“I was just thinking.”
“You weren’t just thinking. Tell me, Peter, and don’t lie to me.” He looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged. “They probably won’t be staffing the transplant operation for several hours,” he mused. “Barrola’s on his own this time, and Wolfe will want to go over everything with him before he goes under the knife.” She looked at him, her face tightening. “Peter, you need to put this out of your mind,” she said. He smiled and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re right. There’s nothing to be done about it now. By the time we chartered a boat and covered the six hundred miles to Vieques, Wolfe would be out of recovery- “Peter,” said Beatrice. “-and who knows if Hans ever handled a boat? I know I never have-” “He didn’t,” said Elizabeth. They turned. She was just ten feet away and had obviously been listening. “That’s why you wanted me to hire a boat, remember?” Peter nodded, contrite. “I’m not much of a swimmer now, I noticed that. And besides, what would I do once I got there?” Beatrice was eyeing him like a hawk now, not liking this ass-backward way of suggesting some hare-brained scheme. “The base is armed to the teeth,” she said. “I hope you’re not feeling heroic at this point. We’re all lucky to be alive.” “I could chain myself to the gate,” he said a little dreamily. “Right. And Elizabeth and I could bring you food.” “A cheeseburger, please. Everything on it.” “You’d be cheeseburger. National security hash-and it wouldn’t save Kenner-so just forget whatever nonsense you’re thinking, Peter. You’ve done all you can. You didn’t even know Kenner.” “That makes it all right?”
She stood glaring at him, and he at her, until Beatrice broke eye contact. “I’ll ask the general which room he wants us in,” said Beatrice. “I see a nice big hammock out back. Lucky to fall asleep under the stars. Remember, B., that first summer in Bar Harbor? That wonderful double hammock?” “Yes, I do. You go if you want to. My old bones could use a bed, and the softer the better.” He kissed her and walked off onto the terrace. Beatrice and Elizabeth kept an eye on him as they spoke. “I don’t want to sound like an alarmist,” Beatrice remarked, “but we do have to think about what’s next. We can’t stay here. The general made it pretty clear that he is an exception. We don’t want to end up in a Havana jail or at the center of a big trial.” “Del Rio said he’ll help us,” Elizabeth said. “Yes? How?”
“He says he knows of a place in the Caymans. A tiny island and a cabin invisible from the air, with all the amenities. You could hide out there for a while until things blow over. “It’s a lovely thought.”
“It’s not just a thought,” Elizabeth insisted. “It’s doable.” Beatrice squeezed her arm. You’re very sweet. But this isn’t going to blow over for Peter and me, Elizabeth. We’re in too deep and too much is at stake for very powerful people.” She kissed her, and then the two embraced. There were tears in Elizabeth’s eyes, as there were in Beatrice’s. “I couldn’t have asked for a better gift than you,” Beatrice said. “Now go say good night to Peter. I know he would want you to.” She gave Elizabeth another hug, then went off to find her bedroom. Elizabeth looked to the terrace.
Peter was still swinging in the hammock, rapt as a child beneath the stars. She walked out to him and stood by the hammock. The grass was white with moonlight. “Those huge stars, remember? Above the bay?” he asked. “Of course I remember,” she said.
She sat beside him and they readjusted their weight until they were balanced. “Are those coquis?” she asked, listening to the trees. “You tell me. You’re a child of the Caribbean.” She winced. “Don’t remind me.”
He put out his hand, grazing her cheek with his knuckle. “I’m sorry,” he said. “About what?”
“Things. Everything.”
“Don’t be. I made a whole bunch of choices, in case you’ve forgotten.” “You’re a danger junkie, I forgot.”
“Only up to a point. But actually,” she said gently, “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” “I feel better then. Not that I believe you. “But you should,” she said.
“Would you do it all over again?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Ah, see, you’ve failed Nietzsche’s test. If you wouldn’t live your life over, why bother to live at all?” “Because once is funny,” said Elizabeth. “Twice isn’t.” He laughed, and when she bent to kiss his cheek he turned his head and their lips met softly for a long moment. Then she walked back into the house. She found her bedroom and lay facedown on the bed, exhausted. Peter had abandoned the hammock, and she could hear him talking with Beatrice on the other side of the wall. She fell asleep, dreaming of Switzerland and woke to the sound of ravens in the cedar grove. Breakfast was on the veranda, set for three. She came out and the servant girl nodded shyly. “Where’s General del Rio?”
