Act of Betrayal (10 page)

“You know how he despises the
News,”
Gretchen said.

“Right,” I said. Reyes regularly bad-mouths the paper on Spanish-language radio and television, accusing the
News
of being pro-Castro because the paper refers to Fidel as Cuba's president instead of the Tyrant and foils to publish daily anti-Castro editorials.

“Well, he won't talk to me,” Ron admitted, “or anyone else at
The News
, only you.”

“What? He didn't say that. Did he? Did he mention me by name?” No way I believed it. “Why in the world would the man want to talk to me?”

“He doesn't
want
to talk to you, Britt. He doesn't want to talk to anybody,” Ron said. “He apparently considers you the lesser evil.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“He knows we'll write about him, whether he gives us an interview or not.” Ron pushed his glasses up on his nose, then folded his arms. “His ego won't let him refuse because he wants some input…”

“But he'd rather not answer questions from a savvy political writer,'' Gretchen finished.

They exchanged glances. They had it all figured out. “Now remember, Britt,” Ron said pompously, “this is no simple interview, it's an in-depth profile; you'll have to talk to his detractors as well.”

“I know what a profile is,” I snapped. First they force this assignment on me, I thought, then insult me.

“He must want you because you're Cuban,” Gretchen said sarcastically. She had dropped the perky act once I was aware they were doing me no favor.

“You don't have much time to cram,” Ron said urgently. “The interview is set for two o'clock tomorrow, downtown, at his office, the only time he was available.”

“Thanks for the advance notice.”

“Couldn't be helped, we've been trying to pin him down for weeks. Don't panic. I'll give you as much help as I can.” He was becoming overbearing. “Watch out for Reyes,” he warned. “The man is itching for a fight with this newspaper. He has a short fuse and explodes at the slightest provocation. Don't forget anything because you'll never get another shot at him. He's impossible to reach and doesn't return calls, at least to this newspaper.

“And don't forget to genuflect and mention how much you hate Castro at least ten times in the first five minutes or he'll throw you out on your ass.”

Oh swell, I thought.

By the time they left me to my misery, my coffee was as cold as an editor's heart.

First I dialed the library. My friend Onnie was on duty and I asked her to print out all the stories she could find on Reyes. “Why you want him?” she asked. “Is he dead?”

“Unfortunately, no.” I explained and she commiserated.

“That's not your beat, why doesn't Ron Sadler do it?”

“Long sad story. I'll tell you later.”

“Okay, which ones you want?”

“All of them.”

“You joking, girl? You got a hand truck? You wanna tie up every printer in here? We got 'em going back thirty years. That man's name has been in this newspaper more than the President of the United States.”

“How about the last three years?”

“I'll start printing out,” she said, as though I had no idea what I was asking for.

I dialed Lottie on her car phone to bitch and moan. She sounded cheery, giddy in fact, for somebody on the way to photograph a residential canal full of rotting fish killed by a chemical spill.

“Britt, you won't believe this.” She had swung by her house to take out Pulitzer, her rescued greyhound. “And guess who drove up? With the most beautiful flowers on God's green earth! He delivered them himself.”

“No.”

“Yes! Did you ever hear of anything so sweet? What happened the other night was all a misunderstanding. Stosh explained everything.”

“That must have been interesting.”

“He is the absolute best.”

“I hope you're right. Guess what assignment I got?” I told her my sad story.

“Hey, it'll be showcased, the centerpiece in the section and probably the best-read story in the paper.”

“You don't understand, I don't want to miss anything on my beat. I don't want to get caught up in exile politics.”

“Look at it this way, Britt, instead of standing over a dead body in the hot sun in some ghetto neighborhood surrounded by an unruly crowd and horny, hostile cops, you'll be sitting in Miami's premier luxury office high-rise in a posh suite drinking tea and making small talk with one of the richest, most powerful men in South Florida. Poor pitiful you. I know it's hard to take when you could be fighting off pit bulls, chasing purse snatchers, or joining me at a fish kill, but somebody's gotta do it.”

Lottie had a point. Juan Carlos Reyes, savior or would-be dictator? Hero or potential tyrant? He was one of the few exile leaders who had continued to grow in political stature over the years. “Who is this guy? The idea began to interest me.

Probably the only reason I had hated it from the start was because the assignment came from Gretchen. “Did I tell you that she said Reyes only agreed to see me because I'm Cuban? I hate that.”

