Suspicion of Rage (44 page)

"Yes. He can. But if Garcia has a chance to make it look as though Ramiro is lying, who will the Americans believe? Céspedes? What will they do then? Wait until terrorists place a dirty bomb across from the White House? No, they will act. It would be a disaster."

With mounting horror, Gail said, "You want me to sacrifice my daughter?"

"I didn't say that."

"Karen has been kidnapped. To hell with your goddamned politics. I want my daughter back!"

"You'll have her, but I have to think how to do it."

"Anthony, please. I would die if anything happened to her." Gail's head began to spin, and she sagged against his chest.

"Nothing will happen to her. Come. Sit down." He led her to a chair. He crouched before her and took both her hands. With perfect assurance, his eyes sought hers, shifting back and forth as though searching for any doubt. A curve of white showed beneath the dark irises. "Don't be afraid. She is your blood, and I love her as I love you. You know that, don't you?"

"Anthony—"

"You know I would never let her come to harm. Don't you?"

"Yes." Gail's heart beat erratically.

"I will find her." Anthony's voice was low and steady. "I will bring her back to you safely. Whatever has to be done, I will do it. I swear it on my life."

"I hope you kill him. He's a monster. I want him dead."

Anthony kissed her face and hands. "Come with me. Let's go upstairs." He helped her from the chair and took his handkerchief from his pocket. "Wipe your eyes. We mustn't let the children see us afraid."

"I'm fine." She cleaned some smudges of mascara from beneath her lower lashes and gave the handkerchief back. "All right?"

He gave her a smile of reassurance.

When they came into the living room, Anthony's children were sitting on the stairs with Irene. Janelle and Marta looked down from the railing above.

Gail said, "Karen's all right. Someone picked her up, but she's fine. We're going go get her in a little while."

Irene reached up to squeeze Gail's hand. The touch said she knew there was more to it.

Anthony said, "Angela, sweetheart, would you bring some water to our room?"

Danny stared straight ahead, but as they passed, he said, "I'm sorry."

His father leaned down and kissed the top of his head. "We may be leaving tomorrow. I want you to pack your things. Please stay inside the house. Will you do that?"

"Yes, sir."

A few minutes later, when Angela came to the door with a tray and two glasses, Gail was by the window looking out at the street. Anthony had told her to lie down, but that was impossible.

She heard Anthony tell his daughter not to worry. He would tell her more later on, after Karen came home.

Angela said, "Mario's supposed to come over tonight. That's okay, isn't it?"

"No, better not. Try to get a message to him. Just say it's not convenient. Don't explain."

"What if he doesn't get the message?"

"Then he doesn't.
Gracias, m'ija."

Gail turned and exchanged a smile with Angela before Anthony closed the door. He poured a glass of water, which Gail drank thirstily. The water soothed the ache in her throat. She watched Anthony tapping numbers into his cell phone. He put the phone to his ear.

"Who are you calling?"

His eyes shifted to meet hers. "Hector Mesa."

 

 

 

 

38

 

 

Mario Cabrera used to sit on the wall beside the ship channel and play his flute for the fishermen. He would be paid in
aguardiente
and a few of the latest jokes. He liked these men, so he decided to give them the bags containing his clothes instead of leaving them on the street for just anyone to find. He had a bag in each hand as he walked up the street that bordered the channel.

Tomás walked with him. They had just put Nico on a train for Las Tunas, getting him out of the city before nightfall. He would be across Cuba by morning. Tomás would have helped carry the bags, but he was working on the communique. He wrote as he walked, looking up just often enough to keep from running into a light pole or another pedestrian. He asked Mario if this phrase or that one sounded all right, and whether they should mention Chachi's murder. Tomás wanted to keep the length down to one page. Mario said to write it however he wanted.

The communique would be e-mailed to CNN as soon as Vega was dead, and copies would be left at the university and in the lobbies of the biggest tourist hotels. Others would be scattered around the city.

"It is starting, Mario. None of the bastards will feel safe after this. The wall is about to come down. Future generations will read your name in history books."

