“Good question,” Michael said. “Maybe he knows you better than you think.”
Luis thought about it. “You have a point.”
“Maybe he knows that you remain loyal to the people you love.”
Luis shrugged it off.
“Anyway, they prepped me how to respond to the questions they expected you to ask.” He paused. “If that didn’t work, I was to use whatever means necessary.”
“Did you see Ramon? Meet him?”
“There was no time.”
“I see.” Luis, who had been reading a book, closed it. ‘From the first day to this, sheer greed was the driving spirit of civilization.’ He peered at Michael over his reading glasses. “Friedrich Engels. The father of communism.”
“He wasn’t—isn’t—altogether wrong,” Michael said.
Luis smiled.
“Luis… Father…” This was the first time Michael had called him “Father,” Luis noted. “My contact and the people he works for believe there’s a fortune at stake. They have put a plan in motion. A plan that won’t end even if I don’t complete the job. They are relentless, and—”
Luis raised his palm. “Before you go on, I want to tell you a story.” Luis told him about the geologist who thought coltan was black gold, and how he and Ramon had tailed him to the mine. How Ramon had told Luis to sketch a map of the location. How they were attacked by rebels, Ramon was shot, and taken away. How Luis thought he was dead. And how he’d kept the map all these years as a tribute to their friendship.
“When did you learn it could be valuable?” Michael asked. “I mean, why did you decide to hide it?”
Luis smiled. “We may be backward compared to America, but we are not stupid. I read. And since I spent time in that part of the world, I try to keep up. I realized a few years ago that the map might be of interest to some. Ramon certainly thought it would be. So I thought I should protect it.” He flipped up one hand. “One never knows.”
Michael cleared his throat. “Look. I’ve been thinking. I want you to come to America with me. You and Carla. We will deal with this—together. As a family.”
Luis blinked back a sudden wetness in his eyes. It occurred to him that he’d been waiting for a declaration like this for years: a public recognition that the woman he loved had borne his son, that they were joined through that son forever. But this wasn’t the time for sentiment. He needed to focus. “Resolver,” as they said. He took a moment to compose himself, then placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder.
“What you have said means more to me than anything I can remember. But I cannot go to America.”
“You do not understand. As soon as my contact figures out I’ve aborted the mission, he will come for the map himself. He will kill you.”
“He has no idea where I am.”
“I found you.”
Luis pressed his lips together. “I am old. Closer to the end than the beginning.”
“¡Mierda!” Michael shot back. “You are not old. But you are in danger.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “You cannot refuse. It would be suicide.”
“But I must,” Luis said patiently.
“Why?” Irritation laced his son’s voice. Then he stopped. “You’re worried about seeing my mother, aren’t you?”
Luis didn’t reply.
“We will deal with her. And my grandfather. Together. After Suarez.”
Luis looked up. “What about Ramon? Are you going to kill him?”
It was Michael’s turn not to answer.
“You see? I cannot ask the son I just discovered to avenge his father.”
Michael started to argue, but his father persisted. “You have a life now…” he gestured toward Carla. “You will have your own family. You should not carry my burdens on your shoulders.”
“But they are going to kill you.”
“Perhaps not.” Luis explained how Ramon and he had been childhood friends in Oriente. How they came to Havana together to study. How they both drifted into the revolution. How Ramon, not much of a student, dropped out of university and landed a job at the hotel. “That was how I met your mother, you know.”
Michael listened, albeit with a skeptical expression.
Luis told him how Tony Pacelli tortured Ramon thirty years ago to find out where his daughter had fled. And, more recently, how the Angolan rebels tortured him as well, for the sole reason that he was on the wrong side of the war.
“Ramon has had a hard life, an impossible life. I am glad he is alive, and I am sure he considers the map and the riches it will bring him his due. And this may surprise you, but I do not disagree. He deserves his reward. I have no interest in the mine. I never did.” He leaned forward. “What’s more, I do not harbor any ill will toward him, except as it concerns you. I do not like that they used you to deceive me. So perhaps, if I explain this, Ramon will change his mind.”
“Father, you cannot be that naïve.”
Luis smiled. “Why do you think Ramon chose you for this mission?”
“Because he knew you wouldn’t give the map to anyone else.”
“Exactly. But what if he engineered this so you and I could find each other?”
Michael nodded. “I wondered about that, but—” He was quiet for a moment. “At this point it does not matter. If you are right, Suarez’s generosity ended with him. My contact, Walters, has different motives. He’s a danger to us.”
Luis was about to reply when Carla opened her eyes and stretched.
• • •
After they arrived back in Havana, Carla went straight to bed. Luis motioned for Michael to follow him into his room. “I want to show you where the map is.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“But you must.” He led Michael into a small room with a bed not much larger than a cot. A brightly colored woven rug, about as big as a bath mat, lay on the floor next to the bed. Luis picked it up. Underneath was a loose floorboard. He raised it and rooted around. He pulled out a large white envelope.
“Aqui.” Luis made sure Michael saw it, then put it back under the floorboard. He pressed down until the board snapped back in place. He spread the rug back on top.
