Suspicion of Rage

by Barbara Parker

  Mario smiled. "Have you already forgotten?"

  "No, no. Seven-fifteen. And then you go over the back fence and signal Raúl. I'll tell him the time. Seven-fifteen plus a few seconds for your escape."

  "And he must leave if I'm not there within sixty seconds."

  Tomás's eyes darted to make sure no one was nearby. "We're counting on you. Don't hesitate. The moment you see him, kill him. That's the key. Do it quickly, before he knows what's happening. Vega is a soldier, and he knows how to react to a gun. Don't give him a chance."

  "Thank you for the advice. Don't worry about me." When he began to walk, Tomás held him back.

  "One other thing. Mario, put those bags down and listen." Tomás came closer. The full light of afternoon made him squint. "After you finish the operation, they'll want to take you alive. They won't shoot you. They will capture you and do to you what they did to Chachi. No, even worse, and they will make you talk. You can't let that happen." Tomás put his hand on Mario's shoulder. "Our lives don't matter. It's the Movement that has to survive. Do you understand? After you kill Vega, if anything goes wrong, or if you can't get to him, you have to make a sacrifice for the struggle. Are you ready to do that?"

  "Yes."

  "We're with you, my friend." Tomás embraced him. "Your courage will illuminate our darkness."

  Mario was glad when Tomás left. He did not want to be reminded of the likely outcome, nor to hear his courage praised. The truth was, he didn't have much of it.

  He picked up the bags and walked to the end of the sidewalk. The fishermen leaned on the seawall, and as one of them raised his arm to circle the weight over his head, he noticed Mario and called out, "Our young friend! Do you have your flute? Play us a tune."

  "Not today. I have to go somewhere, but I brought you some clothes. If you weren't so fat you could wear them."

  The line sailed out over the water and the weight made a splash when it hit. "I'll take a look. Thanks. I have a nephew your size."

  Mario had put his flute between two folded pairs of pants. He took it out and quickly walked away. Past the channel, the waves rolled and broke on the rocks. He climbed up on the seawall, held the flute under one arm, and dug his identity booklet out of his back pocket. He ripped out the pages, then tore the cover in half and threw it onto the rocks. The next wave took the pieces, and he tasted the salt spray on his lips.

  Taking the flute by one end, Mario pulled his arm back. He stopped in mid-swing and took another look at it. The mouthpiece was bent, and the underside was dented. But it was still a good flute. There was no reason to throw it away. Using his T-shirt, he wiped off some smudges, and the metal gleamed. He left the flute on the seawall, hoping that someone with talent might find it there.

  39

  Abdel García had taken possession of his country house twenty-six years ago. It was nothing, a poured-concrete structure with a flat roof, potato fields on one side, a narrow, weed-tangled stream on the other. Garcia had made no changes, except for the trees that now hid any view from the road. Its virtue was privacy. His uncle, Heriberto, had once lived on the property. Heriberto had wanted an exit visa to the United States, not caring about the damage this would do to his nephew's career. Garcia had pushed him into the well. He'd been a drunkard, and the neighbors assumed he had fallen in. This was so ironic as to be amusing, because now it was Garcia who felt empty air under his shoes.

  He slid back a panel at eye level. A painting had been hung on the wall in the adjoining room. Minuscule figures in straw hats and wooden sandals made their way up the side of a mountain whose top was shrouded in mist. The scene was hand-painted on glass. In his un-lighted chamber, Garcia could look through the pine trees and bamboo to see clearly the girl sleeping on the chaise longue in his bedroom. She wore a pink T-shirt and denim shorts. He had put her dirty sneakers on the floor to prevent soiling of the gold satin fabric where she lay. Garcia watched for the rise and fall of her chest. She had small breasts and long legs. Her feet in their thick white socks hung off the end of the chaise. The girl had been delivered in this condition, injected with enough morphine for a man. Garcia had wanted to shoot the soldier responsible. If she died, there would be problems, and he had enough of them.

  With a corner of his folded handkerchief he daubed at his mouth. In fifteen minutes he would make another telephone call to her stepfather. His insides twisted with anxiety. Had Quintana followed instructions, or had he contacted Vega? Would he obediently bring the files, or would the next knock on the door be agents from State Security?

