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Who Killed Fidel Castro?

David Pereda

Ref. No. 711016th
Length 75,000 words

Summary

When an old fisherman is gunned down on a Mexican beach, a respected Miami surgeon becomes the prime suspect. The dead fisherman is Fidel Castro, whom Dr. Raymond Peters helped disguise through clandestine plastic surgery. In order to save his own life, Peters must find the killers and retrieve a mysterious journal while outwitting a ruthless woman assassin named Marcela, sent by Castro’s brother Raul.

From The Book

Prologue

Pepe Orozco woke up at six in the morning -- naked, shivering, and hungover. Like a damn fool, he had left his bedroom window open, and the temperature had dropped during the night. Lately, weather conditions in Yucatan resembled his life of the past couple of years, a fucking yo-yo. He never knew what to expect -- cold, rain, fog, wind, hurricanes. Every day was like playing the lottery.

What a difference from what he was told when he moved to Puerto Progreso Beach. He was assured then that the weather would be sunny and hot all the time, like in Cuba, and that he could go surf fishing each morning. What a load of Habanero shit talk!

The unpredictability of the weather had become his constant gripe at Rosa’s Bar, his favorite watering hole down the beach. He spent most nights there now, drinking mojitos and talking to Rosa and her girls. My, how his life had changed. Now his complaining was relegated to a brothel. And to what end? Big, fat Rosa couldn’t change Mother Nature. She would just shrug, roll her piggy eyes, and grumble in that tequila-cured voice of hers, “If you don’t like the weather, guey, have another Corona and wait. It will change.”

Pepe hopped on the cold wooden floor and kicked the bed. Fuck Rosa and fuck this shitty country and fuck this freezing weather, too.

Rubbing his arms for warmth, he padded to the window. His head felt like a throbbing balloon about to explode. Waves crashed on the beach, spraying thick clots of foam over the soggy sand. He hoped the sun would finally come out today. He hadn’t been able to go fishing all week because of the rain. Damn weather.

Pepe slammed the window shut.

Stumbling about the bungalow, his head pulsating like a stroboscopic light, he searched for his shorts and t-shirt. He peeked under the bed, in the kitchen, around the living room. Finally he found them in one corner of the bathroom, wedged next to the toilet. They reeked of mojitos and cheap perfume. He scratched his head.

Was there a woman with me last night?

Pepe vaguely remembered a curvaceous female with plump lips and a mouth full of pointed shark-like teeth…and, oh yes, tits the size of small cantaloupes. How could he forget that? He was better at remembering their tits than their faces. Female faces at Rosa’s all tended to look alike: hard and heavily made-up, with crimson lips, absent eyes, and vapid smiles. The tits, however, all had individuality and character. They could be round and rough, like small coconuts; or pointed and sweet, like ripe Filipino mangoes. Some nipples stood erect, like tiny penises; others collapsed inward, like broken dreams.

The woman from last night had elegant tits, silky to the touch, the nipples pert and haughty. Although Pepe couldn’t remember her face clearly, he knew she was a real looker, not the type he usually found at Rosa’s. She was way too refined for that dump. Pepe didn’t recall having sex with her. He didn’t remember much of anything, really. If they did have sex, Pepe hoped he used a condom. He didn’t want to come down with a venereal disease…or worse. He shuddered at the thought of AIDS. That’s all he needed now.

He bent down to pick up his clothes, and pain shot through his skull. What a royal headache. It felt like all the blood in his body had gathered behind his eyes. Maybe he needed to check his blood pressure; he wasn’t a young chicken anymore. Gasping, he pulled up his shorts without bothering to put on underwear first. The soiled t-shirt stank so much, he slung it over his shoulder to let it breathe awhile; he’d put it on later. With the window closed, he wasn’t that cold anyway.

Crimson streaked the horizon, creeping into the dense, gunmetal expanse of sky. A new -- and clear -- day was arriving. What a pleasant surprise. Time to hurry. The sun would be out soon and then the heat would come, and the fish knew better than to stick around the shallow waters in the boiling temperature and become a living bouillabaisse.

Grabbing tackle box, cooler filled with beer, and fishing pole, he staggered outside to dump them in the soft sand as close to the water as possible. Then he went back and dragged his sun-bleached wooden chair from the porch and sat down, breathing hard. Good thing the bungalow was right on the beach. He couldn’t have walked one more step.

He set the bait, cast his line into the unruly sea, and cracked open a bottle of Corona. Two Coronas on an empty stomach would make his headache disappear like the fish at noon…and if they didn’t, he wouldn’t care about it so much anyway.

