Suspicion of Rage (45 page)

Ruiz saluted. "General Garcia, this is Tomás Fernández."

The man smiled, lifted a hand in an imitation of a salute, and bobbed his head. "I am honored, general."

Leaning back in his chair, Garcia spoke to Ruiz. "I expected a phone call."

With a dark look at his companion, Ruiz said, "I'm sorry, sir. He wouldn't tell me. He said he wanted to deliver the report personally."

Garcia blew out a stream of smoke. "Do you have something for me, Fernández?"

"Yes, general. I have the details of the operation." Fernández interlaced his thin white fingers at the level of his heart. He was beaming with self-importance. He was foiling an antisocialist plot. He said, "As you know, I was recruited by yourself, through Sergeant Raúl Ruiz, to infiltrate the Twenty-Eighth of January Movement, a counterrevolutionary organization formed three years ago to carry out terrorist attacks against the government—"

"Enough!" Garcia saw the man blink. "I know how you became involved, Mr. Fernández. Just tell me at what time the operation will be carried out. What time?"

"Mario Cabrera, a founder of the Movement and also, as you may know, the stepson of the dissident José Leiva—" His words came faster as Garcia made a circular motion with one hand. "Cabrera will arrive at the home of General Ramiro Vega tonight at seven o'clock. He intends to carry out the operation at seven-fifteen precisely. Therefore, our comrades should be placed inside the house by six o'clock."

Standing at ease, hands clasped at the small of his back, Sergeant Ruiz stared over Garcia's head as Fernandez continued to babble about the make of Cabrera's automobile, his pistol, the people who would be at the house, the layout of the rooms—

Garcia waved him quiet. "Ruiz, do you have the list of the co-conspirators?"

"I have it." Fernández fumbled in a pocket of his baggy brown trousers and withdrew a piece of paper, which he unfolded. "There are seventeen members in the Movement. Shall I read the names to you, general?"

"No. Put it on my desk." Garcia drew the paper closer and scanned the handwritten list of names and addresses. He looked up at Fernández. "Your name is not here."

"Only the counterrevolutionaries are on the list, sir. The name of Raúl Ruiz is not there either, as you see." Fernández took a step forward, pointing at certain names. "Some of them are only marginally involved. Those of more importance to the Movement are underlined."

"I see. Very good." He touched his hp with his handkerchief.

"What will become of them?" Fernández asked. "I— I am curious. That is all."

"They will be arrested and put on trial for treason. You will receive a medal for your service to your country."

Behind his glasses, Fernandez's eyes gleamed. "Thank you. Thank you, general. Will I be introduced to President Castro? Do you think that is possible?"

"Of course." Garcia put his cigarette to his lips, pausing to say, "He will want to embrace you."

Fernández made a strange gurgle of delight, then ducked his head in apology. "I am overwhelmed. Forgive me. The enemies of Cuba are many, and we must all defend the Revolution. It has been my honor, my privilege, to serve you, for in serving you, I serve the Cuban people, who suffer under threats from both outside and within—"

As he continued to talk, Garcia swiveled in his chair and pressed a button on his telephone. A moment later the door opened, and two men in olive-green fatigues entered. "Mr. Fernández? You will please go with these men."

Fernández looked around, an expression of bovine stupidity on his face. He asked Ruiz, "Aren't you taking me back to Havana?"

Ruiz moved aside. Garcia motioned, and the men took Fernandez's arms. He stammered, "Where are we going? Please, not so tightly. I can walk. May I ask ... for what purpose ... ?" Like an animal sensing the imminence of its own death, Fernández rolled his eyes. "I can't stay. I need to get back. My girlfriend is expecting me for dinner." When they took him through the door, he was saying, "Wait. Please wait. Raúl, what is going on? I don't understand this."

When they had gone, Garcia got up to stretch his legs. "Talk to me for a moment. Close the door."

The knob disappeared inside one of Ruiz's immense hands.

Garcia said, "They'll wait for you to do it. I've told them that you will."
 

"Sir?"

"Fernández. I want you to kill him."

The impassive black eyes flickered. "With all respect, general, I'd rather not. I know him."

"All the more reason." Garcia tapped his cigarette over the ashtray. Waited.

