Suspicion of Rage (39 page)

With a shudder, Raúl sat up and looked around. "Is there anything to drink? Some rum, whisky? A beer?"

"They don't drink."

"That's pathetic. Mario, we have to know when you're going to do it. I asked you, and you never answered me."

"I told Tomás I would let everyone know twenty-four hours in advance."

"That doesn't give us enough time."

"All you have to do is pick me up when it's over."

"Listen to me, my friend," Raúl said. "It isn't as simple as you think, an operation like this. You aren't the only one involved. You can't leave us standing around with our thumbs in our asses."

Mario was careful not to wrinkle his shirts getting them into the bag. They were good shirts. Someone could use them. He shoved the bag under the cot. "The less notice you have, the less time there is for someone to screw up."

"Listen, you arrogant shit. I do not screw up. If it weren't for my leg,
I
would be doing it. You're not getting nervous, are you? We're counting on you."

"I'm fine."

"How about Sunday? Do you remember? Olga told us he's always home on Sunday night."

Mario glanced over at Raúl, whose weight threatened to collapse the narrow folding legs of the cot. "I'll do it tomorrow."

Raúl laughed. "My God, are you joking? Good. Tomorrow. We can be ready. What time?" "Probably as soon as it gets dark." "When? Seven o'clock?"

"I haven't decided," Mario said. "Tomás and I will meet later today to talk about the communique. By then I'll have the final details. He can pass them on to you."

Raúl sat up so fast the cot nearly went over. He grabbed Mario's arm and brought him close. Mario could feel a fleck of spittle on his cheek. "You forget yourself, Mario. This is a military unit, and I am in charge of the logistics of this operation, not
you."

Mario looked into Raul's eyes and without fear said, "Do you want to kill him yourself?" When the fingers released, he said, "I will give Tomás the exact time. I will shoot Vega and go over the fence at the rear of the property. What you must do for me, Raúl, if you please, is to be on the street behind the Vega house ready to pick me up. I will signal with a pocket flashlight, as you told me to. The signal is one ... two ... and a longer three. Then again. If I don't appear within sixty seconds of the time we establish, you can assume that I didn't make it out. You leave without me."

Huffing, Raúl leaned against the wall again. "You'll make it out. That watch you have on. Is it accurate?"

"Yes, it's a Seiko," Mario said.

"Give it to me. I'll set it with mine to the exact second." He held out his hand, and Mario dropped his watch into it. Raúl pulled out the stem and made an adjustment. "The street behind Vega's is a long one. I'll go slowly, looking for the signal. Don't forget to test your flashlight. Are you sure Vega will be there?"

"He will be there," Mario said.

"How do you know?"

"Angela says he's always home for dinner." Mario laid "a white shirt on the cot, folded one arm inward, then decided to wear it to his parents' house tonight. He wanted them to remember him in good clothing. He would wear it with his black pants.

"Here, put this back on." Raúl tossed him the watch, then leaned over to pick up the Makarov. "What about the gun? Did you clean it after the last practice?"

"Yes. And oiled it."

He broke it open to check the spring and the barrel. "This little sweetheart likes you, Mario. She will do as you say. You won't miss. Hell, you're getting to be a better shot than I am!" Tilting his head to listen for something, Raúl said, "What's the matter with the child?"

Mario flipped through his composition book. "He has bronchitis. I gave his grandmother some money. That's where she is now, at the pharmacy." There was nothing in the composition book that had his name on it, but he went slowly through the pages. Ideas for songs. Some lyrics. He hummed a few measures.

"Mario."

He ripped the compositions out of the book, tore them in halt then again. He stuffed the pages into the trash bag. "What?"

"Don't you want to know how you're getting to Mexico? We have everything in place."

He smiled. "Do you think I will make it to Mexico?"

Raúl looked at him, then said, "You might."

"You should clear out your apartment," Mario said. "Tell the others to do the same. Destroy all your papers. Nico should go to his relatives' house in Las Tunas. Put him on a bus."

"He's part of the team to get you to the boat." Raúl took a cigarette out of his pack.