He was on his fourth Corona and feeling a lot better when he heard distant noises carried by the wind. He cracked an eye open. Two runners in hooded jogging suits were coming around the bend, fighting the strong headwind. One of the men was tall, the other small. Two fucking gringos on vacation. Mexicans never went out jogging so early.

Pepe shut his eyes again.

As the men got closer, Pepe raised his head. Scratching his unkempt gray beard, he watched their feet slap the hard-packed sand and splash in the rolling waves. Something about the pair seemed familiar.

“How’s the fishing?” The tall one yelled to Pepe when he was about twenty yards away. “They hittin’ today?”

Pepe didn’t answer. He rose from his chair, perplexed. He knew that voice. The joggers sprinted toward him and stopped, breathing hard from the exertion. The tall man lowered his hood, revealing his face.

Pepe’s eyes widened. Son of a bitch. He had made a bad mistake.

He flipped open his cooler, shoved his hand inside, and grappled frantically for his .38.

The tall man was faster. He reached behind his back and pulled a .22 from his waistband. Pepe hurdled over his chair. He tripped over the tackle box, regained his footing, and staggered across the hard-packed sand. He heard a muted pop and felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, as if someone had hit him with a small hammer. He tried to turn around, but his body went limp. He stumbled in slow motion and crashed to his knees; then his entire body pitched forward, half in the sand and half in the shallow water.

“Cabron!” he heard the tall man say. “Dead at last.”

I’m not dead, maricon. Pepe tried to say the words aloud, but he couldn’t move his lips. A wave rolled salty water into his nostrils, and he couldn’t breathe.

I need to get up, he thought. Or I’m going to drown.

“Check the cooler,” the tall man was saying now, far away. “Let’s see what he was in such a hurry to get. I’m sure it was not a beer.”

You’re damn right it wasn’t, motherfucker!

The wave moved back out into the sea, and Pepe breathed again. He heard the stirring of the ice, the sloshing of the water, and then a snort that must have come from the short man.

“Look what I found. A .38 revolver.” The voice was higher than the tall man’s. He recognized the twang. Son of a bitch, you too?

“He was always a tricky one. You find anything else?”

“No.”

Damn, Pepe thought. Why did they refer to me as a ‘was’?

“Must be in the house then,” the tall man said.

What must be in the house? Oh no, not the journal. How did the motherfuckers know about that? A suspicious thought flashed in his mind. The woman? Was she involved with these two double-crossing thugs? Did I talk too much last night?

Pepe tried to get up to charge the men but couldn’t. He felt so tired, so tired. He gave up the effort and concentrated on gulping all the air he could.

“The son of a bitch is twitching,” the short man said.

Twitching? I’m twitching? Another wave filled his nose with salty water and, when it went back out to the sea, it lingered over his body. He realized the hand caught under his body was clutching his genitals. His balls felt silky and warm, like the mysterious woman’s tits.

Those were top-of-the-line tits, no question about it, among the best he had ever touched. Who cared if he had used a condom or not to have sex with her? She was worth it. He wished with all his might that he did have wild and wicked sex with that woman. He hoped all her orifices were throbbing with pain today. Damn bitch.

Pepe summoned all his strength and tried again to rise. Maybe he could get away while the two motherfuckers were distracted talking to each other. But all he managed to do was flutter an eyelash and shift his head a fraction of an inch.

“That son of a bitch is twitching again.” The short man laughed, exacerbating Pepe’s irritation at not being able to move. “He looks funny, like a marionette.”

“You going to laugh at him or shoot him?” the tall man scolded his partner, annoying Pepe even more. “We don’t have much time. And we still have to check the house.”

Fuck you both, groveling shit-eating servants of the Imperialism! Pepe thought he saw a fish nibbling on his bait. And fuck the fish, too. He shut his eyes tighter to shield them from the glare of the rising sun on the water. He concentrated on his balls, trying to recreate the feel of the woman’s tits.

“You’re damn right I’m going to shoot him,” the shorter man said. “I’ve waited a long time for this moment.”

“Hurry up then. We have to go.”

“You sure he’s Castro? His face looks so different. He --”

“I’m sure,” the tall man growled, not letting him finish. “Hey, what kind of gun is that?”

“A .357 magnum.”

“Looks like a cannon. Let’s go! Shoot the son of a bitch. This beach is going to be packed with people soon.”

Wait a minute! Pepe struggled to get up so he could run away, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Shit! He gave up and instead wracked his brain for a happy memory to leave the world with, like the dying hero of Gladiator. He visualized Cuban intelligence operatives hunting down these two motherfuckers and the mystery woman, hurting them bad, and then squashing them like cockroaches. Oh, yeah. He braced himself for the shot.

