by Sam Hawken
He’d been waiting five minutes for his food when the cell phone Davíd had given him trilled in his pocket. He brought it out, flipped it open, and pressed it to his ear. “Bueno,” he said.
“Señor Galdarres, it’s Davíd Ocampo.”
“Good morning, Davíd. I was enjoying your Miami sun.”
“We have word from our man inside.”
Immediately Galdarres was alert. He sat upright in his seat and spoke quietly into the phone. “What has he learned?”
“The group is in disarray, just as you hoped. Accusations between the man who took Chapado and Alpha 66 are flying. They’re holding him responsible for Marquez’s death, but he’s denying it. They don’t believe him.”
“Then this man, Matt Clifford, he must be anxious to make his deal quickly.”
“No,” Davíd said. “Something else has happened.”
Galdarres scowled. “What has happened? Both sides have been pushed to make the exchange as soon as possible.”
“It’s happened the opposite way. Clifford is asking for more time.”
“More time? For what?”
“Echave and the others suspect he might be hiding the fact that Chapado is hurt, perhaps even dead. If that’s the case, he has no choice but to make delays.”
“Delays,” Galdarres cursed. “The man is a fool. This only gives Echave’s group more time to find him. This is not what was intended.”
“I know, señor. We’re all very upset.”
“Is our man inside pushing for a quick resolution?”
“He doesn’t have that much authority, though he’s doing what he can and is putting pressure on Echave to act decisively. He hopes to convince Álvaro Sotelo to push Echave into violent action. But there’s worse news.”
“What could be worse?” Galdarres demanded.
“A policeman spoke with Echave. Our man doesn’t know for certain, but he thinks Echave may have talked. How much he revealed to the authorities, we don’t know. But there was definitely a meeting, and it lasted for more than an hour. The suspicion is that Echave gave up details about Clifford and what he’s doing.”
“The last thing we need is the authorities being involved,” Galdarres said. “This puts us under a heavy time constraint. You tell our inside man that I want to be informed to the minute about changes in this situation. No waiting. We have to be ready to move the moment we have an idea of Chapado’s location. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand, señor.”
“Good. See to it.”
Galdarres snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into his pocket angrily. He took a glass of orange juice and downed it in two swallows, then poured himself another, the juice slopping over the edge. All the while, he fumed and swore to himself every swear word he knew in Spanish and English.
It would have been so much easier in Cuba. In his country, everyone was an informant, and the mechanism of the state a powerful and omnipresent thing. If a situation like this arose in Cuba, all it would take was the distribution of subtle pressure in the community before someone would break and tell the DI everything. After that it would only be a matter of swooping in to gather up the wrongdoers and see them to imprisonment. Once they were there, other forms of persuasion could be applied, resulting in still more information and still more arrests, until the entire, festering sore was cleaned out and only healthy flesh remained.
He did not know with whom he was angrier, the invisible Matt Clifford or the fat pig Hugo Echave. Echave styled himself a revolutionary, but he was too soft and too used to having his whims indulged to make truly hard choices. Had it been Galdarres in charge of Alpha 66, his people would scour the city looking for any sign of Clifford until they had either come up with the man or exhausted all possibilities. Instead, Echave kept himself hidden away in his palatial home, afraid to do anything but wait for orders from a common criminal.
Perhaps Matt Clifford had killed Chapado or allowed him to die. If that were the case, Galdarres still had to know. But it would also mean that he would not have the pleasure of dealing with Chapado and Alpha 66 in the same action. Gathered all in one place, the whole knot of them could be disentangled with bullets, with no one left to cause trouble in Cuba again. Poor, frightened Echave would never dare flex the diminished muscle of Alpha 66 in the face of such a crackdown.
The food came finally. Galdarres ate without tasting any of it.
Chapter Seventy-Two
SHE FELT BETTER about leaving Lauren alone with Chapado. The man had shown no inclination toward escape attempts, and Lauren was wise enough to stay clear of him. The only time Camaro let him out of the bathroom was on those occasions when she or Lauren had to use it, and during those times he had not gone for the door. Camaro did not think he was broken, but he was clearly patient, waiting for what would come next without lapsing into despair.
He was still gagged when she went out, but that was a small concession to the situation. Chapado did not resist this either. Had there been a second bed, she might have been persuaded to let him sleep on it and not the hard tile floor of the bathroom.
When she came to the hardware store near the grocery, she went hunting for lightbulbs and found nothing but compact fluorescents on display. She tracked down the store’s only employee, finding him sorting boxes of screws and bolts into bins at the back of the store. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for something.”
“What do you need?” asked the man. He was only in his fifties, but he wore heavy glasses. They did not jibe with the denim overalls and work shirt he wore.
“I’m looking for lightbulbs. Incandescent lightbulbs. You have any?”
The man nodded. “Yeah, sure. Got some in the back. I don’t put ’em out anymore because people like the squiggly ones better. How many do you need? What kind?”
“Sixty-watt is good. A couple dozen,” Camaro said.
“That many?”
“Do you have them?”