"Nico can't help us," Mario said. "He's useless after what happened to Chachi. Don't smoke in here. The boy has bad lungs."

"I'll go over by the window."

"Put it away."

Raúl wedged the pillow behind his back and leaned against the wall. "I wish I could come with you. I would use a knife. Cut his throat like a pig. For Chachi and for Olga. It's too bad about Olga. She was stupid, but I liked her."

"You tormented her," Mario said.

"That's my nature. I torment everyone."

Mario had not told Raúl that he had gone to Olga's house yesterday. He had gone there because knowing about Chachi had pushed him to want to ask her a question. She had told him,
Let someone else take Vega.
What had she meant?

Mario tossed his jewelry into the bag with the toiletries.

"What are you doing?" Raúl said. "You might need to sell it." He dragged the bag closer and looked inside. "Don't throw this away. It's the necklace you got off that Brazilian woman last summer. She's one to remember."

"Take it."

Raúl shook his head. "Bad luck."
 

"Leave me alone, Raúl. I have to be by myself so I can think."

Raúl pushed himself off the cot. "If you're throwing me out, I'll go." The two men embraced, and Raúl slapped him on the back. "Don't forget. We have a final meeting tomorrow morning, ten o'clock sharp. Is there anything you need?"

"Nothing. Except to get it over with."

He went with Raúl to the front door, checked the dark stairwell for anyone coming up, then let him out and locked the door behind him. From the bedroom came the sound of coughing, and Mario looked in. The boy, called Pipo, was holding on to the bars of his crib. His face was red, and his shoulders and belly shook with his coughs, but he seemed bored by it, as accepting as an animal. Mario wiped off the boy's face with a clean diaper and took him into the kitchen. The refrigerator was full of plastic bottles of water to be used when nothing came out of the pipes. One of them contained boiled water for the boy. Mario couldn't figure out which it was, so he gave him a little orange soda.

He carried Pipo into the laundry room and put him on the cot. "Stay there." He hid the pistol and the bag of bullets under the mattress.

The only thing left to be done was the letter to his parents. Mario thought he would let Anthony Quintana deliver it. He would give it to him tonight and tell him to keep it until Sunday.

If Quintana was at Vega's house tomorrow, and if he saw the pistol, he might try to go for it, but Mario would have the barrel at Vega's head first. He could shoot Vega, run for the back door, and probably escape. He would be faster than Quintana. But he couldn't do it that way. Not in front of Vega's family. He would tell Vega to go into his office. He would close the door. He wouldn't make it to Mexico.

Mario sat down and used his flute case as a desk. He thought about what to say.
I
am not gone. You will know I'm with you ... when you feel the wind of liberty on your faces...

No, that wasn't any good. The words sat in his brain like heavy rocks. This would take some time. He wanted to say it correctly.

The boy crawled over to see what he was doing.

Mario used to think about dying, and his insides would become cold, and he'd have to take a breath to make his heart go again. But not now. He felt clear and strong. He would be remembered. When Pipo grew up he would talk about him.
Mario Cabrera stayed with us. He was a quiet man. We never knew about his mission—

The boy coughed a few times, then sighed.

Mario put down his pen. "Do you want to go outside, Pipo? Come with me."

He set the boy on the windowsill, jumped down, then reached to get him. Holding the boy on his arm, he walked to the edge of the roof. He heard voices from one of the apartments. A soap opera from another. A truck changing gears, five floors down. The sun had set, but the sky was still blue. He told the boy to look, and tie pointed at the stars coming out and the lights of a ship on the horizon.

 

 

 

 

33

 

 

The voices of the women drifted through the kitchen window into the backyard. Anthony sat with José Leiva under the trellis, drinking beer and watching the sky fade to indigo. Vines curled around wires stretched between metal posts. The garden was beyond in neat rows, and the lights of the house next door shone through the mango trees.

