Cuba

CHAPTER EIGHT

Maximo Sedano flashed his diplomatic passport at the immigration officer in the Madrid airport and was waved through after a perfunctory glance. His suitcase was checked through to Zurich, and of course customs passed his attaché case without inspection. Traveling as a diplomat certainly had its advantages — airport security did not even x-ray a diplomat’s carry-on bags.

The Cuban minister of finance wandered the airport terminal luxuriating in the ambiance of Europe. The shops were full of delicacies, books, tobacco, clothes, liquor, the women were well turned out, the sights and smells were of civilization and prosperity and good living.

In spite of himself, Maximo Sedano sighed deeply. Ah, yes …

Spain or one of the Spanish islands would be his choice for retirement. With Europe at his feet, what more could a man want? And retirement seemed to Maximo to be almost within reach.

What was the phrase? “Fire in the belly”? Some Yanqui politician said to win office one must have fire in the belly.

After a morning of thinking about it, Maximo concluded he didn’t have the fire. After Fidel died, Fidel’s brother, Raúl or Maximo’s brother Hector, or Alejo Vargas, or anyone else who could kill his rivals could rule Cuba — Maximo had given up trying for that prize. He’d take the money.

And all the things money can buy: villas, beautiful women, yachts, gourmet food, fine wine, beautiful women … Someone else could stand in the Plaza de la Revolucion in Havana and revel in the cheers of the crowd.

He filed aboard the plane to Zurich and settled cheerfully into his seat. He smiled at the flight attendant and beamed at the man across the aisle.

Life is good, Maximo told himself, and unconsciously fingered his breast pocket, where the cards were that contained Fidel’s signature and thumbprints.

Why go back?

Fifty-three or — four million American dollars was more than enough. To hell with the gold!

As the jet accelerated down the runway, Maximo told himself that the only smart thing was to take the money and retire. Now was the hour. Reel in the fish on the line — don’t let it off the hook to cast for another.

He could transfer the money, spend three or four days shuffling it around, then leave Zurich on the Argentine passport as Eduardo José López. Maximo Sedano would cease to exist.

Off to Ibiza, buy a small cottage overlooking the sea, find a willing woman, not too young, not too old …

Yes.

He would do it.

The sudden death of Fidel Castro caught Alejo Vargas off guard. The dictator’s death was supposed to be days, even weeks, away. Unfortunately Vargas’s political position was precarious, to say the least. He really could have used Fidel’s endorsement, however obtained. At least now no one would get it.

Although he had lived his whole life in his brother’s shadow, Raúl Castro nominally held the reins of government. Alejo Vargas thought that without Fidel, Raúl was completely out on a limb, without a political constituency of his own.

While he tried to analyze the moves on the board, Vargas had Colonel Santana lock Mercedes in a bedroom, seal the presidential palace, and put a security man on the telephone switchboard. He didn’t want the news of Fidel’s death to get out before he was ready.

Vargas left Santana in charge of the palace and took his limo back to the ministry. Of course he refrained from using the telephone in his limo to issue orders. The Americans listened to every radio transmission on telephone frequencies and would soon know as much about his business as he did. He sat silently as the limo carried him through the afternoon traffic to the ministry.

There he called his most trusted lieutenants to his office and issued orders. Bring Admiral Delgado and General Alba to this office immediately. Find and arrest Hector Sedano.

Alejo Vargas stood at the window looking at Morro Castle and the sea beyond. Far out from shore he could just make out the deep blue of the Gulf Stream, which appeared as a thin blue line just under the horizon. An overcast layer was moving in from the southeast and a breeze was picking up.

A historic day … Fidel Castro, the towering giant of Cuban history was dead. The end of an era, Vargas thought, and the beginning of a new one, one he would dominate.

Despite the timing surprise, Vargas really had no choice: he was going to have to go forward with his plan. He had concluded a month or so ago that the only course open to him upon the death of Castro was to create a situation that would induce the Cuban people to rally around him. He would need boldness and a fierce resolve if he were to have a chance of success, but he was just the man to risk everything on one roll of the dice. After he personally loaded them.

Colonel Santana brought an American artillery shell to Havana yesterday, one removed from Nuestra Señora de Colón. The thing was in the basement of the ministry now, under armed guard. The Cuban leadership had known for years that the Americans had CBW weapons stored at Guantanamo. Now the Americans were removing the things, but too late! Thanks to El Gato, Vargas had one he could show the world. Soon he hoped to have a great many more.

Alejo Vargas took a deep breath, stretched mightily, helped himself to a cigar. He lit it, inhaled the smoke, and blew it out through his nose. Then he laughed.

“I want a little house with a garden. Every day food to eat. Children. A doctor to make them well when they get sick. A man who loves me. Is that so much?”

