Suspicion of Rage (2 page)

"It's hopeless," Chachi said. "We don't have automatic weapons, we have
one damned pistol"

Raúl acknowledged this with a shrug. "It's a challenge."

Still leaning against the pillow with one knee raised, Mario spoke. "What we have to do," he said, "is to get close enough to put the barrel against his head."

"Oh! Yes, yes, of course, perfect." Raúl laughed.

"There's a way."

Raúl motioned for him to go on. "Well?"

"I know his wife. Her name is Marta Quintana. I can use her to get inside the house; then I'll kill him."

"Inside the house? Well, you're pretty enough. Are you going to seduce her?"

"Listen—"

Chachi said, "Mario, have you ever fired a gun?"

Nico pushed Chachi's shoulder. "Do we keep blowing up trash cans?"

"Be quiet, all of you, and listen." Mario rolled off the bed and stood up. "My mother works at a veterans' home in Vedado. There's an old man who lives there, Luis Quintana. I've met him. He's Vega's father-in-law—and he's blind. Several times a week Vega's wife comes to take her father to her house for dinner. She's a busy woman, and it must be a bother. I could help her. I could offer to drive Señor Quintana, and naturally I'd take him inside. I would do it once or twice to establish some trust, and then I bring the gun and kill Vega. All I need is a car."

A gust of wind rattled the air conditioner fan, and a draft of cold air slid through the glass louvers.

"We can find you a car," Tomás said.

Raúl nodded. "The idea has some juice."

"It wouldn't matter," Chachi said. "They would know who he was. They would find all of us."

"He'd be trapped," Nico said.

"Not if he was fast enough."

"But they would know who he was."

"And?"

"They would track him down. They would make him talk."

"Not if we got him out of Cuba." "Could it be done?"

"Yes," said Tomás. "Yes. It could be done."

Nico said, "Mario, what do you think?"

Mario touched the dark, gleaming barrel of the pistol, moving his fingers over the hammer and down the black plastic grip. "No. I won't leave. I will kill him, and then I will stay here and continue the fight."

"Exactly!" Tomás cast a fierce glance at the others. "We will not fail. Even if we pay with our blood, we will not fail." He made a fist. "When the people awaken, the
nomenclatura
will run for their lives. A new revolution, my friends."

"We go underground," Raúl said. "There are people who would hide us. What about you, Nico, Chachi? No more parties."

They nodded. Nico said, "We're with you."

Mario picked up the pistol. Makarov. Tiny letters were stamped into the metal. His hand fit nicely around the grip, and his thumb lay along a ridge on the left side. He moved a lever and saw a red painted dot.

"That's the safety, you idiot. Give me that." Raúl took it away.

"When do we do it?" Mario said.

"Be patient," Tomás said. "We need to plan for every contingency. Raúl, how long do we need?"

"We could be ready within a month." Raúl rolled the pistol into the clothing. "Mario, take a ride with me out to the country tomorrow. I'll let you shoot at my brother's chickens."

"First Vega, next Fidel." Chachi swooped imaginary letters across the bedroom wall. "I want to see that on the monument to Marti."

Mario's mind went to the view from the top of the stairs. The lights of the city below him, the movement and color, the empty black ocean beyond. He could be dead in ten days, probably would be dead. How strange, then, to feel so content.

 

 

 

 

2

 

 

A widening rectangle of light fell onto the terra-cotta tiles as Gail Connor opened the door and came outside. She looked along the portico with its turned Moorish columns and drapery of red bougainvillea. No one was there, only a row of empty cane-backed rocking chairs and champagne flutes left behind on a table. Crossing her bare arms against the cold, Gail walked down the steps to the front lawn. Landscaping lights shone on royal palm trees, beds of winter flowers, and the coral rock fountain splashing into its wide bowl. The brick driveway was jammed with cars. It was two days after New Year's, and strands of twinkling lights wove through the ironwork that topped the wall. The only person in sight was the parking attendant, tipped back on the legs of his chair.