“Especially when she wouldn't have her job if she wasn't female,” Lottie said archly. “Whatcha gonna wear?

“What does that have to do with it?” I said irritably. “I have no idea. You sound like Gretchen or my mother.”

“Hope I get to shoot the art. He's sexy.”

“Sexy? The man is pushing sixty.”

“So is Robert Redford. Power is sexy. Nothing I like better than making pictures of rich, powerful men. They may run their corporations with iron fists, but they sure love having their pictures made. I can make them do almost anything for the camera.”

“Look who's talking power now.” Maybe she was right, first impressions were important. “What should I wear?”

“You have to establish a chemistry to connect,” Lottie said, “to get him to open up to you.” The signal and her voice faded for a moment as she drove under an overpass. “You're Latin, what do Latin men like?” she was saying.

“Hell, I don't know.” I laughed. “Plunging necklines, tight skirts, high heels, and castanets? This isn't a seduction, it's an interview. This is so weird.”

“You have to look appealing,” she said, “but not sexy, businesslike but not boring.”

“This from the lips of a woman who lives in jeans and L.L. Bean blouses.”

“That's different,” she said smugly. “I make pictures. Oh, Lordy, I must be getting close to the canal I'm looking for. Great guns and little fishes! I can smell id”

I looked up and saw Mark Seybold, the
News
lawyer, on a direct course for my desk. “Gotta hang up,” I said. “To make this day complete, I'm meeting my mother for lunch.”

“It could be worse,” she said. “I'm there, and you would not believe this. I'm about to put on my hip boots. Your mama'll tell you what to wear.”

Mark looked grim. “Hear you're interviewing Reyes tomorrow.” He leaned over my desk and dropped his voice. “I'll be vetting your story. Watch out for this guy, he sues at the drop of a hat.”

Ryan Battle, the general assignment reporter who sits behind me, stepped off the elevator as I left for lunch. “Heard about your story for the special section.” His spaniel eyes reflected concern. “Reyes is macho, Britt. He doesn't like women. I saw him make one cry once at a press conference. How are you going to handle him?”

My mother looked cool, ash-blond hair slicked back, wearing white linen, a short jacket with gold buttons over a matching skirt. Why did clothes suddenly fascinate me? Had this assignment triggered some recessive gene?

She ordered a Caesar salad and a glass of chardonnay.

“What is that?” She scrutinized my skirt.

“Cotton.”

“No, this.” She plucked something from the fabric and held it up to the light between glistening manicured nails.

“Cat hair,” I said, squinting. “Or maybe dog hair.”

“Something wrong?” asked the impeccable waiter.

“No,” I said, smiling. “I brought it from home.”

I was about to make her day. “I need your expert advice about an important interview tomorrow, Mom.”

“A job interview?” She perked up.

“No, a story. I'm interviewing Juan Carlos Reyes. What should I wear?”

She looked startled. “Why on earth…” and knocked over her wineglass. The contents splashed across the tablecloth.

The waiter reappeared, murmuring reassuringly as he sopped up the spill.

“Are you all right?” I asked her.

My mother gazed up at him instead of me. “I guess I'm in shock.” Her voice was shaky. “My daughter so rarely wants my advice.”

“You must have thought this day would never come.” I smiled. “What do you think? You're familiar with the contents of my closet.”

“I'm sure you know better than I, Britt.” This from the woman forever frustrated by my lack of fashion sense, and appalled by my attraction to clothes that I can toss in the washer and wear right out of the dryer.

“I'm serious, Mom.”

She glanced at her watch and pushed back her chair. She hadn't even touched her salad.

“I forgot.” She spoke crisply, face flushed. “We have a staff meeting at two. If I hurry I can just make it.”

“But…”

“Sorry, Britt. I just forgot.” She brushed my cheek with her lips and left.

I finished my club sandwich, then polished off her salad as well before paying the check. Frustration always makes me hungry.

The note Fred left on my terminal said
See me.

“On the Reyes piece,” he said. “Be sure you to talk to Ron first. Don't pull any punches, but be aware, the man has a hair-trigger temper.” He rose from behind his desk and paced the small office. “Keep this under your hat. We never proved a connection, but the last time we ran a story that rubbed Reyes the wrong way, more than a hundred of our vending machines were stolen or trashed. The ones they found were totally destroyed.”

“You think he did it?”

Fred's eyes widened and he shrugged. “He'd sue the shit out of anybody who suggested it. But I don't want you to feel intimidated, Britt.”

