Suspicion of Rage

by Barbara Parker

  Huffing, Raúl leaned against the wall again. "You'll make it out. That watch you have on. Is it accurate?"

  "Yes, it's a Seiko," Mario said.

  "Give it to me. I'll set it with mine to the exact second." He held out his hand, and Mario dropped his watch into it. Raúl pulled out the stem and made an adjustment. "The street behind Vega's is a long one. I'll go slowly, looking for the signal. Don't forget to test your flashlight. Are you sure Vega will be there?"

  "He will be there," Mario said.

  "How do you know?"

  "Angela says he's always home for dinner." Mario laid "a white shirt on the cot, folded one arm inward, then decided to wear it to his parents' house tonight. He wanted them to remember him in good clothing. He would wear it with his black pants.

  "Here, put this back on." Raúl tossed him the watch, then leaned over to pick up the Makarov. "What about the gun? Did you clean it after the last practice?"

  "Yes. And oiled it."

  He broke it open to check the spring and the barrel. "This little sweetheart likes you, Mario. She will do as you say. You won't miss. Hell, you're getting to be a better shot than I am!" Tilting his head to listen for something, Raúl said, "What's the matter with the child?"

  Mario flipped through his composition book. "He has bronchitis. I gave his grandmother some money. That's where she is now, at the pharmacy." There was nothing in the composition book that had his name on it, but he went slowly through the pages. Ideas for songs. Some lyrics. He hummed a few measures.

  "Mario."

  He ripped the compositions out of the book, tore them in halt then again. He stuffed the pages into the trash bag. "What?"

  "Don't you want to know how you're getting to Mexico? We have everything in place."

  He smiled. "Do you think I will make it to Mexico?"

  Raúl looked at him, then said, "You might."

  "You should clear out your apartment," Mario said. "Tell the others to do the same. Destroy all your papers. Nico should go to his relatives' house in Las Tunas. Put him on a bus."

  "He's part of the team to get you to the boat." Raúl took a cigarette out of his pack.

  "Nico can't help us," Mario said. "He's useless after what happened to Chachi. Don't smoke in here. The boy has bad lungs."

  "I'll go over by the window."

  "Put it away."

  Raúl wedged the pillow behind his back and leaned against the wall. "I wish I could come with you. I would use a knife. Cut his throat like a pig. For Chachi and for Olga. It's too bad about Olga. She was stupid, but I liked her."

  "You tormented her," Mario said.

  "That's my nature. I torment everyone."

  Mario had not told Raúl that he had gone to Olga's house yesterday. He had gone there because knowing about Chachi had pushed him to want to ask her a question. She had told him, Let someone else take Vega. What had she meant?

  Mario tossed his jewelry into the bag with the toiletries.

  "What are you doing?" Raúl said. "You might need to sell it." He dragged the bag closer and looked inside. "Don't throw this away. It's the necklace you got off that Brazilian woman last summer. She's one to remember."

  "Take it."

  Raúl shook his head. "Bad luck."

  "Leave me alone, Raúl. I have to be by myself so I can think."

  Raúl pushed himself off the cot. "If you're throwing me out, I'll go." The two men embraced, and Raúl slapped him on the back. "Don't forget. We have a final meeting tomorrow morning, ten o'clock sharp. Is there anything you need?"

  "Nothing. Except to get it over with."

  He went with Raúl to the front door, checked the dark stairwell for anyone coming up, then let him out and locked the door behind him. From the bedroom came the sound of coughing, and Mario looked in. The boy, called Pipo, was holding on to the bars of his crib. His face was red, and his shoulders and belly shook with his coughs, but he seemed bored by it, as accepting as an animal. Mario wiped off the boy's face with a clean diaper and took him into the kitchen. The refrigerator was full of plastic bottles of water to be used when nothing came out of the pipes. One of them contained boiled water for the boy. Mario couldn't figure out which it was, so he gave him a little orange soda.

  He carried Pipo into the laundry room and put him on the cot. "Stay there." He hid the pistol and the bag of bullets under the mattress.