Ruiz nodded. "I'll do it."

"You can make it quick. It doesn't have to be messy." Garcia reached across the desk and spun the list to see it. "Fernández mentioned a girlfriend. Is she here?"

Ruiz studied the names. "No, I don't see her. But she doesn't know anything. She wasn't a part of it."

"Let's not leave any loose ends, all right? You take care of it for me."

"She has two kids."

"And?"

The eyes flickered again. Ruiz said, "It isn't necessary, general. She knows nothing." "Have you lost your nerve?" "No. I'll take care of it."

Garcia extended the pack of cigarettes, and Ruiz took one, lighting it from the matches on the desk. "What do you think, Ruiz? Will Cabrera follow through?"

"Don't worry. He's pissed off about Leiva's arrest. He blames Vega."

Garcia smiled through an exhalation of smoke. He had called MININT himself to insist that Leiva be taken into custody. "And did Cabrera believe that General Vega was behind Olga Saavedra's death?"

"Yes, he bought that story, too. Who did kill her? One of us?"

Garcia shrugged. "Maybe it was Vega. It could have been. It doesn't matter. Soon this will be over, sergeant. We can relax. Go now. I have to make a telephone call."

Before reaching for the handset, Garcia paused to consider the sergeant's reactions. He had handpicked Ruiz from the best of the best. A skillful, fearless man, loyal first to himself. Such men responded well to money and power, and Garcia had supplied them. He trusted Ruiz, but he was bothered by Ruiz's hesitation. He weighed whether to get rid of him. It wouldn't be a bad idea. But not now. Ruiz was brutal and quick. He would be needed when Quintana arrived.

Garcia went back to the closet, closed the door behind himself, and once again slid back the panel to peer into the bedroom. The girl had not moved. But wait. Her arm now lay across her stomach. She would probably not die after all. He felt his mood lift.

Returning to his office, Garcia looked at his.watch. Five-thirty.

He picked up the telephone and dialed Anthony Quintana's number.

 

 

 

 

40

 

 

“Impossible," Anthony said. "I can't meet you outside Havana. If you want the files, bring Karen back to the city. We'll make the exchange in a public place." Garcia again demanded that Anthony drive into the countryside, a place south of Rancho Boyeros, where a car would pick him up and bring him the rest of the way.

"I am telling you, I can't do that." With effort, he kept
 
his voice level. Sweat made his hand slick on the telephone. "It's my wife. She would never let me do it. I can't control her much longer. She is on the verge of calling Fidel Castro himself.... You've kidnapped her only child. How do you expect her to react? Name a place in the city, and I'll be there. . .
 
What about outside the Karl Marx Theater? It's in Miramar. . . . No, I haven't called Ramiro. I haven't called anyone. . . .We just want Karen back. We don't care about anything else. Please hear what I'm saying. I will not go outside the city."

The ominous silence on the line went on for a time before the general said what Hector Mesa had predicted he would say: "Come to my apartment in Chinatown." There was a pause. Garcia added, "Bring your wife."

"Why? You and I are making a simple trade."
 

"Bring her. She will keep your mind on what you have to do. I can easily leave Cuba right now. How would you find the girl? It could take a long time. I wonder how long she would survive without water."

Biting back his first response, Anthony closed his eyes and pounded a fist silently on Ramiro's desk. There was no alternative. He said he would bring Gail with him.

Garcia told him to arrive at six-thirty. "If you are early or late, you will find no one there."

 

At a quarter till six they were driving past the Capitol. Dusk had robbed all color from the sky. Sea mist made the streetlights appear wrapped in white silk. Anthony glanced over at Gail in the passenger seat. Her earlier panic had chilled to a fine-edged anger.

Leaving so soon after his conversation with Garcia cut the risk that they would be shadowed. Anthony had seen no one trailing them, but he could not be sure. He believed that his advantage lay in a peculiar trait he had noticed in men of power. The longer they held it, the more complacent they became. They grew to believe that their power was a law of nature, like gravity. They assumed that those under their control would do as they were told.

Gail broke the silence. "I'm so scared, Anthony. Scared for her."