Ron waited at my desk. What the hell is this? I wondered.

“I know how territorial you can be, Britt. But don't be upset if I have to come in and save the story.” He smiled condescendingly as he placed a printout on my desk. “Here, I put together a list of tips and questions for you.”

“You may have done all that work for nothing, Ron,” I said, as I riffled through my messages. “Look at this. Reyes's secretary called. Betcha he's canceling.”

“Damn it to hell.” He stood there frowning as I punched in the number. I was almost disappointed myself, but now I could get back on the trail of the lost boys.

A receptionist transferred me to Reyes's appointments secretary.

“This is Gilda.” The voice sounded competent and dressed for success. It sounded like a crisp snowy blouse and a well-cut suit. What the hell is this clothes thing? I wondered. “You had a two
P.M
. appointment with Mr. Reyes tomorrow here at his office, Ms. Montero. He's had a change in schedule.”

Lifting my eyebrows at Ron, I nodded. He grimaced and punched a fist into his palm.

“The director is working at home tomorrow,” Gilda continued. “He would like you to come to his residence.” Her voice dropped, taking on a confidential tone. “This is much better, Miss Montero,” she whispered. “He can give you more time and it will be much more private.”

I wore a dress I found still in the dry-cleaning bag, waiting at the back of my closet. Ice-blue with a jacket. I put on my antique gold earrings, a gift from my mother on my eighteenth birthday, and stuffed a small tape recorder and half a dozen tapes into my shoulder bag.

Another afternoon thunder boomer had been forecast. Thunder-clouds mass daily over the Everglades this time of year. Grass turns to mush underfoot and gardens are drowned by downpours that raise the level of Lake Okeechobee, the Seminole Indian word for “Big Water.” A rock levee eighty-five miles long and thirty-six feet high was built to protect the lowlands around the lake after it spilled over during a hurricane back in the thirties and drowned three hundred people.

The tropical depression was out there somewhere in the mid-Atlantic, but here sky and water looked serene. The bay was turquoise satin as I drove across the broad causeway lined by Australian pines and narrow sandy beaches to Reyes's Fairway Island home. Must be fun to come back to this place every night, I thought. Tile rooftops barely visible amid lush foliage gave it the impression of some exotic tropical island.

The gate of the guarded community was manned by armed security, this time it was an off-duty Metro cop whom I recognized.

“What you doing in the high-rent district, Britt? No action for you here.”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“Keeping the streets safe for the rich and famous. Doing my job, earning my pay.”

“So am I. Juan Carlos Reyes is expecting me.”

“Thought he didn't like newspapers.” He shrugged, stepped into the guardhouse, and made a call. Moments later he pushed the button that lifted the security gate and dutifully recorded my tag number as I rolled by.

A more narrow bridge led to speed bumps, estates banked by flower beds, and royal palms and Venetian-style lampposts that added a feeling of Old World charm.

A civilian guard monitored the security gate to Reyes's walled mansion. His guayabera did little to hide the gun bulging in his waistband. He was steely-eyed, younger than I, with smooth olive skin, curly hair, and a military bearing. He asked in Spanish for my identification and did not smile when I answered in English and displayed my press card.

The gates ground open and he pointed me up the wide paved driveway.

Lazy bay breezes caressed my skin as I stepped out of the T-Bird. I could smell the water lapping against the teak dock where Reyes's sleek cabin cruiser, the
Libertad,
was moored. Bougainvillea and Mexican dame vines had crept across the walls. The house resembled a fortress. Lookout turrets faced the wide bay, and I imagined the original owner scanning the horizon for the rumrunners smuggling in his bootleg booze.

Fountains bubbled in a central courtyard surrounding a gigantic ficus tree, and carved stone benches sat in invitingly shaded nooks landscaped with dwarf palms, ferns, and bottlebrush trees.

Who would leave all this opulence to go back to Cuba, even as president? I wondered.

A fawning older man, apparently a butler, was waiting and motioned me to follow. A stroke of luck, I thought, to see Reyes alone at home instead of his busy office. This would all provide color and a richer atmosphere for my story. I hoped no pesky publicist would be present, hovering over his shoulder, primed to prevent his client from misspeaking.