Dora’s mouth was so dry she didn’t enunciate her words clearly, but Ocho knew what she meant. They lay head to head under the awning in the shade as the Angel del Mar pitched and rolled endlessly in the long sea swells.

Surrounded by a universe of water they couldn’t drink, the twenty-six humans aboard the boat were tortured by thirst and baked by the sun. Many had bad sunburns now, raw places where the skin had blistered and peeled off, leaving oozing sores. The old fisherman dipped buckets of water from the sea and poured salt water over the burns. He gently poured sea water on the small children, who had long ago ceased crying. Perhaps the water would be absorbed by their dehydrated tissues. If not, it would at least help keep them cool, ease their suffering somewhat.

Near Dora a woman was repeating the Rosary, over and over, mumbling it. Now and then another woman joined in for a few minutes, then fell silent until the spirit moved her again.

It seemed as if everyone left alive had lost someone to the sea that first night. The cries and grief were almost more than people could bear when they realized who had been lost, and that they were gone forever. Mothers cried, daughters were so distraught they shook, the hopelessness hit everyone like a hammer. The mother of the captain, who saw him dead, shot in the back, could neither move nor speak. As Dora talked, Ocho watched the woman, who sat now at the foot of the mainmast, holding on to it with one hand and a daughter or daughter-in-law with the other.

Every now and then Ocho sat or stood and searched the horizon. Nothing. Not a boat, not land, not a ship. Nothing.

Oh, three airplanes had gone over, two jets way up high making contrails and a twin-engine plane perhaps two miles up that had crossed the sky straight as a string, without the slightest waver as it passed within a half mile of Angel del Mar, rolling her guts out in the swells.

To see the airplanes, with their people riding inside, safe, full of food and drink, on their way from someplace to somewhere else, while we poor creatures are trapped here on this miserable boat, condemned to die slowly of thirst and exposure …

Surely the boat would be found soon … by somebody! Anybody! How can the Americans not see us? How?

Do they see us and not care?

Ocho was standing, watching for other ships and listening to Dora talk of the house she wanted, with the flowers by the door, when he realized that the dark place he could see to the west was a rain squall.

“Rain,” he whispered.

“Rain.” He shouted the word, pointed.

The squall was upon them before anyone could muster the energy to do anything. The people stood with their mouths open as raindrops pounded them and soaked their clothes and ran off the awning and along the deck, to disappear into the scuppers.

“The awning! Quickly. Make a container from the awning to trap the water!”

Ocho untied one corner with fingers that were all thumbs, the old fisherman did another corner, and they held the corners up, trapping water.

They had a few gallons when the rain ceased falling.

Several of the men tried to lean over, drink from the awning.

“No. Children first.”

Ocho managed to catch one man by the back of the neck and throw him to the deck.

“Children first.”

One by one the children were allowed to drink all they could hold. Then the women.

Several of the men got a swallow or two each, then the water was gone.

Ocho sat down, wiped the sweat and water from his hair and sucked it from his fingers. The only water he had gotten had been from holding his mouth open.

Dora had drunk her fill. Now she lay on the deck with her eyes closed.

Diego Coca had even gotten a swallow. He looked about with venomous eyes, then lay down beside his daughter.

“We must rig the awning so that it will catch water if the rain comes again,” Ocho said to the old fisherman.

They worked at it, cut a hole in the low place in the canvas and put a five-gallon bucket under the hole.

If it will just rain again, Ocho thought, studying the clouds. Please God, hear our prayer.

“Why are you here, on this boat?” the old fisherman asked Ocho, who stared at him in surprise.

“Why are you here?” the fisherman repeated. “You aren’t like us.”

Ocho looked around at his fellow sufferers, unable to fathom the old man’s meaning.

“These people are all losers,” the old man said, “including me. We came looking for something we will never find. Why are you with us?”

“It’s time for someone to relieve López on the pump. I will do it for a while, then you relieve me, old man.”

“We are going to die soon, I think,” the old man said.

Ocho hissed, “There are children listening. Watch your mouth.”

“When we can pump no more we will swim. Then we will die. One by one people will drown, or sharks will come.”

“Look for a ship,” Ocho said harshly, and went below.

Sharks! The old windbag, scaring the children like that.

Of course sharks were a possibility. Blood or people thrashing about in the water would attract them, or so he had always heard. Sharks would rip people apart, pull them under.

He pumped for a bit over twenty minutes, then took a break. The water came in fast. After five minutes he began pumping again. Another twenty-one minutes of vigorous effort was required to empty the bilge.

The water was coming in faster than it did yesterday. Pumping the handle manually seemed to require more effort too, though he knew he just had less energy. Pump, pump, pump, take a brief rest in the stinky bilge, then pump again ….

