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Authors: Robert Landori
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the hospital. The guard in the adjacent sitting room, hearing his charge's screams, had sounded the alarm on his walkie-talkie, but had time for nothing more. He was under strict order to protect the patient first and to worry about capturing any would-be assassin later.
In theory, it was impossible for anyone unwanted to get near the patient; however, reality often creates screw-ups.
The attack was over in less than a minute. It wasn't much time, yet it was time enough for many terrible things to happen. Andrea, awakened by the gunfire, had rushed to her husband's room, and was killed instantly by the grenade.
Lonsdale shook his head to chase the image away and noticed with surprise that the pain of remembering the past was no longer as sharp as it once was; the years were slowly grinding away at the edges of his grief. He heard Morton ask, “So what drove you to work ten hours a day, six days a week for the last decade?”
“I've told you. I had nothing better to do, and I needed to keep active. I needed something to occupy my mind.”
Morton relented. He did not want to cause more grief for his deputy. The man was still hurting. “OK, so you'll go solo. Call us when you've got something. Call us even if you've got nothing. Keep in touch.”
“Don't I always?” At the time, it seemed the right thing to say.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wednesday
Havana, Cuba
Because Oscar De la Fuente was a very bad driver he was also a cautious one, something his wife, twenty years his junior and highly temperamental, could not abide. Whenever possible she would manipulate her husband into letting her drive by insisting that they take her car. Because he was head over heels in love with her and could deny her nothing, he would give in most of the time even though it riled him to be chauffeured around by a woman.
But Oscar always drove on Wednesday evenings, when they ate dinner at the Marina Hemmingway's best-known watering hole, El Viejo y el Mar.
The Marina Hemmingway, an agglomeration of hotels, restaurants, and summer residences, is a seaside resort about a half-hour's drive west of central Havana along the coast, and the in-place of the capital. Government leaders, important party officials, senior civil servants, as well as distinguished foreign visitors, mainly European businessmen, congregate in the area at night, less for the expensive meal than for the high-octane atmosphere. Oscar would not have been able to bear his colleagues seeing his wife driving on their weekly outing.
“Oscar, you're driving me crazy, crazy, crazy.” As usual, Maria Teresa made no bones about how she felt. “You drive like an old woman. At this rate I, too, will be an old woman by the time we get there.” De la Fuente gave her a quick sidelong glance and she pouted. They both burst out laughing.
“You are an impatient wench, Tere. I'm at the speed limit, and we only have a maximum of five more miles to go. We'll be there in less than ten minutes.”
“You're the only man I know who takes a whole hour to drive ten miles on a first-class highway. I wouldn't be surprised if Ivan got fed up waiting for us and left with one of the girls.”
Her husband gave her another glance and she pouted again, but De la Fuente knew better than to say anything. The trick was to get his wife to the restaurant in as good a mood as possible; otherwise she'd ruin the evening for everyone and, to add insult to injury, deny him his conjugal rights later.
De la Fuente had married Maria Teresa Montalba two years previously, after a year of intense courtship during which she had made him suffer plenty. The daughter of Cuba's Minister of the Interior and also a member of the Revolutionary Council, Maria Teresa, a striking beauty, was thirty and spoiled rotten. Born a year after the triumph of the Revolution to parents who doted on her, Tere, as she was known to her family and friends, was denied nothing. Her teenage excesses were forgiven, and her promiscuity in her
In theory, it was impossible for anyone unwanted to get near the patient; however, reality often creates screw-ups.
The attack was over in less than a minute. It wasn't much time, yet it was time enough for many terrible things to happen. Andrea, awakened by the gunfire, had rushed to her husband's room, and was killed instantly by the grenade.
Lonsdale shook his head to chase the image away and noticed with surprise that the pain of remembering the past was no longer as sharp as it once was; the years were slowly grinding away at the edges of his grief. He heard Morton ask, “So what drove you to work ten hours a day, six days a week for the last decade?”
“I've told you. I had nothing better to do, and I needed to keep active. I needed something to occupy my mind.”
Morton relented. He did not want to cause more grief for his deputy. The man was still hurting. “OK, so you'll go solo. Call us when you've got something. Call us even if you've got nothing. Keep in touch.”
“Don't I always?” At the time, it seemed the right thing to say.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wednesday
Havana, Cuba
Because Oscar De la Fuente was a very bad driver he was also a cautious one, something his wife, twenty years his junior and highly temperamental, could not abide. Whenever possible she would manipulate her husband into letting her drive by insisting that they take her car. Because he was head over heels in love with her and could deny her nothing, he would give in most of the time even though it riled him to be chauffeured around by a woman.
But Oscar always drove on Wednesday evenings, when they ate dinner at the Marina Hemmingway's best-known watering hole, El Viejo y el Mar.
The Marina Hemmingway, an agglomeration of hotels, restaurants, and summer residences, is a seaside resort about a half-hour's drive west of central Havana along the coast, and the in-place of the capital. Government leaders, important party officials, senior civil servants, as well as distinguished foreign visitors, mainly European businessmen, congregate in the area at night, less for the expensive meal than for the high-octane atmosphere. Oscar would not have been able to bear his colleagues seeing his wife driving on their weekly outing.
“Oscar, you're driving me crazy, crazy, crazy.” As usual, Maria Teresa made no bones about how she felt. “You drive like an old woman. At this rate I, too, will be an old woman by the time we get there.” De la Fuente gave her a quick sidelong glance and she pouted. They both burst out laughing.
“You are an impatient wench, Tere. I'm at the speed limit, and we only have a maximum of five more miles to go. We'll be there in less than ten minutes.”
“You're the only man I know who takes a whole hour to drive ten miles on a first-class highway. I wouldn't be surprised if Ivan got fed up waiting for us and left with one of the girls.”
Her husband gave her another glance and she pouted again, but De la Fuente knew better than to say anything. The trick was to get his wife to the restaurant in as good a mood as possible; otherwise she'd ruin the evening for everyone and, to add insult to injury, deny him his conjugal rights later.
De la Fuente had married Maria Teresa Montalba two years previously, after a year of intense courtship during which she had made him suffer plenty. The daughter of Cuba's Minister of the Interior and also a member of the Revolutionary Council, Maria Teresa, a striking beauty, was thirty and spoiled rotten. Born a year after the triumph of the Revolution to parents who doted on her, Tere, as she was known to her family and friends, was denied nothing. Her teenage excesses were forgiven, and her promiscuity in her
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