Hot Schemes (22 page)

“Have they said anything at all about the raids?” she asked Michael.

“Nothing. It appears that is something they dare not speak of in public, or else they talk in terms so vague that no one else can accuse them of plotting the overthrow of a foreign government.”

Interestingly enough, it also appeared that no money was going to change hands. Perhaps one of Paredes’s minions would take up a collection after the leader had discreetly departed. Even now, he was standing up to go, a royal taking leave of his subjects with a slight bow and no looking back.

“What …” Molly began before she realized that Michael was already on his feet, clearly intending to intersect Paredes’s path at the door.

Before she could make a move to follow, she noticed another man slipping through the shadows on the far side of the restaurant. Just as she recognized Herman Gómez-Ortega, she saw that he had something in his hand, though he held it discreetly at his side.

A gun, she realized with a dawning sense of disbelief. In her haste to warn Michael, she knocked over her chair and bumped into several people as she ran toward the door, trailed by a waiter assuming he was about to be stiffed for the check.

In the back of her mind, Molly couldn’t help seeing Paredes’s house as it had looked after an assault rifle had blown out the front windows. Was he here tonight in his organization role to protect Paredes or did he intend to repeat the assassination attempt that had failed in Miami? Either way, Michael was in danger, she thought as she ran blindly outside after them.

She was afraid to shout a warning, because she wasn’t entirely sure who was armed and who was on which side. Before she could figure out how to get past Gómez-Ortega, she saw Paredes grab Michael’s arm, spin him around, and yank him behind the cover of a van parked down the block.

Suddenly men appeared from every direction, all armed and all wearing flak jackets with various official designations on the backs. Apparently the neon letters were meant to help distinguish the good guys from the bad. Molly hated to be the one to tell them, but it didn’t help. Everyone on the goddamned street looked downright dangerous. A man whose flak jacket identified him in neon orange letters as
POLICE
strong-armed Molly back inside the restaurant doorway.

“Stay put,” he said, and left her there, trembling violently and face-to-face with their stunned waiter, who’d just caught on that this was no ordinary turn of events involving a couple of deadbeats. As rattled as she was, Molly managed to snatch a handful of bills from her purse and shove them into his hand.

Not thirty seconds later there was a hail of gunfire, accompanied by shouts and screams. Then dead silence. Molly couldn’t have stayed where she was if her own life had depended on it. She kept visualizing Michael in the grasp of Orestes León Paredes, a man not known for his peaceful intent.

She shrugged off the detaining hand of the waiter and edged out the doorway and peered down the block. Police officials were kneeling on the pavement over what appeared to be a body.

Smothering a scream with her hand, Molly crept toward the macabre scene, which was bathed in the glow of a streetlamp. Not until she was almost on top of the police and before she could identify the fallen victim did she see a movement from the direction of the van where she’d last seen Michael.

First a policeman emerged, followed by Paredes himself. He didn’t look to be in custody. Finally, when her breath seemed to have stopped all together, she saw Michael, his gaze searching the scene as frantically as her own. By the time he spotted her, she was already running.

He held out his arms, then enfolded her in an embrace. “You are okay,
amiga?”

She swallowed a sob. “Now that you’re here, yes,” she said, her voice steady. She looked up into Michael’s ashen face. “They shot Herman, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Because of his attack on Paredes’s house the other day?”

“That and his plan to kill him tonight.”

“But why would he want to kill Paredes? I still don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. Perhaps when things have settled down a bit, Paredes will explain it to us.”

At that precise moment, the exile commander walked over to them. Michael held out his hand. “I owe you my life, señor.”

“De nada
.” His grin turned rueful. “Had I not dragged you to safety, you would have persisted in questioning me in plain view of Herman and we both would have been shot to death. I was not prepared to die, not at the hands of a traitor.”

“You call Herman Gómez-Ortega a traitor,” Molly said with evident confusion. “I thought he was your chief military advisor.”

“For a time that is how I thought of him, as well,” he said with obvious pain. “It was only recently, in the last few days, in fact, that I learned the truth.”

“What truth?”