Coming back, Gail glanced through the windows into a swirl of color. Two of her friends had cornered a good-looking guy by the piano. Somebody was bravely attempting to play "Livin' La Vida Loca," and a middle-aged woman pulled her husband out of a chair to dance. A waiter slid around them with a tray over his head.

Gail murmured, "Anthony, where are you?"

She had thought that he and his friends might have come out to smoke a cigar and get away from the women, the older ones mostly, like Aunt Fermina, who wanted to know if they planned to have a baby, now that they were married. Or Aunt Zoraida, deaf in one ear, who had offered to do a Tarot-card reading for them. Anthony's grandmother, Digna Pedrosa, had clung to his arm all evening. This party had been her idea, making up for the fact that her grandson and his new wife had invited literally no one to their wedding last month; no friends, no family, not even Gail's twelve-year-old daughter, who had said it was about time they got it over with.
 

Señora Quintana.

The name sounded strange, probably because of the way it had happened, a sort of spur-of-the-moment idea, going to the Florida Keys for the weekend, coming back as a couple. Of course Gail had
wanted
her daughter to be there, but then Anthony's children would have had to come too, and so would Gail's mother. If Irene were there, Anthony's grandparents couldn't be left out, or his sister Alicia and her kids, or his brother, or the rest of the tribe, which seemed to Gail at times to consist of half the Cubans living in Miami.

She glanced at her watch. It was almost ten o'clock, and they hadn't finished packing.
She
hadn't finished. Anthony had done this so many times that he could pack in five minutes with his eyes closed. His suitcase waited by the door of their apartment. Hers and Karen's were still lying open on the living room rug surrounded by stacks of clothes. Not only clothes. Shampoo and soap, towels, hand lotion, sunscreen, a money belt, a first-aid kit, even a compass, every last thing that she'd heard you had to take to Cuba or do without. Anthony had stood over the pile shaking his head.

They would be staying at his sister Maria's house in Havana. She was married to Ramiro Vega, a general in the army, and Anthony had said they lived very well by Cuban standards, whatever that meant. Next weekend the younger Vega daughter, Janelle, was having her
quinceañera,
her fifteenth birthday party. Gail had bought her a dress at a boutique in Coconut Grove, wanting to please Marta as much as the girl. Buying something for Janelle had been the last thing on Gail's list to be checked off.

On only ten days' notice she had somehow managed to clear her schedule at her law office. Her secretary would forward messages via e-mail to Marta's house. An attorney friend in the same building would handle emergencies. As for Karen's father, Gail had expected a fight, but he hadn't objected. She guessed that he was happy to spend the extra time on his boat with his new girlfriend. But he had asked why. Why in God's name do you want to go to Cuba?

Because Anthony's sister invited us. Because it would be educational for Karen. Because I don't like the U.S. government telling me what I can and can't do.

None of these was the real reason. Gail wanted to see Cuba through Anthony's eyes. She wanted to know what he did there. Would he be different somehow in the place of his birth? And who were the people he called
los Quintana,
his other family, those who had not gone into exile? In addition to Anthony's sister, there was his father, who lived in a home for disabled veterans. Luis Quintana had been awarded a medal for heroism by Fidel Castro himself. Marta spoke four languages. She had a job in protocol at the Ministry of the Exterior. But their names were never mentioned here in this house. To Ernesto Pedrosa, who thought Castro a step below Satan,
los Quintana
didn't exist.

But they did exist, and they wanted to meet the new wife. At first, when Anthony had mentioned this to Gail, she couldn't imagine actually going there. Cuba wasn't a real place, it was myth; it was farther than China. Anthony would bring his two children. They were teenagers and had never met their Havana cousins. And of course Karen couldn't be left out. When Gail had told her mother, Irene had jumped up and down like a girl.
Oh, how exciting for you!
And then the long, guilt-inducing sigh. What was she going to do here in Miami all alone for New Year's? Couldn't she be of some help to Gail, keeping an eye on Karen?

