Suspicion of Rage (12 page)

The general declined with a slight wave of his hand and assurances that she was kind to inquire. His eyes moved toward Anthony. A smile lifted one corner of his mouth and sent his chin sideways. He spoke.

Gail understood most of Anthony's reply.
Here for my niece's birthday. My children . . . their first time in Havana.
When Garcia spoke again, Anthony glanced at Ramiro, who nodded. Anthony said yes, if the general wished.

Garcia made another off-center smile. He nodded rather formally to the women, turned, and went out. Ramiro went with him.

Irene whispered, "What was that about?"

Gail kept her eyes on Anthony. "What did he say to you?"

He pushed in his chair and for a moment tapped his fingers on the back of it. "General Garcia wants to find out how I'm enjoying Cuba. We're going outside to talk about it. Maybe he'll offer to be our tour guide."

"I don't like this," she said.

He squeezed her shoulder. "It's all right. You stay here and have your coffee. I won't be long."

She got up. Walking as far as the living room, she saw Ramiro's driver holding the front door. Anthony went out. Cobo followed. Like snapping a photograph through the narrowing gap, Gail saw the men on the patio. A dark sedan in the driveway. At the gate, caught in the streetlight, a soldier standing guard.

Fighting back a little spurt of panic, Gail spun around and went over to Marta. "Where are they taking him?"

"They're not taking him anywhere. Abdel wants to meet him. It's an honor that he came to my house. Abdel Garcia is an important man."

"Why does he want to meet Anthony?"

Resting the tray against her stomach, setting the cups on the table one by one, Marta didn't reply right away. Finally she said, "We are friends of Abdel, friends for many years. He came to Paula's wedding. He and my husband were in Angola together. They both received medals, and on the same day! Abdel has helped Ramiro in his career. He knows I have family in Miami. Who doesn't have family on the outside?"

She laughed, but to Gail it seemed thin and forced.

Paula held her cup without drinking. The boyfriend made a little cough into his fist and looked anywhere but at the American visitors.

Irene's blue eyes shifted to follow Marta around the table, then cut toward Gail before she said, "I suppose it must be hard for you, though, having a grandfather like Ernesto Pedrosa. I mean..." Irene hesitated. Marta was looking at her, one hand on her hip. "Well, I mean ... you know how Mr. Pedrosa is, so completely ... against what you and Ramiro believe in. It must be hard."

Luis Quintana laughed into his glass of rum. Apparently his English was better than he had pretended.

Marta shook her bronzed hair back from her face, which had gone blotchy and red. "I have nothing to do with Pedrosa or with any of those people. The Miami Mafia! They want to destroy us, to come back and take everything. My grandfather is part of that. He hates me. All of them do. That's all right. I don't give a damn for them. My brother is different. He's for us, for Cuba."

Gail had to reply. "Marta, I don't think he's on anyone's side, particularly."

Marta raised her chin. "Then you don't know him."

Silence followed this outburst.

Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out the first ill-considered retort that came to mind, Gail turned the espresso cup in its saucer and counted the roses on the rim. She wondered how fast they could get out of here. How early in the morning they could be on a flight to Mexico. Whether Anthony would agree to leave. Of course he wouldn't agree. He loved it here.

"Oh, Gail, I am sorry." Marta pulled out Anthony's chair and put her arms around Gail's neck. "Don't worry how I talk." Gail smelled the kitchen odors in her hair, the alcohol on her breath, and realized that Marta was more than a little drunk.

"It's not easy for us. Nothing is easy. For my husband, I'm walking on a rope ... like the circus. A wire. I walk on a wire." She kissed Gail on both cheeks.
"Te quiero.
I love you, my sister. I'm happy you came. This is your house. Okay? Don't be mad at me."

Gail said, "I'm not. Really."

Marta reached across Gail to take Irene's hand. "I love you too."

"You're so sweet to say that. Let me help clear the table," Irene said. "No, I mean it, I want to help." What her mother wanted, Gail thought, was to be done with dinner and escape to her room.

Marta told Paula to get up and help. She took the bottle of rum from her father and said he'd had enough. She set the plate of almond candy in front of Gail. "Here, take a piece of the
turrón.
I bought it for you. It's from Spain, the best."

