Suspicion of Rage (23 page)

"No, Mario. I can get only one person out. If it's between you and Olga, I would rather save your life." Tomás continued to look at him. "I have your trust or I don't. Tell me now."

"All right. Yes. I'm sorry, Tomás." He extended his hand.

Tomás took it. "I have to trust you too. Whatever may happen, they will remember us."

"Very sweet," Raúl said. "I might have to shoot you both if you keep this up."

Mario gave him a shove on the back of his head.

Raúl stuck his cigarette between his teeth and swung a leg over the chair. He limped over to where Nico lay sleeping. "Poor bastard." Lifting him under the arms, Raúl dragged him back onto the car seat and tossed a thin blanket over him. "He's going to miss his little friend."

Tomás took some dollars out of his wallet. "Ask the old man inside the house there to get him a change of clothes."

On the workbench lay the scissors that Mario had used earlier to adjust the length of the strap on his flute case. He turned up the wick on the lantern. "Raúl. I want you to cut my hair."

"Why?"

"Señora de Vega doesn't like it." He gave the scissors to Raúl and untied the cord at the back of his neck. His braids swung forward. He sat in the chair Raúl had just
¹
vacated and lit a cigarette.

"What a pity." Raúl lifted one of the braids by its end. "You must've been growing these things for years."

"Hurry up, before I change my mind. Not too short." Mario felt a slight tug. He heard the crunch of rusty metal and the beads dropping to the floor.

 

 

 

 

18

 

 

Water cascaded down coral rocks into the huge, free-form swimming pool. Underwater lights put a turquoise glow on the sleek curves of the balconies overlooking the pool deck. A woman swam slowly back and forth, the steady splash of her arms growing louder, then fading.

The waiter arrived with a tray, bringing Ramiro his fourth cognac. Rémy Martin X.O.
 

He turned to Anthony. "Nothing more for you, sir?"
 

"No, thank you." The melting ice had diluted what was left of his Scotch.

The waiter produced a cigar and a chrome-plated clipper. He slid the cigar halfway out of its cedar-lined tube and let Ramiro take it the rest of the way. Monte-cristo Especial. Ramiro clipped off the ends. The waiter held the lighter while Ramiro sucked gently, creating a soft orange glow. His eyes went slightly crossed.

The hotel catered to businessmen and wealthy tourists. The only black face within sight was across the table. If Ramiro Vega had not been a general in the F.A.R. he wouldn't have been let past the front doors.

Flicking an ash from the lapel of his sport coat, he settled into his chair. "Comrade, I have a joke."

The waiter smiled and waited. He was a young man with a black vest and bow tie. Anthony noticed that the cuffs of his shirt came nearly to his knuckles.

Ramiro grinned. "A schoolteacher asks her class, 'Boys and girls, if the sea between here and Key West were to dry up, and you could walk three miles in one hour, how long would it take you to get to Key West?' Pepito raises his hand. 'Yes, Pepito?' 'I could get there in fifteen minutes.' 'Fifteen minutes? Pepito, it's ninety miles. How can you get there in fifteen minutes?' 'Because I would run like hell before everyone else found out and ran over me.' "

With his smile frozen in place, the waiter glanced from Ramiro to Anthony and back again.

"What's the matter? You don't think it's funny?"

"Oh, yes, it's very funny, sir." He made a slight bow and backed up. "If there is nothing else you need...." He returned to his post at the bar.

Ramiro reached for his cognac. "I thought it was funny."

"It was. Does he know who you are?"

"No, I don't come here. Only when I have a rich visitor from Miami. Don't tell Marta. She wouldn't like it. The other day I told her, Marta, my love, you know with my promotion we can afford to trade our house for one in Cubanacán or Siboney—that's where so many of your wealthy relatives lived before the Triumph of the Revolution, when they took off for Miami. It would be an irony, no? To live in their old neighborhood? She won't hear of it. Well, she's very happy about my promotion. Without Marta, I would still be a lieutenant. She is more ambitious than anyone I know. But she doesn't want to move to Cubanacán. She likes our house. I think it makes her feel proud that the roof leaks."

While Ramiro had been sipping his cognacs, Anthony had told him about the meeting in his grandfather's study; the CIA's offer to help Ramiro defect; and Abdel Garcia's threats, made over coffee in the red-upholstered apartment in Chinatown.