So there would be six of them breaking the law. Six on the flight from Miami to Cancún, then Cancún to Havana. No begging the State Department for permission to take one of those miserable charter flights. Anthony had bought their tickets online through a travel agent in Canada. Gail found the subterfuge thrilling. It was theoretically possible they could be prosecuted. Gail wasn't worried. Anthony knew how to get in and out. They weren't going to set off alarms by smuggling boxes of cigars and a few too many bottles of Havana Club. They would say, if questioned, that they'd been lying on a beach in Mexico for ten days.

Gail turned to open the door just as a group of people came through it on a wave of bubbling conversation. A clerk from Anthony's law firm, a client, their wives. There were kisses on the cheek, more congratulations. Sorry we have to leave so soon, a great party,
buenas noches.

One of the men leaned closer and whispered, "When you get to Havana? Here's some advice. Watch out for those potholes in the sidewalks. And take along some toilet paper, you'll need it." He winked. "Tell Tony we want a postcard."

She waved as they crossed the yard. "Thank you for coming."

Inside, she closed the heavy wooden door and leaned against it. No one was supposed to know about this trip. Anthony had said not to tell anyone until they got back. U.S. travel restrictions didn't bother him, but his grandfather did. If Ernesto found out, he'd have a seizure. If sufficiently pissed off, he might phone one of his friends in Washington and demand to have them stopped at the airport.

The foyer was softly illuminated by a chandelier. A young couple sat on the stairs embracing, oblivious to people walking through. Still no sight of Anthony. Gail could see into the formal dining room. The invitations had said no gifts, but the long mahogany table was stacked high with expensively wrapped boxes. She expected to take home a lot of crystal and porcelain, very upscale Cuban, not exactly her style.

She spotted some curly auburn hair among the crowd in the living room and went closer to make sure it was her mother. "Mom! "

Irene Connor detached herself from the man she'd been talking to. Her eyes were bright, and she held a
mojito
with mint leaves swirling among the ice cubes. "Well, there you are, darling." She was a petite woman, shorter by several inches than Gail, and sequins twinkled on her peacock-blue cocktail dress when she swung her hips.
"Vamos a bailar.
That means 'Let's dance.' See that man over there? He's been teaching me things to say at the clubs in Havana."

"Oh, Mother, please, you haven't been talking about it."

"He's cute, isn't he? And he's not married.
No es casado."

Gail pulled her mother into the hall. "Have you seen Anthony? I've lost him, and we've really got to start making an exit."

"Already?"

"You know how Cuban parties are. It's going to take an hour just to say good night to everyone. I haven't finished packing, and we have to be at die airport at eight in the morning."

"Fine. We'll go." Her eyes went back to her friend.
 
"Oh, you asked me about Anthony. He was here a
 
minute ago wanting to know where
you
were." She
 
pointed across the foyer. "He went down that hall, he
 
and that little black man who works for Mr, Pedrosa—
 
well, not really black. They say
mulato,
don't they? I've forgotten his name."
      

"Hector Mesa."

Irene went on,"
Mulato. Negrito.
My friend over there said they use those words all the time in Cuba, and nobody cares."

Gail gazed along the empty corridor on the opposite side. It led to Ernesto Pedrosa's study. Anthony had been summoned there. For what? Not so the old man could slip him some traveling money. He would be demanding explanations and making threats. Anthony would stand there calmly, letting out a breath through his teeth. He would offer no apologies. He would slam the door on the way out and swear on his mother's grave not to enter this house again. That would last for as long as it lasted, or until everyone else was worn out and begged them to reconcile.

"Mom, could you find Karen for me? I think she's playing pool in the game room. I'll be right back."

The corridor ran past a vacant sitting room, then turned. Wall sconces lit her way, and her high heels tapped softly on the tiles. She shifted her weight to her toes. As she neared the door, she could see it was closed, no surprise. She tilted her head to listen. No one was yelling, which was odd. Male voices came from inside, but they were too muffled for her to make out the speakers, not that she doubted who was in there.

She lifted her hand to knock.

"Señora?"

Startled, she turned to find a small, gray-haired man in a somber suit and black-framed glasses. He might have dropped silently down from the ceiling on a web, for all the notice he gave.

"Hello, Hector. I'm looking for Anthony."

"He is with
el viejo."

"Yes, I thought he might be. It's late and we need to go."