A drink of scotch whiskey from the minibar helped settle his nerves.
An hour later he left the hotel. He turned left, crossed the Limmat River on the nearest bridge, and headed for the main thoroughfare. Perhaps an hour of daylight left, but not more. He didn’t look around him, sure that Rall was somewhere near. He took his time strolling along, pretending to enjoy the early summer day and the ebb and flow of the crowd, many of whom were young people on school holiday.
Finally he turned into an old cobblestoned street too narrow for vehicles and walked up it toward the hill which loomed above the downtown area. Medieval buildings rose up on either side and seemed to lean in, making the street seem even narrower and more confining than it really was as the daylight faded from the sky.
He found the restaurant he remembered and went inside. Yes, it was as he recalled, with the tables and chairs just so, the kitchen beyond, and past the kitchen, the rest room. One with an old tank mounted high in the wall with a pull chain.
How long had it been?
Two years, at least.
The waiter was new, didn’t seem to recognize him. Not that he should, but it might be inconvenient if he should later recall seeing Sedano here this evening.
Maximo sat with his back against the wall, so that he could see both the front doorway and the door to the kitchen.
He ordered an Italian red wine, something robust, while he studied the menu.
The truth was Maximo was so nervous that he didn’t think he could eat anything. The automatic felt heavy on his thigh, its weight an ominous presence that he couldn’t ignore.
He tried to slow his breathing, make his pulse stop racing.
He used his handkerchief to wipe his hands, his face. He was used to the heat of Cuba; he should not be perspiring like this! Get a grip, Maximo — if you cannot control yourself you will soon be dead. Or a subject for that pervert’s experiments.
He wondered if Rall had told the truth about torturing people.
Just thinking about that subject and the way the bastard told him about it — with obvious relish — make his forehead break out in a sweat. He swabbed with the handkerchief again.
There were two couples and another single man in the restaurant. Only one waiter shuttled back and forth through the kitchen door.
Maximo moved to a different seat at the same table so that he could see through the kitchen door. Yes, now when the waiter came through the door he could see most of the length of the narrow kitchen. The chef was moving back and forth, working on something in a pot, checking the oven, taking things from a refrigerator ….
“More wine?”
The waiter was there, holding the bottle.
“If you please.”
As the waiter poured, Maximo murmured, “Have you a rest room?”
“Yes, of course. Through the kitchen, on the left in back.”
“I do not wish to disturb the chef.”
“Do not stand on ceremony, sir.”
He waited, sipping the wine, trying not to stare through the kitchen door. When the waiter returned he ordered, something, the first thing he saw on the menu.
One of the two couples left, the second finished their dinner and ordered coffee, the other man’s meal came at about the same time as Maximo’s.
He was just starting on the main course when the chef came to the door, wiped his hands on a towel, and said something to the waiter. Then he stepped outside into the narrow street and lit a cigarette. Night had fallen.
Maximo got up and headed for the rest room.
As the kitchen door closed behind him, he looked for the drawer or shelf that held the tools.
Quickly now …
He opened one drawer … the wrong one.
Next drawer, forks, knives and spoons.
Next drawer … yes!
He saw what he wanted, and quick as a thought reached, palmed it, and strode for the rest room.
Ten minutes passed before he was ready for the dining room again. The chef was back at his pots and pans. He nodded as Maximo walked by.
Maximo resumed his seat, took his time, stirred the food around on his plate but could eat nothing more. He took a few more sips of wine, then ordered coffee.
He was just reaching for the bill at the end of the meal when Rall dropped into a seat at his table.
“I should have come in earlier, let you buy me a meal.”
“Get out.”
“Oh, don’t be impolite. I wish to talk to you awhile, to learn what you do for the Cuban government.”
“If you wish to know can I pay more than Vargas, the answer is probably no. I am just a civil servant. I suggest you take up the question with Vargas.”
Maximo took enough money from his wallet to pay for the meal and a tip and dropped it into the tray on top of the tab.
“I have a diplomatic passport. If you do not leave I will have the waiter call the police.”
“And have me arrested?”
“Something like that.”
Rall stared into Maximo’s eyes. “I don’t think you appreciate your position.”
“Perhaps. Have you properly evaluated yours?”
“A roaring mouse.” Rall pushed himself away from the table, rose, and walked out the front door.
Maximo lingered, considering.
He left the restaurant a half hour later, his right hand in his pocket around the butt of the pistol. He looked neither right nor left, walked purposely along the thoroughfares. He crossed the Limmat River and walked toward the main train station, which was well lit and still crowded with vacationing students laden with backpacks. The students sat around in circles, sharing cigarettes and talking animatedly as they waited for their trains.
Maximo Sedano had no doubt that Rall was a killer. He didn’t know anything about the man except what he had said, but he knew Alejo Vargas. Vargas was just the man to order a killing, or to do it himself. The list of Castro’s enemies who had disappeared through the years was long enough to convince anyone that Vargas’s enmity was not good for one’s health.
Maximo could hear footsteps behind him as he walked through the train station.
A few students looked up at him, glanced behind him at whoever was following ….
That had to be Rall.
What if it were someone else? What if Rall were not alone?
If there were two men, he was doomed. He was betting everything that there was only one man, one man who thought him an incompetent coward.
Well, he was a coward. He had never had to live by his wits, face physical danger. He was frightened and no doubt it showed. He was perspiring freely, his temples pounding, his breath coming in short, quick gasps.
He entered a long, dingy hallway, following the signs toward the men’s room. The hall was empty.
He could hear the footsteps coming behind, a steady pace, not rushed. The man behind was making no attempt to walk softly. He was confident, in complete control, the exact opposite of the way Maximo Sedano felt.
He fought the urge to run, to look over his shoulder to see precisely who was back there following him.
Time seemed to move ever so slowly. He was aware of everything, the noise, the people, the dirty floor and faded paint, and the smell of stale urine and feces wafting through the door of the men’s room as he entered.
No one in the room. The stalls, empty.
Maximo walked to the back wall, turned, and faced the door. He kept his hand in his pocket. He grasped the butt of the pistol tightly, his finger wrapped around the trigger.
Rail walked into the room, stopped facing him.
“Well, well. We meet again.”
Maximo said nothing: He swallowed three or four times.
“Are you going somewhere on the train? Am I delaying your departure?”
Maximo bit his tongue.
“What do you have in your pocket, little man?”
He tilted the barrel of the pistol up, so that it made a bulge in his trousers.