“You have no man,” Manuel said. “He wishes to be the one.”
“I don’t want a man.”
“It is not natural,” Manuel said. “A woman without a man.”
“I do not want one. And even if I did, it would not be Garth.”
Manuel shrugged expressively. “If you took another man, perhaps Garth would cease to bother you.”
“I cannot. Not any man. You know what happened.”
What happened was simple. Four months ago Maria had had a man, a husband. She and her man fought in the hills with Manuel. Then one day the Castristas caught them both on patrol. There were four of the Castristas. First they killed Maria’s husband by shooting him in the head with a machine gun until he had no head left. That was a picture which never left Maria’s mind, the picture of Carlos lying on his back in the dirt with his body ending at the neck, with blood everywhere.
And then she had been raped. The four of them took her in turn, and it didn’t do her any good to struggle, but she struggled nevertheless. She kneed one soldier in the groin and tried to gouge the eyes of another. To punish her for this, the four of them burned her breasts with a cigar after they had finished with her. They did not kill her. They left her on the road, living but in fearful pain, as an example to the others. And for dramatic effect they placed Carlos’ dead body upon her and tied the two of them together.
Her breasts still bore scars from the cigar burning. And she wanted no man now, no man at all.
“If this Garth bothers me,” she said levelly, “I will kill him.”
“This would be unfortunate. He is a good fighter.”
“He is stupid.”
“That is true,” Manuel said. “But he is fearless and strong. He helps us. And he will help with the ambush, when Castro rides his Jeep through the valley of death. He will be helpful. It would be good if you did not kill Garth.”
“If he bothers me—”
“After Castro is dead,” Manuel said, “then you may kill Garth. I will help you.”
“You could tell him to stay away from me.”
“I have told him this.”
“And it does no good?”
“He is not a man who thinks,” Manuel said slowly. “He is a man who decides, and who acts. One cannot reason with him.”
Maria looked away. It was night; the rest of the band slept. The moon was high overhead, a thin crescent.
“We must kill Castro soon,” she said.
“I have heard reports. They say he will travel to Santiago one week from Sunday. He will come on the road from Bayamo and Palma Soriano, of course. We may have the ambush between Palma and Santiago.”
“There will be patrols.”
“Many patrols, many guards. It is a chance.”
Maria nodded thoughtfully. “We must kill him soon,” she said. “Because very soon I shall kill this Garth. I shall shoot him and watch him die.”
Turner stretched, stood up. He took his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and put them into his shirt pocket. They were Cuban cigarettes which Señora Luchar had given him. He had discovered that he preferred them to American cigarettes.
“I’m going out,” he told Hines.
“You kidding?”
“No. Why should I be kidding? Because I might get picked up by cops? To hell with that.”
“Well, you might.”
Turner was shaking his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Look, I know the fugitive routine. I went all over the States with the police looking for me. I got used to looking over my shoulder every time I took a leak. I don’t have to do that here. Nobody’s on my tail.”
“I still think you’re taking a chance.”
“Then you still don’t get it. Hell, you don’t know what it’s like to be hunted. It’s like nothing in the world. You don’t relax. I told you about what happened, didn’t I? About the girl and the pig with her?”
“You told me.”
“Yeah. Afterward I got drunk and slept it off. Then I woke up and remembered. Since then I never relaxed, not once. I kept running and I kept hiding and I kept looking over my shoulder. It’s quite a feeling. Not a good feeling.”
Hines didn’t say anything.
“Now we’re in Cuba. And it’s a hell of a thing, Jim. Nobody’s looking for me now. If I went out in the streets and told the world I killed a whore and her customer in Charleston they wouldn’t give a damn. I’m a free man. I don’t have to spend my time in a stinking basement. I can get out in the open air.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’ll chance it,” he said. “Take it easy.”
Hines stayed on the edge of his bunk. He picked up an American magazine that the Luchar woman had brought, leafed through it absently. He tossed it onto the bed and wandered over to the heavy wooden work bench. It was like the one his old man had in the cellar. The old man used to like to make things. They were always things that he could have bought for half the price it cost him to make them himself, and they always came out a little wrong, but his old man got a kick out of it.
His old man had never made bombs. And that was what they were making now. Impact bombs with a power charge of TNT that would go off on contact. You took the bomb, gave it a heave, and when it landed it went off like… well, like a bomb. What else?
He didn’t know a hell of a lot about bombs. Neither did Turner, really, but Turner at least knew what was supposed to go into the thing and how it all worked. He had put together a list of materials for Señora Luchar, metal casing for the exterior, TNT for the charge, various other gimmicks and gizmos that ought to work. And Turner had done most of the work, drilling and sawing and fitting the casing, figuring out the right charge. Now they had two bombs almost completed. All that was needed was a few finishing touches and a strong heave in the right direction. And that would be that.
He wondered who the bomb would kill. Besides Castro, of course. God alone knew how much of a bomb they had. It could turn out to be the world’s greatest dud since Primo Carnera or it could blow half of Havana off the map, for all they could tell. They might get Fidel Castro. They might also get some of his soldiers, and some other politicians. And some people in the crowds, some women and children, some—
Hell. This wasn’t a game. He had a score to settle, had a slate to wipe clean. Joe was dead, damn it to hell, and Castro was going to get his, and if some poor clowns got in the way it was their tough luck. It was part of the game.
Like revolutionary justice?
Well, now.
He left the room. He was thinking too damned much and it was just getting him jumpy. Maybe Turner had the right idea—take it easy, do your job, keep your mouth shut, and go out in the streets and enjoy the sights. No thanks, he thought. Not yet. I’ll stay indoors right now, thank you.
He took a flight of stairs two at a time, walked through the kitchen to the living room. The Luchar dame was sitting in an easy chair reading a Cuban newspaper. She looked up at him.
“Your friend Turner went out,” she said. “How come you decided to stick around?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sit down,” she said. “Want coffee? Or maybe some lunch?”
He told her that sounded fine. She got up and he watched her leave the room. She spoke English with an American accent and this got him, got him good. It didn’t fit with the rest of her. Christ, she was straight out of A Tale of Two Cities, a twentieth-century Madame Defarge who didn’t know how to knit. She got to him, sometimes. Gave him the chills. He wasn’t sure why, but that was the way it worked.
She came back with a plate of arroz con pollo and a cup of steaming coffee. The chicken-and-rice dish was spicy, tasty. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
“Have you been back in Cuba long?” he asked her.