Valley of the Templars

“You seem very sure about the numbers.”

“I am.” Domingo nodded back over his shoulder. “I helped take out the remains and throw them into the river down there. Your friend on the boat, Capitaine Montalvo Arango, was our leader and taught us how to throw los cocteles Molotov. At first we thought it was muy divertido, very funny, but then they started running from the cave covered in fire and screaming and then it was not so funny anymore.

“After that the local people began calling this place la Caverna de los Asesinados, the Cave of the Murdered Ones. The people of the Escambray are very religious—Santeria of the very old kind. They said the cave was the home of Eshu, the orisha of el Infierno. Hell. From then on the cave was tabu. You know this word?”

“Yes.” Holliday nodded.

“Because of this, El Comandante and the other members of the Brotherhood thought it would be an excellent place, especially since Eshu’s number is three.”

“Three what?” Holliday asked. The tracks of three vehicles in the dirt road outside, three tiers to the massive metal structure in the cave. He looked at the structure again, then down at the tracks at his feet. He suddenly had a very bad feeling about the whole thing.

“By October of 1962 our Soviet comrades had delivered thirty-two Dvina missiles to Cuba. What you call SS-4 or Sandal type. They were supposed to send forty more of the larger SS-5 missiles at a later time.

“Your U-2 overflights detected the missiles at San Cristobal and that was the beginning of what became known as the Cuban Missile Crisis. The crisis ended when Khrushchev and Kennedy came to an agreement and the SS-4 Sandal missiles were removed. This is when the Brotherhood’s idea was born.”

“I don’t think I’m going to like this,” sighed Holliday.

Domingo continued. “What Kennedy and the rest of the people involved did not know was that several dummy SS-4 missiles without warheads had been sent to Cuba months before so that the Cuban technical crews could practice on them. These dummy missiles were sent back to the Soviet Union in place of a number of the real ones.”

“Three of them,” said Holliday, seeing it all with a sudden, terrible clarity.

“Three of them.” Domingo Cabrera nodded. “The three nuclear missiles which were brought here, away from the prying eyes of your U-2s and later your spy satellites. The missiles are very simple, almost laughably so compared to the missiles of today. Their guidance systems are no more than gyroscopes. They have been here for fifty years, the warheads in mothballs at a hidden location close to Havana.”

“And now the missiles have gone.”

“Do you know where?”

“If this is part of the Brotherhood’s Operacion de Venganza, I would think that they have been returned to their original sites in Pinar Del Rios, San Cristobal to be exact. The hidden silos were built in a place well away from the mobile sites—a small area known as the Valle del Templete; it marked the route of the first explorers who discovered Havana. When the deal was struck between Khrushchev and Kennedy, nobody mentioned the silos, so they are probably still there.”

“What exactly is Operacion de Venganza?” Holliday asked.

“On the day following Fidel Castro’s death, three nuclear missiles will be launched at the United States, one aimed at what is now Orlando International Airport, but which in 1962 was McCoy Air Force Base. McCoy is where the U-2 that discovered the missiles landed and where all further U-2 flights over Cuba originated. The other two missiles will be aimed at Miami. The warheads are one megaton each.”

“How could the Brotherhood know when Fidel was going to die? You can’t keep missiles like that ready to launch indefinitely.”

“They know because one of their number is going to assassinate him, Jaime Cardinal Lucas Ortega y Alamino, the archbishop of Cuba. He always celebrates the Feast of St. Lazarus with El Comandante. His death will look natural, a stroke or seizure of some kind.”

“How did you discover all this?” Holliday quizzed.

“I worked for the ministry all of my adult life, always in low-level positions. I never was given even a bicycle for transportation to the ministry from my home, let alone an automobile.” The white-haired man shook his head. “My last job was as a driver and part of the security detail for Deborah Espin.” Domingo Cabrera smiled sadly. “In Cuba the one thing more invisible than a chauffeur is a black chauffeur; people speak of things they should not, as though you were not even there. And Deborah Espin is a very heavy drinker, as well. Her tongue gets very loose when she has been drinking. My mistake was to listen.” He shrugged. “In the end someone discovered that I knew too much and I had to disappear. My only other choice would have been to die peacefully in my bed with a bullet in my brain like many others at the ministry before me.”

“I still don’t understand the purpose of it all,” Holliday said after a moment’s thought. “Wiping out Orlando and Miami is going to kill a lot of people, but for what? It’s a horrible, meaningless gesture.”

“The Brotherhood knows that on the death of Fidel, Raul and his family will flee the country. Raul keeps una jet ejecutivo at Ciudad Libertad Airport in the Atabay District of Havana for just this purpose. It is only ten minutes away from his home. With Raul gone, the country will descend into chaos.

“Eventually a military dictator will rise above the rest, but it is unlikely to be one of the Brotherhood’s choosing, and between the death of Fidel and the rise of this new strongman a great deal of damage will be done. The only way to stop this, at least according to the Brotherhood, is to enact Operacion de Venganza and force the United States to invade Cuba.

“The embargo would disappear overnight, the old Cuban families would take back what was theirs fifty years ago and so will the American companies that Fidel nationalized. It will begin a new era of prosperity for our country without bloodshed. Cuban bloodshed at least.”

Holliday stared at Eddie’s white-haired older brother. The plan made a terrible, mad kind of sense. Under any other circumstances an American invasion of Cuba would have seen the United States vilified and ostracized around the world, but with a million or two dead by nuclear fire in a sneak attack worse than Pearl Harbor, an invasion would not only have just cause, but it would be politically correct, as well. Swift retribution. With that scenario in play, any president would be guaranteed four more years, no matter how low his polling numbers were.

“Dear God,” whispered Holliday.

Domingo Cabrera smiled sadly. “I am afraid God has not visited Cuba in many years, Colonel Holliday.”

“When is the Feast of Lazarus?”

“The twenty-first day of this month. Seven days from now.”

“So there’s nothing we can do to stop this thing.”

“No, Colonel, I am afraid there is nothing we can do at all.”

The man who had carried the two oversized Halliburton suitcases on the Air Cubana flight booked into the Disney Contemporary Resort and used his Amex card to prepay his two-week reservation. With that done, he gave the single dark blue Samsonite case he’d purchased in Houston to a bellboy, picked up his room key and went back outside.

He turned down the offer of one of the half dozen or so valet parkers, then took the Chrysler out into the enormous complex of parking lot that served the Contemporary Resort as well as several other Disney facilities. After he ensured that no one was watching, he removed two local New Orleans plates from the trunk, removed the rental Texas plates and screwed on the ones from Louisiana.

He’d spent an hour in New Orleans looking for the same model of Chrysler just to confuse things if it came to that. Finally he put the fourteen-day permit on the dashboard, locked the car and walked back to the hotel. He asked the concierge to get him a cab, tipped the man and rode to Orlando International Airport in time to catch a one-ten JetBlue flight to Nassau, which arrived an hour later.

In Nassau he switched from his authentic but bogus American passport to his Cuban diplomatic passport and caught the three-fifteen Compania Panamena de Aviacion Airlines flight to Havana via Panama City. The flight took a little less than five hours all told and he arrived back in Havana in time for a late dinner in the Comedor de Aguiar dining room at the Hotel Nacional.

With his dinner completed, he took out the pocket-sized Inmarsat satellite phone, pulled out the blade