“This is what the Madonna was saying to me. Not that we would end in a watery grave, but that She, the Madonna herself has been trapped here all these years, surrounded by stolen treasures.”
“Herself a stolen treasure,” added JZ.
“But why? Anyone would know who She was.”
“No, no one except the priests and a few trusted church workers would know. The Black Madonna is the bejeweled one in the basilica. On the black market, religious icons bring a fortune-even fakes.”
“My God, I wonder which one the Pope blessed at the basilica,” Qui wondered aloud.
“And neither of them the real one.”
“Arias’s greatest secret.”
“The reason he killed the villagers.”
Not even the seemingly all-knowing Alejandro Valdes could have predicted this-that the Madonna would be waiting here so far below the surface for them to discover.
“Expatriated, so to speak,” muttered JZ, still in shock.
“Now it all comes clear. Arias, seeing the fall of Batista’s Cuba, had concocted a plan to plunder the basilica and steal the Madonna. But to accomplish it, he’d had to empty the village.”
JZ nodded. “No witnesses to his master plan.”
“Herded them into the church and torched it.”
“Look into that alcove, Qui.” JZ pointed behind her. “Looks like we had some permanent residents here.”
Turning she gasped at the bones of the dead positioned as if huddled together. Turning back to JZ, she added, “Arias must have started the first rumors and superstitions surrounding the lake.”
“Kept everyone at bay. The few lieutenants he may’ve trusted were likely paid off or promised positions in future schemes.”
“Little doubt.”
“Like the one Valdes sweated information from.”
“And probably killed.” She grimaced. “Well, now I’ve got photos of everything,” she said, snapping off a final shot of the human remains.
“Nothing more we can do here,” JZ agreed with a final lingering gaze at the pistols and knives.
“Mask up. We’re outta here.”
The divers made their way back down the stone steps, JZ ahead of Qui, who stopped to salvage the strange, single skull with the bullet hole. Seeing her shudder, JZ took charge of the skull, dropping it in his net.
Leaving the Madonna in the blackness below, along with the horde of her early offerings stolen so long ago, they followed their guide rope back to the anchor line. JZ unhooked the clip attached to the cage that had brought the gear and re-attached it to Qui’s waist belt, then signaled they should start. Struggled upwards through the chaotic riptide-like currents, they held onto each other to ensure they weren’t separated in the claustrophobia-inducing blackness of the water. The pool of light surrounding the boat was a welcome sight.
Surfacing, exhausted, Qui raised her arms and let Estrada and Pasqual pull her aboard. Slipping off her tanks and mask, a flood of excited words escaped Qui as she sank gratefully to a gunwale seat. When JZ stood on the deck, she leapt up and threw her arms around his neck.
“What did you find?” asked Pasqual.
“Out with it,” said Luis.
JZ held up the skull and she held up her camera. “We’ve got it documented,” Qui said.
“Evidence of enormous theft and murder,” added JZ.
“Enough to put Arias and Cavuto away?” asked Luis.
“How about forever,” replied JZ, dropping his tanks to the deck.
Still out of breath, Qui exclaimed, “My God, JZ, it’s amazing! She was telling me all along-not from the church, but from the lake-to find her!”
“The real Black Madonna lies below us.”
“What are you talking about? She’s inside the Church.”
“No, Father, we saw Her, the real Madonna,” Qui countered.
“This can’t be!” Pasqual was obviously shaken by their words.
“Trust me, that was no fake we saw,” Qui replied.
“Arias must have been planning the thief a long time, to’ve had a duplicate made,” JZ explained. “Just waiting for the right moment.”
Luis erupted in laughter. “Imagine it…all those offerings all those years to the blessed Madonna, including the Pope’s blessing-all to the wrong Madonna!”
“It can’t be true,” Pasqual said. “It would place the Church in an impossible position! I can’t accept it and neither will Father Cevalos.”
“To bring Her up would be a full-blown salvage operation,” remarked Estrada.
“Yes,” Qui said to Luis, “but not before Cuban experts have seen and documented this find.” Digging in her pouch, she pulled out one of the small figurines. “Look at this. Ever seen anything like it before? The mine shaft’s full of treasures that ought to be in museums.”
“Ok, University people first. Perhaps Esmerelda knows the right people.”
“After the police are done gathering evidence, the archeologists can document the findings. Then, the salvage can begin.”
“Qui, anything the American Interest Section can contribute or help…well, you know we will be glad to-”
“No…this must be handled by our finest experts. It’s a Cuban problem, and it requires a Cuban solution. But all of this will have to await a resolution to Arias’s mass murders.”
The conversation ended suddenly with a rain of bullets pinging off metal and shattering glass around them. Diving for cover, the four lay scattered around the deck. Qui and JZ were without their weapons, separated from them by half the length of the boat where they’d earlier left them. An amplified voice claimed to be Santiago PNR, came across the water shouting, “Stop firing!”
A second amplified voice shouted, “Give yourselves up! Secret Police!”
“One boat? Two?” shouted JZ above the sound of the gunfire.
Luis shouted back, “Two. Only one is shooting! Help me with the gun.”
Crawling JZ and Qui joined Luis at the rocket propelled grenade launcher. Anticipating problems, Luis had earlier prepared the RPG for firing.
“Stop shooting!” rang out across the water, but chaos ruled as the second bullhorn drowned out the first with orders of their own. Searchlights coming from two directions wildly gyrated in rapid succession.
JZ loaded the grenade launched and slapped Luis on the shoulder. “Ready! Fire!”
“Aiii!” shouted Luis hit in the left side. Fighting the searing pain, he raised the weapon and fired.
JZ grabbed the RPG as Qui grabbed Luis, cradling him, pressing a dive towel against his wound. Towel and hands awash in his blood.
Peering over the edge of the boat, Pasqual watched as the approaching boat exploded in flames. “Direct hit!” he shouted in relief as the gunfire ended.
“God, I only hope the boat you blew was not official,” added JZ, “but I’m sick of being used as target practice. A single bullet penetrating a dive tank, and it’d’ve been us gone up in smoke.”
“For God’s sake, don’t shoot me! It’s Cordova!”
40
By dawn’s first light, they could see the damage done, the bodies and debris washing ashore. Burned and moaning men lay in one area while bodies lay in another.
Among the dead, rested Cavuto Ruiz, features and body red and black from the gasoline explosion, his once pristine suit rainbowed with the colors of blood and death.
Qui found Alfonso Gutierrez among the living. Flash blinded, handsome face blistered, Gutierrez surely thought himself dieing as made his confession to Father Pasqual. Unannounced, she stood silently behind them, listening to his “small part” in the chain of corruption and deceit that had resulted in the murders in Havana. Alejandro had not exaggerated Alfonso’s part in the intrigue; the man took his orders from Ruiz in a conspiracy to cover up evidence of connections to the Cuban underworld. In doing so, Gutierrez had placed his own detectives at risk-one of the three marked for murder now dead.
JZ joined her. “See those binoculars handing around your colonel’s neck? He must’ve seen Luis’s weapon and leapt overboard moments before the grenade hit.”