The Consummata Page 3

  We were still married, Kim and me.

  My lovely doll of a bride would never have made it in the fashion mags—not tall enough, and way too many curves... long dark sun-streaked hair tumbling to her shoulders, her face an oval blessed with large almond eyes, as violet as Liz Taylor’s, a small, well-carved nose, and a lush mouth that could convey wry amusement with just the slightest rise at either corner.

  I could close my eyes and see her in our Nuevo Cadiz hotel room, staring up at me from the bed, lounging in that sheer black negligee, its nylon hugging her with static insistence, a bottle of champagne nearby, the radio whispering Latin rhythms.

  But all for show. To make the honeymoon look good.

  On an early meeting, in the planning stages, I’d asked her casually if there were any “special instructions” on this assignment.

  “What do you mean?” Her voice throaty, sultry.

  “I mean, are we going to consummate this marriage?”

  The burn started at her sweet throat and rose to her cheeks. “When I have a man, it’s at my choosing.”

  I’d told her that was smart.

  Smart? she’d asked.

  Yeah, I said, the Company knows non-consummation makes perfect grounds for annulment or divorce. But they forgot one thing.

  Oh?

  Yeah, I said, grinning, it’s damn hard to charge a husband for raping his wife.

  That was when she showed me the little gun.

  And I remembered what one of the feds had told me about her: that Kim Stacy had shot and killed five men on previous assignments, that she was trained in all the martial arts and weaponry, and that her skills got her rated as one of the company’s best operatives.

  But as the mission progressed, she warmed to me, and my warped sense of humor. By the time I was putting that scientist on that little plane on a runway whipped with gusts announcing a coming hurricane, Kim loved me. And I loved her.

  We’d gone through hell together, in just a few days, but the heaven of consummating that love, and our marriage, hadn’t happened. Just the same, we were man and wife now.

  Before I jumped into the sky over the ocean, I told her. Told her that even though she now knew I hadn’t pulled that heist, I would never be able to clear myself with her bosses till I recovered that missing forty mil.

  “You’ll have to wait for me,” I told her.

  “Forever if I have to,” she’d said.

  But now I could only wonder...would I ever see my wife again?

  Pedro’s wife Maria was the one with the powerful lungs whose screaming complaints had made the militia’s life so miserable, not long ago.

  Sitting across from her, my belly bursting with black beans, rice and Ropa Viela—beef that to me looked like Carolina pulled pork—I could make out the voluptuous beauty she’d once been, before her own good cooking got away from her.

  She was still a handsome woman, towering over her husband, with liquid brown eyes buried in happy folds of fat that gave her face the appearance of a big baby’s. When she was sure the two men at her table had both had their fill, she was content to sit back and watch us placidly smoke Cuban cigars and drink cold beer. Now and again, she would nod as Pedro recounted their years together, before Castro.

  They had been prosperous farmers then, but the loss of their station hadn’t put a schism in their relationship. Today Pedro owned the grocery store below us as well as operating a successful garage, using knowledge acquired fixing tractors on his farm, and Maria seemed more proud of him than ever. If these two were a sample of the Cuban refugee situation, then there was no problem in our side accepting Castro’s rejects.

  Somehow Pedro managed to turn the conversation around to me. No details about the Rose Castle escape had ever seen publication, but his intimate knowledge of pertinent facts meant he had a real pipeline into Nuevo Cadiz. When Maria saw me squirm under her husband’s compliments, she silenced him with a wave of her pudgy hand.

  Her rosebud mouth pursed into a smile. “They tell us, señor, of a woman, a very beautiful woman who was at your side in Nuevo Cadiz. She was your wife, they say.”

  Even just the mention of her was jolting. Kim, with the wild, glossy black hair, the outrageously perfect body, eyes that could mix all the emotions at once and unleash them through the moist warmth of those full lips.

  “She was my wife,” I said quietly.

  Maria’s eyes studied my face and what she saw there brought the faintest frown to her forehead. “Truly your wife?”

  Pedro winced.

  “We were married,” I said. “It was part of...do you understand what I mean by cover story?”

  “Si,” she said as she nodded. “Still...you loved her, no?”

  “I loved her, yes.”

  Pedro sat forward. “Maria...”

  She cut her husband off with another wave. “And she...?”

  “She loved me, all right.”

  “But was your union...how do you say, matrimonio consumado?”

  “We never got the chance,” I said with a sad smile.

  A flush of indignation spread across Pedro’s face and he half-rose from his chair. “Maria! There are matters one prefers not to discuss in polite company. These things, they are most personal, and—”

  “Oh, be still, Pedro, my little donkey. There are matters of which men know nothing at all. They must be led like children. They must be—”

  “Maria!”

  “It’s okay, Pedro,” I said, not offended. I looked across at Maria and let the ache in my chest die down. “Like I say, I was forced to marry her—so the job could be done. It had to...look real.”

  “But you said you loved each other,” she reminded me.

  “Things were...different then. We were caught up in something bigger than we were. It was exciting and dangerous. That kind of thing plays hell with your thinking. If she’s smart, she’ll have forgotten all about me.”