  The only thing left to be done was the letter to his parents. Mario thought he would let Anthony Quintana deliver it. He would give it to him tonight and tell him to keep it until Sunday.

  If Quintana was at Vega's house tomorrow, and if he saw the pistol, he might try to go for it, but Mario would have the barrel at Vega's head first. He could shoot Vega, run for the back door, and probably escape. He would be faster than Quintana. But he couldn't do it that way. Not in front of Vega's family. He would tell Vega to go into his office. He would close the door. He wouldn't make it to Mexico.

  Mario sat down and used his flute case as a desk. He thought about what to say. I am not gone. You will know I'm with you ... when you feel the wind of liberty on your faces...

  No, that wasn't any good. The words sat in his brain like heavy rocks. This would take some time. He wanted to say it correctly.

  The boy crawled over to see what he was doing.

  Mario used to think about dying, and his insides would become cold, and he'd have to take a breath to make his heart go again. But not now. He felt clear and strong. He would be remembered. When Pipo grew up he would talk about him. Mario Cabrera stayed with us. He was a quiet man. We never knew about his mission—

  The boy coughed a few times, then sighed.

  Mario put down his pen. "Do you want to go outside, Pipo? Come with me."

  He set the boy on the windowsill, jumped down, then reached to get him. Holding the boy on his arm, he walked to the edge of the roof. He heard voices from one of the apartments. A soap opera from another. A truck changing gears, five floors down. The sun had set, but the sky was still blue. He told the boy to look, and tie pointed at the stars coming out and the lights of a ship on the horizon.

  33

  The voices of the women drifted through the kitchen window into the backyard. Anthony sat with José Leiva under the trellis, drinking beer and watching the sky fade to indigo. Vines curled around wires stretched between metal posts. The garden was beyond in neat rows, and the lights of the house next door shone through the mango trees.

  José said, "If Mario wants to leave Cuba, I won't argue against it. He has no job here, and he's not likely to get one. I had hoped that he would become interested in what his mother and I are doing. Nothing interests him but his band. If he leaves, he can develop a career. But should he go to the United States? Philosophically he isn't suited. He has no love of money or what it can buy. On the other hand, that is how the world works everywhere nowadays—except here. Cuba is a time capsule. Yolanda says that if he leaves, we will double the size of our library to compensate for his absence. I asked her why she waited so long—Mario moved out a year ago. Two of our friends—you'll meet them tonight—want to start a library in Miramar. It would be near your sister's house! Do you think she and General Vega would visit? A few of our neighbors are coming tonight. Most of them are supportive. Most of them. Somebody left a bag of dog shit on the porch the other day. We get hang-up calls and death threats. The CDR knows who does it, but we don't bother complaining. Their days are coming to an end. What an amazing thing. People are losing their fear. There are a thousand small movements, and we're joining into larger groups. We are librarians and journalists, independent economists and trade unionists. Yes, I am very hopeful."

  José Leiva was a person who could carry a conversation entirely on his own back. This had allowed Anthony time in which to form his thoughts. He looked at the house and saw Gail moving across the bright kitchen window. She turned to someone out of view and smiled.

  Anthony set his beer on the patio. "José, before your guests arrive, I
want to ask about some recent articles of yours. They had to do with General Abdel Garcia. What were they about?"

  Leiva pulled at his short white beard. "Ah. I mentioned Garcia, but the subject was the copper mines in Pinar del Rio Province."

  "Copper mines? What connection does Garcia have to mining?"

  "The mines are under the control of the Ministry of Basic Industries. Garcia is a deputy minister."

  "Yes, but did you write any articles about Garcia that also mentioned the nuclear reactors in Cienfuegos Province, at Juraguá?"

  Slowly shaking his head, José said, "In the past I've written about nuclear energy. I said it was expensive and unsafe, and we should abandon it. I didn't mention Garcia in those articles. He was involved in the nuclear industry, but that predated my interest in it."

  Their chairs were drawn closely together, and Anthony kept his voice low. "Let me ask another question. The Russians deny sending any uranium to Cuba. Is it possible that they did? And if so, could any of it have been diverted?"

  "No. We never had any uranium."