“He was sent here as a spy by Castro. That is how he won his release from prison, by agreeing to infiltrate our organization and feed information to Cuban Intelligence. When I was told by American agents of their suspicions, I called them liars. But with so much at stake, I could not afford to ignore the possibilities. With the assistance of my most loyal associates, we devised a means of learning the truth.”

He grasped Michael’s shoulders. “Your uncle, Miguel García, was vital to our plan. It was his heroic offer to act as the bait which enabled us to trap Herman into showing his hand.”

Michael went absolutely still. “You used my uncle as bait?” he said in a voice as cold as ice. “How? Just today Díaz-Nuñez said you had called my uncle a traitor.”

Paredes waved off the remark. “He misunderstood. I told him we had discovered a traitor and that we were dealing with him. Because of Miguel García’s disappearance, he leapt to a wrong conclusion. It was not unexpected. Even with such errors in judgment, I find him useful.”

“Useful?” Michael repeated. “Is that all any of these men are to you, just pawns in your games? Explain how my uncle was useful.”

“We made it known he was to be the point man in our raid.” Paredes said quietly. His burning gaze never left Michael’s. “And, as we anticipated, when he took his boat out on Sunday, the Cuban authorities were waiting to take him captive.”

Molly gasped softly.

Michael’s expression turned absolutely deadly. “You sent my uncle to sea knowing that he would wind up in a Cuban jail?” He jerked away from the other man’s grasp. “Look over your shoulder, Paredes. One day I will see that you share the same fate as Miguel García,” he vowed.

“How will I tell Tía Pilar?” Michael asked over and over as they drove back to Miami. “How can I tell her that Miguel is back in his beloved Havana, but that he is being held in some harsh Cuban prison where he will probably die?”

The question was rhetorical. He never looked to Molly for an answer. He just spoke and then fell into a brooding silence. It was just as well because she had no answers. She was as horrified as he was that sweet, gentle Tío Miguel was imprisoned in Cuba by a government that would treat him as a traitor. It was possible he would be shot, as others had been, to set an example for those thinking of staging future commando raids. A tear slid down her cheek as she considered that possibility.

It was after midnight when they reached Miami, but Michael drove straight to Little Havana. Rather than going to see Pilar, however, he went to Pedro’s restaurant.

They found his uncle nursing a cup of
café Cubano
, surrounded by a group of men actively debating the candidacies of two people running for the Dade County Commission. One was a high-profile attorney, originally from Havana, with ties to the powerful Latin Builders Association. The other was a woman, head of her own interior design company, active in the arts. What seemed to be splitting the group about evenly was the fact that the man had once attended a professional seminar in Latin America at which Fidel had been a speaker. For some, that alone was enough to disqualify him from holding a public office representing the Cuban exile community.

Pedro glanced up and caught sight of them. He motioned them over, but Michael shook his head.
“Por favor,” he
said, and indicated a table in an empty section that had already been closed for the night.

Instantly, Pedro’s expression sobered. “You have news, is that it?” he said as he joined them. “And from the look on your faces, it is not good.”

“No, it’s not good,” Michael agreed.

“Miguel is dead?”

“Some would say that would be better news,” Michael said, urging his uncle to sit.

Pedro clung to Michael’s arms, his gaze fixed on Michael’s face. “My God, do not tell me he has been taken captive? Is that what you are saying?”

“I’m sorry,” Michael whispered, his voice catching as Pedro slowly sank down onto a chair, his complexion gray. Michael’s worried gaze sought his uncle’s. “Are you okay?”

“I will be fine.”

“Fine?” Michael said angrily. “How can that be? How can any of us be fine again?” He slammed his fist on the table. “Damn them all to hell!”

“Tell me,” Pedro insisted quietly.

Michael repeated everything that they had learned from Paredes in Key West. When he’d recited the whole complicated story, Pedro made him go through it all once more, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I will begin making calls in the morning,” Michael promised, his anger now under control. In a way the calm was worse. His voice was cold and emotionless. “I will call our senators and our representatives. I’ll call the State Department. Perhaps it is not too late to bring him back home. What use has Castro for one old man?”

