Suspicion of Rage Page 3

  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.

  "Óyeme, Quintana. Listen. We want to get Ramiro Vega to freedom. A general in las Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias. Don't you see what it would do? The blow it would strike at the regime?"

  "They've managed to survive many such blows."

  The congressman laughed. "Castro is on his last legs. He needs one more push."

  "Good luck. How do you know Céspedes wasn't sent to spread disinformation?"

  "We believe him. You're in a position to find out if it's true. We're asking for your help."

  "You have spies all over Cuba. Ask one of them to talk to Ramiro."

  By now Navarro was standing red-faced over Anthony's chair. "I don't want to say this in your grandfather's house, but I am appalled by your attitude." His nostrils flared. "What are you loyal to? To anything? You who have reaped the benefits of a democratic society? Don't you give a damn about this country? Or the freedom of Cuba?"

  Anthony smiled up at Navarro. "Qué gran mojón tú eres."

  Navarro leaned closer. "You could be arrested and prosecuted for violating the embargo. You and your wife."

  The blood rushed into Anthony's cheeks; he could feel the heat of it.

  Everett Bookhouser said, "Bill. Let me."

  Navarro fell silent. Hands on his hips, his mouth in a tight line, he swerved away. Anthony could see who was in charge here, and it wasn't the congressman.

  "Nobody's going to prosecute anyone." Bookhouser's words were unhurried. He leaned forward, hands clasped loosely, elbows on his knees. "This is what we've got. When this regime goes belly up, people are going to start scrambling for power. They're already getting in line. Ramiro is rising fast in the regime. For some people, he's a threat. He's also vulnerable because he's taking bribes from the foreign companies he deals with. That's not so unusual, a lot of high officials do it, but Ramiro is being watched, and they'll use it to get him. My bet is, it's going to be sooner rather than later. They'll make an example. Prison for life, possibly execution for treason. If they think Ramiro might bring them down with him, they won't bother with an arrest. Do you understand?"

  "Yes." A chill passed along Anthony's spine. "Omar Céspedes told you this?"

  "Most of it. According to him, your brother-in-law wants out. We can help him." Bookhouser reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small notebook and pen. "You don't have to try and persuade him. Just tell him we talked to Céspedes. Tell him what I told you. See if he's interested." Bookhouser's pen moved rapidly across the paper. "If so, I want you to call this number."

  He tore the sheet off and held it in Anthony's direction. "It's a cell phone in Havana. It won't be traced."

  Anthony remained in his chair. "My wife will be with me. My children."

  "We don't believe anyone's going to move against him right now. There's time," Bookhouser said. "It's completely up to you."

  Anthony held out his hand, and Bookhouser leaned over to give him the piece of paper.

  Anthony asked, "Who's going to answer the phone?"

  "Probably me."

  "Ramiro won't trust you."

  "He trusts you."

  "I don't know if he does or not." Anthony stood and found that the chill had worked into his gut. "I can't promise you anything. It depends on the situation."

  "Fair enough."

  He slid the piece of paper into his trousers pocket. "Forgive me, but it's late, and my wife is probably wondering where I am." Ignoring the congressman, he turned toward the desk, where Ernesto Pedrosa leaned on crossed arms.

  The old man was tired; his skin sagged into shadows and lines. "Tell your sister for me that she's welcome in this house."

  Anthony said, "Buenas noches, abuelo."

  "Ten cuidado, m'ijo."

  He walked into the hall with his grandfather's words in his ear: Be careful, my son.

  3

  Gail said it would take only an hour or so to finish packing, and no, she didn't need any help, but thank you anyway. Anthony headed for the shower, and Gail went to her daughter's room to say good night.

  Karen, in an oversized Miami Hurricanes T-shirt, sat at her computer. The desk lamp outlined her profile and made a nimbus of light around her long hair.

  "Hey, sweetie pie. Shouldn't you be in bed?" She came in and shut the door.

  "In a minute, okay?" Karen clicked the mouse as the cursor moved down the screen. "I'm downloading some games."

  Gail saw the cable running from the computer to Karen's PDA. "Oh, Karen. You're not taking that with you."

  "In case I get bored."
<
br />   "Bored?" Gail sat on the end of the bed. "Be serious. We're going to Havana tomorrow. Havana. Don't tell me you plan to stay indoors playing Tetris."

  The monitor light flickered on Karen's face. "Who am I supposed to hang out with? They're all older than me. Plus, does anybody speak English?"

