“Dead heroes,” McGarvey said.
“They had respect.”
“So you told them about Harris?”
“Yeah, I told them.”
“Did you ever know the name of the man Roger Harris was really looking for?”
“No. I swear to—” Basulto stopped. He shook his head. “No.”
“Did Baranov or Yarnell?”
“I think so. They were excited about it.”
“Frightened.”
Basulto managed a slight smile. “No. Not Valentin. Nothing frightened him.”
“Then what happened? I mean after the Bay of Pigs?”
“I ran, just like I told you.”
“Into the hills?”
“Yes.”
“But Cuba and the Soviet Union were allies. You must have known that Baranov would come looking for you.”
“They weren’t allies at first. Besides, I hadn’t done anything wrong in their eyes. And Valentin told me that I could get out any time I wanted. So I did.”
“And he never came looking for you?”
“Never.”
“Not even nine months ago? He didn’t look you up, which at this point would have been very easy for him. He didn’t look you up and tell you that he needed your help? ‘Just one more little job, Comrade Basulto.’ He didn’t tell you to get yourself caught?”
“No,” Basulto said.
“But if he had, you would have gone to work for him, like in the old days?”
Basulto’s anger flared, but then he held himself in check. He lowered his head. “Probably. But it didn’t happen, and I was sick of it. All of it. Living that way. I wanted out. I want out now.”
The Cuban had not told the truth before, and there was no reason to believe that he had told the entire truth this time. But McGarvey had a feeling that this version of the story was a lot closer to the truth than the others. Yet there was something missing. Something else. Something beyond his understanding, still, and he suspected beyond the understanding even of Basulto, who after all had been and continued to be nothing more than one of Baranov’s pawns in a very large and complicated game.
“Not yet,” McGarvey said, “Not quite yet.”
With a strange intensity, Basulto threw up an arm. “I’ll do it, Mr. McGarvey. Whatever it is you want of me. Because I’m tired and I want it to end. All the years. Cristo. You can’t know. If you want me to kill him, I will. Just get me out. As one man to another, I’m asking you, just get me out.”
McGarvey got to his feet, suddenly ashamed of himself without admitting why. “Come on,” he growled. “I want you to meet someone.”
The sun shone in her hair from the open window, making it seem almost as if a halo surrounded her head. She turned, and McGarvey could see the shock of recognition in her eyes as she saw Basulto. Last night and this morning she had seemed vulnerable. At this moment she seemed diminished.
“You,” she said as if it were an indictment.
“It’s all changed, I swear it,” Basulto said from the doorway.
She laughed. “Don’t you know? Nothing changes.”
McGarvey thought she looked beautiful just then, and tragic. A lost soul barely hanging on to her sanity and her life.
“I’ll be here for you,” McGarvey lied, looking into her eyes.
“We’ll manage,” she said. “We’re old friends.”
“By tomorrow it will be over.”
“One way or the other.”
It was getting late. Time to go, and yet McGarvey was having a hard time leaving her. He was getting old, he decided. And soft in the head.
“Call at nine tonight,” he said. “Put Artime on if you think it’s necessary.”
She said nothing. They’d already gone over this. “I’ll be here,” he said unnecessarily.
Basulto had been standing just within the doorway. He backed out. Evita said something to him in Spanish and he smiled, his eyes narrowing a bit.
He replied. “Si.”
She nodded, and Basulto turned and disappeared down the corridor to his own room.
“He is genuinely frightened,” she said.
“I think so.”
“So am I.”
McGarvey felt like a bastard leaving her like this. He didn’t know where this story would end, but he knew that he would have to see it to whatever the conclusion would be. They would all have to see it to the end. He took out his pistol, laid it on the table, and then crossed the room and took her into his arms. “They’re the bad lot, not us,” he said.
She looked up into his eyes. “I’m not so sure,” she said. “Are you?”
30
His bill was ready. McGarvey crossed the lobby with his overnight bag in hand, stopped at the desk, and took out his wallet. The bill was for a lot more than it should have been, and the clerk refused to look up at him. McGarvey paid it without comment. There was a lot of activity in the hotel this morning. A lot more than there had been yesterday, or even last night. There were, however, very few foreigners around. A lot of military officers had come in, but no one paid him the slightest attention. He was a nonperson. The pile of newspapers at the end of the counter was gone. Across the lobby a group of civilians were gathered around a television set. They seemed very nervous and tense. He picked up his bag.
Out on Avenida Juárez he got a taxi immediately, though the driver didn’t seem very happy that his fare was a norteamericano. Traffic was light for this time of day. More banners had been strung up, and at some of the intersections they passed crews putting up even more. “Libertad!” “Heroísmo!” “Reforma!” The city was taking a holiday. Most of the shops were closed, big placards in their windows. McGarvey could only guess at some of the words and slogans, but the overall meaning was clear. A big break was coming between Mexico and the U.S., and the Soviet Union was expecting to pick up the pieces. It was frightening everyone silly.
A military roadblock was set up on the entrance ramp to the international terminal at the airport. Traffic was backed up several hundred yards in front of the barricades. Everyone was being stopped and their papers scrutinized. Only a few cars were being allowed through; others were being turned back and still others were being shunted off the road onto a large grassy field. A shuttle bus seemed to be going back and forth between the barricade and the terminal about a mile away. McGarvey paid the cabbie and walked up to the soldiers. He held out his U.S. passport.
“My plane leaves at 1:25,” he said.
A young lieutenant with a pockmarked face took his passport and closely compared the photograph with McGarvey’s face. “Your ticket,” he demanded.
“I have only reservations.”
“Impossible,” the lieutenant snapped hostilely. He handed McGarvey’s passport back. “The airplane is full. All the airplanes are full.” He rested his hand on his holstered gun.
McGarvey put down his bag, pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket, and stuffed it in his passport. The lieutenant watched him through pig eyes. His lips were wet with spittle.
“It is important that I leave on that airplane,” McGarvey said, handing his passport back to the officer. “You will see that my passport is in order.”
The lieutenant glanced over at the captain, whose back was turned to them at that moment. He slipped the bill into his pocket. “I could have you shot, senor,” he said, a slight smile baring his teeth.
McGarvey said nothing.
The officer handed his passport back. “You will have to hurry to catch your airplane. The shuttle will take you.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t return to Mexico,” the lieutenant said, and he swaggered off.