We’ve transported him to the base infirmary, but he isn’t expected to make it.”
CHAPTER TWO
Calm settled on Inez Fuego as she stood on the rooftop terrace of her mansion and looked upon Havana Bay.
Whitecaps crested the waves that gently rolled in to splash against the beaches and ships in port. The breeze that blew steadily from the bay warmed her face. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. How she loved her country, especially this time of year, and she thought of Natalio and how he’d loved it, too. She missed him. She missed the hours they spent up here, watching the sea as it seemed to dance across the Havana Bay horizon, seeming to twinkle under the blanket of stars. They would drink and laugh, and then make love as the sun rose at their backs. Then they would lie naked beneath a blanket and talk of their plans.
Havana Five had taken that away from her. After they sent their representatives to inform her of Natalio’s death—the remaining four not even having the courage and respect to pay their respects in person—Fuego swore she would hold them responsible. For years she had remained a silent partner, pretending to concur with their decisions while she actually plotted to remove them forever. It was their incompetence that had brought about the death of her beloved Natalio, not his own, as they had tried to convince her and everyone else, and Fuego intended to make sure they didn’t get away with desecrating the cherished memories of her husband.
The money and good living she had enjoyed at the hands of Havana Five made it only worse. They had ensured she receive the one-sixth payment, Natalio’s legacy as a member of the five. Each of them received an equal portion, in turn, and the remaining sixth was kept in trust, reserved so that Havana Five could always remain self-sufficient even in the event one of them fell.
Natalio had been the youngest of the group; ripped from her arms at the prime age of thirty-nine. Nearly seven years had passed since his death and Fuego’s soul still groaned for his presence. She had never known a stronger man. They were married when she turned sixteen, an arrangement of convenience at first. It quickly turned to something more, and their love grew and matured. Fuego had known from the beginning the nature of Natalio’s business but had chosen to make their marriage work, realizing as time passed that the nature of his business did not necessarily define the nature of him. She’d found Natalio to be a loving and generous man—lending time and money to most anyone in need—and not slothful like his business partners.
Now thirty years old, she remained one of the most eligible widows in all Cuba. She had money, beauty and power; she influenced politicians and business owners; a good many Cuban bachelors longed to possess her body and affections. At nearly five-eleven—a significant height and the gift of lineage in her case—Fuego maintained a figure that looked as if it had been sculpted by Greek artisans. Her tanned, supple skin shown starkly against the cream-colored bathing suit she wore that plunged to a V at the front and exposed her entire back from waist to neck. Dark, wavy hair bounced from her head to her shoulders in a never-ending swirl of cocoa-brown with natural, reddish highlights. The angular line of her cheekbones and jaw gave her an almost Eurasian look while she retained the strong, slender nose of her Spanish roots.
Inez Fuego turned from the rail that ran the length of the parapet wall around the roof. She went to the table where she’d been engrossed in a novel by one of Cuba’s most popular writers. She slid into a thigh-length robe made of silk and sat on a padded cedar lounge chair. She tucked her shapely legs beneath her bottom and poured herself a fresh margarita.
Two men emerged from the stairway ascending to the roof from an entertainment room that occupied nearly half of the third floor of the house. They were dressed in subdued silk shirts and casual slacks. Natalio had never let his house guard come off as loud and brash. He expected them to remain quiet and unobtrusive, convinced that the less conspicuous they were, the more effectively they could do their job. After his death, Fuego had decided to maintain his policy and would not let them adopt the dress like those who worked for the other four heads of Havana Five.
One of the men, Lazaro San Lujan, served as Fuego’s chief enforcer. He moved with the ease and confidence of a professional, the gait of his tall and muscular body practiced. Fuego watched him approach with admiration tempered with amusement. She had always found him handsome and dashing in a sense, and she could tell that although he’d never made an amorous move toward her—before or after the death of Natalio to whom he’d always remained loyal—he wanted her. She could see it in the way he looked at her. He didn’t leer like most men; San Lujan always had too much class for that. No, secretly she felt he harbored a deeper longing for her but he always kept it to himself.
Fuego noticed the disturbed look on his face. “What is it?”
“We have a problem,” he replied.
“How many times have I told you that we never have a problem,” she said, waving casually at a chair.
San Lujan took a seat but Jeronimo Bustos—his second in command and constant companion—remained on his feet and shadowed his boss.
“I forgot,” San Lujan replied. He lit a cigarette before continuing. “Word has it our North American friends were spotted at a jail in Guijarro, just outside of Matanzas. I’ve sent men to check it out but so far they’ve come up empty-handed. The Americans apparently bribed some of the local police to move them to another location.”
“So, they’re willing to go as far as getting arrested to avoid us,” Fuego said, mild amusement in her tone. “That’s not a problem, Lazaro. That’s good, in fact.”
“How is that good, ma’am?” San Lujan asked.
“You still don’t understand.” Fuego shook her head and smiled, then pushed the sunglasses to her head so she could look him square in the eyes. She leaned forward a bit in a conspiratorial fashion. “It means they’re afraid. And that is exactly what I wish them to be. As long as they think I’m after them, they’ll keep their heads down and stay out of my way.”
“I beg to disagree,” San Lujan replied.
“Why?” Fuego looked for any sign of nervousness but she didn’t detect it. Good. San Lujan had always felt open to speak his mind to her husband, and Fuego wanted him to feel the same way now. Without that honesty, Fuego knew she couldn’t trust him and that would spell certain doom to her; San Lujan’s advice had saved her husband’s life and business many times.
San Lujan took a drag from his smoke and said, “These men…they know too much. We cannot risk them falling into the hands of people willing to listen to what they have to say.”
“What they have to say is of no interest to anyone. At least no one inside the country.”
“The Americans have spies here.”
“True, but they’re not aware we’re sponsoring the ELN, and they certainly know nothing of the camp on Juventud. Not even those bastards of Havana Five know of this plan. Besides, we only need keep this quiet a little longer. And once Havana Five is eliminated and I have my revenge, then I shall give you charge of the largest business enterprise ever established in Cuba. And you will like that, eh, Lazaro?”
San Lujan didn’t try to hide his pleasure at the thought. There weren’t too many things that seemed to appeal to him, but the idea of nearly limitless power seemed to be one of them. He, too, had felt the story the men told of Natalio’s death seemed like something less than the truth, and he’d always harbored some guilt for not being there to protect his master.
“Your plans will suffice for