  Whatever occurred, Garcia had done all he could. At this moment lead-lined boxes were on a fishing boat between Cuba and Mexico. The boxes would be sent overboard. The men who had collected their contents would go in after them. He had erased his name from certain documents at the Ministry. He expected these precautions to suffice. Ramiro Vega would be a posthumous traitor. If events turned the other way, Garcia would slip out of Cuba. He would not live as well as he had hoped, but he would live.

  With a last look at the girl—she was still breathing-he slid the panel shut. He left the closet and stepped into his office. He could work here, connected by computer and telephone to the Ministry, but he preferred to dig in his flower garden. This time of year, a little care would produce abundant blooms and colors so intense his eyes would sting.

  Where in hell was Sergeant Ruiz? He was supposed to call with the time of the operation!

  Walking stiffly from one side of the room to the other, Garcia pulled back the cuff of his uniform shirt to look at his watch. Just past five. Vega was at his office— Garcia had arranged that he go into a meeting, which would reduce the chances of Quintana's getting through. Vega would be home around six o'clock. But at what time would the young assassin arrive? What time? Seven, eight, ten o'clock? Garcia had to know before calling Quintana, so that he could tell Quintana what time to arrive here. That depended on the timing of Vega's death, and so far Garcia had heard nothing, and it was making him ill.

  Quintana could not be at Ramiro Vega's house during the operation. He would intervene. The boy might be captured alive. He would talk. When the boy fired a 9mm bullet from the Makarov into Vega's skull, Quintana had to be here.

  Crossing to the window, Garcia noticed that the trees were painting shadows on the side of the barn, or what used to be a barn, now empty but for an old tractor and lengths of pipe and lumber. Purple shadows bleeding slowly up the white wall.

  What time, what time?

  Quintana would arrive, he would hand over the files and take the girl, then be on his way. If the records contained nothing useful, it didn't really matter. The thing was to keep him away from Vega's house.

  A small sedan drove past the window. Breathing quickly, Garcia placed a hand flat on the glass and pressed his face close to see who got out. The car stopped beside the barn, barely within his view. A big black man in civilian clothing appeared. Was it Ruiz? Yes. He limped around to the other side. A moment later Garcia heard a car door slam.

  He pressed his handkerchief to his forehead, then to his lips, clearing away a last drop of moisture with his thumb.

  He sat behind his desk and lit a cigarette.

  Waited. Footsteps came closer. A heavy hand rapped on the wood.

  "Enter."

  The sergeant came in first, his shoulders blocking the entrance for a second before he moved aside and let his associate in. Tomás Fernández. Garcia had never met him, had only seen photographs of a weak-looking, bookish man with short brown hair and glasses that sat halfway down his thin nose. He stepped inside, took a quick look at the bare floor and wooden chairs, the desk, and the man behind it. The newcomer seemed slightly confused. Perhaps, Garcia thought, he had expected to see olive green and campaign ribbons instead of this plain cotton shirt. At his country house Garcia tried to live simply.

  Ruiz saluted. "General Garcia, this is Tomás Fernández."

  The man smiled, lifted a hand in an imitation of a salute, and bobbed
his head. "I am honored, general."

  Leaning back in his chair, Garcia spoke to Ruiz. "I expected a phone call."

  With a dark look at his companion, Ruiz said, "I'm sorry, sir. He wouldn't tell me. He said he wanted to deliver the report personally."

  Garcia blew out a stream of smoke. "Do you have something for me, Fernández?"

  "Yes, general. I have the details of the operation." Fernández interlaced his thin white fingers at the level of his heart. He was beaming with self-importance. He was foiling an antisocialist plot. He said, "As you know, I was recruited by yourself, through Sergeant Raúl Ruiz, to infiltrate the Twenty-Eighth of January Movement, a counterrevolutionary organization formed three years ago to carry out terrorist attacks against the government—"

  "Enough!" Garcia saw the man blink. "I know how you became involved, Mr. Fernández. Just tell me at what time the operation will be carried out. What time?"