He heard the ominous click of the gun followed by a deafening explosion. For one infinitesimal instant, he felt his head dissolve into shards of blinding red light. They prickled his body like a myriad of sharp knives, urging him to open his hand and let go of his balls and the feel of the woman’s tits.

And he did.

One

Dr. Raymond Peters awoke with a jolt. The numbers on his bedside clock glowed 1:42 A.M. Why was the doorbell chiming? Careful not to disturb his wife Sonia, curled up to his side like a cat, he pried himself free and slipped out of bed. Grumbling under his breath, he cracked the door open -- and the corners of his mouth sagged like withered cheeks screaming for a facelift. He was relieved to see his driver Mauricio, but unnerved by the gaudily-attired short, fat man standing in the doorway next to him.

The jowly character wore Bermuda shorts and a crimson T-shirt with the words ‘Born to be Wild’ printed in purple letters across the chest. A reddish mustache -- probably fake -- partially covered thin lips. Dark aviator sunglasses and a Chicago White Sox cap concealed eyes and head.

What the hell was this? And now the jerk was smiling at him.

“What’s this all about, Mauricio?” Raymond grumbled. “It’s almost two in the morning.”

Mauricio flushed and wagged a stubby finger at the mystery man. “I told him it was too late, Dr. Peters, but he insisted. He said he needed to see you now.”

The intruder’s smile broadened.

Unnerved even more by the reflection of his own scowl in the man’s sunglasses, Raymond held onto his manners somehow. “Yes?”

“Hormigas!” the stranger screeched. “What’s the matter, Raymond? You don’t recognize me?”

The man’s squeaky voice and the Spanish word for ants…. Raymond slipped back in time to a torrid afternoon in Cuba. He stood at the door of a makeshift military hospital in Matanzas, staring at the freckles on the ruddy face of the unexpected visitor who had just been escorted in by two large heavily armed bodyguards.

The man’s freckles looked like ants.

Raymond’s heart pounded.

Cackling laughter jolted him to the present. With a flourish, the man removed hat and sunglasses.

Raymond stared. The man’s hair and salt-and-pepper mustache had been dyed red, but there was no mistaking who they belonged to.

“Raul?” Raymond’s lips felt dry and papery.

The visitor cocked his head toward the door behind Raymond. “Aren’t you going to invite me into your home?”

Raymond felt bone-chilling cold invade his body. The last time Raul Castro had shown up without warning Raymond had just finished performing plastic surgery on his brother, Fidel, and had been plunged up to his latex-gloved hands in trouble.

Dressed in dirty fatigues, Raul had demanded to see his brother in the recovery room. Raymond had refused. An irate Raul tried to force his way inside, and Raymond had blocked his path. Bodyguards intervened, but Raymond had finally managed to turn Raul away by explaining that Fidel had lost a lot of blood during surgery, and an infection could kill him. Raymond vividly remembered Raul’s face, distorted by a rage so strong his freckles were drowned by a deep crimson flush.

As Raymond stepped aside to let his uninvited guest enter, he hoped that Raul’s visit didn’t lead to another confrontation.

“Come in. This is quite a surprise,” Raymond said, while a voice inside his head screamed, Go away!

Mauricio remained where he was, his compact, powerful body rigid.

“You want to come in, too?” Raymond asked him.

“That’s all right,” Raul said from the living room without turning. “He doesn’t need to.”

“I don’t mind staying,” Mauricio said.

Raul plopped down on one of the comfortable, brown leather chairs in front of the sliding glass doors overlooking Biscayne Bay.

What insolence, Raymond thought, as his mind replayed how Raul had knocked on his door in the middle of the night, dismissed Raymond’s servant and made himself at home – all in an attempt to show off his power. Raymond felt a visceral urge to strangle him. Take the pre-emptive strike now. Why was Raul here?

“I’ll call you if I need you,” Raymond said softly to Mauricio, then closed the door and reluctantly walked into the living room.

“Nice place you got here,” Raul said.

“Thank you.”

Raymond could tell Raul was scrutinizing the antique oriental carpets and Louis Philippe furniture as he walked toward the sliding glass doors and peered at the dark waters of the bay thirty-four floors below. Raul seemed momentarily mesmerized by the lights of passing boats glittering in the rain. Raymond was impatient but knew better than to rush Raul. Finally, Fidel’s brother turned to Raymond and nodded his approval.

“Very nice.” He smiled. “You and Sonia have good taste.” And then gesturing to the couch, his voice took on a more serious tone. “Sit down, Raymond. We have a lot to talk about.”

