by Sam Hawken
“He has more money coming? From where?”
“The Cubans have to pay double now. That’s another hundred grand. But he’s not going to let go of the first payment. He’s gonna lean on me.”
“Do you think he’d kill you?” Camaro asked.
Parker’s face was misery. “I don’t know. I can’t risk it.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I need you.”
“How?” Camaro asked.
“I’m going to try and hold Matt off. I’m going to tell him that I’m having a hard time getting my hands on the money. Because it’s locked away somewhere that’s tough to get to, or something. I’ll hold on to it as long as I have to for him to finish off what he’s doing, and then I’ll get lost. I’ll give him the money and get lost.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Camaro said.
“If something happens to me, I need you to get Lauren out.”
A memory of Lauren in the photograph flashed through Camaro’s mind again, flickering with the elements of life, but not quite, frozen in that moment. Now she was a fourteen-year-old girl whose father Camaro knew only a little but who had no one else to cling to. “I don’t know, Parker,” she said.
“Please. The money is hidden at my place. There’s a loose board in the back of my closet. You pull it out, and you’ll find the case. There’s forty thousand bucks in it. Take some of it for yourself. Take all of it, I don’t care. Just make sure no one can get to Lauren.”
“What am I supposed to do with your kid?” Camaro said. “Take her on my boat and raise her?”
“My brother. He lives out in Texas. You can get in touch with him, make him come out and take her. I just know you won’t let anything happen to her.”
“You don’t know me at all,” Camaro said.
“I know you were a soldier. That has to count for something. You’re not the kind of person who’d let a little girl get hurt. Tell me I’m wrong.”
The waitress came in their direction. Camaro motioned her away. “No, you’re not wrong,” she said.
“You’re not in love with me or anything,” Parker said. “And I know I’m asking for something big. But don’t think about me. Think about her.”
He scrabbled for his pocket and brought out his battered wallet. Inside was the photograph. Parker folded the wallet open to the photo and put it on the table in front of Camaro. There they were again. Parker and his little girl on the beach, blonde hair long and face tanned from the sun. They smiled happy, unburdened smiles.
Camaro closed the wallet. “No more,” she said.
“Please don’t go,” Parker said. “Not until I’m finished.”
“You are finished,” Camaro said.
“Listen, I don’t have anywhere else to go!”
“I’ll do it,” Camaro said, more sharply than she intended.
“You will?”
“I will. If something happens to you, I’ll be there for her. But you have to keep me in the loop. Whatever goes on, I need to know. I can’t go into this blind.”
“Done.” Parker snatched up a napkin. “Let me give you the address.”
Camaro watched him write, and a wall of dark anticipation rose up within her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
ALEJANDRO GALDARRES OF the Intelligence Directorate was given access to an official car with the services of a driver, but he rarely used the privilege. Fuel was a precious and expensive commodity in the Republic of Cuba, even with the relaxation in American sanctions. The government was starved for money, and old allies could no longer help. In the mornings he left his Havana apartment in an old and cozy neighborhood and rode a steel-framed bicycle all the way to the directorate’s headquarters. He would chain the bicycle to a lamppost, take his briefcase from the bicycle’s basket, and go inside, where air conditioning awaited to wick away the sweat of his journey.
On this morning much was the same, though the day might have been hotter and his linen suit a bit more uncomfortable. Going in through the entrance and showing his identification to security before having his briefcase x-rayed, he reveled in the cool air. It was another almost unheard-of luxury in Cuba outside the resort hotels, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.
He gave his service weapon to one of the men operating the security choke point and passed through the metal detector. His pistol was returned on the other side. His briefcase emerged from the x-ray machine. Galdarres bid both men a good morning and went to his office.
Behind his desk he followed his routine, putting his lunch into the deepest drawer and then sorting through the overnight briefing documents. He found the one he sought immediately and read it thoroughly. It was only two pages, and it told him exactly what he expected to learn.
He left his office and went down the hall to another, larger one broken into two chambers. Galdarres gave his name to the secretary and asked to see the director. She bade him sit, and he did so with the briefing document across his knees. An air-conditioning vent was directly overhead, strings of tinsel hanging from the metal grille. They danced as the frigid air pumped into the room. Galdarres felt cold for the first time that day.
It was a fifteen-minute wait. A pair of men emerged from the interior office. Galdarres heard the director’s voice following them out. He waited until the secretary indicated it was time for him to enter and he did, glad to be out from beneath the frosty vent.
The office of the director was well appointed, with heavy, leather-upholstered furniture. The walls showed pictures of the director with Fidel and Raúl Castro, along with many other luminaries from home and abroad. Several medals were framed and on prominent display.
The director himself was a short man, going to fat, with thinning gray hair. He wore large, owlish glasses, which made him look even older than he was. But Galdarres knew that despite appearances the director was a reasonably healthy man in his early sixties who enjoyed swimming and baseball, the latter, admittedly, with a league made up of seniors.
“Alejandro,” the director said when Galdarres entered. “I was wondering when I was going to see you. You’re right on time. Please, sit down.”