Small boats were anchored close to shore, and La Fortaleza rose from the hill on the other side of the channel. The sidewalk was very wide and clean. Ahead of him, Mario could see the fishermen casting their lines.

Tomás put his notebook away. "Mario, I must talk to you. Stop for a minute. It's important."

Mario came to a halt and turned toward Tomás. He noticed again how pale he was. Tomás was a musician. Even worse, an intellectual. He lived in his books. His beard was sparse, and his Adam's apple moved when he talked. He had no color, except for his blue eyes, magnified by his glasses.

"Your father was arrested last night. Some of us are worried about your state of mind—specifically, your ability to carry out the mission. I told them we can count on you, but be completely honest. Do you feel any hesitation?"

"No, I don't. My father will never get out of prison. He has a weak heart. He won't live long. What they've done to him makes me more determined, not less. All right?"

Tomás looked at him carefully. "Raúl thinks you're too soft, that at the last moment you won't do it."
 

"Then let Raúl do it himself."
 

"It's too late. Everything is in place. Are you ready?"
 

"Yes."

"Excellent. At seven o'clock you enter the house, and at seven-fifteen you carry out the operation. Is that correct?"

Mario smiled. "Have you already forgotten?"

"No, no. Seven-fifteen. And then you go over the back fence and signal Raúl. I'll tell him the time. Seven-fifteen plus a few seconds for your escape."

"And he must leave if I'm not there within sixty seconds."

Tomás's eyes darted to make sure no one was nearby. "We're counting on you. Don't hesitate. The moment you see him, kill him. That's the key. Do it quickly, before he knows what's happening. Vega is a soldier, and he knows how to react to a gun. Don't give him a chance."

"Thank you for the advice. Don't worry about me." When he began to walk, Tomás held him back.

"One other thing. Mario, put those bags down and listen." Tomás came closer. The full light of afternoon made him squint. "After you finish the operation, they'll want to take you alive. They won't shoot you. They will capture you and do to you what they did to Chachi. No, even worse, and they will make you talk. You can't let that happen." Tomás put his hand on Mario's shoulder. "Our lives don't matter. It's the Movement that has to survive. Do you understand? After you kill Vega, if anything goes wrong, or if you can't get to him, you have to make a sacrifice for the struggle. Are you ready to do that?"

"Yes."

"We're with you, my friend." Tomás embraced him. "Your courage will illuminate our darkness."

Mario was glad when Tomás left. He did not want to be reminded of the likely outcome, nor to hear his courage praised. The truth was, he didn't have much of it.

He picked up the bags and walked to the end of the sidewalk. The fishermen leaned on the seawall, and as one of them raised his arm to circle the weight over his head, he noticed Mario and called out, "Our young friend! Do you have your flute? Play us a tune."

"Not today. I have to go somewhere, but I brought you some clothes. If you weren't so fat you could wear them."

The line sailed out over the water and the weight made a splash when it hit. "I'll take a look. Thanks. I have a nephew your size."

Mario had put his flute between two folded pairs of pants. He took it out and quickly walked away. Past the channel, the waves rolled and broke on the rocks. He climbed up on the seawall, held the flute under one arm, and dug his identity booklet out of his back pocket. He ripped out the pages, then tore the cover in half and threw it onto the rocks. The next wave took the pieces, and he tasted the salt spray on his lips.

Taking the flute by one end, Mario pulled his arm back. He stopped in mid-swing and took another look at it. The mouthpiece was bent, and the underside was dented. But it was still a good flute. There was no reason to throw it away. Using his T-shirt, he wiped off some smudges, and the metal gleamed. He left the flute on the seawall, hoping that someone with talent might find it there.

 

 

 

 

39

 

 

Abdel García had taken possession of his country house twenty-six years ago. It was nothing, a poured-concrete structure with a flat roof, potato fields on one side, a narrow, weed-tangled stream on the other. Garcia had made no changes, except for the trees that now hid any view from the road. Its virtue was privacy. His uncle, Heriberto, had once lived on the property. Heriberto had wanted an exit visa to the United States, not caring about the damage this would do to his nephew's career. Garcia had pushed him into the well. He'd been a drunkard, and the neighbors assumed he had fallen in. This was so ironic as to be amusing, because now it was Garcia who felt empty air under his shoes.