  "You're certain?"

  "Absolutely certain. Castro invited scientists from the International Atomic Energy Agency to have a look. The United States was threatening to bomb the reactor site, so he wanted to prove that we had no uranium. What's the matter? I gave the wrong answer?"

  Leaning back in his chair, Anthony looked up through the vines that wound through the trellis. He had thought that Céspedes had told the CIA about uranium, but if there was none, the theory didn't hold up. Had Garcia ordered Céspedes's death to silence him? Anthony believed this was so, but why?

  "José, I need your opinion." Quickly he wove the events of the last days into a narrative that omitted any mention of Ramiro Vega. He began with Abdel Garcia's demand that he find out what Omar Céspedes, the defector, had said to the CIA.

  "Garcia apparently thinks I have a direct connection to the CIA through my grandfather. When I told Garcia I wasn't interested, he threatened to frame me as a Cuban agent. So I called some people I know and asked about Céspedes. This is what I found out. Among other things, Céspedes was talking about finishing the nuclear reactors. The Americans know it's bullshit, but it's the story I gave Garcia. He said I was lying, and what else did Céspedes say? I told him that was all I could get. Last night Céspedes was shot dead outside his apartment in Washington. I believe that Garcia was behind it."

  "Mother of God," said José. "Why are you still in Havana?" .

  "State Security won't let me leave until Olga's murder is cleared up."

  "Ah, yes. That's right. Ramiro Vega could help you, no? He's not without power in the government—"

  "Don't worry, I have a way out if I need it. José, what did Garcia expect me to give him? What am I looking for?"

  José lifted his glasses to rub his eyes. He remained motionless with his eyes closed, then said, "The last time the police searched my house—a year ago?—they confiscated all my notes. I had a source, a friend, with Geominera, the company in charge of the mines. They're part of MINBAS. Geominera was participating in a copper mine with a Canadian company, and my friend told me that the Canadians were always complaining about sloppy procedures. Very bad inventory system. Incompetence. It's what you get when you put military men in charge of industry. That was the point of my article. I mentioned Abdel Garcia by name. The story was published in France, then picked up by the Miami Herald."

  With a slight smile, José added, "And I was picked up by State Security and interrogated for two days. I thought I was on my way back to prison. If you're looking for radioactive material, you can find it in testing equipment. That was one of the complaints made by the Canadians. The stuff kept disappearing."

  "It was stolen?"

  "Stolen, lost, unaccounted for. Who knows?"

  "What kind of tests do they do?"

  "If I can remember. In mining, you mix crushed rock with water and send it through pipes to get it to the machines where they extract the ore. To know the percentage of rock, you send a beam through the pipe, like an X-ray. The instruments contain radioactive materials. Cesium-137? I'm not sure. Anyway, equipment and parts went missing from the zinc mines and a metal fabricating plant in Rancho Boyeros, too. That's what I heard from my sources. I couldn't prove it, so I simply wrote it down as a rumor. I'm a journalist, not a fabulist. The government is supposed to keep a careful accounting, but in truth, they don't pay much attention."

  "Why? Because the stuff isn't that potent?"

  "No, because they're negligent. It's potent, all right. You don't want to drop it down your snorts."

  "What does it look like?" Anthony asked. "Is it powder? A solid? Liquid? How would you get it out of the machine?"

  José held up his hands. "I don't know, but the quantities are small, and it isn't so very dangerous, not like plutonium. You couldn't make an atomic bomb out of it."

  Anthony remembered his conversation with Hector Mesa. Dirty bombs. A small amount of radioactive material could be wrapped with TNT in a bag and left in a place where crowds gather—Grand Central Station, the Boston metro, a shopping mall in the Midwest. Anywhere. Bombs could be detonated at the same time in a dozen different cities. Scores of people could be killed. Or very few. Its purpose was not destruction but terror. If radioactivity were detected, the device could shut down the city.

  "Ahhh," he murmured softly.

  "What is it?" José asked.

