The Night Charter (19 page)

T
HE FIVE OF
them met in the garage of Davíd Ocampo's home. They sat on folding lawn chairs, and Davíd set up a flimsy card table on which he put a pitcher of fresh lemonade and enough plastic cups for all of them. Chunks of ice floated in the lemonade, and the pitcher sweated heavily.

Galdarres also sweated. The garage was not ventilated, and for secrecy's sake they had chosen to meet with the door closed to keep Davíd's neighbors from seeing the group together. Similarly, entrance and egress through the side door kept them out of the main house, where they'd be visible through the sheer drapes in the windows, and able to disappear into an alley if the doorbell was rung. They had all been careful to arrive singly and spaced out over two hours, parking as many as three blocks away.

Davíd had reserved a room at a serviceable hotel not far away from the beach. Galdarres was comfortable there, but it was no place for them to meet. Davíd's insurance office was also too high profile. Which left them this dirty, dusty-smelling garage that steamed in the unforgiving heat and humidity of the city.

One by one they took their turns getting lemonade, until they sat in a circle in their shorts and shirts looking like typical civilians with a day off from work. Maybe they would work on their lawns. Maybe they would relax watching television. Only Galdarres dressed formally, but even he had been forced to abandon his jacket in favor of shirtsleeves. Rolling up the cuffs helped only a little.

“I am glad we could meet today,” Galdarres told the men. “It's important that we move quickly in relation to our problem. How many of you already know why you are here?”

None of the men raised their hands. Only Davíd indicated that he knew. Galdarres sighed. “Would you like me to explain, señor?” Davíd asked.

“No. I will do it. The situation is very simple, gentlemen: there is a dangerous element loose in this city, one that could cause troubles for us at home. His name is Sergio Chapado.”

“Who is he?” asked one of the men.

“What is your name?”

“Gerard Peyrera, sir.”

“How long have you been a part of our organization?”

“Ten years, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-three.”

“You're too young to have exile parents,” Galdarres said.

“That's not so, sir,” Peyrera said. “My parents came from Mariel in 1980.”

“Why did they leave Cuba?”

Peyrera looked down and his voice dropped. “My father was charged with crimes. But my mother was an outstanding citizen. They exiled her anyway. She did not want to go. All of these years she's wanted to return.”

“And your father?”

“He is dead, sir.”

“But your mother still wishes to go back?”

“Very much. If the government will allow it.”

“Then we shall have to see how we can arrange it,” Galdarres said. “If you continue to serve the DI well, any barriers to your mother's reentry can be dispensed with. Even you could come back, if you wish it.”

“Gerard was born here,” Davíd interjected. “He served in the US Army.”

Peyrera straightened up. “I would gladly give it up for Cuba,” he said.

Galdarres smiled. “That is good to hear. And to answer your first question: Sergio Chapado is a militant. He has been a spokesman for the counterrevolutionary forces inside Cuba for several years, and we have searched long and hard for him. Just when we thought we had him trapped, he managed to secure passage to the United States, even as we swept up many in his organization. The group he represents is Alpha 66.”

Glances were cast around the circle. Galdarres did not have to explain further.

“If he is gone from Cuba, what threat does he pose?” asked another of the men.

“What is your name?” Galdarres asked.

“Joel Icaza.”

“The threat he poses is simply this: as a refugee from our country, he can speak out against our government, raise money for our enemies, funnel support to other militants on our shores. The United States has opened the door to Cuba, and we must keep it open. If they hear wild stories, then the sanctions might return. We can't have that. Chapado cannot be allowed to exploit any crack in our image.”

“So we kill him,” Peyrera said.

“Yes. But there is a problem. Alpha 66 does not have Chapado. They do not even know where he is.”

“Where has he gone?” Peyrera asked.

“He was taken by the people tasked with bringing him to the United States and is being held for ransom. Our source inside Alpha 66 has informed us that they intend to pay this ransom in a matter of days, at which point Chapado will be under their protection and perhaps even under the protection of the United States government. They would love to have an outspoken exile after all this time. A new face to put in front of the cameras. It will start the troubles all over again.”

“What is your plan, señor?” Davíd asked.

“It is very simple: we continue to receive information from our informant about where and when the exchange is to be made. When we know, we will intercept Chapado and kill him. We will kill the people who took him from Cuba, and we will kill the members of Alpha 66 dispatched to receive him.”

Murmurs of satisfaction passed between the assembled men.

“But we do not have the manpower to ensure this is done completely,” Galdarres said. “Therefore, it is my intention to poison the waters still further. If we do it correctly, these people may do half our work for us, leaving only the scraps to be cleared away.”

“Tell us what to do,” Peyrera said.

Galdarres looked to Davíd. “Find out from our man inside who exactly is involved in the Chapado business. We choose one of them for elimination now.”

“Why now?” Davíd asked.

