just in time to miss the next blow landed by Fidel’s closed fist on the table’s surface. Through the interpreter, Castro’s words came streaming in: “…betrayal by a trusted ally in the face of imperialist aggression.”

Fidel’s voice climbed to a roar and bristled with anger as he chomped on his cigar. Then he turned to look angrily at Alim.

Afundi was mortified. He was certain he had offended his host by falling asleep.

It took him a few seconds and a few discreet questions to the interpreter before he realized he was wrong. Alim came to grips with the snippets of Fidel’s message he had missed while dozing. It was something to do with Castro’s alliance with the Soviets and Russian missiles placed on Cuban soil for defense. Apparently, Castro’s fury had not been quelled by the passage of more than forty years.

“In the end,” said Fidel, “the only Russian who remained true to the revolution has spent his life hiding from his own government in the mountains of Colombia.” Then he turned his blazing eyes on his guest. “In the event that you are wondering, it is the reason I have invited you here this evening.

“By the way, before I forget, I have for you and your men a present. It isn’t much, perhaps just a small taste of home.” Castro reached over to the shelf under a table alongside his chair and pulled out a newspaper. Immediately, Alim saw the stirring banner on the front page, the large cursive letters in Farsi. He recognized the newspaper. It was the provincial sheet published by his own government and circulated in the mountains near his home. Afundi hadn’t seen news from home in nearly two years.

“I had it delivered in one of our diplomatic pouches,” said Fidel. He tossed it to Afundi across the table. “Share it with your men. They need to hear from home.”

Alim took the newspaper and a drink of water in an effort to wake himself, and tried to glance at the newspaper as he listened.

After spending the entire night reliving his life, it took Fidel less than five minutes to come to the point.

There was a stark contrast between the sentimental old man who lived in the past, the one who had talked Alim to sleep, and the operational warlord Afundi had woken up to in the morning. Alim recognized the difference immediately.

Fidel told him about Nitikin, how they’d met and about the secret they shared. It was Fidel’s sense that fate had delivered Alim and his men to him at a critical moment, when all the stars were aligned, while he still had breath to deliver the message, and his old Russian friend still had the strength to act upon it.

As Castro spoke, Afundi held the newspaper on his lap and glanced at it occasionally with one eye. When Fidel turned to grab the decanter of rum once more, Alim quickly flipped the newspaper over to see the back side. There he saw the photograph of a large American warship. The moment he read the caption printed beneath the photograph, his eyes seemed fixed on the four-column photograph.

According to the paper: “The American warship Ronald Reagan plies the waters of the Persian Gulf on its most recent tour. Its warplanes routinely kill innocent women and children in cities and villages throughout the region. It delivers without mercy the infidel’s poisonous bite on other nations where the Great Satan seeks to impose his will on true believers and the faithful throughout the Islamic world.”

By the time Fidel finished pouring his drink, Afundi’s eyes were back on him, though his mind was not.

“I am certain,” said Fidel, “that given enough diplomacy and time, your own government will see the wisdom of my plan. And that you yourself will come to understand its opportunities. Of course, it must be handled with a good deal of care and discretion. But I’m sure you al ready know that. You see,” said Fidel, “it is a grand opportunity delivered to you and to me, by destiny.”

Destiny or not, for the moment Afundi had problems. The old Russian was sick once more. He was resting in the three-room hut with his daughter. One of the doctors had looked in on him that morning. The physician told Alim that it was not serious, just that the old man was tired. They were working him too hard. He needed more rest. If they were lucky he might be down only for the day, perhaps two. But without him they could make no further progress.

If this were not enough, now there was something else, one more problem to worry about.

Alim saw his man rushing back toward him from the hut. The man had exited from a back window. The fact that he had nothing in either hand told Afundi that the search had been unsuccessful.

“You didn’t find it?”

“No.” The man was breathless.

“You went through everything?”

“All of her bags and her clothing. Besides, I haven’t seen her with it. And I have been watching her closely this time. I don’t think she has it.”

“Then where is it?” said Afundi.

“I don’t know. Maybe she took it with her when she went home. If so, it could still be there, in Costa Rica.”

Afundi thought for a moment. It was a delicate subject, and not one that he wanted to raise either directly or indirectly with the Russian or his daughter.

The man from the Mexican cartel had sent three items to them after killing the American at his home in California and trying to kill Nitikin’s granddaughter. He sent the dead man’s laptop, a printed photograph that none of them recognized, and a small digital camera in a pink leather case.

Afundi had directed the killer to look for a camera because Nitikin’s daughter had told them she borrowed her daughter’s camera to use during her last trip to Colombia. It was the camera that had taken the photos of Nitikin, Alim, and his men.

When Alim checked the camera sent to them from California, he found nothing except photographs apparently taken there, in California. Initially Afundi was relieved. He assumed that the original photographs from Colombia had been erased.

But the reprieve was short lived. That morning, through the interpreter, he had gone out of his way to ask Nitikin’s daughter if she could help him with a new camera he had purchased. He showed her the camera from California without its pink case and with none of the photographs of the Russian’s granddaughter still in it. The mother didn’t recognize it. She told him she had never seen one like it. It was much nicer, newer, and smaller than the one she had used. It was all Alim needed to know. The camera and perhaps the Colombian photographs were still out there.

It was possible that no one would find them, at least not before it was too late, but then again, given his luck so far…

Harry and I are wearing a rut in the road, twenty miles each way every time we need to meet with Katia at the women’s lockup in Santee. But today Harry doesn’t seem to mind. “I think we found one of the coins taken from Emerson’s study,” he tells me. “And this one wasn’t in Arizona.”

According to Harry it showed up in a probate estate, an old man who’d succumbed to a heart attack a couple of weeks ago. His executor found the coin in his safe along with a printed card showing its provenance. The police now have the card and the coin.

“Please don’t tell me they identified Katia as the seller,” I tell him.

“No, according to the records the seller was a man named John Waters. We don’t know if there’s any identification on him yet. I’m told Templeton’s people are checking it out.”

“Stay on top of it.”

“You bet,” says Harry.

This morning when we get to the jail Katia knows by the expression on our faces that there is a problem. We are closeted in one of the lawyer-client cubicles.