Both men scanned the width and breadth of the finca compound with their night-vision goggles. There was an eight-foot stone wall, topped with concertina wire, surrounding the entire compound. The main portion of the house lay some three hundred yards inside the wall. Just opposite them was a massive iron gate flanked by two guardhouses with dim blue lights burning inside.
For the most part, the house was surprisingly quiet. Considering that all hell had broken loose in the last half hour, there was remarkably little activity.
One wing, built on a rocky promontory extending out into the sea, was ablaze with light. Stokely and Hawke immediately deduced it was the general’s living quarters. They could see a few silhouetted figures moving past the windows. On the very top floor, beyond what appeared to be a bedroom, a large open terrace was built overlooking the sea.
“Good Lord,” Hawke said under his breath. “You see that?”
“Yeah,” Stoke whispered. “A damn Bengal tiger just cruised by. Look up in the tree to the right of the entrance. Hard to see him, but there’s a boa constrictor napping on the lowest branch.”
“Are you ready to go rock this boat?”
“I was born ready,” Stoke said, slamming a fresh mag into the rubber grip of his Beretta.
“Then let’s saddle up,” Hawke said, in a perfect mimicry of Fitz’s gung-ho cry.
They had previously decided there was only one way they could both gain access to the finca and stay alive in the process.
So they dropped to their bellies and crawled like snakes across two hundred yards of open sand, dotted with clumps of devilish sand-spurs. When they reached the guardhouse on the right side, they simply stood up and smiled at the guard.
“Buenas noches, señor,” Hawke said. “Habla inglés? I am Alexander Hawke. This is my colleague Detective Stokely Jones. We would like a word with General de Herreras.”
So saying, Hawke and Stoke stepped back and dropped their submachine guns and sidearms to the ground. Then they each placed their hands on top of their heads. Hawke began whistling an old tune, one Stoke thought he recognized as the theme from Bridge on the River Kwai. He instantly joined in, producing a lively if unlovely harmony.
The stupefied guard instantly emerged from the guardhouse, training his weapon on them. He shouted something in Spanish, and the other guard came running.
The second guard spoke English.
“What de fuck you think, amigo? You kill many of my brothers. Now, we take you to the general? No, we shoot you fucking bastards!”
He squeezed off a burst, the rounds sizzling about three feet over their heads.
While the other guard trained his submachine gun on Stoke, the English-speaking one walked right up to Alex, pulled a jungle knife from a scabbard on his hip, and sliced open the blouse of Alex’s tigerstripes. Then he stuck the point of the blade under his chin. He’d hooked the thin gold chain around Alex’s neck.
The St. George’s Alex had worn since childhood caught the light. The guard ripped the chain and the gold medallion fell to the ground. The man bent down to retrieve it, dangled it in front of Alex’s eyes.
“Vaya con Dios, señor,” the guard said, twisting the knife blade so that it pierced the taut skin.
“Shoot these gringo bastards,” he said, stepping back outside the field of fire. “The white man first.”
The other guard raised his gun and racked his slide but saw that Stokely walked directly between the muzzle of the AK-47 and Alex. The huge black man had a small white handkerchief in his raised right hand.
“Yo! Hold up! Flag of truce, son,” Stoke said. “You can shoot us, I know, but I ain’t recommending it. You think we just walk up, throw down guns ’cause we stupid? No. We got important information your commander wants to get his hands on. This here is Alex Hawke. He famous. Man who been fuckin’ with you. General Manso hears you got him held prisoner, hell, he like to pin a medal on both yo’ asses!”
The two guards looked at each other.
“Fuck your flag of truce,” the guard said. “We have orders to shoot intruders on sight.” He fired a quick burst at Stokely’s feet, the rounds kicking up sand all around him.
Stoke ignored it, gave them his biggest smile. “Aw, see, you ain’t thinkin’ clearly. Trigger happy, is all. You just nervous. Get your finger off that trigger a second, ’less you do something stupid. Cheat y’all selves out of a battlefield promotion. Maybe you boys ought to ring the general’s ass up and tell him you got Alex Hawke hisself down here? He tells you to shoot us, well, hell, we shit out of luck, that’s all. Pull your trigger, Pedro.”
The guard looked at Stoke’s eyes. He didn’t like it, but like all men in his position he was extremely risk averse. He told his colleague to keep his gun on them and ducked back inside the guardhouse.
A minute later, he was back outside.
“Vamonos,” he said. “General de Herreras has agreed to see you.”
“See?” Stoke said to the guard. “Just what I told your ass. You shoot us, you in the deep severe, baby. Now, you a national hero!”
“I’ll take my medal back now,” Hawke said to the guard, but all it got him was a jab to the ribs with the butt of a gun.
Hands still on their heads, Hawke and Stokely were marched through the heavy wrought iron gates and inside the compound. They mounted a wide set of marble steps leading to a pair of massive metal doors.
The doors were from some ancient fortification, heavily decorated with shields and lances. A blinking video monitor picked them up, and the doors swung inward instantly. There was a huge entry hall, with candles guttering in heavy fixtures mounted on the walls. Hawke could see a wide stone staircase curving upwards into the darkness.
Six formidable guards, all in black uniforms with red berets, stood in a semicircle facing them. Hawke was astounded to see that the entire group of guards appeared to be Chinese. Then he remembered hearing Conch say that Raul Castro had long been making overtures toward Beijing. Clearly, they’d passed the overture stage.
Conch would be interested to learn there were highly trained Chinese troops in Cuba. If he lived to tell her about it.
All six guards had Chicom pistols on their hips and lethal-looking Chinese Tsao-6 submachine guns aimed at the bellies of the two prisoners.
Someone then stepped forward from the shadows and, ignoring Stoke, scrutinized Hawke. The man had the dress uniform coat of a highly decorated Cuban general thrown over his silk pajamas. It was barely large enough to cover his enormous paunch.
He poked his silver-plated .357 magnum into Hawke’s stomach until Alex winced, then stepped back and smiled.
“This must be Alexander Hawke himself!” the pajama-clad general said in heavily accented English. “Welcome to el Finca Telaraña!” There was the sour smell of rum and tobacco on the man’s breath. His eyes were red-veined and watery. He was more than a little drunk, Hawke thought. May Day festivities, no doubt.
“Good evening, General. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Hawke said, maintaining the casual smile on his face.
“Why, I am General Juan de Herreras. You’ve not heard of me? I am in charge of the whole Cuban Army!”
“A responsibility that no doubt weighs heavily on your shoulders, General,” Hawke said, eyeing the man carefully, seeing a very old picture in his mind.
It was not the skinny one. Or the very fat one who had the machete at his mother’s throat. No, Congreve had already arrested that monster.
No, this was the other one, he recognized the eyes now, the one who held his mother and—it was all Hawke could do not to lunge at the man and rip out his heart. He knew he had to marshal all this anger, compress it, guard his arsenal of hatred jealously. He was going to need all of it if he were to do what he’d come here to do successfully.