“Because I want these people at one another's throats even more than they are now. I want them salivating for the opportunity to kill. As I said, they will work for us, and they will never know who pulls their strings.”

M
A
TT COULD SMELL
Chapado. The man had finally crapped his pants, and now he was sitting in it, unable to move because of the fresh bonds of duct tape that secured his hands and feet. Occasionally, Chapado would stir, as if testing the elasticity of the tape, but these moments did not last long. Chapado slept most of the time.

Soto had not come back yet, and Matt did not know where he was. He considered calling Soto to find out, but he didn't want the number of his new phone showing up in Soto's records. Once they had both switched out to burners it would be a different story, but for now they had to be extremely careful.

It was all the Cubans' fault. If they had played along like they were supposed to, this wouldn't be an issue at all. Sure, they were pissed about the change of plans, but this was a dangerous business they were in, and sometimes the situation didn't always go their way.

He found himself wishing that he'd had the time to pull Jackson's body out of the auto yard. That was the key to the whole thing. As soon as the police found Jackson, they knew that Matt was into something because Jackson did not make a move without Matt's say-so. That Detective Montellano would be all over his ass because of the pawnshop thing, and he wouldn't step off until he had something to pin on Matt, rightly or wrongly.

Thinking about all of this made Matt too angry. He looked to Chapado. “Hey, you,” he said. “Hey, asshole. Wake up.”

Chapado roused slowly, or perhaps he was only pretending. The wound on his arm was inflamed, puffy, and red around the edges of the cuts. It was probably infected already, but that wasn't Matt's concern. He considered carving up Chapado's other arm to make them match. That would be amusing for a little while.

The man said nothing to Matt. He only watched. “What are you dreaming about?” Matt asked him.

“No dreams,” Chapado said.

“Bullshit. I bet you're dreaming about a nice soft bed and a clean pair of pants that don't have a pile of crap in the seat. I know that's what I'd be dreaming about.”

Chapado was quiet.

“It won't be too long now. A couple of days. I might even give you something to drink. Of course, that means you're just gonna wet yourself again.”

“Why are you doing this?” Chapado asked.

“For money, dumbass,” Matt said.

“My people offered you money.”

“They didn't offer me
enough
. As soon as I saw they were willing to pay out a hundred grand for you, I knew you were way more important to them than they let on. Anybody someone will pay a hundred grand for is worth twice that much, I figure. Turns out I was right. Minus a few complications.”

Chapado slumped in the chair, as if the effort of holding his head up required more energy than he had. He said something under his breath.

“What's that you say?” Matt asked.

“It is nothing.”

“You better not be calling me any names! I'll mess you up. Don't think I won't.”

Chapado's eyes were weary when he looked at Matt again. “I know.”

Matt took out his knife and cleaned under his fingernails with the point. He could feel Chapado watching the blade. “So why don't you tell me what it's all about? You some kind of big deal in Cuba? Government type or something?”

“No, not government. I was simply a business owner.”

“That's a bunch of crap. Nobody pays two hundred thousand for a guy who runs the local bicycle shop. Stop jerking me off.”

“My business was repairing small engines,” Chapado said. “That was all. It was the other things I did that made me important.”

Matt paused with the knife. “Like what?”

“I am a patriot for Cuba. I oppose the communists.”

“Communists? You mean like the people who run the show down there?”

“Yes. The communists. The Castroites. They have been a poison in my country for fifty-six years. I fight them. I help others to fight them.”

Matt whistled. “Fifty-six years is a long time, bro. Maybe it's time you gave it up and realized those communists ain't goin' anywhere. I mean, isn't Fidel Castro still alive?”

Chapado nodded.

“It's all the same to me,” Matt said. He put away his knife. “Communists got to have money. Capitalists got to have money. Everybody's got to have money. I'm just a businessman who makes things happen. I don't know what your boys here in Miami are playing at, but it don't mean shit. I only care about the cold, hard
cash
.”

“And you will have it,” Chapado said.

Matt stood up and stalked around Chapado's chair. He saw the tension rise in Chapado's shoulders, the instinctive preparation for violence. But Matt would never break his hands on Chapado's face. That kind of thing only happened in movies, when the hero got tied up and the bad guys took turns punching him out. “Your little gang have a name? What do you guys call yourselves?”

“Alpha 66,” Chapado said.

“Scary. What's it mean?”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“I don't give a shit anyway,” Matt said. “You could call each other the Cuban Butt Boys for all I care. Sit around and yank each other's dicks over a big map of Cuba. It's probably the only way you can get off.”

Chapado said nothing for a long time. Eventually, Matt settled into his chair again. It was dull in here. Matt did not have so much as a magazine to read. He would have to go out again, take a room somewhere, get a good night's sleep, take a shower, watch some TV.

“Señor Matt,” Chapado said finally.

“What?”