“Director Celades, it’s good to see you,” Galdarres said.
The director smiled pleasantly, a professional expression and not personal. “And you. I can see you got the report about last night’s arrests.”
“I did, señor. It’s what we anticipated it would be.”
“Just so. Twenty-seven taken up in the sweep, but no sign of Sergio Chapado.”
“So our information was correct,” Galdarres said. “He has been spirited out of the country.”
“Yes, but not so long ago. We missed him by less than twenty-four hours. I have the latest reports from the interrogations happening as we speak, and they’ve been revelatory. The escape plan has been in place for months, masterminded by the exiles. If only we’d moved a little bit quicker, we would have had their entire apparatus in Havana, Chapado included.”
Galdarres nodded regretfully. “It’s a shame, señor. But we had no idea. They were very good about covering their tracks. Even our source in the United States wasn’t aware of what was happening until recently. They’re growing more paranoid about leaks because of the travel happening back and forth. Anyone could be an informant. Everything is compartmentalized now.”
“Do you feel your American source is reliable enough to continue doing his work?” Director Celades asked.
“Yes, señor, I do. They’ve taken him into their confidence, so he’s privy to all the latest information about what they are doing and what their plans for the future might be. It’s a breakthrough for us.”
The director shook his head slowly and then rubbed his chin. He sighed. “You would think we’d be past this by now. It’s been fifty-six years, and even the American government no longer cares to continue their sanctions. For them the Cold War is over. The old guard are dying out or are too decrepit to do anything. And the young ones follow their g
overnment’s lead: they don’t seem to care at all.”
“Except for those who do,” Galdarres said.
“Yes. Except for those who do.”
Galdarres straightened in his chair. “The question now becomes what we are to do next. Do I continue my work turning over stones in our own backyard, or is there something else I can accomplish?”
The director’s dark eyes glittered. “You have read my mind, Alejandro.”
“I’m sure it’s just coincidence, señor.”
“No. We are of the same mind on this. Our problem does not end with crushing their operation in Cuba. We must reach out and destroy Chapado, as well. So long as he’s alive, he’s a potent symbol, and that cannot be allowed. They’ll parade him around functions and have him give speeches, and before you know it we’ll be wading hip-deep in conspirators again. We have to make the Americans believe we are good friends and that nothing happens on our island that would ever cause them to question us. But the revolution continues. Nothing has changed. No, I want this put to an end. I want it seen to immediately.”
“What would you have me do, señor?”
The director stood up suddenly and paced the office. He paused before the window and looked out on the street beyond. The building was old, but the windows had all been replaced with ballistic glass, though from the outside it was impossible to notice the difference. “I want you to go to Miami,” the director said. “You have the Venezuelan passport you were issued? It’s up to date?”
“Yes, of course, señor.”
“That’s what you’ll use. Travel today if you can, but no later than tomorrow. I want you in the United States as quickly as you can manage it. Once you’re there, you’ll be provided with the means to finance your operation and manpower to help you complete the mission.”
Galdarres looked at Director Celades’ back. “Do I need to ask what my mission is?” he asked.
“You needn’t, but I will tell you anyway: find Chapado and execute him. If any of his coconspirators happen to get in your way, you have my permission to eliminate them, as well. There will be no more tolerance for this. I want to go to the president and tell him myself that the flies that have buzzed around the corpse of the Bay of Pigs have finally been eradicated. Nothing will stand in the way of our new friendship with the United States. And you will ensure that this happens. Won’t you, Alejandro?”
Galdarres rose from his chair and stood at attention. “Yes, señor. Without question, señor. It will be done exactly as you instruct.”
The director turned from the window, and there again was the professional smile that failed to reach his eyes. “This is the time to show what you’re made of, Alejandro. A test. After this will be a promotion for certain. You’ll have a larger office. A staff. Perhaps one day you’ll even rise to my position. Not yet, but soon.”
“I’m flattered that you think so, señor,” Galdarres said.
“Go now. See to your travel. Before you leave the building, you’ll be given contact phone numbers and the names of our resources in Miami. You’ll have plenty of money. Everything you need to ensure Chapado’s elimination.”
“Thank you, señor. I won’t let you down.”
Galdarres left the office. The briefing document from the night before still fluttered in his hand, and he stopped in the outer office to feed it into the secretary’s shredder, where it was turned into confetti. He walked briskly back to his office and unlocked the lap drawer with a key on his chain. The red booklet of his Venezuelan passport waited, its biometric data in place and a few visa stamps inside to give the illusion of travel. Galdarres had never used it.
He tucked the passport inside his jacket and sat down. He had calls to make and little time to make them. There was much to do.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE SMALL CLUSTER of warehouses was poised at the edge of a swamp that extended away for mile upon mile upon mile. They were built on a man-made stretch of flat, dry ground, and it was only the broken-down hurricane fencing around the place that kept the gators out. Old, painted logos remained on the corrugated tin siding of the warehouses themselves, but the colors had been scoured off by sun and time. The place itself had been locked up for years before Matt picked it out. It was a long way from anywhere. It was perfect.