  The voluptuous beauty she’d once been peered out from inside the fat woman, and eyes that knew lust and love met mine. “I do not think, Señor Morgan, that any woman, she can forget you.”

  Pedro, frowning, sighed, and made a gesture of apology to me.

  I ignored him, and told her, “Maybe she’ll be lucky, then.”

  “Losing a man such as you, señor, would not be lucky.”

  “Kim was a decent woman, courageous and on the right side of the fence. Face it, amigos, I’m a first-class hood. I’ve done time, and if I get nailed, I’ll do plenty more. You think I want her to have any part of me?”

  Maria shook her head sadly. “That question is for her to answer.”

  “She won’t get the chance, mamacita. I love her enough to want her out of my life. For her own good.”

  There was something else my hostess wanted to say, but somewhere a buzzer hummed two short bursts, and Maria stopped her question abruptly.

  Pedro’s head snapped around, he glanced at his wife, then pushed his chair back. He saw the way I was sitting there, tense, hands gripping the edge of the table, and he squeezed my shoulder.

  “This is nothing concerning you, Señor Morgan. It is another matter entirely. Stay there, por favor.”

  He got up, walked into the next room, and I heard a door open and shut quietly.

  With a calming gesture, Maria said, “The buzzer that you hear? It is one used only by our friends.”

  Within a minute Pedro was back again. He came into the room first, made sure nothing had changed, then stepped aside and nodded.

  The man with him could have been anywhere from forty to sixty. He was taller than Pedro, his carriage erect, his gaze sharp, a slender dignified figure in a dark suit and white shirt with a bolo tie. He let his eyes take in every detail of the room before he seemed to relax.

  Time or something else had shot his hair with strands of white and some of the lines that etched his face hadn’t been put there by the years. His trim mustache with spade beard, however, was black as a raven’s wing. There was so
mething familiar about him that I couldn’t place.

  And one thing I didn’t want to see right now was a familiar face. If I knew someone, then he had to know me.

  I didn’t have to say a word. He seemed to read my mind and smiled gently. “It seems we are two of a kind, señor. We recognize what lies below the surface. May I introduce myself? I am Luis Saladar, late of the Republic of Cuba.”

  Then I remembered him. We had never met, but I did remember him....

  He had fought both Batista and Castro, though the guns against his opposition party were too big and too many. His supporters had broken him out of one of Castro’s jails the day before he was to be executed. He had asked for political asylum in this country and gotten it.

  Only now the feds were looking for Saladar under a deportation order, because he had been trying to organize another revolutionary group to invade Cuba and the doves in government were too jittery to upset the status quo. After the Bay of Pigs, the Missile Crisis, and the Kennedy assassination, our government’s Cuban operations had been curtailed. The current White House would rather let the menace exist ninety miles off our coastline than risk any more problems with Russia.

  “Morgan,” I said and held out my hand. “I guess we are two of a kind.”

  His grip was firm, his eyes steady on mine. “I realize your situation here, señor. Let me assure you that I took every precaution not to be observed. There are still police about, but I was not seen.”

  “You sound sure of yourself.”

  He smiled wryly. “I have an advantage. Cubans in a Cuban community all seem to look alike to certain of your countrymen.”

  “Well, I can tell the difference,” I said, grinning back at him, “but I’m not an idiot.”

  He chuckled, then sat down next to Pedro.

  “Hey, if you have business to discuss,” I said, half-rising, “I can crawl back in my hidey-hole.”

  “No, please,” Saladar told me with an upraised palm and embarrassed expression. “I, too, have occupied those cramped quarters. There is no reason for you to be uncomfortable any longer than necessary. Besides, señor, it is possible you might be in a position to advise us...if you would be so kind. Your presence here comes at a most fortunate moment.”

  “Amigo,” I said, shaking my head, “I’m far from an expert on the political situation.”

  “Politics are not the issue, señor.” Saladar’s expression turned grave. “It is a matter of thievery.”

  I nodded. “Your old ‘amigo’ Jaimie Halaquez?”

  Pedro and Luis exchanged glances.

  Saladar said, “You are quite astute, señor.”

  “Pedro mentioned him earlier. How much did the bastard get?”

  Saladar sighed. “Seventy-five thousand dollars.”

  I raised one eyebrow. It wasn’t enough dough to raise them both.

  “That’s not a fortune,” I said. “But it’s a lot to be collected in an impoverished area like this.”

  Saladar folded his hands on his flat belly and leaned back. There was sadness in his eyes.

  “Señor Morgan, you are correct. That figure represents very many pennies and nickels, carefully saved from meager earnings. It represents hours of extra work for the privilege of contributing to the fund. For many, it means that clothes must be mended some more, and the table spread with a little less. Yet it was money cheerfully given so that others could escape the oppression they now face.” He shook his head. “This was more than simple thievery, señor. It was a tragedy.”

  “Sorry, amigo.” I didn’t let him off the hook. “You shouldn’t have picked such a lousy, lowlife character to handle your cash.”

  “In hindsight, this is obvious. But at the time...who was to know?”

  I shook my head at him, still not letting him off. “You’ve been to the rodeo plenty of times, Luis. Okay if I call you ‘Luis’? I mean no disrespect.”