The more tired he grew the more hopeless he felt. All of them were doomed. Dora, the baby growing within her, the baby that he had put in her womb …

It was his fault. If he had been man enough to say no, to not surrender to lust, all these people would still be in Cuba, they would have a future to look forward to, not watery death. All the people who had been swept to their death would still be alive.

Alive! He had no idea of the horrible things he was setting in motion when he opened her dress, felt the ripeness of her body, felt the heat of her.

The guilt weighed on him, made it hard to breathe. He must do what he could to save them all. That was the only honorable choice open to him. Save as many as possible and maybe God would forgive him.

Maybe then he could forgive himself ….

And he shouldn’t give up hope yet. As he worked the pump handle he scolded himself for being so negative, for not having faith in God, in His plan for the twenty-six human beings still alive on Angel del Mar.

Soon a ship would come. The sailors would see the boat and rescue them. Give them cool, clean water, all they could drink; and food. Let each of them eat their fill. Soon it would come. Any minute now.

He pumped and pumped, sweat burned his eyes and dripped from his nose, though not so much as he sweated yesterday. He was very dehydrated. The salt had built up in his armpits, his groin, and it cut him. With his free hand he scratched, which only made the burning worse.

Any minute now a ship will come over the horizon. Soon …

Maximo Sedano took a taxi from the Zurich airport to an excellent hotel in the heart of the financial district where he had stayed on six or eight previous visits. The hotel was old, solid, substantial, almost banklike, yet it was not the primo hotel. This was the last time he stayed here, he told himself. Eduardo José López would stay at the best hotel in town because by God he could afford it. And because the staff over there had never seen him as Maximo Sedano.

He would have to make many adjustments, avoid photographs, avoid places where prominent Cubans might see him, like the heart of Madrid or London or Paris. Of course, if Vargas was assassinated in the turmoil following Fidel’s death, he could relax his vigilance somewhat. Vargas was a bloodhound, a humorless man with a profound capacity for revenge. Still, if Vargas came out on top after the succession struggle in Havana, he would have many things on his mind, and a missing ex-finance minister would of necessity be far down on the list.

Maximo would take his chances. He was in Europe, the money was in the banks just down the street, the loud and clear call of destiny was ringing in his ears.

He was sipping a drink and thinking about where he might go for dinner when he heard a knock on the door.

“Yes?”

“Delivery.”

“I ordered nothing. There has been a mistake.”

“For the Honorable Maximo Sedano.”

Curious, he opened the door.

The man standing in the hallway was European, with thinning hair and bulging muscles and a chiseled chin. And he was holding a pistol in his right hand, one pointed precisely at Maximo’s solar plexus.

The man backed Maximo into the room and closed the door.

“Your passport, please?” A German accent.

“I have little money. Take it and go.”

“Sit.” He gestured toward a chair by the bed with his pistol. Maximo obeyed, thankfully. His knees were turning to jelly and he had a powerful urge to urinate.

“Now the passport.”

Maximo took the diplomatic passport from his inside pocket and passed it across. Taking care to keep the pistol well away from Maximo and still pointed at his middle, the man reached for the passport with his left hand.

He glanced at the photo and name, grinned, and tossed the passport on the bed. The man took a seat.

“You look white as a sheet, man. Are you going to pass out?”

He felt dizzy, light-headed. He put his hand to his forehead, which felt clammy.

“Loosen your tie,” the German ordered, “unbutton your collar button, then put your head between your knees.”

Maximo obeyed.

“Don’t breathe so fast. Get a grip on yourself. If you aren’t careful you’ll hyperventilate and pass out.”

Maximo concentrated on breathing slowly. After a few seconds he felt better. Finally he straightened up. The pistol was nowhere in sight.

“Vargas said you were a jellyfish.” The German shook his head sadly.

“Do you work for him?” He was shocked at the sound of his own voice, the pitch of which was surprisingly high.

“I do errands from time to time,” the German replied. “He pays well and the work is congenial.”

“What do you want?”

“Vargas wanted me to remind you that you were sent to do an errand. You are to transfer the money to the proper accounts tomorrow and return to Cuba. If you do not, I am to kill you.”

The German smiled warmly. “I will do it too. There is a side of my personality that I am not proud of, that I do not like to admit, but it is only fair that I should tell you the truth: I like to kill people. I enjoy it. I don’t just shoot them, bang, bang, bang. I see how long I can keep them alive, how much I can make them suffer. I own a quiet little place, out of the way, isolated. It is perfect for my needs.”

The German’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “You seem a miserable specimen, but I like a challenge. I think with a little prior planning I could probably make you scream for at least forty-eight hours before you died.”

Maximo’s heart was hammering in his ears, thudding along like a race horse’s hooves.