  He put a hand on José's shoulder. "I could be wrong, but assume that a group of officers at MINBAS, led by Abdel Garcia, have been stealing the radioactive materials used in industrial testing equipment. They disguise the losses as sloppy record-keeping, then sell it on the black market."

  Even in the dim light of the backyard, Anthony could see the astonishment on José Leiva's face. "But... how could they accomplish that?"

  "Easily. Abdel Garcia used to be in charge of sending arms to Africa and Central America. He would still have the contacts, no? Céspedes was a nuclear engineer. He worked with Garcia at Juraguá. Céspedes was in the process of telling the Americans about it when Garcia had him killed."

  "Mother of Christ," said José. "If this is true—"

  "It doesn't have to be true," Anthony said, "as long as people believe it. There was a report a couple of years ago that alleged the existence of a bio weapons laboratory east of Havana. A defector—someone like Céspedes—said he had worked there. The CIA found no credible evidence, but there are people who believe it. They will tell you that Cuba harbors terrorists. They will show you Castro's own words. In Iran he said that Cuba and the Ayatollah would bring the United States to its knees."

  Glancing again at the kitchen window, Anthony saw a woman he didn't recognize. "Your guests are here." He picked up his empty bottle.

  "A moment. What are you going to do now?"

  "I hope you will introduce me."

  José stopped him at the edge of the patio. "Leave Cuba as soon as you can. Go to your State Department with this information and tell them to make it public. They should confront Castro directly. That's what must be done. If they suspect, why haven't they made it known already?"

  "Because, José, they aren't sure who's involved. They won't accuse Garcia if Fidel Castro is behind it, nor will they tell Castro anything until they know what is going on." It was clear now to Anthony why the CIA wanted Ramiro Vega, but he would not discuss that with José. He added, "I assume that the Americans are looking for proof. They won't move until they have it."

  "Everything comes from the top," José said. "Castro is a spider at the center of the web. Nothing happens in Cuba without his knowledge."

  "I don't believe that Castro would sell radioactive materials to terrorists. He may be getting old, but he's not crazy. It's Garcia. That's why he had Céspedes killed."

  "You're wrong," said José. "Castro is behind it. Look at him. Look. He lives to confront the great enemy to the north. You see the damage terrorism has already done to your country, not only to
steel and bricks, but also to the spirit of the people. They are afraid. Your president reacts with belligerence, and the world is turning against you. Would Castro want to keep this momentum going? My friend, you know the answer."

  Anthony shook his head. "I have no answers. You live with these ideas too long, you get paranoid. All I want, José, and maybe it's impossible, is to chart a course that doesn't take us into the rocks on this side or the other. I'm going to turn the information over to whoever I think can hear it and not go crazy. Who is that? I don't know. I have to think about it. But for now, let's go inside. Fix me a drink, and introduce me to your friends."

  "Come on, then." José took the beer bottles and went over to rinse them out in the rain barrel he used for watering the yard. The rectangle of light from the window lit their way. "Mario called me this afternoon. He's going to pick up your daughter and bring her with him tonight."

  "Angela mentioned it."

  "I must thank her," José said. "He says he can't stay long because they're going dancing, but that's all right. We'll be happy to see him. If he does go to Miami, a pretty smile would get him there faster than the hope of a job."

  José was setting the bottles on a rack to dry when Anthony heard a shout, then men's voices in the kitchen. A moment later the back door opened, and two men in plainclothes came down the steps. Their eyes searched the darkness.

  They had come for José Leiva.

  It was quick and efficient. No guns were drawn, no handcuffs used. The plainclothes men were from State Security; the uniforms from the Policía Nacional. There were a dozen in all, some to wait outside and keep the neighbors away, others to search the house and take the suspect into custody.

  They let José Leiva sit in his chair in the living room while they showed him the warrant and did some paperwork. Everyone else, including his wife, was told to wait on the front porch. Yolanda stood by the door with her eyes locked on José. Her friends formed a barricade around her and glared at the police. When Gail's mother broke into tears, Gail found a chair for her. Anthony wiped sweat off his neck and ground his teeth together. When asked, he gave State Security their names and explained why they had come. He asked why the police were there. The officer said it was none of his concern.