So far Ramiro had made no comment. He propped a foot on an adjoining chair and stared through the royal palm trees and past the irregular line of low roofs along the shore, his gaze finally settling on the ocean, whose horizon was lost to darkness. A cool breeze rattled the palm fronds. There was a line of light several miles off, perhaps a cruise ship.

Anthony said, "Didn't you speak to your boss today? After his surprise visit to your house last night, I thought you'd be curious why he wanted to see me."

"I called him." The breeze took the smoke from Ramiro's cigar. "He told me he would ask you about Omar. He wanted to know what Omar said to your friends. I told him, Abdel, I also would like to know. When you find out, tell me.' He hopes that I can persuade you not to lie."

"Did Garcia tell you he was planning to twist my arm?"

"Don't worry about it." Ramiro pulled his gaze away from the ocean. "It's your guys you have to watch out for. They can slice off your balls so cleanly you never know until you step on them."

"Your G-2 agents in Miami aren't so bad at it either."

"You would be surprised who we have working for us."

"To your credit, Ramiro, you've never asked me to become a spy for Cuba."

His teeth flashed in a smile. "Well, how would I be sure you weren't spying for the other side, too? Maybe you are. My friends ask me. They see your relationship with José Leiva, and they wonder. I tell them to talk to Marta. I say, 'If Marta lets him through our front door, he's okay.'"

Anthony said, "Your boss threatened to put Leiva in jail for life if I didn't cooperate."

"Really? He didn't mention it."

"I've heard the regime is planning to arrest the dissidents."

"If so, it's because they're stirring up trouble." "Ramiro, how is it stirring up trouble to have a lending library in your house or to speak what your own eyes tell you is the truth?"

"You think it's so innocent?" He laughed. "If they weren't getting support from outside, we wouldn't complain about it. The Americans at the U.S. Interests Section have parties for them and invite CNN. The United States is using the so-called human rights movement as an instrument of foreign policy. They hope we'll arrest the dissidents because it will make us look bad. Who is pushing this policy? You know very well—the exiles. Congressman Navarro and others like him. They're looking for an excuse to invade. The oppression of the dissidents, harboring terrorists, imaginary bioweapons—"

"We're not going to invade Cuba," Anthony said.

"Are you sure? Your president will go into Iraq, and after that, Iran, and then what? Not North Korea, because they have nuclear weapons. Cuba! Yes, finally you can liberate the Cubans, and they will throw flowers at your feet—those who aren't throwing grenades. Navarro and his gang are playing a dangerous game. Leiva is part of it. He dares us to put him back in prison. He can be a martyr and gain the world's sympathy."

"Ramiro, you're full of shit."

He shrugged. "I'm telling you what people think."

"You make me believe the rumors of arrests are true."

"How in hell do I know? I'm not in MININT. Where did you hear it?" "Olga Saavedra."

"She told you? Where did she get it? Never mind. She hears too much, that woman. Ay, yi, yi. Olga, Olga."

"She used to sleep with Omar Céspedes," Anthony said.

Ramiro lifted his brows. "Let me see. Your friend with the CIA told you. Yes, I know about Olga and Céspedes. So what? It wasn't yesterday."

"Are you in love with her?"

"God help me. She makes my blood run like a young horse." Ramiro hid his face, passing a hand over the bald dome of his head. "I'm sorry I lied to you." "To Marta, you should say."

"Yes. I am sorry for that too. But Olga—" Ramiro peered through his fingers. "You know."

"Once. I was with her once. Before you started with her," Anthony added.

"I love Marta. I have a lot of respect for my wife. She is a good woman. A good mother. That too. But we have Revolutionary sex. I get it up for every national holiday. At your orders, commander-in-chief!"

"Please. She's my sister." Anthony said, "You will ask her to come with you, no?"

"Why would you think I'm going anywhere?"

The candle in the red glass candle holder caught the breeze, and the flame sputtered and flickered. Anthony sat facing the bar, which was tucked under a portico extending onto the deck. The sliding doors were open, and he could see people inside. If any of them was watching, he couldn't tell.