Apprehensively, Raymond settled on the leather sofa opposite Raul. For too long, he had struggled to cope with the secret trip to Cuba that his friend Pepe Orozco had lured him into taking. Pepe had told him that his unknown son, Mon, was terminally-ill with cancer; and before dying, wanted to meet his dad. Devastated by guilt, Raymond had traveled to Havana with Pepe only to find himself tangled in a conspiracy. He had been tricked, brought to Cuba to perform plastic surgery on Fidel Castro and Pepe -- to switch their respective identities. Forced to do the surgery or else, Raymond had been allowed to return to Miami afterward with his long-lost love, Sonia, and their son, where they started a new life together. He had never been able to truly forget those harrowing, dangerous weeks in Cuba. And now, when his nightmares had finally subsided and he was beginning to relax again, Raul Castro had come to ruin it all.

Raul started to talk but his voice abruptly turned into a hard, raspy cough. He doubled over, his face turning purplish.

“What’s the matter?” Cid asked.

“The flu,” Raul explained. “Caught it in Mexico. Too cold there for me.” He inhaled, gurgling with the effort.

Raymond didn’t respond. He and Raul studied each other in silence, like two fighting cocks.

Raymond hated the idea of being sociable toward this man, but he knew better than to break the illusion of hospitality. “Can I offer you something to drink?” he asked, hoping to prod Raul along.

“Not tonight, gracias -- I’m not planning on staying that long. But I’ll take a rain check.”

“Deal.” Raymond smiled tentatively, his mind registering with alarm the fact that there might be a next time. “How are things?”

“Bad. Lots of problems in Cuba,” Raul said in a tinny voice. “Big problems.”

Raymond’s head bobbed mechanically.

“Miami seems to agree with you, though.” Raul’s voice was more energetic now. He was winding up like a pitcher on a mound. “You’re in the news often enough -- the famous Dr. Peters, world-renowned plastic surgeon. The clinic you opened with Mon in Coral Gables is also a resounding success, I know. And you and Sonia and Mon appear on the social pages almost every week. I’m impressed. Who could have guessed when Pepe brought you to Cuba two years ago all that would happen? Unbelievable, no?”

“Unbelievable,” Raymond agreed.

“I see your handiwork every day,” Raul said smirking. “No question about it, you are an outstanding plastic surgeon. I talk to Pepe, and I think I’m talking to Fidel. He even sounds like Fidel. I have to remind myself sometimes that he’s not really my brother.”

Raymond felt fear rising. He had often wondered why they were allowed to live. They were the only people in the world who knew Fidel Castro was now a retired fisherman in Mexico and that the person who actually appeared in public as the Commander-in-Chief of Cuba was an impersonator by the name of Pepe Orozco.

The brother of Fidel Castro wasn’t there on a social visit. That much was obvious.

“What brings you to Miami, Raul?” Raymond heard the slight tremor in his voice. He was certain now that big trouble had arrived in his life again. “Must be something very important.”

“It is.”

“Isn’t it dangerous for you, if you get caught?”

“It is,” Raul said again, and smiled. “But I’ve been doing it for years -- and so has Fidel. It’s all done with mirrors, simple illusion -- appearance and reality.”

“How is Fidel these days?” Raymond asked.

“He’s dead. That’s the reason I’m here.”

Two

Three-hundred miles away, the curvaceous, yellow-eyed mulatto woman named Marcela knelt in front of a Santeria altar decorated in red and white and presented her daily offering of apples, green bananas, okra, and rum to her god.

“Cabio Sile,” she saluted with a howl imitating thunder. “Chango!”

Marcela was proud of her altar. Covering an entire wall of her house, it represented her life’s work, her true vocation. She had started building it shortly after she became an apprentice Santera at thirteen years of age. She had developed it, piece by piece, over the past twenty years to what it was now.

The imposing figures of Oshe and Shere, standing six feet tall at each end as Chango’s bodyguards, had taken her nearly three years to carve from the hardest and darkest mahogany. They were so heavy, sometimes when there was bad weather and lightning struck nearby, they rattled on the mantel. Marcela was afraid they might come tumbling down one day if she didn’t reinforce the altar legs, but she simply hadn’t had the time. It was on her to-do list, though.

The unusual, two-foot-tall statue in the center represented Chango, the Warrior King. The artist had carved him in the shape of an ax -- its two sharp steel blades growing out of Chango’s head like a crown -- while Chango’s body formed the ax handle itself. The antelope horns Marcela had brought from Africa sat to his left, symbolizing Oya, his wife. She had purchased the studded tiara to Chango’s right, which represented Chango’s older sister, Dada-Bayonni, in an antique shop in Amsterdam.

