Suspicion of Rage (3 page)

Hector Mesa shrugged. "They have a meeting, and some friends of Señor Ernesto will be here in a minute. I'll tell Señor Anthony that you looked for him." Hector

extended a hand toward the way she had come, an invitation to leave.

"A meeting at this hour? With whom?"

Another shrug. "I think some people from out of town."

There was a separate entrance around a turn in the hall, and if guests came and went, they could do so unnoticed. Gail said, "And you don't know who they could be, or where they're from. How long is this meeting supposed to last? Should Karen and I catch a ride home with my mother?"

"If you wish, but I think it will be not so long." The creases in his forehead deepened as if it pained him to lie to her. Gail had learned things about Hector Mesa: He had worked in black ops for the CIA. He carried a folding knife in his belt and a .22 Beretta on his ankle; he had used them both. She doubted there was much that pained him. If Hector Mesa was posted outside the door, it meant something was going on. Or not. She could never quite be sure.

"All right. When you see Anthony, could you please tell him we need to go home?"

"Of course, señora." The little man made a slight bow, and the sconces in the corridor flashed their dim light on his glasses.

 

A faded Cuban flag, with its blue-and-white bars and red triangle, had been hung like an Old Master behind the desk. The brass picture light picked up spatters of mud and several bullet holes in the fabric. In June 1960, a Cuban army squadron had kicked in the door of an apartment near the Capitol in Havana, finding several
anti-castristas
and a supply of bomb-making equipment. Leonardo Pedrosa had grabbed the flag and dived out a window screaming
"¡Abajo, Fidel!"
He staggered through thunderstorms for two miles with a bullet in his back to a safe house in Vedado. He died just as dawn broke, but not before obtaining his brother's promise to fly the flag one day over a free Cuba.

This according to Ernesto Pedrosa.

Anthony sat across the desk from his grandfather, waiting for him to finish lighting his cigar. An excellent cigar, but not Cuban. Ernesto would not support the dictatorship by smoking Cuban tobacco. He laboriously clipped off the end of his
puro
with large, veined hands weakened by a stroke three years ago. He was eighty-five years old and refused to admit it. His folded wheelchair was pushed out of sight. It formed a slight bulge behind brocade curtains framing the windows on the east side of his study. The windows themselves were covered by wooden louvers, exactly as in Havana. Except that here, the louvers were not falling out of their frames.

A ceiling fan revolved slowly overhead. The air smelled of leather and smoke. A signed first edition of the poems of José Martí was enshrined in a glass case. A landscape of thatched-roof
bohíos
and royal palm trees filled the space behind the sofa. There were black-and-white photographs of deceased relatives, of Havana street scenes from the early 1900s, of anti-Castro commando groups, of Ernesto Pedrosa with every Republican president since 1964. He had removed the Democrats, including John E Kennedy, who had betrayed them at the Bay of Pigs, and Bill Clinton, under whose administration the raft boy, Elián González, had been sent back to Fidel.

Ernesto held his silver desk lighter to the end of the cigar and studied Anthony over the flame, his time-faded blue eyes magnified by thick lenses.

He had found out. It would have been impossible to keep him in the dark; Anthony could see that now. Everyone knew. His relatives had pulled him aside to beg for this or that small favor. Would you give this cash to cousin Rosario? Would you see if my house on Avenida 98 is still there, and if it doesn't look too bad, could you take a picture? Could you bring me some
Agua de Violetas! A
rock from the Colón Cemetery? Some of that asthma spray I can't find in the pharmacies here?

The old man knew, but he didn't seem to care. Anthony was puzzled by this. Shoving the lighter aside, Ernesto sank back into his wide leather chair and began to rock slowly. "I'll tell you what bothers me," he said. "You lied. You hid it from me."

His Spanish was slow and perfectly pronounced. He had been a banker in a family at the top of society, and he maintained the image: custom-made suits, a neatly trimmed white mustache, a splash of cologne.

"I did not lie to you," Anthony said.

"You used your silence as a lie."

"Why would I want to give you another heart attack? Every time we talk about Cuba, you go crazy."

"I saved you from hell, yet you go back. You have hurt me deeply."