Michael spoke up. “It’s hard for me to believe you care nothing for the map. It could make you wealthy. Change your life.”
“It already has. It brought you to me.”
Michael put his hand on Luis’s arm. “Thank you. But this is only the beginning. I know you are retired from the army, but your pension is not nearly enough. Please, Father. Put your affairs in order. You and Carla and I—and the map—are going to the States. In the next few days, in fact.”
“How do you propose to do that? It’s not easy for Cubans to leave the country. We will need a tarjeta blanca, Carla and I. They take time. Months, perhaps years.”
“Leave that to me.”
Luis gazed at Michael. Clearly there were things he had yet to discover about his son. “Why so soon?”
Michael hesitated before answering. “I sent a telegram to my contact saying I needed more time. But I’m not sure he will give it to me. If he doesn’t, he will—as I’ve said—come here himself to complete the mission.”
“When?”
“The original plan was a month after I arrived.” Michael hesitated. “The month was up three days ago.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Why the fuck would anyone want to live here, Walters thought as he stared out at Havana Bay. Whitecaps sparkled in the Caribbean waters, but the beauty of the bay was lost on him. He’d only been here twenty-four hours—he’d sneaked in from Mexico—but he was already disgusted by the poverty, the come-ons from both sexes, the incessant din of the music. This place was no better than the African jungle. Well, maybe one step up. At best a third world society, where desperation leaked from walls like water from broken pipes. Even the hotel he was staying in—one of the best in the city, he’d been told—wouldn’t rate two stars back in the States.
He turned a
way from the view and rummaged in his suitcase. Although he was furious, he wasn’t entirely surprised the operation had gone south. He should have realized when you dealt with spics, it was never smooth. He should never have listened to that punk Gonzalez or Suarez or whatever he was calling himself now. Fucking Cuban lizard turncoat. Like all of them. They told you what they thought you wanted to hear. Just enough to snatch the money you dangled in front of them or a free ride to Miami. His pals back at the Agency had warned him. At least the rebels in Angola were honest. Stupid but honest.
On top of that DeLuca had disappeared. Taken off. The kid sent him a telegram when he’d arrived in Havana. And another a few days ago asking for more time. But when Walters replied, he never got a confirmation reply. The little wop had vanished into the fog that shrouded the harbor at night. Either he’d decided to rip off the map for himself, or he had fucked up the assignment and was dead. Too bad. Either way, his client would be enraged. He might have him taken out.
A wave of anger rippled through him. He should never have brought Suarez to the States. But his superiors back in Langley were hot for the chance to turn a Cuban Army officer. They’d debriefed Suarez “aggressively,” as the Agency put it, when he arrived, but the guy had no intel worth passing on. He could have told them that would happen. Angola was a hemorrhoid on the continent of Africa. Nobody cared about FAPLA or UNITA or the South African Army. They were unimportant. A footnote in history. The day he’d been relieved of duty in Angola was the best day of his life.
Not like today. He scowled. To make things worse, the Outfit was breathing down his throat. The guy who’d hooked him up with Pacelli kept telling him Pacellli wanted updates on his goddamned grandson. Sure, he’d replied. He had shit to report. But if he didn’t give him something, Pacelli might send his thugs after him. Not good, the guy who’d made the connection kept saying. Not good at all. Like a fucking parrot. Like Walters didn’t already know?
He sat on the bed, head in his hands. What had he gotten himself into? All he wanted was a decent living. Too old for the Agency, too smart for a desk job. This was supposed to be his swan song. His “I’ll-never-have-to-work-another-day-in-my-life” reward. God knows he’d earned it. Listening. Currying favor. Making things happen. But now he didn’t know a goddamned thing about his own operation. If there weren’t so much money involved, he’d shitcan the whole thing. Leave this godforsaken place and get back to America.
But he couldn’t. He had to find the asshole with the map. He hoped it wouldn’t take long. When he did, he’d find out if DeLuca made off with it, and, if so, where. Then he’d take care of them both. He opened his suitcase, removed two pistols, a revolver, and a hunting knife. Checked to see they were all in working order. As he did, he realized he’d never be done with clean-up operations. At the Agency he was the guy who made everything neat and tidy. And untraceable. He snapped his suitcase shut. Some things never changed.
• • •
The chirp of birds woke Carla at dawn the next morning. Most likely a family of trogons, the blue, red, and white national bird of Cuba. She didn’t mind. She’d slept well, which was unusual for her. It must have something to do with sorrow. Knowing she would never see her father again, she’d bid farewell to him in Santiago de Cuba. They’d both shed tears. Hugged each other close. Afterwards all she wanted to do was sleep.
But now she felt rested and energized. Perhaps there was a limit to the amount of sorrow a soul could absorb. Whatever the reason, she decided to get up and make breakfast for Michael and Luis. In the kitchen she found eggs, bread, and enough coffee for three cups.
She went to the stove to heat water and toast the bread, but when she turned the knob for gas, nothing happened. Like the electricity, the gas often shut off without warning. There was no way to tell how long it would last. She would slice fruit instead. Still, her mood didn’t dampen, and she hummed as she searched for a knife.
