Rail grinned. The naked bulb on the ceiling put the lower half of his face in shadow and made his grin look like a death’s-head grimace.
The German reached into his jacket and pulled out his pistol. He leveled it at Maximo.
“If you are going to shoot me, little man, go ahead and do it.”
Sweat stung Maximo’s eyes. He shook his head to clear the sweat.
Rail advanced several paces, moving slowly.
“Take your hand out of your pocket.”
Now the German leveled his pistol. Pointed it right at Maximo’s face. “I will shoot you with great pleasure unless you do as I say.”
“Everyone will hear,” Maximo squeaked, and withdrew his hand from his pocket. Automatically he raised both hands to shoulder height.
Rail kept advancing. When he passed under the lightbulb his eye sockets became dark shadows and Maximo couldn’t see where he was looking.
Rall came up to him, slapped him with his left hand, then felt Maximo’s right trouser pocket. At this distance Maximo could see Rall’s eyes. His hands were together above his head.
“A gun!” the German said with a hint of surprise in his voice.
He reached for it, put his left hand into Maximo’s pocket to draw it out.
As he did so he glanced downward.
With his right hand Maximo pulled the handle of the ice pick loose from the strap of his wristwatch and drew it out of his sleeve. With one smooth, quick, savage swinging motion he jabbed the pick into the side of Rall’s head clear up to the handle.
Rall collapsed on the floor. Maximo kept his grip on the handle of the ice pick, so the shiny round blade slipped out of the tiny wound, which was about an inch above Rall’s left ear.
Maximo bent down, retrieved his pistol. Rall’s pistol was still in his hand, held loosely by his flaccid fingers.
There was almost no blood on the side of Rall’s head.
Rall tried to focus his eyes. His body straightened somewhat; one hand tightened on the pistol in an uncontrolled reflex, then relaxed.
The German groaned. Muscle spasms racked his body.
Maximo took a deep breath and exhaled explosively. He wiped at the perspiration dripping from his face. His shirt was a sodden mess. Squaring his shoulders, he walked out of the men’s room without another glance at the man sprawled on the floor. As he walked down the hallway toward the main waiting room he passed two male students carrying backpacks, but he purposefully avoided eye contact and they didn’t seem to pay him any attention.
He walked at a steady, sedate pace through the terminal and out into the night.
CHAPTER NINE
William Henry Chance sat in the back of the van listening to the tape of Vargas’s conversation with his generals. Normally the fidelity of this system was acceptable. Every now and then a word or phrase was garbled or inaudible, the same drawback that affected every listening technology. People mumbled or talked at the same time or turned their heads the wrong way or talked while smoking. Still, this evening he was only catching occasional words.
Chance strained his ears. Phrases, occasionally a plain word, lots of garbled noise …
“Is this the best we can do?”
“The sky was overcast, the window was in shadow with the evening coming on.”
“What about the laser?”
If the crystals were illuminated with a laser beam in the nonvisible portion of the spectrum, the vibrations could be read with the large magnification spotting scope at the usual distance. The problem was getting the laser close enough to the crystals. Maximum range for the laser was less than one hundred meters, so the van with the laser had to be parked literally in front of the building.
“We didn’t want to take the risk without your permission.”
Ah, yes, risk. This equipment had been brought into Cuba by boat. The four technicians — of Mexican or Cuban descent — had arrived the same way.
Miguelito was from south Texas, the son of migrant laborers. He didn’t learn English until he was in his late teens. He had recorded the conversations, listened to the audio as the computer processed it. “What did you think, Miguelito?” Chance asked. Chance’s Spanish was excellent, the result of months of intense training, but he would never have a native speaker’s ear for the language.
Miguelito took his time answering. “It is difficult to say. I hear phrases, pieces of sentences, stray words … and my mind puts it all together into something that may not have been there when they said it. You understand?”
Chance nodded.
“What I hear is a conversation about biological weapons in Guantanamo Bay.”
“You mean using biological weapons against Guantánamo Bay?”
“That is possible. But my impression was that the weapons were already there.”
“Castro. Did they talk about Castro?”
“His name was mentioned. It is distinctive. I think I heard it.”
“Is he still alive?”
“I do not know.” Miguelito looked apologetic.
“Biological weapons inside the U.S. facility is impossible. They must be intending to use them against the people there.”
Miguelito said nothing.
“I’d better listen,” Chance said.
“I will play for you the best part,” Miguelito said. “Give me a few moments.” He played with the equipment. After about a minute he announced he was ready with a nod of his head. Chance and Carmellini donned headsets.
Noise. They heard noise, occasionally garbled voices, but mostly computer-generated noise as the machine tried without success to make sense of the flickering light coming through the high-magnification spotting scope. Every now and then a word or two in Spanish. “Guantánamo … attack …” Once Chance was sure he heard the word “biological,” but even then, he wasn’t certain.
Finally he removed his headset.
Miguelito did likewise.
“Perhaps they are talking about possible targets when and if,” Carmellini suggested. “After all, they can spray this stuff into the air from a truck upwind and kill everyone on the base.”
Chance grimaced. What he had here was absolutely nothing. He was going to need something more definite before he started talking to Washington via the satellite.
“They did a lot of talking about political matters, people and districts, whom they supported and so on,” Miguelito said. “It is not much better than what you have just heard — they talked of this before the sun went down — but I got the impression that Vargas wanted Delgado and Alba to abandon any commitments they had to Raúl Castro or the Sedanos and throw in with him.”
“Hmmm,” said William Henry Chance. He tried to focus on Miguelito’s comments and couldn’t. Biological weapons were on his mind.
He recalled Vargas’s face, remembered how he had looked as Chance had sat there discussing a Cuban-American cigarette company. The strong, fleshy face had been a mask, revealing nothing of its owner’s thoughts. That poker face … that was his dominant impression of Vargas.
The man certainly had a reputation: he was ruthless efficiency incarnate, a thug who smashed heads and sliced throats and got answers from people who didn’t want to talk. Every dictatorship needed a few sociopaths in high places. He was also subtle and smooth when that was required. Nor had he yet surrendered to his appetites, surrendered to the absolute corruption that absolute power inevitably causes. Not yet, anyway.
Yes, Alejo Vargas was a damned dangerous man, one who apparently possessed the brains and managerial skills necessary to produce biological weapons and the brutality to use them.
El Gato may have shipped the Cubans material that they could use to culture bacteria or viruses, but as yet there was no hard evidence that the Cubans had done so.
That tantalizing word, “biological.” Why would the interior minister and the head of the Cuban Army and Navy use that word if they weren’t talking about weapons? Sure as hell they weren’t talking about barracks sanitation or the condition of the mess halls.