"Do we have to discuss this? I've been there several times, as you are well aware."

"Not 'several' times. Many times. Many. And tomorrow you will go once again and take your wife with you. I think it's wrong, but she is your wife, and a woman of strong will, and if that's what you and she want to do, there is nothing I can say about it. Your children will also travel with you. That is definitely wrong, but I leave Daniel and Angela to see the wreck that Cuba has become and decide for themselves."

"Grandfather, it's late. Gail and I have to get up very early."

The old man tapped the cigar over a crystal ashtray. Gold cuff links twinkled against spotless white cuffs. "You tell me, 'I want them to meet my father,' or 'I want to attend my niece's birthday party.' As for myself, I believe this. Others might not."

"Forgive me, but what are you getting at?"

"You have ties with Cuba. There are some who say you're agent of Castro."

Anthony had learned not to laugh out loud at this sort of thing.

Ernesto continued, "I tell them no. My grandson has wrong ideas, but he is not working for the tyrant. Now. I have a question, and I want the truth."

"All right. Ask. What do you want to know?"

"Has Marta talked to you about leaving Cuba?"

"What do you mean, leaving?"

"Does she want to leave Cuba?" His grandfather's voice rose. "To get her family out. Are you going there to arrange it?"

Anthony wondered if the old man's mind was stumbling again. "No, Grandfather. I'm going for a visit. That's all."

"This is the truth?"

"Of course it is. Marta wouldn't leave Cuba. What gave you that idea? You haven't spoken to her in more than twenty years, and now you ask if she wants to come to Miami."

"She's my granddaughter."

"The last time I mentioned my sister, you called her a piece of communist trash."

His grandfather's expression darkened. "She is a communist, but she is also my blood. They brainwash people in the dictatorship, you can't deny it. Her children are my blood, and they belong here."

"I assure you, if Marta wanted to get out, I would know. We don't talk about politics, otherwise we would strangle each other, but she's happy—happy enough. Her children are there, her. husband. She doesn't want to leave." Anthony spread his hands. "She doesn't. Grandfather, I'm sorry, but it's ten o'clock, and Gail will be looking for me."

"Let her wait." He batted away some smoke. "We have guests coming. A friend of mine, Bill Navarro. He wants to talk to you."

This change of topic stopped Anthony halfway out of his chair.

Guillermo "Bill" Navarro had been elected to the U.S. House of Representatives five years ago, thanks to money pumped into his campaign from big donors in the exile community. Navarro had been sent to Washington because he had the right attitude: Starve Cuba into economic collapse. He and his compatriots in Congress had forced successive administrations to go along with them or risk the loss of the Cuban-American vote, pivotal to winning Florida.

"Why does he want to talk to me?"

"He will explain it."

"You may be a friend of this man, but I am not. He's a pompous fake who has done nothing but make us look like a bunch of raving lunatics to the rest of the world." A thought ran through Anthony's mind. "What is this about? My sister?"

"Yes, and her husband. We have information that Ramiro Vega wants to defect."

This was stunning. That Ramiro would defect to the United States was beyond the bounds of imagination. Anthony asked, "Where did Bill Navarro get this information?"

"Bill can tell you."

"Ramiro has never said anything of the sort to me, not the least hint of it."

"How can he? Everyone is watched. He is afraid." Ernesto jabbed the air with his cigar. "Listen to me. I want you to talk to Marta. Tell her ... say she is forgiven. This is her family. We will help her, whatever she needs for herself or the children. It has always been that way. But you must persuade her to leave. If she doesn't come, Vega might stay there, and that would be bad. She must escape. They must all escape."

His lips trembled. Ernesto Pedrosa hid his eyes and cleared his throat. "Our family. You understand."

Anthony softly replied, "Yes. Of course, if I can help her... if she asks for help, I will do it. Grandfather, what did Navarro say to you? When did he—"

He was stopped by a knock at the door.

"One moment!" Ernesto laid his cigar in the ashtray. "Bill is bringing someone with him, an aide on his staff, I believe. They will tell you they want Ramiro Vega. The man is a filthy communist son of a black whore, but if he is the price of getting the children out, so be it." Ernesto positioned his cane and stood up. "Come in!"

