Havana

Chapter 48

The cab dropped Frenchy at the United Fruit Company executive mansion up in Vista Alegre, above the hot and fetid city, where he was staying in a VIP suite. He walked in, dragging the carbine and the sniper rifle, the Super.38 hanging in his tanker's holster in plain sight, hot, sweaty, dirty, his young face covered with stubble, aware exactly of how glamorous he was.

People looked, people gasped, people pointed. He seemed to have become the man he had always dreamed of being: cool, elegant, wary, tough, savvy, capable. A hero. There were several young American women staying there, various daughters or mistresses or new young wives of important United Fruit execs, and he could tell that at least two or three of them watched him as he sauntered into the bar and ordered a quick beer, the two rifles leaning against the next stool. He knocked back the cold drink and settled in for a moment or two of reflection. What he was thinking, however, was: They think I'm such a cool customer!

God, he enjoyed his little performance!

He knocked down the last of the beer, picked up the rifles, sauntered back through the lobby to the concierge and said, "Luis, don't wake me. I'm going to sleep for the next six years."

Luis nodded, but alas also had something himself to present Frenchy. The Medal of Honor, like Earl's? Not quite. No, it was a yellow telegraph message. He looked at it.

HELO FLIGHT SET GITMO 0900 HRS STOP

MEETING AMBASSADORS OFFICE HAVANA 1500 HRS

STOP MANDATORY YOU ATTEND STOP EVANS

Shit.

Already it was beginning. How would he explain? Was it a failure with total catastrophic ramifications or was it just a setback of some sort? He didn't know. He'd been out of the America House so long he'd picked up no gossip or context. He had no idea what was going on, what was being said, what he could expect.

He went upstairs, peeled off the dank jungle clothes, and climbed into the shower. The water, piercing and furious, restored in him the illusion of good health, and he dried.

He thought he ought to call Roger. He didn't like the tone. MANDATORY YOU ATTEND. Roger almost never spoke harshly or gave direct orders, so it bugged Frenchy that he was taking such an attitude. He picked up the phone, dialed the number and waited. And waited. And waited. Nobody picked up.

All right. He dialed Roger's apartment. No answer there either.

He checked his watch. It was about four. There was no reason for Roger not to be there, unless he was off at a match somewhere, and it seemed unlikely he'd be playing tennis so soon after the Moncada business, but you never knew.

He dialed a secretary he knew.

"Hey, Shirley, what is―"

"Walter," she hissed. "What are you doing? You can't call me." The phone clicked as she hung up.

He dialed back.

"What the hell is―"

"If I get caught talking to you, I'm screwed, too."

"What?"

"Call me tonight at my place."

The line went to dial tone again.

Frenchy slept for a few hours, went out for a late dinner, ate alone in the nicest restaurant he could find, and then thought about, but decided against, a whore. He finally got back in around eleven. He dialed Shirley at her apartment.

"What is going on?"

"There's a big flap. The word is, you're out."

He didn't say a thing for a while. It did happen: a big screw-up, a blown assignment, especially if you weren't one of the old boys with the Harvard/OSS pedigree, could spell the end. They didn't like it when other people failed. They were allowed to fail, but nobody else was.

"Who says?"

"Walter, everybody says."

"Shit."

"There's a guy here."

"A guy?"

"Yeah, he's thrown the whole place for a loop. He's one of your guys. Nobody will say his name. I only know he's here and he's got everybody scared to death."

"Tall guy. Real undistinguished looking. Could be a salesman. Nothing special about him, except the way people scurry and defer, as if he's some kind of great man."

"That's the customer."

"And bald?"

"Yeah, bald."

Shit thought Frenchy. The man called Plans was back in town and he smelled blood.