Her most-prized possession, that which had taken her the longest to locate and was her favorite, she had found in Mexico on a visit to the Teotihuacan pyramids. She was convinced the jade miniature of twin little girls she had placed by Chango’s feet had been a gift from him. She knew Chango especially protected twins with his big magic. So when two scrawny Indian children approached her as she came down the Pyramid of the Sun and offered to sell her the carving of the twins, she knew Chango had sent them. She didn’t even haggle.

“How much?” was all she said.

Glancing approvingly at the altar, she poured rum from a bottle of Havana Club Anejo into an elaborately-etched silver tumbler and drank. Despite a cool breeze coming from the ocean and the fact her skin was bare except for her red-and-white Chango collar, she felt the heat of the rum push beads of perspiration out of her skin. She looked with longing toward the beach. She loved to plunge into the salty green waters and swim out to sea, feeling the occasional fish brush against her. Once she swam next to a shark that circled around her twice before Chango made him go away with his magic. Marcela was never scared because she knew Chango always protected her.

She would have to wait for her swim today, though. She was a professional. And for a professional, work came first. Later, she could go to the beach and linger in the refreshing waters ruled by Yemaya, maybe even reward herself for her hard work by playing with her engorged clitoris while lying on the sand, legs spread apart, in the hot sun. The thought gave her a secret thrill, and her body tingled with anticipation. But all that would come later. Now she needed her daily practice.

It was her job to kill people, and she prided herself on doing her job well. She was barely fifteen when she killed her first man with a knife in a duel for disrespecting her widowed mother. The man was much bigger and stronger and a more experienced fighter, but Marcela surprised him with a fake thrust to the genitals -- men were so predictable -- followed by a savage, and life-ending, slash of his jugular. The man crumpled to the ground, eyes bulging, spurting blood. Marcela stood over him, watching him bleed to death, breathing in the intoxicating blend of odors generated by gushing blood and fear. From that moment on, that scent became her favorite aphrodisiac and killing her addiction. Her reputation as a killer was made then. After that fight, whenever someone wanted to settle a score, Marcela would oblige…for a price, of course. In the beginning all her clients were women, but later, men started coming to her with assassination requests, too. Nowadays one man high up in the Cuban government accounted for all of her business. He knew she would do the job well, not only because she was talented and Chango made sure her hand didn’t waver, but because of her strict preparation. Chango always helped those of his children who helped themselves.

Every day Marcela trained for at least four hours, two during the day and two at night. First she jogged and exercised, and then she trained with weapons. Bright sunlight tricked the naked eye as much as the shifting shadows of nighttime. Often she could only take one shot, and she had to make it count. On the wall next to the altar she’d tacked a white sign bearing a motto she had copied in blood-red letters from a business book. She couldn’t recall the name of the book anymore, nor who the author was, but the words were indelibly etched on her mind: Success happens when preparation meets opportunity.

Opening a wooden drawer beneath the altar, she studied the twelve guns inside. She selected a Glock .40-caliber pistol, quick-draw holster and gun belt, then closed the drawer again. Beyond the house, on the soft sand, she set up six empty rum bottles on a wooden fence. Six was Chango’s number, so she always used six bottles for her workouts.

She cocked the Glock, put it in the holster, and strapped the gun belt around her waist. Closing her eyes, feeling the smooth leather hugging her hips, she gave a silent prayer to Chango. Then, quickly and smoothly, she drew the gun and fired six swift shots.

All the bottles shattered.

She smiled, pleased. Chango had guided her hand again.

She realized her cell phone was ringing in the living room. Only one person knew that number: her employer, code-named El Jefe. And when he called, it usually meant trouble, and often death, for somebody.

Marcela had been expecting that call. Her Orisha had already alerted her it would come.

She holstered the gun, walked inside the house, and picked up the receiver. “Hola?”

“Are you training?” a man’s gruff voice she didn’t recognize said by way of greeting.

Marcela was instantly angry. “How did you get this number?”

“El Jefe asked me to call you,” the voice said, uncertain. “He’s out of town.”

“What’s your name?”

“He told me you would ask that. You know the rule.”

Marcela breathed easier. They never used names on the phone -- that was the rule. The voice on the phone had passed the initial test.

“What can I do for you?”she asked.

“El Jefe has a job for you. He wants you to come see him.”

“When?”

The man cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice was softer. “Tomorrow, at the usual time.”

“I’ll be there.”

Marcela hung up the phone and checked her gold wristwatch, a gift from El Jefe for doing a particularly difficult job. She still had half an hour of training time left before allowing herself to frolic on the beach. She reloaded the Glock, lined up six more bottles on the fence, and took a position forty paces away this time.