The door swung open. Hector Mesa stood aside to admit two men. Navarro entered first, a man in his late thirties with incipient jowls, a broad smile, and eyes that darted about in search of the person who might want to put a knife in his ribs. He had not been born in Cuba; he compensated with a severe, almost religious patriotism. There were two pins in the lapel of his navy blue sport coat: the flag of the United States and the insignia of a Cuban-American lobbying group that had bullied Congress for decades.

Anthony didn't recognize the other man. He was in his mid-forties, with a medium build, short graying hair, and an angular face one could easily miss in a crowd. His eyes went quickly around the room before he acknowledged Anthony's presence with a slight nod.

The congressman went over to the desk to embrace Ernesto, to thank him for seeing them on such short notice. He swung around and extended a hand to Anthony, who had risen from his chair.
"Mi amigo, ¿qué tal?
Good to see you again." He switched to English for the benefit of the American in the room. "Congratulations on your marriage. I apologize for interrupting the party, but we have a matter of highest importance to discuss with you. This is Everett Bookhouser. Everett is a policy advisor on my committee."

Leaving Anthony to fill in the blank: the House Intelligence Committee.

He shook the other man's hand as Navarro was saying, "We just flew down from Washington, and you're leaving in the morning, so there was really no other time—"

Anthony broke in. "My grandfather told me you believe that my brother-in-law wants to defect. May I ask where you heard this?"

Bill Navarro's smile vanished; he didn't like being thrown off his rhythm.

"Siéntense.
Sit down, please, everyone." Ernesto lifted a decanter. "Bill, Mr. Bookhouser, may I offer you some brandy?"

Bookhouser declined. Navarro accepted and settled into a chair. "So. You're going to Cuba tomorrow."

Anthony glanced at his grandfather, who murmured with a shrug,
"Se lo dije."
It was he who had told Navarro.

"You and I hold different views," Navarro said, "but let's put them aside for now. What we want, what I hope you will give us, is assurance. I believe that you're a man who, given the opportunity, would want to help his country."

"I assume you mean the United States."

"Of course." Navarro hid his annoyance by taking the glass of brandy passed across the desk. "Last month, early December, there was a meeting in Brazil, a conference on energy policy, which Major Omar Céspedes Ruiz attended. Céspedes was on the staff of General Abdel Garcia. Do you know the name?"

"I don't think so."

"He's your brother-in-law's commanding officer."
 

"Ah. Is he?"

Navarro paused as if deciding whether this ignorance was genuine, then went on.

"Céspedes was assigned to the Ministry of Basic Industries, which Garcia oversees. Céspedes basically knocked on the door of the American embassy in Sào Paulo and asked to be let in. We sent someone down to talk to him. In one of his interviews Céspedes said he'd received information that Vega wanted to defect to the United States. We had no way of confirming this, so I contacted your esteemed grandfather and said to him, 'Mr. Pedrosa, have you heard anything from your granddaughter or her husband?' He told me that he hadn't. But early this morning he called me to say he had just learned of your trip. He said you planned to fly to Cuba, and perhaps it had something to do with Vega."
 

"And so here we are," Anthony said. "Where did Céspedes get his information?"

"From someone we believe is reliable."

"Does this person have a name?"

"I said, a reliable source." Navarro sipped his brandy. "We need confirmation before taking further action."

Anthony looked past Navarro to the man on the end of the sofa, who so far had said nothing. "Mr. Bookhouser, who do you work for? The CIA?"

The man's deeply set blue eyes did not flicker. He said, "I'm an advisor to Congress, Mr. Quintana. We'd like to get your brother-in-law out of Cuba."

"Why?"

"Why? Ramiro is a brigadier general. What he knows could be helpful to us."

"No doubt, but I don't involve myself in politics, American or Cuban. If Ramiro wants out, he knows how to do it. He could do what Céspedes did—fly out of the country and not come back. Ramiro could get his entire family out if he wanted to."

"Have you heard from him?"

"No."

"Would you consider yourself a friend of his?" "He's married to my sister. That's about the extent of it."

Everett Bookhouser looked at Anthony for a while as if deciding what to say next. Bill Navarro, too excited to sit, got up and paced.