I nearly gasped as we entered Reyes's large, high-ceilinged study. The room rivaled the Oval Office. French doors opened onto a terrace and a splendid bay vista with the Port of Miami in the distance. Heavy crimson drapes, the Cuban flag, and a life-size portrait of Cuban independence hero José Marti hung behind the immense mahogany desk, along with lithographs of old Havana like those I had seen only in museums. Framed photos signed with warm sentiments by politicians and celebrities covered one wall, a rogues' gallery of the rich and powerful. If this was designed to impress a writer who usually spent her time studying posters of America's Most Wanted at police headquarters—it worked. The President of the United States hugged Reyes in one frame. Reyes and Governor Eric Fielding golfed at Indian Creek together in another.

True buds and best friends, I thought with a reporter's cynicism. Since the early days of exile freedom fighting, Reyes had courted the White House and the party in power with major campaign contributions.

Security cameras were mounted in every corner. Were they being monitored? Was I being watched? Did I dare use a bathroom? Stacks of newsletters lay on an ornate glass-topped table. The masthead read
Cubanos Unidos,
“Cubans United,” an oxymoron if there ever was one. Miami has more than a hundred Cuban human rights and dissident groups with personalities and strategies ranging from left to far right. They are consumed by passion and politics,
todo el mundo
, fighting among themselves ever more fiercely, their numbers growing as those eager to be major players in a post-Castro regime sense that the time is drawing near.

As I browsed the reading material, the man made his entrance. Tanned and fit, he wore a Savile Row suit of cream-color linen over a pale Egyptian-cotton shirt. The silk tie looked like Versace. His wingtips were soft Italian leather and his belt alligator skin. He moved with a quick assurance and presence, smiling confidently. Though soothing strains of classical music were being piped throughout the house on a central stereo system, I could have sworn the Marine band was playing “Hail to the Chief” somewhere in the background.

His grip was strong and warm, and he held my hand in his a moment too long. His bold eyes were deep-set and hypnotic.

“Ms. Montero,” he said softly. “So we meet at last. Please”—he motioned—” sit down.” I sank into a comfortable leather chair near his desk while he took his seat behind it.

My eyes swept the grand surroundings. I imagined the behind-the-scenes strategy sessions, the moving and shaking and political scheming that had taken place in this room. “What a wonderful place to live and work. If these walls could talk, what secrets they could tell.”

He looked startled, then spread his hands, displaying the monogrammed initials on the cuffs of his shirt, in a gesture of helpless embarrassment. It was as though all this opulence had somehow been forced upon him despite his protests.

“I am a simple man, Ms. Montero. A
guajiro.
In my own country I would be tilling the fields this day, a man at peace with Mother Earth.”

Somehow I couldn't picture him plodding behind a plow in his two-thousand-dollar suit and wingtips.

He politely acquiesced to my use of a tape recorder and showed no objection to my initial questions. The man was surprisingly simpatico, given his reputation and my colleagues' dire warnings. We discussed the administration's plan for democracy in Cuba and the groups who advocate negotiations with Castro, ideologies, philosophies, and the work of human rights activists. Then he expressed his ideas regarding the situation at Guantanamo, the futures of Radio and TV Mart/, and the embargo.

“It must be tightened,” he said passionately. “I want the embargo tightened to the degree that nothing, not even air, reaches Castro. So he suffocates and dies.” The heavy gold signet ring glittered on his clenched fist and dark fire danced in his piercing eyes.

He launched into his vision of the future. “The end of Fidel's dictatorial regime began with the failure of communism in Eastern Europe. East Germany, Poland, and Czechoslovakia all provide us with a glimpse of Cuba's future. The winds of freedom,” he said, voice rising passionately, as though delivering an emotional speech, “will sweep away the Communists and Cuba will be rebuilt from the ground up.”

“What about property rights?” I asked quietly. “Can the exiles who fled long ago reclaim property from those who have lived on it now for decades?”

“Ahh, a practical woman.” He smiled, showing perfect, even white teeth. They must be capped, I thought. “That is a sensitive, very complex question, but I promise you that the issue will be settled fairly, in a most democratic fashion. Great change is coming, not only in Cuba, but here. Miami must expand its airport, highway, and port facilities to accommodate the resumption of trade with a free Cuba.”

“And what will your role be in that free Cuba?” I tried to look innocent.

His expression became cagey, eyes shrouded, as though nudged by an invisible public relations adviser.

“Whatever role I am privileged to play,” he said thoughtfully.

“Financial?” I prodded.

“Most certainly,” he replied quickly. “I plan to invest millions when there is a free market in Cuba.”

“What about the presidency?”

“I have never said I wanted to be the president of Cuba.”

“You would refuse the job?”