"She'll be with us soon, sweetheart." He took her hand and kissed it, hoping he hadn't just lied to her. She loved him, but Karen was her life. "Gail, I want you to do this. When we reach the apartment, stay on the street. I'm sure that Garcia will have one of his men downstairs. He can confirm that you came with me."

"That's not a good idea," she said. "I'd rather do what Garcia wants. Don't think I'm going to stay behind when Karen is up there."

"Are you listening? Stay on the street. You would be in the way."

"No." Gail stared through the windshield.

"Jesus." Blowing out a breath, he turned left into Old Havana, away from Chinatown. "Karen is enough to deal with. I don't want to worry about getting both of you out of there."

She looked at him. "You think he's going to do something. He might try to kill us. Is that what you're saying?"

He took her hand again. "No, sweetheart. I will give him the disk, and he will give me Karen. If you're there, it would be a distraction. That's all."

"Anthony, did you really put the files on the disk?"

"Yes. Do you think I would gamble with a blank disk?"

"But how did you get them off Ramiro's computer? How did you find them? You went downstairs and you weren't gone for more than fifteen minutes—"

"It was luck. I found them and I made a copy. I think I have them all." The lie came easily, flowing out of his mouth as though it had happened exactly the way he spoke it. The truth—that he had nothing at all on the disk—would have unhinged her. "Remember this. Garcia doesn't know what Ramiro has, so whatever I give him, how can he say they aren't the right files, or that I have withheld some of them?" Anthony pressed her hand to his lips.
"Todo va a salir bien.
I promise you. Within an hour we will be back at Ramiro's house. All of us."

Gail stared at him for a few seconds, then sank back into her seat, silent again.

After making a complete circuit of one of the residential blocks and seeing no headlights following, he found an apartment building with space at the curb. He maneuvered the Toyota into the spot and killed the engine. A bare-chested man with a beer in his hand watched from the small porch of the building. Anthony held up ten dollars and asked if he could leave the car there for a little while. With a nod, the man pocketed the money.

Taking Gail's arm, Anthony crossed the street a block south of the Capitol. She had no trouble keeping up in her running shoes and jeans. They turned north, and soon the Dragon Gate came into view. The neighborhood was alive with people, color, and noise. Paper lanterns swung from lines crisscrossing the street. Music blared through the open windows of a bar. Hand in hand, they pushed into the crowd. A slender woman in a silk tunic waved a menu as they walked under the awning of a restaurant. He heard a loud pop and the laughter of boys running away. Smoke drifted upward, swirled, and vanished.

A small man came alongside, his head barely clearing Anthony's shoulder. In English he said, "Candy? Señora, some candy for your child? Only twenty-five cents." He held up a basket. Anthony saw a brown hand and the sleeve of an embroidered silk tunic. He looked at the man's face. Not a
chino. A mulato
with curly gray hair and glasses with old plastic frames. Hector Mesa. He dropped a wrapped sweet into Gail's hand. As though bumped by someone behind him, he lurched forward, and Anthony heard him say, "Wait for me at the bar in Tien-Lu. Two blocks north." He and his basket vanished into the crowd.

"What did he say to you?" Gail asked.

Anthony looked around for the nearest cross street. They followed it between buildings that crowded the narrow sidewalk. He put his arm around her and his lips close to her ear. "We're meeting Hector at a bar."

"When are we going to get Karen?"

"Soon. It's going to be all right,
bonboncita.
Just do what I tell you and don't ask so many questions."

She frowned but said nothing more.

The Tien-Lu was a dive with few customers. He installed Gail on a bar stool and signaled the waitress. The time was five minutes until six. The waitress set down a bottled beer that Anthony didn't touch. Gail stirred the ice in her cola. Fifteen minutes later Hector slid onto the stool to Anthony's right. He had ditched the costume.

Gail leaned forward to see him. "Hello, Hector."

"Señora." He smiled at her and clasped his hands on the bar. They were too big for his narrow wrists. The knuckles were like walnuts, and his veins roped across the tendons. The curved reflections of a red lantern obscured his eyes. In Spanish he said, "I saw the Chinaman go upstairs. A black man was with him, carrying a rug in his arms. I think it was not a rug. He was careful, so I am sure that the girl is okay."

"Who else is with them?"

"Two men. I see one of them at the entrance. The other went up the stairs. There may be others. I don't know."