Gail bit into a small slice. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly swallow. She got up and went into the living room, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. An overhead lamp gleamed on the curve of the brushed aluminum balustrade. Gail looked through the windows, whose louvers were tilted open for the breeze.

From this angle only the roof of the car was visible, but she didn't want to walk closer and risk being seen.

 

The wind shifted the shadow of a tree on the glass. She felt her body trembling.

 

 

 

 

8

 

 

Halfway across the yard, the branches of a tree extended over the walkway, dimming the light from the front patio. Garcia stopped beside a poured-concrete bench and reached into a lower pocket of his shirt for a pack of cigarettes. He extended the pack toward Anthony. Camels, unfiltered.
 

"No, thanks."

A soldier stood by the gate. The streetlamp put a sheen on smooth black leather: a holster, a pair of boots. A second man leaned against the car. Cobo had walked out of sight in the direction of the garage.

If Ramiro knew what was going on, he didn't show it.

The cigarette lighter clicked and flared inside the curve of Garcia's hand. Anthony smelled fluid before the breeze took it away. The glow at the end of the cigarette increased, then dimmed. Looking at Anthony, Garcia exhaled to one side.

It was almost comical. The theatrics of it, standing out here in the dark, a couple of armed goons to impress him. Anthony waited to see what Garcia had in mind.

"You have a beautiful wife. May I say that? Blond. Tall like a Swede." Abdel Garcia compensated for his ruined jaw with slow and precise pronunciation. "Gail Ann Connor. A lawyer. Age thirty-six, born in Miami. One child."

Anthony felt the first push of unease.

The orange dot of the cigarette doubled in Garcia's
chino
eyes when he brought it to his lips. "What does your wife think of Cuba?"

"After eight hours? I don't know. Maybe she needs a little more information."

The general daintily touched a knuckle to the left corner of his mouth. Moisture had leaked out onto his lip. "We will talk, but not now. Perhaps tomorrow." He tilted his angular head toward Ramiro. "You must tell Marta I am sorry for disturbing the family."

"It's all right. Marta is used to my leaving in the middle of dinner."

Anthony asked, "Could I know what this is about?"

"Of course. I am curious about you. Vega told me a little, but I wanted to see you face-to-face. You were taken away from your home, from your father, when you were very young, and by trickery, I understand. You grew to manhood on the other side. Most people don't come back, or not so frequently. I believe that you love Cuba. This is true, no?"

"True that I love this country, but my feelings don't extend to the regime."

"An honest answer." Garcia turned to Ramiro to see his response. There was none. Garcia smoked his cigarette. He said, "There is a park on Águila and Reina, near the Capitol. What would you say to meeting me at three o'clock in the afternoon tomorrow?"

"I think my schedule is full."

"Come on, Quintana, I'm not going to interrogate you. Consider it a conversation between friends. Or informal diplomacy, if you prefer."

"With regrets, general, I must decline."

Garcia blotted the corner of his mouth. "You should reconsider. If not, you and your family will be put on the first charter flight back to Miami. Directly, not through Cancún. You can explain to your State Department why you were in Cuba. Maybe you came to visit your family, maybe for other reasons. We could give them reasons."

Anthony glanced at Ramiro, whose face told him nothing. He said, "I'll let you know in the morning."

"No. You tell me now. Tomorrow at three o'clock in the afternoon I want to see you standing in the park on Reina and Águila."

"And then?"

"We'll walk to a place nearby, we'll sit down, we'll have a drink, and we'll talk." Abdel Garcia spread his hands, showing how simple it would be.

"See you at three o'clock," Anthony said.

"Good night, then. General Vega, my apologies again to your wife."

He turned and crossed the yard to his car. The driver opened the back door for him. They picked up the other man at the gate, and ten seconds later the sound of the engine had faded away.

Ramiro said, "Don't ask me, because I don't know."

They looked at each other in the dark. Anthony said, "You have some idea."

"None. Maybe you do."

Anthony could feel Ramiro's distrust. "I'll let you know what your boss wants as soon as he tells me. Should I worry about it?"

"You're my brother-in-law."

"That isn't much assurance."

"Okay. I give you my word. You talk to Abdel, nothing will happen to you." Ramiro's eyes remained on him. "What are you doing here, Tony?"