  He lowered his head, held up his hand, granting permission.

  “It’s not like you haven’t had experience in such things,” I said. “I mean, I figure you must have known this Halaquez guy pretty well. And nobody made him for a stinker?”

  Saladar’s smile had a grim twist to it. “We thought we knew him well, and we detected no...unfortunate fragrance.” The knuckles of his fingers were white.

  “Señor Morgan,” Pedro said, sitting forward, “Jaimie Halaquez...our ‘amigo’ as you call him...was working for the present Cuban government. It was Jaimie’s job to keep his masters informed of our movements. But...he came here and he told us of this.”

  “A double agent,” I said.

  Pedro nodded. “He would inform us of their plans—the Castro people do carry out activities in Miami, señor, in particular trying to...what is the word? Infiltrate our ranks.”

  “Not surprising,” I said.

  “Ever since the takeover,” Pedro continued, “he has been one of us. It was through Halaquez that we were able to make contact with our families and sympathizers, back home...because he had access to Cuba. Until now, the information he brought to us appeared true, and whatever he gave to his Cuban masters about us was either false or distorted. His work on our behalf, it was always done well.”

  “Until now,” I said.

  Something desperate came into Pedro’s tone as he gestured with two open palms. “We thought him trustworthy.”

  I slowly scanned their faces, then nodded. “You’ve been gathering money for a long time, taking precautions. Everybody in your circle knew about it, and since you admit you may have infiltrators, you were careful.”

  Pedro sighed. “But not careful enough. It is difficult when one you trust betrays you.”

  I’d been there. “You’ve had your treasury heisted before, haven’t you?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “By these infiltrators you mentioned?”

  “In one case, yes. In the two other instances, they were simply greedy fools. This is the fourth...what is the word... setback? Setback in as many years.”

  “What happened to the others who stole from you, Pedro?”

  “They were caught by our people. Their captors had a hot-blooded temperament, señor, and while one despairs of such things...the traitors’ deaths were justified.”

  “And the money they stole?”

  “Always there was enough time for them to spend it or...”

  Pedro searched for the word.

  “Transfer,” Saladar offered.

  “Transfer it,” Pedro said, with a nod of thanks to his friend. “However, the amounts that were stolen before— and the need for funds—were as nothing compared to this.”

  I shook my head in disgust. “You’ve been raided, my friends. It’s an old operation.”

  All three looked at me, puzzled.

  “Your amigo Halaquez played the game. He knew he had suckers on the line, so he just wormed his way in and waited you out. You collected the money, he took delivery, and he’ll get it through to Cuba, all right. The only difference is, the loot won’t go to your friends and families there who need the help.”

  They all frowned, but it was Saladar who said, “What do you mean, señor?”

  “I mean, it’ll buy Jaimie some favor with the Castro crowd, and maybe put him up in high society. Hell, when you’re in favor and eating high off the hog, Havana isn’t a bad place to live, even now. He can already come and go as he pleases, only this time when he goes back, he won’t return. Why should he? He’ll stay there and live it up. Come back to the States, he gets bumped off.”

  For a few moments nobody spoke.

  Finally Saladar said, “Perhaps you have a suggestion, Señor Morgan.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Start up another collection.”

  The futility of it brought a bitter laugh to Saladar’s mouth. “Another year of sacrifice for our people? It will be bad enough when they learn of this, this...treachery. After yet another failure, who will trust us to act on their behalf?”

  I frowned.
“You haven’t told your people here that their contributions were snatched?”

  Saladar shook his head firmly, frowning. “Do you realize how many here are making preparations to see their families again? Others long to help relieve the miseries at home, and see their people fed, and for medicines to be made available... to give hope that one day Cuba will be liberated from the madmen who rule over them.”

  “Sooner or later they’re going to get wise.”

  Saladar nodded solemnly. “We have until that day to look for Jaimie Halaquez.”

  I felt that funny little touch of excitement again. It was like sensing a ship over the horizon. You couldn’t see it, but you knew it was there. The anticipation of a raid. Then I felt pretty damned ashamed of myself, and wiped the feeling away.

  I said, “You can’t mean the son of a bitch is still around? With that much swag on hand?”

  “We frankly do not know, señor,” Saladar said softly. “We do know Halaquez has not reached Cuba yet. Where he is, in this country? We have no notion...but our sources on the island tell us he most certainly is not there.”

  “Maybe I had it wrong,” I admitted. “Maybe he isn’t going to live the Havana high life. Easy enough for him to spend that money in the States, amigos, even if it wouldn’t go as far.”

  But Saladar was shaking his head. “Unlikely, SeñorMorgan. Our people are diversified now. They have taken jobs in every state in the union. Key people have been alerted, and if Halaquez tries to spend our money here in the States? Well, then, we will have him.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “Unfortunately, no—he is smarter than that—it is like you say before, señor...to get the most out of that money, he must return to Cuba. As for now, he is...hiding out. Lying low.” He paused a second and watched me carefully. “That is why I ask if you have a suggestion.”

  “For locating Halaquez?”

  “Exactly.”