He slid back a panel at eye level. A painting had been hung on the wall in the adjoining room. Minuscule figures in straw hats and wooden sandals made their way up the side of a mountain whose top was shrouded in mist. The scene was hand-painted on glass. In his un-lighted chamber, Garcia could look through the pine trees and bamboo to see clearly the girl sleeping on the chaise longue in his bedroom. She wore a pink T-shirt and denim shorts. He had put her dirty sneakers on the floor to prevent soiling of the gold satin fabric where she lay. Garcia watched for the rise and fall of her chest. She had small breasts and long legs. Her feet in their thick white socks hung off the end of the chaise. The girl had been delivered in this condition, injected with enough morphine for a man. Garcia had wanted to shoot the soldier responsible. If she died, there would be problems, and he had enough of them.

With a corner of his folded handkerchief he daubed at his mouth. In fifteen minutes he would make another telephone call to her stepfather. His insides twisted with anxiety. Had Quintana followed instructions, or had he contacted Vega? Would he obediently bring the files, or would the next knock on the door be agents from State Security?

Whatever occurred, Garcia had done all he could. At this moment lead-lined boxes were on a fishing boat between Cuba and Mexico. The boxes would be sent overboard. The men who had collected their contents would go in after them. He had erased his name from certain documents at the Ministry. He expected these precautions to suffice. Ramiro Vega would be a posthumous traitor. If events turned the other way, Garcia would slip out of Cuba. He would not live as well as he had hoped, but he would live.

With a last look at the girl—she was still breathing-he slid the panel shut. He left the closet and stepped into his office. He could work here, connected by computer and telephone to the Ministry, but he preferred to dig in his flower garden. This time of year, a little care would produce abundant blooms and colors so intense his eyes would sting.

Where in hell was Sergeant Ruiz? He was supposed to call with the time of the operation!

Walking stiffly from one side of the room to the other, Garcia pulled back the cuff of his uniform shirt to look at his watch. Just past five. Vega was at his office— Garcia had arranged that he go into a meeting, which would reduce the chances of Quintana's getting through. Vega would be home around six o'clock. But at what time would the young assassin arrive? What time? Seven, eight, ten o'clock? Garcia had to know
before
calling Quintana, so that he could tell Quintana what time to arrive
here.
That depended on the timing of Vega's death, and so far Garcia had heard
nothing,
and it was making him ill.

Quintana could not be at Ramiro Vega's house during the operation. He would intervene. The boy might be captured alive. He would talk. When the boy fired a 9mm bullet from the Makarov into Vega's skull, Quintana had to be
here.

Crossing to the window, Garcia noticed that the trees were painting shadows on the side of the barn, or what used to be a barn, now empty but for an old tractor and lengths of pipe and lumber. Purple shadows bleeding slowly up the white wall.

What time, what time?

Quintana would arrive, he would hand over the files and take the girl, then be on his way. If the records contained nothing useful, it didn't really matter. The thing was to keep him away from Vega's house.

A small sedan drove past the window. Breathing quickly, Garcia placed a hand flat on the glass and pressed his face close to see who got out. The car stopped beside the barn, barely within his view. A big black man in civilian clothing appeared. Was it Ruiz? Yes. He limped around to the other side. A moment later Garcia heard a car door slam.

He pressed his handkerchief to his forehead, then to his lips, clearing away a last drop of moisture with his thumb.

He sat behind his desk and lit a cigarette.
 

Waited. Footsteps came closer. A heavy hand rapped on the wood.
 

"Enter."

The sergeant came in first, his shoulders blocking the entrance for a second before he moved aside and let his associate in. Tomás Fernández. Garcia had never met him, had only seen photographs of a weak-looking, bookish man with short brown hair and glasses that sat halfway down his thin nose. He stepped inside, took a quick look at the bare floor and wooden chairs, the desk, and the man behind it. The newcomer seemed slightly confused. Perhaps, Garcia thought, he had expected to see olive green and campaign ribbons instead of this plain cotton shirt. At his country house Garcia tried to live simply.