Three

“Dead?” Raymond was shaken. If Fidel was dead, his life was in danger – and possibly the lives of Sonia, Mon and Mauricio, too. “When?”

“Two months ago,” Raul said.

The wind whistled outside. The sliding glass doors rattled. It had been raining hard, too, the day he operated on Fidel and Pepe in Cuba.

“Where? In Cuba?”

Raul shook his head, his bulldog jowls jiggling. “Puerto Progreso Beach, Yucatan.”

Raymond marveled that he was still alive. Raul was not the type to investigate first. No doubt it was because of Pepe’s oath: “I swear to you, Raymond, as long as I’m alive, nothing bad will happen to you or your loved ones.”

Raymond swallowed hard. “Accident?”

“He was assassinated,” Raul said deliberately. “Two bullets to the head one morning while fishing. Different calibers, so we suspect two shooters. A divorced American tourist on vacation with his teen-age son found him and called the police.”

“My God.”

Raul raised an eyebrow and studied him. “You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t suspect?”

Raymond cleared his throat. “No.”

“You knew he was in Mexico using Pepe Orozco’s name?”

“Of course. I was with him in Cuba when he boarded the plane.”

“But you didn’t keep in touch?”

Where was Raul going with his line of questioning? “Your brother and I weren’t friends. No, we didn’t keep in touch.”

“He never called you for medical reasons? To consult with you about post-surgery problems, for instance? Ask your professional advice?”

“No. I didn’t have his phone number. I knew he was in Mexico, but I didn’t know where.”

Raul chewed on a fingernail and inspected his curled fingers before glancing at Raymond again, eyebrows knitted.

“What about anything else?”

“Excuse me?” Raymond said.

“One of Fidel’s items is missing. Did you know anything about that?”

One of his ‘items’? “No.”

“We suspect the killers took it.”

“What ‘item’? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A personal one.”

“I assume it’s not his toothbrush or underwear. You care to be more explicit?”

“No. If you don’t know, it’s not important. You sure you don’t know, right?”

“No,” Raymond replied, “but now I get it. That’s what you’re really looking for, isn’t it?”

“Don’t forget Fidel’s killers.”

“You suspect they have this mysterious item you don’t want to tell me about?”

“Who else?”

“Why investigate now?” Raymond said. “Why not two months ago, when the assassination happened?”

“We couldn’t. The killers left no tracks, and we had to be careful. We couldn’t tell the Mexican police who the dead fisherman really was.”

“But eventually you found a way?”

“We told them we had been investigating Pepe Orozco ourselves, on suspicion of his being an underground businessman defrauding the Cuban economy. And that we suspected he had been killed by colleagues.”

“And they believed you?”

“I don’t know, but they cooperated with us. The thing is, we couldn’t really push them. So the investigation went quite slow. The killers were definitely professionals. They left no fingerprints, shell casings, hairs, fibers, fingerprints, footprints, abandoned cars, nothing. We had no leads…until recently.”

Raymond raised his eyebrows.

Raul rubbed his chin, his gaze fixed on Raymond.

“You know, I don’t know whether to be scared or to get pissed of about all this,” Raymond said. “You think I assassinated Fidel? I haven’t been out of the country since I returned from Cuba two years ago. Go ahead and check. I couldn’t have done it.”

“But you could have masterminded the operation.”

“Fuck you, Raul.”

Castro’s face broke into a wide smile. “This is the Raymond I remember. The one that refused to let me see Fidel in the recovery room and escaped Cuba on a high-speed motorboat. I was beginning to wonder about you. I thought a couple of years in Miami had made you soft. I see you haven’t changed. You’re as feisty as ever.”

“Which part did you not understand -- the “fuck” or the “you?”

“Take it easy. I’m just doing my job.”

“How can I take it easy? Next thing I know one of your henchmen can be knocking on my door to kill me.”

“If I wanted you dead, I would have done it already.”

Raymond leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. “Why do you think I could be involved? I’m a doctor. I save lives, not murder people, remember?”

“Because you, more than anybody else I know -- other than Fidel and me -- wouldn’t want the secret of what happened in Cuba to get out.” Raul paused. “So tell me, my friend, what do you know that can help me investigate his death and clear you?”

“Nothing.”

“Hmmm. Try thinking about it anyway. Information is like sperm. All you need is one lucky sperm to impregnate an egg, and, bingo, you have a baby. Tell me what you know, and --”

“And bingo, you’ll have a baby, too?”

“Highly unlikely. But you could be in the clear. Think. Who could have killed my brother?”

