Suspicion of Rage (32 page)

His mind grabbed at a possibility: Abdel Garcia was reporting to no one but himself.

"Do you understand?" The words hissed in Garcia's mouth. "Do not speak of this, or you and your wife will never leave Cuba. Answer me."

"Yes. I understand."

Garcia moved toward the glass doors. "Come, they're waiting."

A smaller corridor led to an anteroom with a soldier at a desk. He stood and saluted. Garcia walked past him to a door and knocked lightly before opening it and motioning for Anthony to go first.

He quickly took in the details: brown carpet, teak furniture, a flag in a small spotlight. Aluminum-framed windows looked out on the plaza, which was quickly fading to darkness. A glow came from the floodlit monument to Marti. Two men in plainclothes sat in chairs along the back wall, pretending to be invisible.

The general stood behind his desk. He had the shape of a concrete block. His uniform fit so trimly that it could have been stitched into place. There were three stars on each shoulder, gold leaves on the lapels, and a rectangle of campaign ribbons.

"I am Lieutenant General Efrain Prieto. Please have a seat, Mr. Quintana."

The width of the desk, or the occasion, prevented a handshake. Among the various files and papers and bound reports on the desk lay a thin folder, dead center.

Anthony said, "Is this about Olga Saavedra? We've told the police everything we know."

The light over Prieto's desk glowed on his white hair and deepened the pockmarks on his cheeks. "I will read the reports, but I would like also to have the information directly from you."

Evidently someone from the DTI team at the apartment had already briefed Prieto. For the next hour Anthony answered the same questions that Detective Sánchez had asked him. How do you know Olga Saavedra? Why did your wife go to her apartment? Why did she want to see you?

Unlike Sánchez, the general had not much interest in Olga Saavedra's possible desire to leave Cuba. His questions went toward Anthony's relationship with her. Anthony said they had gone to the clubs a few times, but he denied he had slept with her. As he talked, he could see Abdel Garcia out of the corner of his eye. Occasionally Garcia blotted his lower lip. The toe of one polished shoe rotated slowly. Other than that, he remained perfectly still.

On the wall behind Prieto hung the usual portrait of Fidel in his green uniform and cap. Beside it, a framed black-and-white photograph showed bearded soldiers in open trucks, the jubilant crowds mobbing the procession, throwing flowers. The triumphal entry into Havana, 1959.

The questioning closed in on Anthony's background. How he had left Cuba. His first marriage, his law practice, his children, his marriage to Gail Connor. Her background, her opinion of Cuba.

"She was enjoying Cuba a great deal until this afternoon. General Prieto, how much longer is this going to take? My wife has suffered an emotional trauma, and I would like to take her back to my sister's house."

"Of course." Prieto made a brief smile of apology. "You are a frequent visitor to our country, Mr. Quintana."

"I like to keep in touch with my family."

"You are breaking the laws of the United States." When Anthony acknowledged that this was so, Prieto said, "How many times would you say you have been to Cuba in the past ten years?"

"I'm not sure. Several. I don't keep track."

Prieto lifted the cover of the folder. There were some sheets of paper inside. Anthony saw what looked like a list.

"Ramiro Vega must obtain clearance before you are permitted to stay at his house. It is unusual that an American would stay with anyone in the armed forces. He vouches for you. As does your father, Luis Quintana Rodríguez, a hero of the Revolution." The general's finger moved down the page. "Nine visas in ten years."

The list should have been twice as long. Anthony guessed that it failed to pick up the routine tourist visas he had acquired at the Cuban airline counters in Mexico, when he had flown to Havana or Camagüey without telling his sister about it.

Prieto turned a page. Anthony saw some photographs. "You have friends in Cuba."

"Yes."

"Some of them are dissidents. José Leiva?"

"His wife is a friend from childhood. She takes care of my father. I have already explained this to General Garcia."

"Do you agree with their demands?"
 

"Most of them, yes."

He turned another page. "Do you bring them money from the United States?"

"Not from the United States, from friends. If your government allowed José Leiva to work in his profession, he could earn his own money."