The girl only spoke a little English, but she managed to tell Elizabeth that the general was away for a while, but that he had left her something in the library. She went in and found a nautical atlas, one of its pages held down by a magnifying glass. In the center of the magnification was a beautiful little circle of emerald: Isla Traquillo. Carrying the atlas to Peter and Beatrice’s room, she found the door open and the room empty’. The bed had been slept in on both sides. On one of the pillows was a bloodstain the size of a thumbnail. She ran frantically through the house, calling Peter and Beatrice’s names. Nobody responded. On the veranda, the housekeeper was removing two of the three breakfast settings. “Where is the young man who was staying here?” Elizabeth demanded. “He take breakfast. He go.
“Where?”
“Con el general.”
Her heart sank. “What about his wife? The lady with the gray hair?” “She go later. Take taxi to the airport.” Elizabeth’s whole body began to tremble. It took forever for the housekeeper to find her another taxi service willing to go that far. By the time she reached the airport in Santiago, Peter was already airborne.
SANTIAGO DE CUBA AIRPORT
The ancient DC-3 was General del Rio’s half of the bargain Peter had struck immediately upon landing. The airplane was new when it had been flown in the Berlin Airlift, still sturdy when it had dropped paratroopers in Korea, and fairly reliable when it had transported parcel post for the U.S. Post Office. Bought at auction by counterculture entrepreneurs, it continued to hold up during marijuana runs from Cartagena until it suffered engine problems and was forced to land in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. There it was confiscated by the Tonton Macoutes. For a cache of Russian arms and Cuban cigars, Papa Doc traded the plane to Fidel Castro, who flew it another five thousand hours and then gave it outright to General Jesus Pinar del Rio. To the general, this trade made eminent sense: one old DC-3 in return for one slightly damaged but brand-new Learjet 60 with marble in the bathroom and seats made of leather. The general gave Peter the gasoline for nothing. Ten minutes after arriving at the airport, Peter was taxiing the tail dragger down the runway. The controls were in many ways easier than those of the single-engine Cessna he had flown-or rather Hans had flown-because they’ were simpler. This was, after all, a plane built more than half a century ago; it actually had caned cockpit seats. But taxiing with the tail dragging on a six-inch wheel was something else. The plane veered and slewed badly until he let his mind go slack and just gunned it. Once it gained sufficient speed, the old plane straightened out. But would it lift off? Peter kept the throttle full out and his own thoughts out of his head. At the very end of the runway the plane rose gently and cleared the palm trees by six feet. I’m getting pretty good at this, Peter thought. One of these days, I might even take flying lessons. He sank back and let his hands trim flaps and ailerons, clearing up the drag coefficient until the plane was flying smoothly and lifting well. Then he banked and headed east parallel to the runway, looked down in time to see a dozen cars and armored vehicles moving rapidly into the airport area from the approach road, On the way to the airport, the general had been obliged several times to duck down side roads in order to allow suspicious military traffic to pass. He explained it was altogether possible that Peter had been spotted last evening in the Bonneville and had aroused suspicions. So even though he had done his best to keep outside authority away, they had apparently arrived at the house to ask questions. Peter prayed that they had been decent to Beatrice and Elizabeth, although he suspected one of the house workers had blurted out that the general and the gringo had gone to the airport. Then he saw the fighters-tiny dots moving swiftly toward him from above. They disappeared as quickly as they came, but moments later there was a surging roar and they reemerged on both sides of him, flaps fully deployed, air brakes vertical in order to fly slowly enough to stay with him. They were Cuban, but if they were under the command of the newcomers below at the airport, it would be all over for him. He prepared himself to be blown to smithereens, but when he looked across to the lead plane, its pilot waved and gave him a thumbs-up. “I’ll be damned,” he said aloud. “Del Rio’s really a man of power.” “Good thing, or we would be fish food,” said a voice coming directly from behind him. For a moment he thought he was hallucinating. His ear had leaked blood all night. “Beatrice?” he whispered, not daring to look around, for fear he would see nothing. Then he jumped involuntarily as she twisted into the co-pilot’s seat beside him. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “Beatrice, what are you doing here?” “Please don’t ask me that,” she said. She gave him a cool glance and then patted his arm. “Standing by my man, I suppose.” “How did you get in here?”