“Ninety percent of the world?” Raymond shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“What about Teceira?” Raul said. “You think he could’ve done it?”

Teceira was Sonia’s ex-husband, a military man trained in weaponry and hand-to-hand combat. Raymond could still recall the taste of his own blood when Teceira hit him in the mouth. Raymond had been imprisoned for treason and was destined to be shot by a firing squad the following morning. Raymond had outsmarted Teceira and escaped. The raging lunatic was angry enough with both Castro brothers to have done it.

“He certainly fits the profile …” Raymond started, when he heard the familiar sound of a swishing nightgown.

“Who fits what profile?” Sonia said, smiling politely.

Raymond and Raul turned their heads in unison to look at her, then rose as she walked toward them like a model at a fashion show.

“This is quite a surprise, Raul.” Sonia extended her hand to shake his. “To see you here in Miami with a red mustache and orange shorts. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you like this in all the years I worked for you in Cuba.”

“He’s undercover,” Raymond said.

“Undercover?” She looked from one man to the other.

Raymond nodded. “I’ll explain later,” he said and then turned his attention back to Raul. “What are the leads that brought you to Miami?”

“Well, actually it’s only one lead. We have information on the killers.”

Sonia’s cold fingers clasped Raymond’s hand as thunder rumbled outside and lightning streaked over the bay. .

“How many killers were there?” Raymond asked.

“We know there were two, for sure.” Raul pinched the bridge of his nose. “But we suspect more people were involved.”

“You know who the two are?”

“No.”

“So what do you know?”

“We know the killers are in Miami -- and that’s a lot.”

Four

Marcela hastened up the dark Vedado street, slipping ghostlike in and out of crumbling buildings illuminated by naked bulbs. In honor of Chango, and out of respect for El Jefe, she had dressed all in white for the meeting.

Two men coming in the opposite direction, arguing heatedly about baseball, fell silent when they saw her. They puffed their chests and sucked in their stomachs as they passed, ogling her up and down.

“Oye, cosa linda,” one of them said. “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing alone at night? It’s dangerous. Don’t you want some company?”

Cuban men. Marcela didn’t bother to answer them.

She heard them laughing as they continued on down the street. “That mulata was a fox,” the same one who had spoken to her said. “What culo!”

“What everything,” his companion said. “I think she was scared of us.”

If they only knew. A smile came to Marcela’s lips. Men usually made the same mistake with her because she looked so feminine and so vulnerable. It was a look she cultivated. It gave her an edge in most situations when dealing with men, particularly macho men. She could have killed those two out-of-shape habaneros in less than ten seconds with her bare hands -- she carried a razor-sharp stiletto of the finest Italian steel in a concealed pouch in her panties. And yet the poor souls thought she was scared.

Marcela considered most men useless, except for procreation. They were easily duped, smelled bad, and, for the most part, couldn’t find the right spot on a clitoris with their tongue and ten fingers. That was probably one of the reasons she preferred women.

Behind her, waves crashed against the malecon rocks, spewing a fine mist impregnated with the strong odor of the sea. She inhaled deeply. Marcela loved that smell, a mixture of rot, salt, and predators feeding in the depths below. It was the scent of life…or death.

She spotted the building just ahead. Squat and bloated, it was a remnant from Spanish colonialism. Although well-known artists and so-called intellectuals regarded the structure an architectural gem, Marcela hated it. To her its deteriorating columns and pock-marked stone walls meant less than nothing. They were decaying memories from a distant past before the revolucion, which she would happily expunge from history books if she could. Let flabby maricones fuss about flatulent architecture from another era while slobbering over melting chocolate ice cream at Coppelia. She liked the stark simplicity of the present -- everything binary, either for or against the revolution. There might not be glittering parties and opulent banquets laden with exotic foods anymore, but who cared? There were no more social classes, either. In the past, those snooty bastards were always too ready to discriminate against the black, the poor, and the ignorant. Nowadays everybody was equal in Cuba, and that suited Marcela just fine.

The soldier guarding the entrance jumped when Marcela materialized from the shadows. Reflexively, he tried to move his AK-7 assault rifle into position, but Marcela moved faster. She clamped an iron hand on the soldier’s arm and held the rifle motionless.

“It’s me, companero,” Marcela said.

“Oh.” The soldier’s eyes bulged. “You caught me by surprise.”

Marcela smiled and released his arm. Men never liked it when they found out she was stronger than they were. “I’m here to see El Jefe.”

“He’s expecting you.”

The soldier opened the creaking door for her, releasing the musty air trapped inside. Marcela wondered if that air had been roaming those ancient corridors for centuries before going into her lungs. Taking short, shallow breaths, she slipped through the door without another word.