"The CIA asked me to spy on your kid's
quinceañera.
They want to know if Olga Saavedra should be recruited to work for the White House."

That brought a laugh. "Olga. I regret getting her involved in that fucking birthday party."

"Why did you?"

"She asked me. Mother of God, you better not mention her name around here. Marta has good ears, that's the problem. She hears things that aren't there." Ramiro turned toward the house. "Come on, let's go."

"Are you sleeping with Olga?"

"Ayyy. Don't say that." Ramiro raised both hands. "I give her jobs here and there, so what? After this party is over, that's it. No more. I love your sister, but she's driving me crazy. Olga this, Olga that. I should arrange an embassy job in the Middle East. Put her someplace where she can't shake her ass."

"Even wearing a black bag, Olga would be noticed," Anthony said.

"Very true!" Stopping at the steps to the patio, Ramiro said quietly, "What are you going to tell your wife?"

"About what?"

"She'll ask you what Abdel wanted."

"I don't know. I'll tell her something." Anthony had already decided that he would give Gail enough of the truth to satisfy her curiosity, but not so much that she would worry and demand that they leave. Anthony still had a message to convey to Ramiro.

He wondered if Abdel Garcia knew about that. The agents of State Security were good at their job. They had been trained by the best—the KGB. The man who defected to the Americans in Sao Paulo could be a double agent. He might have been planted by Cuban intelligence. If so, Ramiro was in even worse danger.

"You coming in, or are you staying out here to admire the stars?" Ramiro had gone up the steps.

Anthony went up after him. "Tomorrow night Gail and I are having dinner with friends, but afterward, you and I should go out."

"Why?"

"I'll buy you a drink. We'll talk."
 

"About what?"

"We should do that," Anthony said.

They stood in the lights of the patio. A slight movement of Ramiro's head toward the house showed he was aware that they could be overheard. "Okay. Tomorrow night." His mustache widened with his grin. "We'll leave the women here and enjoy ourselves for a change."

 

 

 

 

9

 

 

The sheer white curtains belled inward, rotated, and fell back, and filled again and turned and fell as the cord knocked lightly, rhythmically against the metal frame of the door. It was as hypnotic as watching the sea. Beyond the curtains was the balcony railing, then the empty rectangle of black sky.

Anthony Quintana was sitting up in bed smoking a small cigar, the sheet to his waist. His left hand rested on his wife's bare shoulder. The faint glow of city lights fell on a table and four chairs, a television, a long dresser, and two king-sized beds. A big room. It had cost him one hundred twenty dollars cash, his American credit cards being worthless in Cuba.

He had asked his sister for the use of her car: He and Gail wanted to go out for a drink, and if it got late, they might check into a hotel. He had driven directly to the Habana Libre and handed the keys to the valet. On the way, he had told Gail about the conversation with Abdel Garcia. There wasn't much. He didn't know what Garcia wanted, but he would try to find out before tomorrow.

Downstairs in the lobby bar they had ordered a couple of club sodas, Gail staring at the fully decorated, twenty-foot Christmas tree in the atrium. For the tourists, he had told her. Likewise the leftover carols on the sound system, "Good King Wenceslas," "Silent Night." And the young women, such as the
negrita
at the next table in low-cut jeans and a denim jacket with silver studs down the front. Across from her, a besotted, white-haired Italian stroking her hand.

Leaving Gail in the bar, Anthony had walked across the marble floor to a room near the reception desk. He gave the girl a number in Miami and went into a booth. When the phone rang, Hector Mesa was on the other end. They spoke without using names anyone would have recognized. Anthony told him to call Room 1208 when he had some answers.

Now he was waiting to see what Hector came up with. Hector had a long list of people who owed him favors. There were others who might talk because they were afraid of him.

A puff of wind slid through the curtains and reached the bed. Gail moved closer and put her leg across his thighs. Anthony set his cigar in the ashtray and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. Even in the near-darkness he could pick out the gleam of gold in her hair. He curled a strand of it around his finger, like warm silk. Her body was not what he had ever thought he would want in a woman. Too thin, too small-breasted. But completely beautiful. Her skin was the softest he had ever touched. He could get drunk on the scent of her.