Pedro clasped Michael’s hands in his own. “I know you will do what you can. Remember something, though. This was Miguel’s choice. No matter how badly it has turned out, you cannot lay the blame entirely with Paredes. Allow Miguel the dignity of respecting his decision.”

The simple request seemed to take Michael by surprise. Slowly and with obvious effort, he let the last traces of his anger die. Finally, he nodded. “I will do my best,” he said wearily. “But something tells me that knowing Miguel did what he felt he had to do will be cold comfort to Tía Pilar.”

“Perhaps not,” Tío Pedro agreed. “That is why all of us must be strong for her. We are a family, Michael. We stand together, and from that we will draw whatever strength it takes to get through the coming days.”

•   •   •

Despite the lateness of the hour, the García house was crowded with family—Pilar, Elena, Rosa, Michael’s cousins. Molly wasn’t sure she belonged among them on such a tragic occasion, but Michael’s grip on her hand convinced her that he needed her there, whatever the others thought of her intrusion.

Surprisingly, though, the mood was oddly euphoric when they arrived. Apparently several bottles of wine had been consumed with a meal sent over from the restaurant by Pedro. Rosa was even singing along with an old Cuban ballad to the applause of her nieces and nephews.

Standing in the doorway observing the light-hearted moment, Michael and Pedro exchanged looks. Molly wondered which of them would spoil it by revealing the news of Miguel’s fate. Apparently that time was to be put off. Glasses of wine were pressed into their hands by Elena.

“Sit. Rosa has been singing all of the old songs for us.”

“She has not sung in a long time,” Pedro noted.

“S
í
,” Elena agreed quietly. “But it seems to keep Pilar’s spirits high. Look, have you seen her looking so happy since all of this began? She has been that way since dinnertime.”

“Perhaps it is the wine,” Pedro suggested.

“More likely the call she had from an old friend. They talked for some time. It seemed to give her comfort.”

“Whatever it was, I’m glad for her,” Michael said, giving his uncle a pointed look. Pedro nodded. Molly guessed they intended to postpone telling Pilar anything, at least for the moment.

Molly, however, was puzzled by Tía Pilar’s sudden shift in mood. Compared to earlier visits, this time her expression was actually serene. The older woman looked as if she’d found some sort of inner peace, as if she already knew about her husband’s fate and had accepted it. It was not what Molly had expected after watching her state of mind deteriorate hour by hour in the early aftermath of Miguel’s disappearance.

Trying to make sense of it, Molly crossed the room and took a seat beside Tía Pilar.

“You are feeling better, then?” she said.

“I must be strong,” Pilar said with a faraway smile, her gaze on Rosa as the lyrics of yet another song filled the tiny room. “For Miguel.”

“I understand you had a phone call earlier this evening, just before dinner. It was from an old friend?” Molly said, wondering if it was remotely possible that what she was beginning to think could be true.

Pilar regarded her sharply. “Who told you this?”

“Elena. She said the call seemed to lift your spirits.”

“It was nothing,” Pilar said.

“Elena said you spoke for quite some time.”

Pilar’s expression suddenly and conveniently went blank.
“No comprendo.”

Molly watched her closely. “I think you do understand, Pilar. It was Miguel, wasn’t it? Did he call you from Cuba?”

“You don’t know what you are saying,” she said, suddenly agitated. “We don’t know where Miguel is.”

“No,
we
don’t,” Molly agreed. “Not exactly, anyway. But I think you do. He’s safe, isn’t he?”

Pilar glanced around worriedly. “Please, you must not say this.”

“But the others deserve to know, especially Michael. He has been worried sick. Tonight he learned from a source that his uncle might be in a Havana prison, but that’s not true, is it?”

“I cannot say anything. Miguel made me promise. The danger is too great.”

Molly took her hand. “No, Tía Pilar, the danger is over,” she told her gently. “You can tell the truth now.”

Michael joined them just then. He looked from his aunt’s distressed face to Molly and back again. “What is it? What truth are you keeping from us, Tía?”

“Tell him,” Molly insisted.