“I think so. Give me a minute.”
He vanished into the back and then returned with two white cartons. At the counter up front, he opened the cartons and showed her the lightbulbs, packed away in twos. There were twenty-four altogether. “I’ll take them,” Camaro said. “And a few shop rags if you have them.”
She paid for them, and the man told her to have a good day. Out at the bike, she carefully put one carton in each of the Harley’s saddlebags and padded them with the red shop rags before stoking the engine and riding away. She went south.
The compound of warehouses was still secured with the chain and padlock for which Matt held the key, but by now Camaro was comfortable slipping in and out through the hole in the fence. She brought the lightbulbs and the rags with her, and soon she saw Soto’s abandoned hatchback.
Matt had done nothing to lock up the place since she’d taken Chapado from him. She guessed he never intended to return. He’d left Soto’s body where it lay, and already the sick-sweet odor of decay had begun to cloud up around it. Flies clustered on his wounds, supping on rotting tissue and laying their eggs. In days, Soto’s flesh would be full of maggots.
Camaro laid the shop rags out on the floor and then opened up the cartons of lightbulbs. Unpacked from their sheaths, the lightbulbs went down on the rags, eight to a rag. When that was done, she gathered the rags up into bundles and then proceeded to stomp on them with the heel of her boot.
She did not want the pieces to be too small, so she did not grind them. They had to have a little more crush to them, and left this way they did.
The warehouse had three person-sized entrances: the side door she used, the path through the office, and a door in the back. There were the roller doors, but they were all locked from the inside with no way to open them from outside the building. Camaro took the first bundle of shattered bulbs and went to the office.
She scattered the glass over a three-foot span just inside the door. The rag kept the edges from cutting her hands. The second bundle provided a shower of bits aro
und the side door, and the third covered the last door. When she was all done with each, she tossed the rags away. There was no further use for them.
Now she surveyed the towers of crates that populated the warehouse floor. Some were too tall and heavy to maneuver, but others were lighter and could be disassembled and restacked. She did this, building up a three-sided hide with a clear view of the center of the warehouse and the empty chair where Chapado had been held. To stay behind it she would have to crouch, but she wanted something she could hurdle without difficulty.
The crates she used had heft to them, but they were still made of simple, thin wood with slightly thicker reinforcements at the corners. Depending on what was inside, a bullet might punch directly through her cover and reach her. But if things transpired as she imagined them, she would not have to test the bulletproof nature of any of the wooden boxes.
Once she was done with the hide, she stepped out and approached the center of the warehouse from each of the three entrances. Even with daylight filtering through the ceiling panels, her position was hidden from all three angles. In the dark, even if she were exposed a little bit, she would be all but invisible.
Camaro checked the battery-operated floodlights Matt had left behind. She clicked them on and off to see if they still had juice. They were dimmer than they had been. But they were enough. She left them dark and went away from the warehouse, careful not to step in her own fields of splintered glass.
Chapter Seventy-Three
THE LIBRARY IN Homestead was just off the South Dixie Highway on a partially wooded lot. The grass between the trees was dry and yellowing at the edges. Camaro parked her bike and went inside.
She had hoped for computers, and the Homestead Branch had some. Camaro settled in front of a keyboard and pecked out the URL for Facebook. At the site, she plugged in the search term Alpha 66. There was a quick hit and she clicked through. Alpha 66’s Facebook presence appeared.
The first thing she noticed was the banner at the top of the page, with a quotation from someone named José Martí. It was something about the courage to sacrifice and how those who didn’t should shut up. Camaro didn’t know who José Martí was, but the sentiment seemed understandable. She had sacrificed while others stood by and complained. She would have liked a few to shut their mouths.
The next thing she noticed was how few “likes” the page had. There were less than two hundred. The posts underneath were not inspiring, either, being mostly images with messages about Cuban liberation on them. A few seemed totally out of place, like a picture of US soldiers on patrol in Iraq. There were videos, too, including one demanding the impeachment of the president for betraying American interests and embracing the communists. A large picture of Fidel Castro had a red NO slash through it. Camaro shook her head at that. Fidel Castro was something like ninety years old now, not the fierce-looking, bearded revolutionary of the photo. Looking at Alpha 66’s page was like looking through a cracked window into a world where people were afraid of their grandparents’ boogeymen.
Camaro did not want to use her own account. She opened a second window and created a Gmail account with a false name she plucked out of the air. After that, she used the email address to set up a matching Facebook account. She left the personal picture area blank. She did not plan to use this page more than once.
She clicked the link to send a message to the owner of the Facebook page. A blank square of space opened up, the cursor blinking. She typed.
Matt Clifford does not have Sergio Chapado anymore. I do. He can’t bargain with you about anything. Don’t believe what he says.
I’ll send you confirmation that I’m holding Chapado once you send me an email. He’s alive and healthy. I will keep him that way. When you contact me, we’ll make arrangements for him to be turned over to you. You can also have Matt.
Don’t go to the police. Don’t tell Matt you know he’s lying. If you do either of these things, the deal is off.
