“The gringos. All nine of them. They killed each other. Later they were dug up and taken away.”
“When?”
Mr. Eckys thought about it. “It was six months ago — in June.” He opened the car door. “I will show you where it took place.”
Citron didn’t move. “I must ask a question.”
Mr. Eckys, almost half out of the car, turned to look back. “I will try to answer it.”
“How did you learn about me and Mr. Haere?” He paused. “That is my question.”
“Ah. I see. You are puzzled.”
“Yes.”
“The answer is simple. We learned of you from your embassy.”
“My embassy?”
“The embassy of the United States. You are a citizen of that country.”
“Yes.”
“That is where we learned of you.”
“They told you?”
“Told us?” Mr. Eckys looked surprised. “Us? We are the Committee of a Thousand Years.”
“I must apologize. I am not familiar with it.”
A gleam flared in Mr. Eckys’s eyes. A patriot’s gleam. A look of fervor crossed his face. “If it takes a thousand years, we will win back our land and free our people.”
Citron, finding himself in familiar territory, relaxed even more. He often had heard such talk in other hot countries. It was not only familiar, but also reassuring, even soothing. It somehow made him feel at home. “You are of the insurgents then,” he said.
“Of course.”
“And the struggle goes well?”
Mr. Eckys’s face darkened. “Not well enough.”
“But yet you were able to learn my name and that of Mr. Haere.”
“We have our people in the embassy. Pot scrubbers, floor sweepers, and such. A file was left untended. The Xerox machine was handy. It took only a minute. The woman who accomplished this pushes the coffee cart through the embassy. She pretends ignorance, but has a degree in economics from the University of Mexico.”
“And what did the file on Mr. Haere and myself say?”
“That Haere will use the information we have to topple the repressive government in Washington.”
“It said that?”
Mr. Eckys shrugged. “Words to that effect. I read only the translation, of course.” A thought came to him that caused his hand to stray back to the pistol. “Is it not true?”
Citron answered carefully. “It is true enough. Mr. Haere has had wide experience in toppling governments. An expert. I am merely the... propagandist.”
Mr. Eckys nodded his approval. “A vital role.” He turned again to leave the car. “Come, I will show you where the betrayal took place.”
Citron got out of the car and followed the one-armed man to the thick stand of trees. “What do you see?”
“Only trees,” Citron said.
“Come.”
Mr. Eckys led the way through the trees. There were stunted pines and a type of laurel and others that Citron didn’t recognize. They formed a thick, almost impenetrable screen that Mr. Eckys twisted through, Citron behind him. Then the trees ended.
“Look,” Mr. Eckys said. “They brought in a bulldozer to create it.”
It looked something like a meadow that the trees were now trying to reclaim. It was at least fifteen hundred feet long and perhaps seventy-five feet wide. Citron nodded. “A landing strip,” he said.
“Exactly.” Mr. Eckys indicated the trees. “My people were concealed here. The gringos’ truck was over there.” He pointed to the far end of the landing strip.
“The truck?”
“The cocaine truck.”
“I see.”
“The plane came in like this.” Mr. Eckys used his one hand to show how the plane landed. “It was an old plane with two engines. Of the Douglas company manufacture.”
“A DC-3.”
“Yes. I believe so. It taxied to the cocaine truck. A dozen gringos, all armed, emerged from the plane carrying suitcases. The suitcases contained the money. The cocaine was packed in drums.”
“Drums?”
“Oil drums.”
“How much was there?”
“Of the cocaine? A ton, I believe. At least a ton. Perhaps two.”
“Go on.”
“While the drums were being loaded onto the old plane, the money was being counted. There was so much money that they weighed it on a special scale. Then the gringos who flew in with the plane and the money tried to arrest the gringos with the cocaine.”
“Arrest?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“The gringos who had supplied the cocaine refused to be arrested. So the shooting began. Four of the drug buyers were slain, as were five of the drug sellers. It was glorious. The pilot of the old plane panicked. He started the engines. The gringo drug buyers who still lived ran for the plane and scrambled aboard. The drug sellers continued to fire at the plane as it rose into the air. It was a splendid sight. Dead gringos everywhere.”
“What happened to the money?”
“Ah. That. It was loaded into the truck. The gringos left, leaving the dead behind. Some of my people followed the truck, of course. It went directly to the Presidential Palace, which was even then occupied not by a President, but by the repressor Carrasco-Cortes. Meanwhile, we buried the dead gringos, but first we photographed them, and then turned to our Cuban comrades.”
“To identify the dead men?” Citron said.
“Yes.”
“Who were they?”
“Nine were killed in the battle. Five were of the CIA.”
“And the other four?”
Mr. Eckys smiled. “They were of the FBI.”
Chapter 30
Citron and Mr. Eckys walked back through the trees to the rutted trail in silence. When they reached it, Citron turned to the one-armed man. “You say the Cubans identified them — the dead men?”
“Yes. We contacted them and they dispatched an agent.”
“From Havana?”
Mr. Eckys looked at Citron with pity. “Havana? Certainly not. From Miami.”
“Yes,” Citron said. “Of course.”
“A strange man for a secret agent.”
“How so?”
“He drank. He made advances to our women. He boasted of how rich his family was before Fidel came down from the mountains.”
“Did he have a name?”
Mr. Eckys shrugged. “He had many names and several passports. Venezuelan. Chilean. USA. At first, we suspected him. He was not of a serious disposition. But he was shrewd. Even when we got him drunk and supplied him with one of our cleverest women, he gave nothing away. All he wanted to talk with our woman about were the old days in Havana when his family owned all the milk in Cuba. Or so he claimed. Nevertheless, we decided to entrust him with the photos of the nine dead gringos. A week later he sent us their names and particulars by a Tucaereo purser who is one of our sympathizers.” Mr. Eckys frowned at Citron. “Why do you smile?”
“I’m sorry,” Citron said. “I did not know that I was.”
“It was not a pleasant smile.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I suppose you desire the list.”
“Very much.”
“With the list can Mr. Haere topple the fascist government in Washington?”
“He can only try, but I assure you his desire to do so is a burning one.”
“And the new government — would it be less supportive of our generals?”
“Who could promise that? But I fail to see how it would not be an improvement. A great improvement.”
Mr. Eckys thought about it. “Yes,” he said finally. “What you say is true. I will give you the list.” He reached into his left hip pocket and brought out an 8½-by-11-inch sheet of ordinary typewriter paper that had been folded into quarters. “Perhaps in your propaganda you could mention us.”