  "Well, if they don't, you can practice your Spanish."

  Large blue eyes rolled upward for an instant, then fixed once more on the screen.

  "Come on, Karen, turn it off. You're going to be exhausted tomorrow."

  "Wait, wait, just let me get this one. That's all, I swear."

  "You've got sixty seconds." Gail picked up two large pillows in their bright shams and stacked them on a chair, leaving the old, thin pillow that Karen had slept with since she was four. The Little Mermaid pillowcase was threadbare and faded, but Karen refused to give it up. Gail let her do her room the way she wanted, though it hardly matched the upscale decor of this top-floor, fully furnished, four-grand-a month Coconut Grove apartment. Anthony was paying for it; he liked the view.

  To turn down the comforter, Gail had to move Karen's backpack out of the way. The strap slipped from her fingers. "What've you got in here, bricks?"

  Karen glanced over. "Nothing. Just stuff I'm taking with me."

  "Mind if I see?"

  "It's just magazines and stuff."

  Gail unzipped the backpack and looked inside, finding Karen's iPod, headphones, and several DVDs in their plastic cases. And wrapped in an old T-shirt, a portable DVD player, which had been her father's overly extravagant Christmas present. "No way. You're not taking this." Over Karen's protests, Gail said, "It's too expensive, and I don't want it confiscated."

  "Is that like stolen?"

  "No, it's like when the customs agents take it away when you come into the country. Or they make you pay a huge tax on it. We're leaving it here. Sorry."

  Sighing, Karen crossed her arms on the back of the chair and let her chin sink onto them.

  Rummaging further into the backpack, Gail took out two dozen granola bars, boxes of fruit juice, some trail mix, a jar of peanut butter. "Karen... why are you taking food?"

  "We might get hungry. People are starving in Cuba, but the police keep them out of sight so the tourists don't see."

  "Where did you hear that?"

  "Danny told me."

  She called him what Anthony's son preferred: his middle name, Daniel. Luis Daniel Quintana had grown up in suburban New Jersey, and he barely spoke Spanish. Gail said, "That is absolutely not true, and we're not going to insult Marta's family by bringing our own food. They have more than enough."

  "Are they rich?"

  "I don't think so. Cuba doesn't have rich people anymore. But I guess some people have more than others, like anywhere else."

  "Can I keep it for snacks?"

  "Snacks only. At dinner you'll eat what everyone else does." Gail lifted out a blue nylon bag. "What's in here?"

  Karen sat up straight. "My emergency supplies. I am definitely taking that."

  "May I?" When Karen only stared back at her, Gail unzipped the bag and removed a compass, a first-aid kit, a mirror, some rope, a small flashlight with extra batteries, a rain poncho, an empty plastic bottle, and a pack of water purification tablets. Gail noticed a glint of aluminum foil at the bottom and took out an object about four inches long. She peeled back the foil and found the Swiss Army knife that Karen's father had given her. Holding it up between thumb and forefinger, she said, "Do you want to explain this?"

  "That's so the X-rays at the airport can't see it."

  "No, I mean how did you think you could get away with carrying a knife on an airplane? Are you trying to get us all arrested?"

  "I just thought we might have to cut the rope or something."

  Gail slid the knife into the pocket of her shorts, then reached out and tugged on Karen's hand. "Come sit here with me. What's going on?"

  "We might need it. You just never know, Mom."

  "Are you afraid something will happen to us?" Gail drew her closer and kissed her forehead. "Silly. Havana is perfectly safe. Maybe more so than here," she added.

  Karen's sun-blond brows pulled together. "They say that if you go out after dark you can get robbed. Tourists are attacked there all the time, especially American tourists, and most especially women."

  "Danny again?"

  "He knows, Mom. He's Cuban."

  "He's about as Cuban as you are. Anthony wouldn't let us go if it wasn't safe."

  Karen gave a little snort. "What a jerk. I hate him."

  "He was just teasing you."

  "Because he's a jerk. Plus he's only sixteen and he drinks. A lot"

  "When? Tonight?"

  "Molly and me saw him in the backyard with some, like, older guys, and they were drinking and smoking."

  "What were you doing out there? Spying on the boys?"

  "I was showing Molly the house! We have a right to take a walk. Mom, don't tell Anthony what I said. I do not want Danny to think I was ratting him out."

