Suspicion of Rage (40 page)

With a slight smile, José added, "And I was picked up by State Security and interrogated for two days. I thought I was on my way back to prison. If you're looking for radioactive material, you can find it in testing equipment. That was one of the complaints made by the Canadians. The stuff kept disappearing."

"It was stolen?"

"Stolen, lost, unaccounted for. Who knows?"

"What kind of tests do they do?"

"If I can remember. In mining, you mix crushed rock with water and send it through pipes to get it to the machines where they extract the ore. To know the percentage of rock, you send a beam through the pipe, like an X-ray. The instruments contain radioactive materials. Cesium-137? I'm not sure. Anyway, equipment and parts went missing from the zinc mines and a metal fabricating plant in Rancho Boyeros, too. That's what I heard from my sources. I couldn't prove it, so I simply wrote it down as a rumor. I'm a journalist, not a fabulist. The government is supposed to keep a careful accounting, but in truth, they don't pay much attention."

"Why? Because the stuff isn't that potent?"

"No, because they're negligent. It's potent, all right. You don't want to drop it down your snorts."

"What does it look like?" Anthony asked. "Is it powder? A solid? Liquid? How would you get it out of the machine?"

José held up his hands. "I don't know, but the quantities are small, and it isn't so very dangerous, not like plutonium. You couldn't make an atomic bomb out of it."

Anthony remembered his conversation with Hector Mesa. Dirty bombs. A small amount of radioactive material could be wrapped with TNT in a bag and left in a place where crowds gather—Grand Central Station, the Boston metro, a shopping mall in the Midwest. Anywhere. Bombs could be detonated at the same time in a dozen different cities. Scores of people could be killed. Or very few. Its purpose was not destruction but terror. If radioactivity were detected, the device could shut down the city.

"Ahhh," he murmured softly.

"What is it?" José asked.

He put a hand on José's shoulder. "I could be wrong, but assume that a group of officers at MINBAS, led by Abdel Garcia, have been stealing the radioactive materials used in industrial testing equipment. They disguise the losses as sloppy record-keeping, then sell it on the black market."

Even in the dim light of the backyard, Anthony could see the astonishment on José Leiva's face. "But... how could they accomplish that?"

"Easily. Abdel Garcia used to be in charge of sending arms to Africa and Central America. He would still have the contacts, no? Céspedes was a nuclear engineer. He worked with Garcia at Juraguá. Céspedes was in the process of telling the Americans about it when Garcia had him killed."

"Mother of Christ," said José. "If this is true—"

"It doesn't have to be true," Anthony said, "as long as people believe it. There was a report a couple of years ago that alleged the existence of a bio weapons laboratory east of Havana. A defector—someone like Céspedes—said he had worked there. The CIA found no credible evidence, but there are people who believe it. They will tell you that Cuba harbors terrorists. They will show you Castro's own words. In Iran he said that Cuba and the Ayatollah would bring the United States to its knees."

Glancing again at the kitchen window, Anthony saw a woman he didn't recognize. "Your guests are here." He picked up his empty bottle.

"A moment. What are you going to do now?"

"I hope you will introduce me."

José stopped him at the edge of the patio. "Leave Cuba as soon as you can. Go to your State Department with this information and tell them to make it public. They should confront Castro directly. That's what must be done. If they suspect, why haven't they made it known already?"

"Because, José, they aren't sure who's involved. They won't accuse Garcia if Fidel Castro is behind it, nor will they tell Castro anything until they know what is going on." It was clear now to Anthony why the CIA wanted Ramiro Vega, but he would not discuss that with José. He added, "I assume that the Americans are looking for proof. They won't move until they have it."

"Everything comes from the top," José said. "Castro is a spider at the center of the web. Nothing happens in Cuba without his knowledge."

"I don't believe that Castro would sell radioactive materials to terrorists. He may be getting old, but he's not crazy. It's Garcia. That's why he had Céspedes killed."