  "Mario Cabrera, a founder of the Movement and also, as you may know, the stepson of the dissident José Leiva—" His words came faster as Garcia made a circular motion with one hand. "Cabrera will arrive at the home of General Ramiro Vega tonight at seven o'clock. He intends to carry out the operation at seven-fifteen precisely. Therefore, our comrades should be placed inside the house by six o'clock."

  Standing at ease, hands clasped at the small of his back, Sergeant Ruiz stared over Garcia's head as Fernandez continued to babble about the make of Cabrera's automobile, his pistol, the people who would be at the house, the layout of the rooms—

  Garcia waved him quiet. "Ruiz, do you have the list of the co-conspirators?"

  "I have it." Fernández fumbled in a pocket of his baggy brown trousers and withdrew a piece of paper, which he unfolded. "There are seventeen members in the Movement. Shall I read the names to you, general?"

  "No. Put it on my desk." Garcia drew the paper closer and scanned the handwritten list of names and addresses. He looked up at Fernández. "Your name is not here."

  "Only the counterrevolutionaries are on the list, sir. The name of Raúl Ruiz is not there either, as you see." Fernández took a step forward, pointing at certain names. "Some of them are only marginally involved. Those of more importance to the Movement are underlined."

  "I see. Very good." He touched his hp with his handkerchief.

  "What will become of them?" Fernández asked. "I— I am curious. That is all."

  "They will be arrested and put on trial for treason. You will receive a medal for your service to your country."

  Behind his glasses, Fernandez's eyes gleamed. "Thank you. Thank you, general. Will I be introduced to President Castro? Do you think that is possible?"

  "Of course." Garcia put his cigarette to his lips, pausing to say, "He will want to embrace you."

  Fernández made a strange gurgle of delight, then ducked his head in apology. "I am overwhelmed. Forgive me. The enemies of Cuba are many, and we must all defend the Revolution. It has been my honor, my privilege, to serve you, for in serving you, I serve the Cuban people, who suffer under threats from both outside and within—"

  As he continued to talk, Garcia swiveled in his chair and pressed a button on his telephone. A moment later the door opened, and two men in olive-green fatigues entered. "Mr. Fernández? You will please go with these men."

  Fernández looked around, an expression of bovine stupidity on his face. He asked Ruiz, "Aren't you taking me back to Havana?"

  Ruiz moved aside. Garcia motioned, and the men took Fernandez's arms. He stammered, "Where are we going? Please, not so tightly. I can walk. May I ask ... for what purpose ... ?" Like an animal sensing the imminence of its own death, Fernández rolled his eyes. "I can't stay. I need to get back. My girlfriend is expecting me for dinner." When they took him through the door, he was saying, "Wait. Please wait. Raúl, what is going on? I don't understand this."

  When they had gone, Garcia got up to stretch his legs. "Talk to me for a moment. Close the door."

  The knob disappeared inside one of Ruiz's immense hands.

  Garcia said, "They'll wait for you to do it. I've told them that you will."

  "Sir?"

  "Fernández. I want you to kill him."

  The impassive black eyes flickered. "With all respect, general, I'd rather not. I know him."

  "All the more reason." Garcia tapped his cigarette over the ashtray. Waited.

  Ruiz nodded. "I'll do it."

  "You can make it quick. It doesn't have to be messy." Garcia reached across the desk and spun the list to see it. "Fernández mentioned a girlfriend. Is she here?"

  Ruiz studied the names. "No, I don't see her. But she doesn't know anything. She wasn't a part of it."

  "Let's not leave any loose ends, all right? You take care of it for me."

  "She has two kids."

  "And?"

  The eyes flickered again. Ruiz said, "It isn't necessary, general. She knows nothing." "Have you lost your nerve?" "No. I'll take care of it."

  Garcia extended the pack of cigarettes, and Ruiz took one, lighting it from the matches on the desk. "What do you think, Ruiz? Will Cabrera follow through?"

  "Don't worry. He's pissed off about Leiva's arrest. He blames Vega."

  Garcia smiled through an exhalation of smoke. He had called MININT himself to insist that Leiva be taken into custody. "And did Cabrera believe that General Vega was behind Olga Saavedra's death?"