“I know you will not listen, but I beg you anyway: let me live. Let my brothers take me. Get your money and be happy. I will not resist you.”

“If you resisted me, I'd cut your face off,” Matt said. “Nobody'd recognize you then. Not even your mother.”

They sat quietly after that.

C
AMARO HAD JUST
started to doze when her phone chimed. She sat up on the hard motel-room bed and took the phone from the nightstand. An email waited. She read it.

Lauren watched her. “What is it?”

“The guy from the blog,” Camaro said. “He wrote back.”

“What does he say?”

“That he'll answer my questions.”

She hit the reply button and then thumbed her way through a message to the blog's writer. Instead of asking her questions, she asked for a phone number where she could reach the man. She added her own number at the end.
Call me if you want,
she added, and then clicked Send.

An hour later the phone rang. The caller ID showed no number. Camaro answered. “Who is this?” she asked.

“I don't give people my name,” said a woman's voice. She sounded young. Not a child or a teenager, but maybe in her early or midtwenties.

“So what do I call you?” Camaro asked.

“You can call me…Marta.”

“Okay. Marta.”

“You are Camaro?”

“I am.”

“You read my blog. You know about Sergio Chapado.”

“I don't really know anything,” Camaro said. “He's some kind of radical, that's all. Mixed up in some rallies in Cuba. I don't get it.”

“Why do you want to know more about him?”

“Because he's involved in something I'm trying to sort out. People have been killed. He's missing. I want to know what kind of situation I'm in.”

“Are you Cuban?” Marta asked.

“No.”

“How are you involved?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you want my help.”

Camaro sighed, and then she started at the beginning. She left out the names because Marta did not need names. Camaro took her through the hire and the trip to Cuba and the things that had gone down since. When it came time to talk about the shoot-out in Liberty City, Camaro was careful not to mention that she'd been there or that she had put down some of the men herself. Of Lauren she said absolutely nothing at all.

“That's it,” she said when she was done.

“Chapado is in the United States now,” Marta said.

“Yeah.”

“Do you know if he's still alive?”

“He was alive the last time I saw him. Who wants him, anyway? Who are these people?”

Marta was slow to speak, as if she was being as cagey about details as Camaro herself had been. “Sergio Chapado is not only a dissident in Cuba, but the main contact for a Cuban American group calling themselves Alpha 66. Have you ever heard of them?”

“Should I have?”

“Not many people know their name. They are a very small group now, but those who continue to work for them have resources behind them. For years Alpha 66 has sent money to Cuba to help Chapado finance popular defiance against the government. Protests. Vandalism. Thefts. Anything that could turn the people against the Castroites.”

“Why is he here if he's doing all of that there?”

“The Intelligence Directorate in Cuba has been removing radicals and counterrevolutionaries for years. Putting some in prison and killing others. If they were close to Chapado, Alpha 66 would have tried to pull him out. Here in the United States he can be put in front of people with money to raise funds for the cause or talk on the radio or television. There are still many Cubans who want the communists out of Cuba and are very angry that the United States will not help them do this. To them, the president has betrayed the cause men and women have bled and died for over decades. It's a travesty.”

Camaro digested this. Lauren watched her, and Camaro put her hand over the phone and said, “It's good.”

“Okay,” Lauren whispered.

“So they're pissed. Are these Alpha 66 guys willing to kill for Chapado?” Camaro asked.

“Alpha 66 began as a paramilitary organization. Their whole purpose was to train for the invasion of Cuba they hoped was coming. The original soldiers are all old or dead, but there are some who would still kill, yes. You've seen that. This man who took Chapado, he's in great danger, and not simply from Alpha 66.”

“What do you mean?”

“The DI in Cuba has connections in the United States. We don't know how many, but there are DI operatives in Miami. They will want to silence Chapado before he has a chance to speak out for the cause. If Chapado is here now, the DI will also be looking for him. If Alpha 66 will kill, the DI will be twice as likely to do the same.”

“Who are you?” Camaro asked. “How do you know all of this?”

“I'm a believer,” Marta said. “I believe in a free Cuba. The Internet will help us overthrow the Castroites, and there will be democracy. I do whatever I can. People tell me things.”

“People like Alpha 66?”

“And others. My grandparents were exiled from Cuba in 1959. I have never seen my own homeland, but I won't go so long as the Castroites are in power. There are thousands and thousands of others exactly like me, waiting for the moment when the communists are routed and Cuba is free. Going to Cuba now is putting money in the pockets of murderers and thieves. I receive over a thousand hits a day on my blog. Cuban Americans are hungry for Cuban freedom.”

Camaro frowned. This didn't matter. None of it mattered. “I need to get in contact with the people in Alpha 66,” she said. “They're some kind of secret group, right? How would I find out who I can talk to?”

“You want to talk to Alpha 66?” Marta asked.

“Yes.”

“Then try their Facebook page,” Marta said.