Camaro didn’t sign the message, but she included the address of the fake Gmail account she’d set up. As a final note she added, Don’t wait long to contact me, and then she sent the message on.
She logged out of Facebook and then cleared the browser history completely before leaving the computer behind. Outside the library she squinted in the sun until she slipped on her sunglasses and the worst of the glare went away.
It was getting on toward an early lunch hour. Camaro circled around to point the bike south and cruised out of Homestead. Halfway back to the motel in Florida City, she stopped off for food, at a Burger King this time to break up the monotony. Within fifteen minutes she was on the road past the hardware store, kicking up dust in her wake.
The motel still looked deserted when she approached it. In the time they’d been there, she’d heard no cars coming or going or even a hint of other guests. She kept the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and went to the office for fresh towels. The manager seemed to have no problem with the arrangement so long as she paid.
Camaro let herself into the room. Lauren was there, and Chapado lurked beneath the bathroom sink. He breathed deeply when she plucked the towel from his mouth and flexed his jaw. “It’s almost over,” she told him.
“What is happening?” Chapado asked.
“I got in touch with your friends in Alpha 66. They know you’re with me now and not with Matt. I told them to get in touch. As soon as they do, we’ll work out the arrangements. You’re more than halfway home.”
“If I promise not to flee, will you allow me some freedom?” Chapado asked. “Keep me in the handcuffs, but let me at least sit on the bed. Anything except this floor. I’m not a young man, and my joints hurt.”
“You guys in Alpha 66 think you’re soldiers,” Camaro said. “A soldier can handle sitting on the floor for a while. Trust me, it could be a lot worse.”
“I need to urinate.”
“Okay. And I have some food for you.”
She released him from the sink and set the bag with his food on the bathroom floor before pulling the door closed. When she sat on the bed, she found she was ravenous, so she unwrapped her burger quickly. It had not cooled off but had been kept warm in the baking oven of the saddlebags.
“Is it true?” Lauren asked her.
“Is what true?”
“That it’s almost over?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
“When will it happen?”
“When you’re gone. Not before.”
“Is that because you’re worried you might die?” Lauren asked.
Camaro nodded without speaking. She finished off her burger swiftly and took up the fries. The salt was making her thirsty the way the summer heat had not.
“You won’t die,” Lauren said.
“You sure about that?”
“I’m sure. You won’t let them kill you.”
Camaro allowed the slightest of smiles to play on her lips. “I wish it was that easy,” she said. “It’s not really up to me.”
“You won’t die,” Lauren said again. “I won’t let you.”
Camaro looked at her and put her hand on top of Lauren’s. “Okay,” she said.
Chapter Seventy-Four
ECHAVE’S HANDS SHOOK as he looked at the printout. He was aware of Ulises Sotelo looking at him, waiting for his reaction, judging the exact level of concern he should feel. In this moment, whether the organization scattered into panic or moved forward steadfastly was bound up in Echave’s response to this thing in his grasp.
“When did this come?” Echave said. He kept his voice level.
“It arrived this morning about ten thirty,” Ulises said. “I found it when I checked my email. I supervise the page, so all messages are forwarded to me by the site.”
“Have you responded?”
“No. I thought that would be best left to you, señor.”
“Good. Good. You were right to wait,” Echave said. “I must share this with Señor Molina.”
“Should I step outside?�
�� Ulises asked.
“No. Stay here. Sit.”
Echave put the Facebook message flat on his desk and turned to the phone. He put it on speaker and dialed Carlos’ private number. He was relieved when his old friend answered. “Hugo,” Carlos said. “What has happened?”
“How do you know anything has happened?” Echave asked.
“I only guessed as much. You rarely use this line.”
“Something has happened,” Echave said. “We must discuss it.”
He went through the short story as Ulises had told it to him. Then he read the contents of the message aloud. Carlos was quiet on the other end when Echave had finished and was slow to speak. “This is troubling,” he said.
“This explains why Clifford wouldn’t send us the proof we asked for. Who knows how long Chapado has been out of his hands?”
“Yes. And who is this person? Anita Lopez? I’ve never heard the name before.”
“It’s probably fake,” Ulises said.
“Who is that?” Carlos asked.
“Álvaro’s boy,” Echave replied. “He’s still with me.”
“Ulises? Ask him if there’s any way we can find out the real name of the person holding Señor Chapado.”
Ulises shook his head when Echave looked at him. “There is no way. The address she gave is completely anonymous, and so is the Facebook account. She could be anyone. She may not even be a she. I can’t imagine any woman taking Señor Chapado away from Clifford, a hardened criminal.”
“A bluff within a bluff,” Carlos said. “This could also be Clifford playing more games with us.”
“We have to contact this woman,” Echave said.
“Yes. Send her an email. We must tell her we’re willing to do anything.”
Echave nodded, then swiveled his chair to face his computer. He copied the email address from the message and carefully composed a reply while Carlos waited on the line and Ulises watched him. There was silence, save for the clicking of his keyboard. He sent the email.