  "Yes, he bought that story, too. Who did kill her? One of us?"

  Garcia shrugged. "Maybe it was Vega. It could have been. It doesn't matter. Soon this will be over, sergeant. We can relax. Go now. I have to make a telephone call."

  Before reaching for the handset, Garcia paused to consider the sergeant's reactions. He had handpicked Ruiz from the best of the best. A skillful, fearless man, loyal first to himself. Such men responded well to money and power, and Garcia had supplied them. He trusted Ruiz, but he was bothered by Ruiz's hesitation. He weighed whether to get rid of him. It wouldn't be a bad idea. But not now. Ruiz was brutal and quick. He would be needed when Quintana arrived.

  Garcia went back to the closet, closed the door behind himself, and once again slid back the panel to peer into the bedroom. The girl had not moved. But wait. Her arm now lay across her stomach. She would probably not die after all. He felt his mood lift.

  Returning to his office, Garcia looked at his.watch. Five-thirty.

  He picked up the telephone and dialed Anthony Quintana's number.

  40

  “Impossible," Anthony said. "I can't meet you outside Havana. If you want the files, bring Karen back to the city. We'll make the exchange in a public place." Garcia again demanded that Anthony drive into the countryside, a place south of Rancho Boyeros, where a car would pick him up and bring him the rest of the way.

  "I am telling you, I can't do that." With effort, he kept

  his voice level. Sweat made his hand slick on the telephone. "It's my wife. She would never let me do it. I can't control her much longer. She is on the verge of calling Fidel Castro himself.... You've kidnapped her only child. How do you expect her to react? Name a place in the city, and I'll be there. . . What about outside the Karl Marx Theater? It's in Miramar. . . . No, I haven't called Ramiro. I haven't called anyone. . . .We just want Karen back. We don't care about anything else. Please hear what I'm saying. I will not go outside the city."

  The ominous silence on the line went on for a time before the general said what Hector Mesa had predicted he would say: "Come to my apartment in Chinatown." There was a pause. Garcia added, "Bring your wife."

  "Why? You and I are making a simple trade."

  "Bring her. She will keep your mind on what you have to do. I can easily leave Cuba right now. How would you find the girl? It could take a long time. I wonder how long she would survive without water."

  Biting back his first response, Anthony closed his eyes and pounded a fist silently on Ramiro's desk. There was no alternative. He said he would bring Gail with him.

  Ga
rcia told him to arrive at six-thirty. "If you are early or late, you will find no one there."

  At a quarter till six they were driving past the Capitol. Dusk had robbed all color from the sky. Sea mist made the streetlights appear wrapped in white silk. Anthony glanced over at Gail in the passenger seat. Her earlier panic had chilled to a fine-edged anger.

  Leaving so soon after his conversation with Garcia cut the risk that they would be shadowed. Anthony had seen no one trailing them, but he could not be sure. He believed that his advantage lay in a peculiar trait he had noticed in men of power. The longer they held it, the more complacent they became. They grew to believe that their power was a law of nature, like gravity. They assumed that those under their control would do as they were told.

  Gail broke the silence. "I'm so scared, Anthony. Scared for her."

  "She'll be with us soon, sweetheart." He took her hand and kissed it, hoping he hadn't just lied to her. She loved him, but Karen was her life. "Gail, I want you to do this. When we reach the apartment, stay on the street. I'm sure that Garcia will have one of his men downstairs. He can confirm that you came with me."

  "That's not a good idea," she said. "I'd rather do what Garcia wants. Don't think I'm going to stay behind when Karen is up there."

  "Are you listening? Stay on the street. You would be in the way."

  "No." Gail stared through the windshield.

  "Jesus." Blowing out a breath, he turned left into Old Havana, away from Chinatown. "Karen is enough to deal with. I don't want to worry about getting both of you out of there."

  She looked at him. "You think he's going to do something. He might try to kill us. Is that what you're saying?"

  He took her hand again. "No, sweetheart. I will give him the disk, and he will give me Karen. If you're there, it would be a distraction. That's all."

  "Anthony, did you really put the files on the disk?"

  "Yes. Do you think I would gamble with a blank disk?"