“Front for an international narco-terrorist operation. What is this man’s nationality?”
“You mean—”
“What is his country of origin?”
“You mean, where he was born, that would be Cuba. He and his brothers are big shots there. Military.”
“Their names?”
“Don Manso is one. The other he just calls Juanito.”
“Ah, yes,” Ambrose said, barely suppressing an urge to shout with joy at the mention of these two names.
Ambrose removed an envelope from his jacket and took out three folded and yellowed sheets of paper. He selected one and showed it to Lillywhite.
“Is this the man now known as Don Carlo, who worked for you thirty years ago?”
Lillywhite narrowed his eyes and said, “Yes, sir, that’s him.”
It was the police sketch Stubbs Witherspoon had given Ambrose on Nassau.
“Is this man on this island now?”
“Yes, sir. He live here most of the year. Spends a lot of time up in Cuba, too. But the man here now. Showed up yesterday.”
“Where does he live? His house, where is it?”
“Other side of the island. Over on the ocean side. Big place.”
“Guards?”
“Yes, sir. All the time.”
“Does the house have a name?”
“Finca de las Palmas.”
“Describe it.”
“Big white place. High stone walls all around it. Main gate at the top of the steps up from the beach road. Where de guard house is. Some big wooden gates round dere on de west side wall. House sits in a pine forest up high overlooking the sea. Nothing else round that place, sir.”
“Where is Don Carlo’s room?
“I ain’t been up there. But I think it’s third floor, overlooking the sea. He got a long balcony where I think he sleeps sometimes. Anyway, I’ve seen him up there in his pajamas, entertaining, you know? Fancy black iron railing up there.”
“Does he have a wife? Children in the house?”
“No, sir, he do not have no wife, no children.”
“There’s an old schoolbus parked outside the club.”
“Yessuh.”
“Run?”
“That’s my mother’s bus. She hauls kids to school in it every day. Calls it her bread and butter.”
“You have keys?”
“Yes, sir. ’Course I do.”
“Get dressed. You’re coming with us.”
“I ain’t done nothin’, sir, but tell you the Lord’s honest truth.”
“I’m taking you into protective custody until I can determine the truth of that statement.”
“Don Carlo, he see me with policemen, I’m dead.”
“He won’t get the chance to see you, Mr. Lillywhite. I’ll see to it that he does not. No harm will come to you or any member of your family.”
“You got to mind yourself with Don Carlo, Mr. Congreve. Real careful. Man is crazy. He ’bout bad as they get down in these islands. And they can get very bad.”
Lowering his weapon, Ambrose walked toward the empty doorframe, paused, and looked over his shoulder at the man still lying on the bed.
“You’re dealing with Scotland Yard, Mr. Lillywhite. Bad is our bread and butter.”
41
Gomez felt as if he must have died and gone to heaven.
Not only had his wife taken him back into her bed, she’d gone to acting like a bitch in heat. Right now she was sitting astride his chest, panting, her hands planted beside his ears, slapping her big breasts back and forth across his cheeks, pausing every now and then to let him nurse hungrily at her swollen nipples.
It wasn’t all good behavior that had led Gomez to this blissful new state of affairs. He’d been a very bad boy.
His buddy on the guard tower, Sparky Rollins, told him a shipment of generic Viagra had arrived last week at the Gitmo PX. Cheap. And, goddamn, it worked. Man, did it work. Not only for him, but, he discovered, for Rita as well. He decided not to tell her about it. Just let her get a taste of the new and improved Gomez for a few days. Show her that the big dog was back.
And once you let the big dog out, well—
She’d been surprised at his new ability and, after a few nights, even a little friendly. She wasn’t exactly all the way to the moaning and groaning stage, but she was allowing him to do what he wanted to do. Certainly better than the frigid ice bitch she’d been for months now.
He hid the pills from her way at the back of the top shelf of the little closet where she stashed the clean bath towels. The shelf was so high, she couldn’t reach it, even with the stool. But he could. And, like clockwork, he’d climb up there every night before dinner, take down the jar, and pop a couple. An hour later, stand back, baby, nobody knows how big this thing’s gonna get.
Couple of nights ago, climbing down from the stool in the bathroom with the plastic jar full of little blue pills, he’d had another one of his brainstorms.
What if he crushed up a bunch of them little blue wonders and sneaked them into the spaghetti sauce? Or soup or whatever the two of them were eating for dinner. Then just sit back and see what happened. Hell, couldn’t hurt. Not like he was putting poison in her food or anything.
It was like Spanish fly. Hell, he must have gone through a ton of Spanish fly when he was a kid. Problem was, nobody knew if it worked or not. It sure didn’t seem to work for him, but who knew? Other guys seemed to be getting lucky all the damn time.
This stuff definitely worked. Made her stone crazy in the sack. Couldn’t get enough of that big old dog, that was for sure.
She was moaning now, calling him names, words coming out of her mouth he’d never heard any woman say, begging for it, and she was going to get it, by God. Right friggin’ now! Oh, yeah—
A tinny rendition of the William Tell Overture started up on the bedside table. Shit. His cell phone. Nice timing, dickhead, whoever you are. He let it ring a couple of times, thinking whoever it was would give up and call back later. Groaning, he entered her and that’s when it hit him. What if it was—?
He reached for the phone, not missing a beat.
“Hello, Elvis,” said the familiar voice.
“Hey, how you doin’, amigo? Long time no see. Um, listen, could you call back in about—”
That’s when Rita whupped him up the side of his head so hard it knocked the phone out of his hand. He rolled out from under her and onto the floor, reaching around for his phone, hearing the tinny little voice coming from it. He grabbed it and said, “Sorry, baby, I—”
“Goddamn you!” Rita screamed, and in the moonlight he could see her grab the damn lamp off the table and rip it out of the wall, throwing it right at his head. He ducked, but it still hit his shoulder and hurt like hell. He stood up, rubbing his arm, and noticed he was still hard as a rock. Damn, this stuff was good!
“Listen, baby, I’m sorry. I just thought it might be an important call and—”
“Your little friend Julio Iglesias, maybe?” she snarled at him. “Or maybe it was Madonna. Or Mariah Carey. Get the hell out of here! Get out of my sight, you bastard.”
He was about to plead with her, beg, but then he thought, wait, it was them. Well, they’ll call back. Like any second now. He’d better get down to the kitchen and be there when the phone rang.
“Chill, baby, I’m sorry,” Gomez said, pulling on his jockeys standing on one leg. He stuffed the cell phone inside the waistband of his jockeys. “I’ll go. You try to get some sleep, baby. You’ll feel better and—”
Something else was hurtling at him through the darkness. Clock radio? He pulled the door shut and heard whatever it was shatter against the thin wooden door. He ran down the narrow stairway that led to the kitchen, Rita still hollering upstairs. Jesus H. Christ, this spy shit was tough on a marriage.