Making their way from Hollywood all the way down to within miles of the end of the state took an hour. Matt drove the Charger with the windows down, so the wind blasted in and chased away the worst of the heat. Halfway to his destination he put on the radio and listened to Big 105.9, Miami’s classic rock station. They played a string of tunes from Skynyrd, the Stones, Kansas, and Creedence that had him singing along, totally ignoring the others in the car, especially Chapado.
From time to time he’d check in the mirror to see what Chapado was doing. The man sweated heavily, and his hair was in disarray. Doubtless his perfectly ironed clothing would be badly wrinkled by the time they got to where they were going. The thought of his crumbling façade of gentility made Matt smile.
At last they were there, out where no one could hear or see. Matt gave a key to Jackson and dispatched him to open the padlock that held the gate’s chain. After he drove through and Jackson came back, Matt asked, “Did you lock it up again?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I don’t want visitors until I want visitors.”
There were five warehouses altogether, and the largest was in the back, completely hidden from view. Matt parked the Charger alongside it and then got out to stretch. The others hustled Chapado out of the car and stood waiting.
Wordlessly, Matt led them to a small door on the westward face of the building. There was a larger, sliding door that could open wide enough and high enough to admit a semitrailer, but Matt chose an entrance for a regular-sized human being that provided access to a small office space that still had a desk, a lamp, a chair, and a filing cabinet, though all were thick with dust.
In the open space of the warehouse itself, pillars came down from the ceiling at regular intervals and held the high roof up. Whoever had last used the place had abandoned some or all of what they stored there. There were still stacks of wooden crates and rotting cardboard boxes lashed to pallets with plastic ties or coated in wrap. The main lights were out, the power cut off from the building long ago. But in the center of the warehouse where a large natural clearing was formed, Matt had put two battery-operated floodlights and a chair with sturdy arms and a straight back. For now, sunlight filtered in through plastic panels in the ceiling and the windows spaced here and there around the walls.
A roll of duct tape lay on the chair. Matt pointed them out. “Strap him down,” he said. “Make sure the loops are tight.”
Jackson and Soto hurried to do Matt’s bidding. He wandered away from the chair to where he’d left two folding cots and a pair of sleeping bags. There was an electric lantern sitting by them. He tested it. It worked.
When Chapado was secured, Matt came to him. The man’s eyes rolled in their sockets, full of fear and confusion in equal measure. The pits of his shirt were dark with perspiration. “Here we are,” Matt told him.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Chapado said. His voice was shaky and hesitant.
Matt laughed out loud, and Jackson and Soto did, too. Matt laughed until he had tears in the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away. “You know, that’s exactly what I thought you’d say,” he remarked. “You Cubans are so goddamned predictable. Castro this, Castro that…please don’t hurt me.”
“Anything you want,” Chapado said.
“Sure. Anything I want. What I want is another one hundred grand. Now, I know you don’t have it, but you better hope like hell that your friends have it, otherwise things are going to go real bad for you.”
Soto cleared his throat. “Hey, Matt? I need to take a leak, bro.”
“Do it outside.”
“Okay.”
Matt turned his attention back to Chapado. “You can piss your pants,” he said.
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He saw Chapado stiffen and the man raised his chin. “I won’t.”
“You won’t? Well, you don’t have any choice, because you’re gonna be in that chair for the next day. You don’t get up to stretch, you don’t get up to take a shit, you don’t get up for anything.”
“There’s no need for this.”
“No?”
“No. We can be civilized.”
This made Matt smile again. He reached into his pocket and his hand closed around the folded knife there. He brought it out. “Civilized, huh?” he said. “Are you saying I’m not civilized?”
“I only meant—”
“Shut the hell up!”
Matt brandished the knife and flicked open the blade. It was just over five inches long and gently curved. The finish was like a mirror. He paused only long enough for Chapado to see it before he dug the tip into the back of Chapado’s arm.
Chapado screamed as the long gouge came out of his skin and the flesh underneath. Matt ignored him and cut across the first line once and then twice. Blood welled up and spilled onto the floor. Chapado jerked against the tape and shook the chair, but he could not move any way that Matt’s knife could not follow. “Please!” Chapado howled.
“I was drawing a Christmas tree,” Matt said.
Chapado’s forearm oozed a steady crimson. Matt heard Soto rushing in from outside, his footfalls on the concrete. “What’s going on?” Soto asked.
“Nothing,” Matt said. “Just showing our friend who’s civilized and who’s not.”
He caught Jackson’s eye, and they chuckled together. He wiped the knife on Chapado’s shoulder and then snicked it shut. It slipped into his pocket.
“Is he gonna bleed to death?” Soto asked.
“From that? No way. I barely cut into him.”
Chapado sniveled, and Matt walked away. He took his cigarettes from his pocket. He’d smoke outside under the sun where he didn’t have to smell the urine soaking Chapado’s underwear.
Chapter Twenty-Seven