She found El Jefe in his office, feet propped on his cluttered desk, sipping a cafesito. He had a suntan, and his eyebrows and mustache were dyed red, which made him look a little maricon. Marcela knew better than to comment on it. But she couldn’t conceal her grin either. Welcome to the club, Jefe.

Raul grinned back. “Freshly-brewed. You want one?”

“No, thanks. I drank too much coffee already today.”

“Suit yourself.” He dropped his legs, finished off his cafesito, groaned contentedly, and motioned for Marcela to sit down, adding, “I like your dress.”

“Gracias.” She picked the cleaner of the two chairs facing the desk and sat on its edge, still failing to avoid dislodging a fine cloud of dust. The room was crammed with books and papers, many in piles on the floor, and had not been cleaned in a long time. Marcela felt like sneezing but stifled the urge.

“Whatever we discuss here tonight must be kept strictly confidential,” El Jefe said. “You understand?”

“Si, senor.”

“A man close to me was assassinated in Mexico a couple of months ago. We have tracked the killers to Miami.”

Marcela’s eyes followed El Jefe’s mustache, which flopped when he talked. He really looked weird.

“And you want me to dispose of them?”

“You may have to,” Raul said. “But that’s not the real problem. It’s more complicated than that.”

“Oh,” Marcela said. What could be more complicated than killing someone?

“The dead man had an item that is incriminating to Cuba. The killers stole it.”

Marcela sat straighter. She was beginning to understand.

“And you want me to find the item?”

“I do.”

“What about the killers?”

“To recover the item, you’ll have to deal with the killers.”

Marcela understood perfectly well now. “So my mission is to recover the item and eliminate the killers?”

“Exactly.”

“Doesn’t seem so hard to do.”

“The problem is we don’t know where the item is.” Raul picked up a fountain pen from his desk and twirled it between thumb and forefinger. “We need you to coax that information out of the killers.”

“Not a problem.”

Castro’s nose twitched, and he sneezed loudly. “I love your confidence.”

“Salud!” Marcela let a thin smile play on her lips. “You know how persuasive I can be. Most people are eager to tell me things when I ask them.”

“That’s why I called you.” He pulled a soiled handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his nose, and put it back. “But in this case the problem is further complicated by the fact that the killers are in Miami.”

“You have a catarro?”

“I always get a cold when I go to Mexico. The weather there doesn’t agree with me.”

“Sorry to hear that. My English is not so good. But I guess everyone speaks Spanish in Miami.”

“Including the police,” he warned. “And we don’t want them to find out anything about any of this.”

“I’ll be careful. How many killers are there?”

“Two that we know of. But there could be more.”

“I’ll begin with those two. Who are they?”

El Jefe pushed a large, brown manila envelope across the cluttered desk toward her. “Here’s all the information you need -- photos, addresses, and a brief dossier on each.”

Marcela opened the envelope and studied the eight-by-ten pictures. The faces meant nothing to her. She riffled through the thick packet of documents, stuffed everything back inside to study later in more detail, and slipped the envelope under her arm.

“There are three pictures in here.”

“The third is the one that masterminded the operation. Take care of him last.”

Marcela nodded. “What about the item?”

“What do you want to know?”

“What is it?”

El Jefe cleared his throat, sounding much like a trumpet at the start of a horse race. “It’s a diary. Some people call it a journal.”

“What kind of information does it contain?”

“That, I can’t tell you.”

Marcela scowled. She didn’t like games. “How can I retrieve an item if I don’t know what information it contains? How will I know it’s the right item?”

“By the way it looks. You can’t miss it. It’s black, and the cover has a gold Cuban flag done with rubies, sapphires, and pearls.”

Marcela raised an eyebrow. “How big is it?”

“The size of a paperback book.”

Marcela raised both eyebrows. “Can I ask another question?”

“Sure.”

“Why is this diary a danger to our revolucion?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“What can you tell me, then?”

Raul’s nose twitched as if he was going to sneeze again. He pulled his handkerchief out and waited, but the twitching stopped. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket and said, “That I feel like shit tonight.”

“That’s very helpful,” Marcela said, rising. “If it’s any consolation, you look it.”

About The Author

David Pereda is the author of three novels. The manuscript of Who Killed Fidel Castro? won first place in the 2007 Lighthouse Book Awards and was a finalist in the 2007 National Indie Excellence Book Awards.

Copyright 2007-2008, David Pereda (Expires November 17, 2008)

To request information on this author or a manuscript contact the listed agent or e-mail: dbooth@authorlink.com

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