"What is General Vega's opinion?"

"We don't discuss it. We share views on some issues. Not this one."

Prieto lifted his eyes. They had the warmth of ice cubes. Anthony glanced again at the picture of the soldiers in the back of the truck and wondered if Prieto had been among them. Too young. Maybe he'd been that kid hanging onto the running board.

"You come into our country, you stay in the home of one of our generals, and you support the opposition."

"Ramiro Vega is my brother-in-law. Leiva is my friend. Politics doesn't interest me. I don't let it interfere with my personal life."

"Politics does not interest you." Prieto drummed a slow beat on the pages. "You are a man with no defined loyalties, is that it? A foot in each camp. As a soldier, I couldn't do it. If I were a lawyer ... maybe. You are trained to hold more than one position at the same time. No, I couldn't do it." The cadence of his fingers slowed.

"When was the last time you saw your grandfather, Ernesto Pedrosa?"

Even expecting this didn't prevent Anthony's pulse rate from picking up. "Why do you ask me that?"

"Was it the night before you left Miami?"

"Did you have spies among the caterers? My grandparents gave my wife and me a party to celebrate our marriage."

"There was a guest at the party. Guillermo Navarro, the congressman."

Anthony momentarily lifted his hands from the arms of his chair. "Yes. He was there."

"Are you a friend of Mr. Navarro, that he was invited to celebrate your marriage?"

"Navarro isn't a friend. My grandfather invited him."

"Did he and Ernesto Pedrosa have a meeting that night?"

"I don't know if they did or not," Anthony said. "Please don't expect me to discuss my grandfather with officials of the Cuban government. He wouldn't like it."

"Did you speak to Navarro?" Prieto asked.

"Yes. He gave me his congratulations, and that was the last I saw of him."

Prieto's gaze went to his two guests at the back of the room, hung there a moment, then shifted to Anthony. "I will give you a name. Omar Céspedes. Do you recognize it?"

"No. Who is he?"

"He was a major in our armed forces. He is now in Washington testifying before the House Intelligence Committee. Navarro is a member of the Committee." Prieto waited as though Anthony might reply. When he did not, Prieto said, "You are aware of this?"

“I know that Navarro is on the Committee. I didn't know about Céspedes. What are you trying to say, general?"

"Tell me again why you came to Cuba."

"To visit my family. It's my niece's birthday." Anthony smiled. "Ah. I see. You think I was sent here because of Céspedes. The Committee wants to know if he's lying. How likely is it that Guillermo Navarro would trust
me
to find out?"

Again Prieto's gaze shifted toward the other side of the room. Anthony felt a tightness in the back of his neck. Disdain flickered across Prieto's face before he said, "If you wish to remain on good terms with Cuba, I suggest you maintain this exemplary lack of interest in politics." His chair rotated slightly before Prieto followed its motion with his head, then his eyes. "General Garcia? Do you have anything you wish to add?"

He touched a knuckle to the corner of his mouth. "No, general."

Prieto closed the folder and shoved it aside. "When is your return flight to Miami, Mr. Quintana?"
 

"On Monday morning."

"There may be other questions regarding the death of Miss Saavedra. You and your wife will not leave Havana until you are notified by State Security." Prieto rose to his feet. "Good evening."

 

In the elevator on the way down, Anthony cleared his throat a couple of times. It felt like he'd been swallowing sand. When the doors slid shut, he could see Abdel Garcia in the polished metal.
 

"What do you have for me?" Garcia said.
 

"Juraguá."
 

"What?"

"Céspedes is talking about Juraguá. He says you want to finish construction as soon as possible. You need the energy, and you believe the United States is in no position to object. With world attention diverted by the situation in the Middle East, the time is ready to push forward."

The digital red floor display counted down.

Garcia said, "Do they believe him?"

"They think he's probably lying. If he were correct— if you resumed construction on the reactor—it would be bombed to rubble. Your government is aware of what could happen."

"The Americans have made it quite clear. What else?"

"He's naming the agents you're sending to Venezuela, but I couldn't get a list."
 

"What else?"
 

