Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

“Dirk Pitt.”

“Come this way, Mr. Pitt, and we’ll get you cleaned up as Maria asks.”

Fariñas led Pitt to the pitched-roof house, which had a tired and faded façade. Its position on a steep bluff offered a commanding view of the ocean. Pitt saw the paved road a half mile below and the shoreline of a small bay some distance beyond.

Inside the house, Pitt was surprised to find a stylish interior. Dark Saltillo tile covered the floor, supporting a mix of modern furniture. A huge picture window facing the ocean illuminated the stark white walls, which were curiously bare. A single brightly colored painting occupied an empty wall next to a fireplace. Pitt admired the depiction of a fisherman displaying his catch, painted in the style of Gauguin. “That is quite good.”

“Maria painted it. She was a famous artist in Havana many years ago. Regrettably, that is the only work of hers we now possess.”

“She has a gift.”

Fariñas guided Pitt to a cramped bathroom shower and left him with soap and towels. It took nearly twenty minutes to scrub away the dried blood and the pain of his injuries. Borrowing some bandages and a fresh shirt from Fariñas, he looked and felt like a new man when he stepped into the main living quarters.

Maria had plucked and cleaned the chickens and was busy cooking. Fariñas offered Pitt a glass of aguardiente, a harsh, locally fermented rum, which he downed with gratitude.

“To your kindness to strangers,” Pitt said when his host filled their glasses again.

“You are most welcome.”

“Salvador, may I ask if you have a telephone?”

Fariñas shook his head. “We are fortunate to have reliable plumbing and electricity, but the phone lines haven’t reached us. And Maria refuses to purchase a cell phone.”

“It’s urgent I make an international call.”

“I can take you to Santa Cruz del Norte after supper. You should be able to make a call from there.”

Maria stepped from the kitchen with her paella-like dish, arroz con pollo.

“Please, sit down. And, Salvador, please open a bottle of Soroa for our guest.” She turned to Pitt. “It’s a local white wine I think you will enjoy.”

They sat and ate. Having not eaten a full meal in two days, Pitt devoured three platefuls of the chicken and rice. “You are as excellent a chef as you are a painter, Maria.”

“That is kind of you to say. You know, Mr. Pitt, there are rumors that President Castro has been murdered.”

“Yes, I have also heard that.”

“A guard at the roadblock said an American has been implicated and had e

scaped custody in the area.”

Pitt looked her in the eye. “I would be that American. And I assure you I had nothing to do with Castro’s death. But I may know who did.”

Maria looked at him with a hint of disappointment.

Her husband guffawed. “You needn’t worry, Mr. Pitt, about Maria turning you over to the Army. Many years ago, she served three years in custody for a painting that was deemed disrespectful to the state.”

“It is true.” Maria’s eyes filled with fire. “An imbecile Army colonel running the Ministry of Culture took offense to a painting I did of a gun emplacement filled with flowers. They destroyed my studio and confiscated all of my work, locked it away in the ministry building.” She pointed to the lone canvas. “That is the only painting I kept hidden from them.”

“Why don’t you paint again?” Pitt asked.

An inward look crossed Maria’s face. “When they stole my work, they stole a part of me, a part of who I am. I set down my brush that day and vowed never to paint again as long as the state suppressed my work.”

She looked at Pitt with envy. “Cuba has lived for too long fighting a blanket of oppression against its own spirit. Perhaps change is finally in the air. I pray the change will be only for the good.”

“When power is up for grabs,” Pitt said, “the first casualty is often liberty.”

“There are always dark forces at play, it seems. Tell me, Mr. Pitt, what are you doing in Cuba?”