“I work for the CIA,” Crosswhite said. “Two men are coming here to kill me — Americans. They have no interest in your family, but if I’m not here, they’ll hurt Paolina to find out where I’ve gone. You need to take your family to a neighbor’s house and let me deal with them when they arrive.”
Paolina’s father nodded his head solemnly. “I knew you were CIA when I first saw you, but I allowed you to stay. Will they have guns, these men?”
Crosswhite let out a sigh. “I can almost guarantee it.”
“I’ll send the women to my sister-in-law’s house, but I’m staying.”
“No, you can’t risk your life like that. You don’t even know me.”
“This is my house,” Duardo said, “and you are my guest. I’m staying.” He went into the other room, telling his wife to take the children and leave right away.
Paolina came back in two minutes later and put her arms around Crosswhite. “I’m scared for you.”
“I’m scared too, but not for myself. You have to go right now.” He kissed her hair and held her at arm’s length. “I’ll be fine. Go now.”
She disappeared out the door with her mother and the girls.
Crosswhite stepped into the kitchen, and Duardo appeared from the back of the house holding a fourteen-inch WWII-era M1 rifle bayonet made by Union Fork and Hoe.
“This belonged to my father. He fought in Castro’s revolution. The government took away his rifle years ago. If we can kill these two pendejos, I have friends who can dispose of the bodies. Calling the police would be very bad for all of us.”
“Hopefully, you won’t need to get involved.” Crosswhite put out his hand. “I probably have a better idea how to use that thing than you do.”
“Do you like my daughter?” Duardo asked.
“Yes, I do. It’s too bad that—”
“She would make you a good wife; give you beautiful children.”
Crosswhite shook his head. “I’m no good for any woman. Can I have the bayonet?”
Duardo took an old M1917 .45 caliber Colt army revolver from beneath his guayabera shirt. “This was my father’s too. We’re not allowed guns in Cuba, so I’ve kept it hidden.” He handed the revolver to Crosswhite.
Crosswhite opened the gate and saw that it held only five cartridges. “I don’t suppose you have the sixth bullet?”
Duardo shook his head. “Those five are all I have — and they’re very old.”
Crosswhite closed the gate and stuck the revolver down the front of his pants. “If they’ve been kept dry, they’ll be fine.”
“So what now?” Duardo asked.
“Have a seat at the table to wait,” Crosswhite said. “I’ll be in Paolina’s room. When they arrive, they’ll knock at the door and ask to see her. They’ll be polite but firm. All you have to do is let them in and tell them you’re going to wake her up. Then go into the back of the house, and I’ll handle it from there.”
60
Ken Peterson sat talking with a local police captain named Ruiz in his modest house on the outskirts of Havana. They were discussing Peterson’s future in Cuba while they awaited confirmation that Crosswhite had been eliminated.
“So I’m going to need police protection,” Peterson was saying. “At least for a time.”
Ruiz took a drink from his bottle of beer. He had been on the CIA payroll for a number of years, and Peterson had always been his handler. “That is going to be difficult,” he said, putting down the bottle. “Police protection has never been part of our deal.”
“I understand that,” Peterson said. “The CIA wasn’t supposed to know that I’m here, but the circumstances have changed.”
“Yes, they have,” Ruiz said. “For one thing, you no longer have access to that big Yankee expense account.”
Peterson frowned. “I have money of my own. I can pay for any services that I need.”
Ruiz smiled. “I just want to be clear.”
“I’m sure you do,” Peterson replied dryly. He was more than a little rattled by Crosswhite’s unexpected arrival in Havana. He had planned for it to take Pope at least six months to figure out that he was in Cuba, still another month or two to pinpoint his location, and still another month to get the assets in place for a hit. However, he had woefully underestimated Pope’s drive for vengeance. In fact, had it not been for one of Peterson’s few remaining allies in Mexico, he would have had no idea that Crosswhite was even coming after him.
Fortunately, there were a number of Miami-born operatives living in and around Havana who didn’t know that Peterson had been exiled, so he still had assets of his own to call upon, freelancers that Langley knew nothing about. He had recruited the men himself, and he was their sole contact. The only problem was money. The cost of living in Cuba was cheap, but if Pope was determined to kill him, the cost of simply staying alive might easily get out of control.
His best chance was to have Crosswhite taken out fast, thus sending the message to Pope that Cuba was beyond his jurisdiction. There would be no guarantees, of course, but Pope was more than twenty years his senior, and he was confident that he could outlive the old bastard if he was smart about it. After all, the CIA had tried to kill Fidel Castro a number of times — once even succeeding in getting a female assassin into bed with him — but Castro had lived to the ripe old age of eighty-seven. The simple truth was that the CIA just didn’t have a very good track record in Cuba, and this was the reason Peterson had chosen to retire there.
“Will your associate Señor Walton still be joining you?” Ruiz asked.
Ben Walton was another checkmark in the plus column. He was an old CIA hand, and he would have some additional ideas for keeping Pope at bay. He also had money, so if he and Peterson could agree on a way to pool their resources, they would double their chances for the long term.
“Yes,” Peterson said. “He arrives in the morning from Spain. He’ll be staying with me at least until we can get things arranged between us.”
Ruiz took another drink. “Walton will have to pay as well.”
“That’s understood. You’ve never had trouble receiving payment, Captain.”
“You were never an exile,” Ruiz said. “Now you are, so I can extend you no more credit. From now on, our business requires payment up front.”
Peterson could feel the walls starting to close in on him, but he reminded himself to look at the positive side. Pope’s handpicked assassin would soon be dead, and it would be some time before he could find someone else qualified to penetrate Cuba for a second attempt. In the meantime, he and Walton would formulate a plan to mitigate future threats.
“I kind of like being called an exile,” he said thoughtfully. “It has an exotic ring to it.”
Ruiz snickered. “So does ‘hermaphrodite,’ but I wouldn’t want to be one.”
The phone rang in the kitchen, and Peterson went to answer it. “Digame.”
“It’s Roy,” said a male voice. That was not, in fact, his name, but he was Peterson’s contact in Mexico City.
“What can I do for you, Roy?”
“I thought it might interest you to know that His Majesty has gone off the grid.” Roy was referring to Tim Hagen. “Disappeared from his hotel room without a trace.”
“Well, that’s not surprising. I knew he’d run sooner or later.”
“I don’t think he ran. I think he was taken. One of Pope’s pipe hitters was here in the city when he went missing: an ex-Delta operator named Crosswhite.”
“Do you have anything else?”
“Only this: Crosswhite was seen in the company of Antonio Castañeda while he was here. There was a female agent with him, but I don’t have a name on her yet.”