"There is nothing else."

"That can't be all." A light flared in Garcia's narrow black eyes.

"That's all I was given."

"Who is your source for this ... information?"

"I regret that I can't divulge the name."

"You're lying," Garcia said. "I can hear a lie. Yes. I can smell a lie."

"Can you? I don't have that ability. What does it smell like?"

The doors opened on the first floor, and Anthony stepped out of the elevator.
 

"Quintana."
 

He turned around.

Garcia's mouth slid into a moist and tilted smile. His lips parted on one side to reveal small, discolored teeth. "This is not our last meeting."

The doors closed, and Anthony was looking back at his own reflection.

 

 

 

 

27

 

 

The police were still working at Olga Saavedra's apartment. From the backseat of Ramiro Vega's minivan, Gail could see two small white cars with blue lights on top. She caught a brief glimpse of a uniformed officer in the courtyard. And then the minivan continued down the street to where Anthony had left the rental car.

Sitting with Gail for nearly an hour at the Ministry, Ramiro had told someone to bring her some coffee, someone else to find food, a sandwich,
inmediatamente.
He had let her use his cell phone to assure her mother they'd be home soon. Aside from telling Ramiro what she had seen at the apartment, their own conversation had been filled with long silences. What could she have said?
I know about you and Olga. You loved her, and I'm so sorry.

"Ese carro ahí,"
Anthony said, and Cobo stopped alongside the blue Toyota.

Ramiro got out to slide back their door. Gail gave him a quick embrace. "Thank you for taking care of me.

When Anthony spoke to him, Gail understood most of it. They would talk at the house. What a horror this day had been. Ramiro got back in, and Cobo drove on.

Darkness had made the street narrower, emptier. The pavement was still wet from the rain. Gail recognized the colonnade and glass storefronts where earlier she had waited to go across. The dim streetlight on the corner outlined the gray arches and put shadows on the wall. She saw a man standing against one of the columns. Except for the light that touched one sleeve, she wouldn't have seen him at all.

"Gail, come on." Anthony was holding her door.

She felt vulnerable and exposed in the interior lights. They went off when Anthony closed his door. He started the engine and hit the wiper control to clear the windshield of mist. After another car went by, he made a U-turn. The headlights passed across the colonnade. The man who'd been standing there a few seconds before was gone.

It wasn't cold in the car, but Gail crossed her arms and rubbed them briskly. The muscles in her chest quivered, and her jaw was tight. "When will they let us go? I hope my law practice is still there when I get back to it." She laughed. "Why don't we just confess everything to the American Interests Section and beg them to help us?"

Anthony looked over at her. "If it's more than a couple of days, we can ask Ramiro to intervene. Don't worry."

"Don't worry. Well, at least my mother and the kids aren't stuck here. We aren't either, damn it. Why don't we just have a boat pick us up? I'm serious, Anthony. To hell with State Security."

"We're not going to do it that way," he said.

"God, no, they'd never let you come back here, would they?"

After a few seconds of silence he said, "If we left without permission, they would ask Ramiro why. I can't allow that. He needs to stay completely under the radar."

Leaning over, Gail put her forehead against Anthony's shoulder. "I know. Sorry for my bitchy mood. I can't think straight."

Without looking away from the street ahead of them, he picked up her hand and brought it to his lips.
"Todo va a salir bien.
It's going to be all right. I promise you."

"Poor Ramiro. Poor Olga. What a rotten, rotten thing to happen to her. He's not going to tell them about her, is he?"

"It's his
duty
to inform them, but—" Anthony shook his head. "I hope he's out of the country before they find out."

"Do they know yet who could have done it?"

"If so, they didn't share it with me."

"Why did Olga want to see you?" Gail asked.

A wedge of light fell across his eyes, and he glanced into the rearview mirror. "I believe she wanted me to get her out of Cuba. After Céspedes defected, she may have thought it was too dangerous to stay. She'd been sleeping with him, before Ramiro. Céspedes spilled secrets to the CIA, and she might have known about it. But if you want my guess as to who killed her... I don't have one."