He turned his chair slightly, using Ramiro as a barrier. "Tomorrow I'm going to tell Garcia that I have no idea what Omar Céspedes told the CIA—which is true, by the way. If I do find out—very unlikely—I'm not going to share it with him. What I am going to do is ask for more time. I want to keep him quiet for a few days so I can attend Janelle's birthday party, make my sister happy, and return to Miami as planned. Now, if you want to let Garcia know about that, it's up to you."

Ramiro lifted the Montecristo to his mouth, pausing long enough to shake his head.

"I'm starting to look behind me when I go to the men's room," Anthony said, "and I'd like to know who's back there. Is Garcia working for MININT? The Army? For Fidel himself?"

Smoke drifted in small puffs from Ramiro's pursed lips. It hung in his thick gray mustache. "You're getting too worked up, Tony. I told you. Don't worry about it."

"I've arranged a way out of here in case it becomes necessary. Marta won't like my taking the family home before the party. You'd have to explain it to her."

"Listen to me. If Garcia causes trouble for you, he knows he has to deal with, me too. And I will tell you something. He has lost many of his friends in the regime. People don't like him."

"He has no sense of humor," Anthony said.

"That's right. He can't tell a joke."

"What do you want to do, Ramiro? I've got to tell Bookhouser something."

The only reply was a slight shrug. Ramiro reached for his glass. He closed his eyes and rolled the cognac around in his mouth before swallowing.

"You do what you want." Anthony withdrew his pen and a small notebook from his coat. "I'll give you the number. You call him or not. It's your choice."

"Put it away," Ramiro said. "My wife goes through my pockets. That's one part of her job that she takes very seriously. Have another drink."

"I've had too much."

"Relax. Let's enjoy the night. I want to finish my smoke and this excellent booze."

Ramiro's eyes drifted halfway shut. "Answer a question for me. Why do you come back here? You have everything in Miami. If your sister and your father were not here, you would still come back. Why?"

"I like the music."

Ramiro extended an arm to deposit some ashes into the ashtray. "I'll tell you why you come. You're looking for the past. It doesn't exist anymore, my friend. All we want is to make it from one day to the next. My kids don't care about sacrificing for the fatherland. Giovany wants to go to college in Paris. Janelle wants to get a ring in her navel like... what is that girl on MTV? Britney Spears. It makes her mother crazy."

"Does Marta still believe? Or does she only pretend to?"

"Well. You know Marta. She's like you, I think. She's an idealist." Ramiro slid down farther in his chair, his jacket bunching at his neck. "So was I. You remember. History was on our side. We were good people. Virtuous. We were making a new world, a new man. To get there you had to follow the rules, and you made sure everybody else did too. Now? Socialism, capitalism, global-ism, who gives a shit? The new hotel in Trinidad is delayed because we can't get the electricity hooked up. People keep stealing the wire out of the warehouse."

Ramiro's head turned toward the pool. The swimmer had splashed her way to the edge. She grasped the ladder and climbed out, water streaming down her body. She wore a white two-piece, and her blond hair reached halfway down her back. She spoke in German to a man lying on a chaise, and he handed her a pack of cigarettes.

"If you decide to leave Cuba," Anthony said, "you will have to persuade Marta to come with you, the kids too—at least Gio and Janelle. It wouldn't be easy for them here. I'd like for my father to get out, but you know what his answer would be. No, no, and no. He's happy here. I think his blindness will protect him—that and his combat medals."

"Don't assume I'm going anywhere, either," Ramiro said.

Anthony asked, "What do you have that we want? I keep coming back to that question. How are you important?"

The woman bent over to pick up her towel. She wrapped it sarong-style over her breasts. The glow of the cigar brightened as Ramiro pulled on it. He tipped back his head and let the smoke out in a long plume.

"I am happy that the United States government considers me such a big wheel."

"Big enough to bring Bill Navarro and the CIA rushing to Miami. It's connected to what Céspedes told them, and I think you know what that is."

"No, I don't. It could be many things. Your friend Mr. Bookhouser knows. Why don't you ask him?"
 

"I did."

"Aha." Ramiro grinned. "He won't tell you. Or maybe he told you a lie. And you will give this lie to Garcia, and maybe he'll believe it, but probably not."

"Olga told Omar Céspedes you wanted to defect. Did she invent that story, or did you really say it?"