  "I won't say anything." She didn't have to; Anthony already knew about his son's misbehavior. A good reason for taking him to Cuba, Anthony had told her. Make the boy appreciate what he had. What Danny really thought about this trip, Gail didn't know. He had chosen to stay at the Pedrosa house pending departure. He and his older sister, Angela, would be in the limo when it arrived downstairs in the morning. They would pick up Gail's mother next, then head for the airport.

  Gail told Karen it was late, to turn off her computer.

  When the screen was dark, and the backpack refilled with everything but contraband items, Gail pulled down the comforter, and Karen got into bed. With the lamp on the nightstand sending a soft glow into the room, Gail scooted her over a little and lay down beside her. She smoothed Karen's hair. The honey-brown color had been brightened by long days in the sun playing soccer for her team at Biscayne Academy and sailing with her father. Karen had Dave's square jaw and strong nose. She would not be a beautiful woman, but she was loyal and good, and people would see that. Karen fought her own battles at school; she was protective of her friends. And her family. It had taken her a while to warm up to Anthony Quintana. She had measured him against her father, and though he'd come out second best, he was, in Karen's view, not so bad that he was bound to make her mother miserable. She liked him well enough, but he was still on probation.

  "I love you, sweetie," Gail said.

  Karen was already asleep, her breath coming softly through parted lips.

  Gail turned off the lamp and quietly closed the door.

  The master suite was at the opposite end of the apartment, past the living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over a marina, some small mangrove islands, and the bay curving toward the horizon. A gorgeous place, but leased for only a year. Soon they would look for a house, something to please all three of them, at a comfortable midpoint, if possible, between her office and his, yet close enough to Karen's friends so she wouldn't feel completely uprooted.

  A few times, coming home from her office and riding up in an elevator full of strangers, Gail had the sense that she had stumbled into the wrong building. The feeling was not always dispelled when she opened the door to an apartment filled with sleek modern furniture and rugs she would never have chosen for herself. More than once she had heard a key in a lock and had seen a tall, dark-haired man coming in, and for just an instant wondered what he was doing there. But he would smile at her and drop his briefcase onto the sofa, and pull her into his arms. That moment promised all she could want of home.

  They had met four years ago and battled their way through a relationship that neither could have predicted. But here they were. Gail trusted that it would last. What she wanted now more than anything was to feel the days gradually settle into a solid and predictable routine.

  On her way into the bedroom she heard Anthony talking on the phone. He wasn't shouting, but he was getting close. Gail paused, unsure whether to interru
pt.

  "Go put a note on his door." Anthony pointed as if the other person were standing in front of him. "Dile que me llame. I don't give a damn what time he gets in, he must call. Otherwise, I will have him on a plane back to his mother." He paced beside the bed in his silk bathrobe, the phone to his ear. "No, mi niña, I'm not angry with you, I promise. We'll see you in the morning. Sleep well. Duérmete bien. " He hung up and let out a breath.

  Gail said, "Who was that, Angela? Is everything all right?"

  Anthony made a dismissive wave. "Her brother went out with his cousins after the party. She thinks he went to South Beach. He isn't answering his cell phone. If he oversleeps in the morning, he can stay here. I don't give a shit what he does."

  "Oh, come on. He's only sixteen."

  "What kind of excuse is that? He's irresponsible and inconsiderate. I can see it now, chasing him down all over Havana."

  "What's the matter with you tonight? Would you please stop yelling at me?"

  Anthony lightly touched his temples before dropping his hands and fixing his dark eyes on her. "Forgive me." He leaned over and kissed her cheek, then patted it. "Perdóname, mi amor. I'm tired. Come to bed. Did you finish packing?"

  "Not yet. I was saying good night to Karen."

  "Honey, I told you, in Havana they dress like we do here. Casual clothes, but be a little conservative. Take a couple of dresses, if we go out at night. Not your best ones. How hard is that?"

  "I don't want people to stare at me and say, 'Oh, look, a tourist.' "

  "There are blondes in Cuba. There is every color in the world."

  "There's no way I can pass for a Cuban."

  "I didn't say you should. No, I like what you are, an American."

  "It's funny when you call me that, 'an American,' as if I'm from another country."

  He smiled. "In Miami, you are."

  "Is that why you married me? Because I'm exotic?"

  "Sexy and exotic. My friends are jealous."

  "I'll bet. Skinny me. Your ... girafa linda! You're the only one I'd let call me that, a pretty giraffe." She slid her hands up the satin lapels of his robe.