"You're wrong," said José. "Castro is behind it. Look at him. Look. He lives to confront the great enemy to the north. You see the damage terrorism has already done to your country, not only to steel and bricks, but also to the spirit of the people. They are afraid. Your president reacts with belligerence, and the world is turning against you. Would Castro want to keep this momentum going? My friend, you know the answer."

Anthony shook his head. "I have no answers. You live with these ideas too long, you get paranoid. All I want, José, and maybe it's impossible, is to chart a course that doesn't take us into the rocks on this side or the other. I'm going to turn the information over to whoever I think can hear it and not go crazy. Who is that? I don't know. I have to think about it. But for now, let's go inside. Fix me a drink, and introduce me to your friends."

"Come on, then." José took the beer bottles and went over to rinse them out in the rain barrel he used for watering the yard. The rectangle of light from the window lit their way. "Mario called me this afternoon. He's going to pick up your daughter and bring her with him tonight."

"Angela mentioned it."

"I must thank her," José said. "He says he can't stay long because they're going dancing, but that's all right. We'll be happy to see him. If he does go to Miami, a pretty smile would get him there faster than the hope of a job."

José was setting the bottles on a rack to dry when Anthony heard a shout, then men's voices in the kitchen. A moment later the back door opened, and two men in plainclothes came down the steps. Their eyes searched the darkness.

They had come for José Leiva.

 

It was quick and efficient. No guns were drawn, no handcuffs used. The plainclothes men were from State Security; the uniforms from the
Policía Nacional.
There were a dozen in all, some to wait outside and keep the neighbors away, others to search the house and take the suspect into custody.

They let José Leiva sit in his chair in the living room while they showed him the warrant and did some paperwork. Everyone else, including his wife, was told to wait on the front porch. Yolanda stood by the door with her eyes locked on José. Her friends formed a barricade around her and glared at the police. When Gail's mother broke into tears, Gail found a chair for her. Anthony wiped sweat off his neck and ground his teeth together. When asked, he gave State Security their names and explained why they had come. He asked why the police were there. The officer said it was none of his concern.

Anthony said, "Do you like doing this? Does it make you proud to be Cuban?"

Yolanda looked around and said, "Anthony. It's all right."

By then, the guests were arriving for the meeting. Some saw the police cars and kept going. Others parked nearby and stood in the yard. There were shouts, accusations. The police saw a flash and took away someone's camera.

Looking in through the front window, Anthony saw a face he recognized. Alvaro
Sánchez came into the living room from the hall. A policeman behind him carried a stack of equipment, including the notebook computer Anthony had just brought from Miami. He went to the door and called to Sánchez.

The detective's manner was less cordial than before, but their acquaintance from two days ago was enough to provide a connection. Sánchez said that José Leiva would be taken in for questioning in the Saavedra case. However, that was not the reason for his arrest. They had also received information about contraband items in his house. If Leiva had no permit for the computer, it was illegal. The fax machine, the Internet connection—

Anthony asked who had given them this information. A neighbor? The spy in the house across the street? Sánchez said he was sorry. He told Anthony to wait with the others. When Anthony continued to look at him, Sánchez turned away and went back into the library.

State Security opened desk drawers and dumped papers into a box. From the door Yolanda argued with them. José Leiva told her not to worry about it. They could take what they wanted.

Anthony heard yelling and crossed the porch to see a young man in a white shirt struggling to get past the police. Gail said, "Is that Mario?"

One of the officers raised his baton. Anthony got there in time to pull Mario out of the way. The officer's baton glanced off Anthony's shoulder, but he felt nothing. He put his arm across Mario's neck and pulled him backward. "They will take you too. Stop it! Mario, your mother needs you."

The boy suddenly went still, but his breathing was fast, and his eyes shot fire. The officers lowered their sticks. When Anthony turned Mario toward the house, Angela ran from the crowd and put her arm around his waist, clinging tightly, so that they held Mario between them. Her lips moved with silent profanities.

Mario stopped walking. He reached into his hip pocket and took out a sealed envelope, folded in half. "Mr. Quintana, I don't want to forget this. Would you please give it to my mother on Sunday?"