She’d known Miguel barely a month, but her life had changed dramatically. And now irrevocably. She went back into the tiny space they used as a bedroom. Miguel was still asleep, his legs tangled in the sheet. She watched the rise and fall of his chest and breathed in his scent; she loved knowing their smells had blended together. Was it love? Perhaps. Perhaps not. She’d never been in love before.
A moment later, as if he’d felt her presence, he rolled over and slowly came awake. His thick hair was tangled, and a cowlick stuck out on top. His eyes were still hooded and smoky with sleep, but they tracked her up and down. She sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over and kissed him. His lips were sweet and full of desire. She felt herself become aroused. She forgot about breakfast and crawled back into bed.
Afterwards, she brushed the thatch of hair off his forehead.
“Buenos dias,” he said, still on top of her.
She grinned.
He rolled off, leaned back, and laced his hands behind his head. “We have an expression in English: ‘You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.’”
“What does it mean?”
“It means to be very pleased with oneself.”
She nodded. “Ahh. In Spanish we say “Estar más ancho que largo. No cabe en si de satisfacción.”
Michael tickled her chin. “I think I see your whiskers,” he teased. “Why so happy?”
“Because I am two weeks late with my period. And I am never late.”
She watched as it sank in. His brow furrowed. He looked pensive. Then comprehension dawned. “You are pregnant?”
She nodded tentatively.
His face lit. “This is wonderful!” He gathered her in his arms.
Carla hadn’t realized how tense she’d been. Now she sagged against him. She couldn’t have hoped for a better reaction. Maybe it was love. Her eyes filled.
He tipped up her chin with his fist. “No,” he whispered. “This is a time for joy, not tears. Let’s tell my father. We’ll wake him up.”
She giggled and stroked his brow, aware she was laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh, let the poor man sleep. There is plenty of time.”
Michael clasped her to him, planting kisses on her neck, her chest, her breasts. When at last he stopped, she whispered, “Now who is the gato?”
He slipped his arm around her neck and nestled her into the crook of his elbow. “Maybe there is something to your philosophy.”
“Which one?”
That everything happens the way it is supposed to.” He made tiny circles on her stomach.
She stretched to give him more of it to rub.
“There is only one thing,” he said. “We cannot have the baby here.”
“Not in Havana, you’re right. We should probably go to—”
He cut her off. “Not in Cuba. You are coming with me to America. My father, too.”
“America?” She extricated herself from his arms.
He nodded, still patting her belly.
She tensed. His stroking ceased. “Are you crazy? How will we get there? I do not have a tarjeta blanca, and they are impossible to get if you are not connected.”
“You won’t need one.”
She removed his hand from her stomach. “What are you suggesting?”
“There are—other ways.”
“What other ways? I am a doctor. They will never let me leave.”
His confident expression faded.
“I know it is dangerous, but perhaps we could find a place to hide here. Cuba is not perfect…” her voice trailed off, “… but it is the only home I know.”
“Carla, you have no life here; at least no life worth living anymore. If the CDR finds you…”
It was her turn to interrupt. “But—your mother… she will never accept me. And your grandfather. They do not want to be reminded of Cuba. I will be—”
“Carla. You are going to be the mother of my baby. Our baby.” His expression was solemn. “I want our child to grow up in America. I was planning to take you with me anyway, before I knew about—this. But now
…” he got out of bed. “…it is more important.”
“Miguel, this does not feel right. It is not the time. Perhaps in a while…”
His voice sharpened. “Are you still putting stock in what that Santería priestess said?”
When she didn’t reply, his voice spiked. “Don’t you realize she was a total charlatan? A fake? All she wanted was our money. She was making it up. All of it. ”
Carla kept quiet. Her mouth felt as dry as dust.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Michael thought it through before he fell asleep. He didn’t expect Luis or Carla to help him find a way back to the States. As an MP in the army he’d never started an assignment without knowing how he would finish it, and an exit scenario had been part of the plan. Walters was going to send a tiny plane out of Miami when Michael was ready; it would land near Pinar del Rio in the middle of the night to pick him up.
But now he had to scramble for another plan, and he couldn’t burden his father or Carla. Whatever they might suggest would put them at more risk; they needed to keep a low profile. He’d come into Cuba through Mexico, but they couldn’t leave that way; neither Carla nor his father had passports.
Which left either a private plane or boat. If he’d had more time, he could have arranged a plane without Walters. In the army he knew people who knew people in the Keys who were flying in and out, picking up and delivering “cargo.” The addition of human “freight” wouldn’t be a big deal. But he had no time to track them down or coordinate logistics.
So a boat was the best option, but he’d have to use his resources here to find one. He went back over everyone he’d met since he’d come to Cuba. There was Carla’s doctor friend at the clinic—the one who’d been to Angola and told him where soldiers hung out in Havana. Mario, his name was. But Carla wouldn’t be returning to the clinic, and her colleagues would be under orders to report any contact with her. She had become a traitor. A guzano, a worm. He doubted Mario could withstand the pressure.
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