Don Pendleton: Havana Five

“When do you think we’re going to get out of here?”

Crosse shrugged dejectedly. “How the fuck should I know? I look like some kind of Oracle to you or something?”

Stein shrugged. “Just wondered if maybe you had an idea.”

“I don’t.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Crosse let the silence lapse between them awhile. He really admired Stein in a lot of ways, but sometimes—as a partner quite often does—Stein irritated the living shit out of him. He felt bad taking his foul mood out on the guy, the one guy who had stuck with him for the past ten years. No matter what happened, no matter what kind of shit went down, Stein had been there. Stein backed him when the ethics committee questioned him during a shooting board inquiry, and again one other time when his superiors questioned him about missing drug evidence. In both cases, Crosse had actually been clean. In fact, Crosse had never accepted graft, never brutalized a suspect—at least not that any cop would have considered justifiable. And while he’d bent a few rules, he couldn’t ever remember having abused his authority.

But now he couldn’t help the uncertainty and irritation of knowing he’d crossed the line; not once but three times in the past twenty-four hours. They had made a deal with a known criminal in a foreign country, killed an American military officer and stolen top-secret documents belonging to the government. Now, to rub salt in the wound, they had to remain cooped up in this stinking hell-hole with these goat farmers.

“Sorry,” he muttered after a time. “I’m a little bent about this shit.”

“Forget it,” Stein said. “You know, I’ve been letting this run through my mind since we hooked up with Andres out there. It just doesn’t add up, Les. None of it adds up.”

“It seems pretty simple to me. We stepped on our dicks. We got sloppy and someone decided to renege on our deal with Fuego.”

“You mean Fuego reneged.”

“No,” Crosse countered, “I mean someone reneged. I don’t think she had anything to do with it. I think somebody else made the decision. Maybe she decided to go along with it, but it wasn’t her idea.”

“What makes you think so?”

“You read the same case files I did on the criminal elements down here. You don’t get very far in a business like hers if you go around screwing everybody you meet. She’s always had a good reputation as an honest businesswoman, just like her old man.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stein said. “Look where that got him.”

Crosse waved at a big fly with irritation as he replied, “Whatever. My point is if she decided to stick it to us then she did it under the advice of someone else. Not only is going back on your word in her business considered dishonorable, it’s a surefire way to gain some very unwanted publicity.”

“Just the kind she can’t afford,” Stein interjected.

“Right.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“I say we sit back and wait a little while longer. They’ll give up looking for us pretty fast, I think. Once they do, and assuming we can get out from under the thumbs of these Neanderthals, we ought to be able to find someone who can smuggle us back to the country.”

“We’ll have a lot of explaining to do,” Stein said.

“I’d rather have to explain in front of an inquiry board than a Cuban magistrate. How about you?”

Stein merely nodded his agreement.

“Anyway, it won’t be too much longer.” Crosse experienced a suddenly dry and violent cough. He’d have to get some water soon or he might start pissing blood.

Not too much longer, he thought.

THE FOUR MEN LOITERING in a late-model sedan half a block down on the opposite side of the street tripped Mack Bolan’s senses into high alert.

“See that car?” Bolan asked Grimaldi.

The pilot leaned forward in the seat, scrutinized the occupants, then nodded. “They weren’t there before.”

“I saw it park there ten minutes ago with only the driver. Now I count four inside.”

“I smell trouble,” Grimaldi replied.

“Yeah.” Bolan kept one eye on the vehicle as he looked in the direction of the police station. “Blast it, Rafael. What’s taking so long?”

CONVINCING THE SUBSTATION commander at the Cuban jail that he was nothing more than a consulate-appointed attorney for the America prisoners proved a harder task than Rafael Encizo thought it would be.

In talking with first the cops and then their commandant, Encizo learned to take anything they said at face value. He could tell almost from the beginning that they weren’t forthcoming and didn’t plan to be any time soon. The Cuban warrior had a careful balance to maintain; he needed to keep them talking while acting subservient. Attorneys didn’t command the same respect in Cuba as the U.S. Well, maybe it wasn’t the attorneys as much as the “civil rights” of prisoners. The majority of the populace looked upon criminals as the lowest form of life, and they weren’t afforded more than accommodations.

“What has happened to my clients?” Encizo asked as respectfully as he could manage.

“They have been moved to a different location for their…safety.”

The commandant was a small, thin man with curly hair cut close and streaked with gray.

“You believe they’re in danger?”

“What American who is arrested in Cuba isn’t in danger?” That caused him to laugh at what he had to have considered to be a pretty good joke. “Anyway, for now we have them secured and they aren’t going anywhere.”

“Well, I must speak with them. The American government has insisted they receive proper counsel.”

“And why would the Americans be so concerned about these two men?”

Encizo had to think furiously for an answer. He’d probably let the cat out of the bag a little too soon. Encizo hoped for a faster turnaround but forthrightness didn’t seem like a familiar concept to the commandant. He dealt with thugs and rapists and other such elements every day. He would therefore be suspicious and untrusting of everyone, despite how honorable their intentions might seem.

“It’s not the Americans the magistrate worries about,” Encizo said. “He’s concerned this will draw attention from the press and other undesirables. He wants to make sure no disinformation is sown, particularly back to the American government.”

“And what of it?” the commandant replied. “I have no interest in what the Americans think, particularly the government. They have no jurisdiction here, and their political concerns are no concerns of mine.”

“Maybe not,” Encizo said. “But they are to the magistrate and I may report back to him that you were fully cooperative?”

Something dangerous glinted in the commandant’s eyes, only for a moment, but Encizo pretended not to notice. He realized the risks of such a veiled threat, but it hadn’t escaped the notice of either of them this wasn’t exactly the Mecca of assignments. Most people of influence and power considered Guijarro the armpit of Matanzas—not that it had any greater or lesser qualities than many of the poverty-ridden suburbs around it—but a magistrate’s wishes would always win out over those of a policeman.

“You may thank the magistrate,” the commandant finally replied. “And tell him I will be most cooperative. However, I’m afraid I cannot disclose the location of the prisoners at present. Their safety is my responsibility. I will need a signed writ from the magistrate before I can give you that information.”

Encizo realized an end had come to more diplomatic methods. Somewhere in the conversation, he heard the two officers who’d been in the station leave on a disturbance of some type. That left them alone in the office, and Encizo decided the time had come to implement more effective means of soliciting cooperation. In an instant he launched from his chair and came across the commandant’s desk. Encizo produced his Glock and grabbed a fistful of the commandant’s shirt in one, smooth motion. Encizo hauled him out of his chair and stretched him belly-first across the desk to unbalance him.