He paused as though thinking, fingering a paperweight, a solid cube of polished wood.

“What if you were drafted?”

“The people must choose.” He shrugged. “Whatever the people want. We all must make sacrifices for the cause of
Cuba libre.”

He leaned forward. “I am Cuban first, last, and always. I do not want to be president, do not seek the presidency. I will serve only if the Cuban people demand it.”

Maybe I was cynical, but I suspected that if they didn't, he just might kick the crap out of them.

The butler appeared at that moment to serve small, sweet guava
pasteles
and delicious
cafe cubano
in delicate bone china demitasse cups, far more elegant than the Styrofoam to which I am accustomed. I watched the butler, the same refined man who led me to Reyes's study, as he performed the task unobtrusively and efficiently. I held my question until he left the room.

“Why does your butler wear a gun in a shoulder holster?”

Reyes did not seem rattled by the question or impressed by my keen powers of observation.

“Exile has not been easy, Ms. Montero. For many years I was forced to wear a bulletproof vest at all times, to protect my own life. My name always surfaced near the top of the death lists circulated by Castro agents. Security is even more paramount today, now that Fidel has become a desperate man. All those in my employ are trusted members of my own security force.”

I nodded. “On the more personal side, have you ever been married?”

“No.” He smiled wistfully, leaning back in his chair. “My passion has always been Cuba,” he said softly.

I sighed. Where had I heard that one before?

The most important questions had been covered and we were chatting so comfortably that I could not resist treading on dangerous ground. Perhaps the jolt of
cafe cubano
made me reckless.

“I don't understand your animosity toward our newspaper.”

“Animosity? On my part?” His face darkened. “I can show you documentation of the distortions, comments taken out of context, all part of your newspaper's campaign of attacks, plots, and attempts to discredit me and my work, a personal vendetta.” His voice rose and he gestured angrily. “We who have been forced into exile by Fidel Castro's tyranny refuse to accept the tyranny of racism and bigotry promoted by your newspaper. Those who operate your newspaper scheme constantly to destroy my credibility. I denounce them.”

I tried not to flinch as he rose from his chair, shook his fist, and picked up speed. “I denounce them! They try to destroy me because I repudiate them and their views. They choose to ignore the holocaust taking place ninety miles from these shores!”

South Beach's aging Holocaust survivors might think his use of the word a bit strong.

“Believe me, Mr. Reyes, no one at the paper has the rime—or any reason—to plot against you.” If he had me thrown out now, I still had enough for my story, I thought. “If you could only visit the newsroom on deadline, you would understand.”

His smile was sardonic as he sank back into his comfortable chair. “My enemies at your newspaper are not those who work under the pressure of deadlines. You will find them in positions of power, in the boardroom. They issue the orders.”

I sighed, remembering Reyes's marathon rants on Spanish-language radio, sipped my coffee, and wondered again about surveillance cameras in the bathrooms.

“You are very thorough. Obviously you will speak to others who know me.”

I nodded, relieved that he seemed calmer.

“Who might they be?”

I shrugged. “Torriente, Masferrer, maybe Jorge Bravo.”

He waved the last name away like a pesky insect.
“Viejo loco,
he has troubles of his own right now. He is nothing.”

“He may well go to jail this time,” I agreed, pleased that the conversation had taken a new direction. The Coast Guard had caught the aging would-be commando thirty-five miles off the Cuban coast in a fishing boat armed with machine guns, grenade launchers, assault rifles, and twenty thousand rounds of ammo.

Bravo was currently free on bond, charged with possessing six unregistered machine guns. “He could face a maximum ten years and a quarter-million-dollar fine,” I said.

“The man is crazy.” Reyes's index finger waggled in a circular motion toward his head. “Terribly misguided. He should stick to selling vacuum cleaners.”

“Is that what he does?” Since being repatriated from a Cuban prison after the failed Bay of Pigs invasion, Bravo had spent most of his rime organizing disastrous anti-Castro missions.

“Forget him,” Reyes said disdainfully. “If you must speak to someone, why not the President? Is he good enough? Or Governor Fielding?”

I smiled nervously as the butler quietly cleared away the coffee service.

“This is the third time we have spoken recently,” Reyes commented, changing gears. “What was that first call?” His brow furrowed in thought, reminding me of Ricardo Montalbin. “Ah, yes, the unfortunate departure of Alex Aguirre. Do the police know the bomber?” He folded his hands expectantly, awaiting my answer.