"She's inside. You can give it to her yourself."

"No, she would open it now, and I want her to read it later."

Anthony nodded and took the envelope. When they reached the porch, Mario went to his mother and embraced her. She took him to the front door, and he spoke to his father. A few minutes later, one of the men from State Security told Leiva to get up. The police directed everyone to move back.

Leiva kissed his wife and son and told them he would be home in a few days. He smiled at Anthony. "

 

 

 

 

34

 

 

Ramiro Vega sat behind his desk shining papers from one pile to another, putting some aside but tossing most of them into a cardboard box, which was already overflowing. Anthony had watched the level in the bottle of Canadian Club go in the other direction. The bottle and a shot glass sat at a precarious angle on some folders. Leaning around them, Ramiro reached for a stack of mail, but instead picked up a small white stone glued to a piece of varnished wood.

"Ha! Look at this." He showed Anthony. "It's from Pico Turquino, the summit. My Pioneer group made the hike. I was fourteen. It rained. The only good thing about the trip was I lost my virginity. Should I take this with me? Why not? It would fit in my pocket." Ramiro slammed the piece against the edge of his desk and peeled away the stone.

"When are you going to make the disk?" Anthony said.

"I'll do most of it tonight. I won't be getting much sleep, that's certain. Marta is crying with her head under the pillow. If we had a dog, I would be sharing his blanket. The kids don't know we're leaving. They think mami and papi are having another fight."

He swung his chair around toward the computer on the table behind him and fumbled with the drawer of a small plastic cabinet. He removed a blank compact disk. "Most of my notes are here. Some at my office. I'll finish it there and clean out my computer. This one too."

"Make an extra," Anthony said.

"Why? It's safe with me."

"Ramiro, if the disk is damaged, you will have only your word that this goes no higher than García. I don't think that will be enough."

"The disk will be next to my heart. Very safe." As Ramiro propped it against the monitor, he noticed a cable draped over the keyboard. He picked it up and squinted at the end of it, then followed the cable to a USB port. He pulled it out. "The kids have been in here again with their games and their music. I hope I don't press the wrong keys and make a collection of rap songs." He looped the cable and handed it across the desk. "This is Karen's, I think."

"Ramiro, let me have a copy to give to Bookhouser. A thousand things could happen."

He finished the whiskey in his glass.
"Cin-cin."
As he drank it down in one gulp, the light slid over his bald head. He wiped his wiry gray mustache with the back of his hand. "Anthony, my brother, I am sorry, but... no. You, I trust. It's the people around you that make me think twice. Ernesto Pedrosa. Forgive me. And Bill Navarro. God save us, what a disaster that would be! Don't worry. I'm going to take very good care of it."

The whiskey had not cut off Ramiro's ability to understand what he needed to do. Get the proof out of Cuba that Abdel Garcia, not the Cuban regime, planned to divert radioactive materials to the international black market. The files had to reach the Intelligence Committee.

About a year ago, Omar Céspedes had made Ramiro an offer: evidence against Garcia in exchange for $50,000 in an offshore account. Céspedes had worked under Garcia; he had documents, notes, and records. He told Ramiro that Garcia wanted to be ready when the
comandante
made his final departure. If events turned against him, he would have enough money not to worry about it. Ramiro recognized the motivation—he had it himself. He had observed Garcia becoming more unstable, but he didn't believe the general would become involved with terrorists. Céspedes assured him it was so.

To confirm this story, Ramiro quietly investigated his boss through his own connections at the Ministry. He put the information into encrypted files and waited for the right time to use it. And then Omar Céspedes defected. He betrayed Cuba, and Ramiro lost his best ally. Who would believe a story that had come from a traitor? The documents wouldn't be enough against a master of innuendo like Abdel Garcia. The general had friends who didn't like Ramiro Vega's quick rise to power. Unfortunately for Ramiro, he was not innocent. He had profited by doing favors for his business associates: over a quarter of a million dollars in an account in the Caymans—minus what he'd paid to Céspedes for the files on Garcia.