The German picked up the telephone, told the operator he wished to place a call to Havana. He gave her the number.

One minute passed, then another.

“Rall here. For Vargas.”

After a few seconds, Rall spoke again. “Buenos días, señor. I have given him your message.”

The German listened for a few more seconds, then passed the telephone to Maximo.

The Cuban minister of finance managed to make a noise, and heard the voice of Alejo Vargas:

“The money must arrive tomorrow, Maximo. You understand?”

“Your thug has threatened me.”

“I hope Señor Rall has made the situation clear. It would be a tragedy for you to die because you did not understand your duty.”

The line went dead before Maximo could answer. He sat with the instrument in his hand, trying to keep control of his stomach. Rall gestured, so he handed the phone to him.

The German listened to make sure the connection had been severed, then placed the instrument back in its cradle. He stood.

“I don’t know what else to say. You understand the situation. Your destiny is in your hands.”

With that the German went to the door, opened it and passed through, then pulled the door shut behind him until it latched.

Maximo ran to the bathroom and vomited in the commode.

William Henry Chance was lying on the bed in his hotel room reading a magazine when he heard the knock on the door. He opened it to find Tommy Carmellini standing there.

“Hey, boss,” Carmellini said. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Give me a moment to put on my shoes.”

Chance did so, pulled on a light sportscoat, and locked the door behind him on the way out.

Neither man spoke as they rode the elevator downstairs. Out on the sidewalk they automatically checked for a tail. No one obviously following, but that meant little. If the Cubans had burned them as CIA, they could have watchers in every building, be filming every move, every gesture, every movement of the lips.

So neither man said anything.

Carmellini directed their steps toward one of the larger casinos on the Malecon. Latin music engulfed them as they walked into the building. The place reminded Chance of Atlantic City, complete with crowds of gray-haired retirees buying a good time, mostly Americans, Germans, English, and Spaniards. No Cubans were gambling, of course, just foreigners who had hard currency to wager.

The only Cubans not behind the tables were prostitutes, young, gorgeous, and dressed in the latest European fashions. At this hour of the evening the cigar smoke was thick, the liquor flowing, and the laughter and music loud.

The two men drifted around the casino, taking their time, checking to see who was watching them, then finally sifted out of the building through a side door. At the basement loading dock a man was inventorying supplies in a telephone repair van. Chance and Carmellini climbed in, the man closed the door, and the van rolled.

“Vargas is having a powwow in his office,” Carmellini reported. “It sounds as if Castro is dead.”

“Nobody lives forever,” Chance said lightly. “Not even dictators.”

“That isn’t the half of it. They’re talking about biological weapons again.”

“Bingo,” Chance said, a touch of satisfaction creeping into his voice.

“Yeah. Vargas says there is a warehouse full of biological warheads at Gitmo.”

It took a whole lot to surprise William Henry Chance. He gaped.

“Not only that,” Carmellini continued, “he has one of the things. He’s going to show it to the Cuban people, prove to the world what perfidious bastards the Americans are.”

“He’s got an American CBW warhead?”

“You’ll have to listen to the tape. Sounded to the technician like the thing was stolen from a ship.”

“Biological warheads at Guantánamo Bay? That’s gotta be wrong! Have these guys been smoking something?”

“I think Vargas and his pals have gone off the deep end. Either that or they plan to plant some biological agents in Guantánamo after they crash through the fence.”

“Maybe they know we’re listening to them,” Chance said. “Maybe this whole thing is a hoax.”

“Could be,” Tommy Carmellini agreed, but to judge by his tone of voice, he didn’t think so.

Maximo Sedano was committed. He couldn’t transfer the money to Cuban government accounts in Havana because the transfer cards contained the wrong account numbers. Changing the numbers was out of the question: any alteration to the cards would be instantly spotted and cause the Swiss bankers to suspect forgery.

Maximo carefully arranged the combination locks on his attaché case and opened it. At the bottom was a pistol, a very nice little Walther in 7.35 mm. The magazine was full, but there was no round in the chamber. Maximo chambered a round and engaged the safety.

He put the pistol in his right-hand trouser pocket and looked at himself in the mirror.

He put his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the butt of the weapon.

He had to go to the banks tomorrow, act like a bureaucrat shuffling money for his government while they shoveled $53 million plus interest into his personal accounts. Well, if he could kill the German and get away with it, he sure as hell could keep his cool while the Swiss bankers made him rich.

Could he kill Rall?

How badly did he want to be rich?

He stood at the window looking at the Limmat River a block from the hotel, and beyond it, the vast expanse of Lake Zurich. Beyond the lake half-hidden in the haze were the peaks of the Alps, still white with last winter’s snow.

He certainly didn’t want to go back to Cuba.

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.

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.