José said, "If Mario wants to leave Cuba, I won't argue against it. He has no job here, and he's not likely to get one. I had hoped that he would become interested in what his mother and I are doing. Nothing interests him but his band. If he leaves, he can develop a career. But should he go to the United States? Philosophically he isn't suited. He has no love of money or what it can buy. On the other hand, that is how the world works everywhere nowadays—except here. Cuba is a time capsule. Yolanda says that if he leaves, we will double the size of our library to compensate for his absence. I asked her why she waited so long—Mario moved out a year ago. Two of our friends—you'll meet them tonight—want to start a library in Miramar. It would be near your sister's house! Do you think she and General Vega would visit? A few of our neighbors are coming tonight. Most of them are supportive. Most of them. Somebody left a bag of dog shit on the porch the other day. We get hang-up calls and death threats. The CDR knows who does it, but we don't bother complaining. Their days are coming to an end. What an amazing thing. People are losing their fear. There are a thousand small movements, and we're joining into larger groups. We are librarians and journalists, independent economists and trade unionists. Yes, I am very hopeful."

José Leiva was a person who could carry a conversation entirely on his own back. This had allowed Anthony time in which to form his thoughts. He looked at the house and saw Gail moving across the bright kitchen window. She turned to someone out of view and smiled.

Anthony set his beer on the patio. "José, before your guests arrive, I want to ask about some recent articles of yours. They had to do with General Abdel Garcia. What were they about?"

Leiva pulled at his short white beard. "Ah. I mentioned Garcia, but the subject was the copper mines in Pinar del Rio Province."

"Copper mines? What connection does Garcia have to mining?"

"The mines are under the control of the Ministry of Basic Industries. Garcia is a deputy minister."

"Yes, but did you write any articles about Garcia that also mentioned the nuclear reactors in Cienfuegos Province, at Juraguá?"

Slowly shaking his head, José said, "In the past I've written about nuclear energy. I said it was expensive and unsafe, and we should abandon it. I didn't mention Garcia in those articles. He was involved in the nuclear industry, but that predated my interest in it."

Their chairs were drawn closely together, and Anthony kept his voice low. "Let me ask another question. The Russians deny sending any uranium to Cuba. Is it possible that they did? And if so, could any of it have been diverted?"

"No. We never had any uranium."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely certain. Castro invited scientists from the International Atomic Energy Agency to have a look. The United States was threatening to bomb the reactor site, so he wanted to prove that we had no uranium. What's the matter? I gave the wrong answer?"

Leaning back in his chair, Anthony looked up through the vines that wound through the trellis. He had thought that Céspedes had told the CIA about uranium, but if there was none, the theory didn't hold up. Had Garcia ordered Céspedes's death to silence him? Anthony believed this was so, but why?

"José, I need your opinion." Quickly he wove the events of the last days into a narrative that omitted any mention of Ramiro Vega. He began with Abdel Garcia's demand that he find out what Omar Céspedes, the defector, had said to the CIA.

"Garcia apparently thinks I have a direct connection to the CIA through my grandfather. When I told Garcia I wasn't interested, he threatened to frame me as a Cuban agent. So I called some people I know and asked about Céspedes. This is what I found out. Among other things, Céspedes was talking about finishing the nuclear reactors. The Americans know it's bullshit, but it's the story I gave Garcia. He said I was lying, and what else did Céspedes say? I told him that was all I could get. Last night Céspedes was shot dead outside his apartment in Washington. I believe that Garcia was behind it."

"Mother of God," said José. "Why are you still in Havana?"
   
.

"State Security won't let me leave until Olga's murder is cleared up."

"Ah, yes. That's right. Ramiro Vega could help you, no? He's not without power in the government—"

"Don't worry, I have a way out if I need it. José, what did Garcia expect me to give him? What am I looking for?"

José lifted his glasses to rub his eyes. He remained motionless with his eyes closed, then said, "The last time the police searched my house—a year ago?—they confiscated all my notes. I had a source, a friend, with Geominera, the company in charge of the mines. They're part of MINBAS. Geominera was participating in a copper mine with a Canadian company, and my friend told me that the Canadians were always complaining about sloppy procedures. Very bad inventory system. Incompetence. It's what you get when you put military men in charge of industry. That was the point of my article. I mentioned Abdel Garcia by name. The story was published in France, then picked up by the
Miami Herald."