Act of Betrayal

by Edna Buchanan

  Eloy hit one of the quiet Gables residential streets, made several sharp turns, then slowed to a sedate speed. I eased down onto the floor, trembling, face in my hands. “Stop at the next corner and let me out,” I said.

  “¿Qué?’ Bravo cupped his hand over his ear.

  Would any of us ever hear normally again?

  They insisted on taking me back to my car near Bayfront Park I would have preferred a bus, a cab, hitchhiking, or shoe leather. I would have happily crawled. But in the time it took to argue the point we were nearly there, with me scanning traffic for the cops. There had to be a BOLO (Be On the Lookout) for all of us by now. I expected roadblocks, choppers, patrol cars. There were none. Perhaps it was luck or some jurisdictional radio foul-up between the Gables and Miami.

  Ears ringing, knees weak, I stepped out of the Lincoln onto sun-scorched Biscayne Boulevard. I wanted to drop to my knees and kiss the pavement in gratitude. It seemed so very long ago that we had left, yet by my watch it was less than twenty-five minutes.

  Bravo said something before I slammed the door, looking furtively over my shoulder for police or the FBI. I couldn’t hear what he said but it didn’t matter. Had I answered, he couldn’t have heard me.

  I meticulously obeyed all the traffic laws as I drove carefully back to the office. My first reaction that morning had been to ignore my beeper. I was right. My hearing seemed to return a bit in the elevator.

  Gretchen was waiting. “Have a good lunch?” She smiled sweetly. I liked the old Gretchen better, I thought. At least I knew where she stood.

  “The FBI has been calling,” she said, scrutinizing my face. “What’s wrong, Britt? Did something you ate disagree with you?”

  15

  They know. They saw. I’m dead. Oh shit, I thought. Cops and crooks can be reasoned with, but the FBI scares me.

  The message was from Don Farmer, the local bureau spokesman who often called in official press releases. Should I brief Mark Seybold or wait to see exactly what the FBI wanted? Lawyers hate surprises, especially unpleasant ones, so I called Mark’s number. He was out.

  I dialed Jerry, the reporter who mans our police radios in a claustrophobic cubicle off the newsroom. A cacophony of scanners chorused in the background, and I listened while he finished questioning a Coast Guard spokesman about the search for an accountant who had called his wife on his cellular phone to say his ship-to-shore radio was dead and his sailboat was taking on water three miles offshore.

  “What’s going on, Jerry?”

  “Not much,” he said. “Pretty quiet, in fact. Number cruncher lost at sea, a traffic dispute and chase on U.S. One, ‘bout an hour ago. Shots fired, sounded like it would turn into something but they ran right through a driver’s ed class at Gables High and got away.”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Nope. Sounds gang-related to me.”

  I hung up weak with relief. Nobody hurt. No thanks to Jorge Bravo. I called Don Farmer.

  “Got something for you, Britt.”

  “Yeah?” I said suspiciously, determined to stay cool and admit as little as possible.

  “You know Jorge Bravo, the AFC honcho.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed, teeth on edge, stomach lurching. Why hadn’t Mark Seybold been there when I called? “Yeah?”

  “I’m sure you saw the press release he issued on that aquatic drive-by along the Cuban coast.”

  “The firing on the Vista del Mar.”

  “Right, well, we’re about to execute a search warrant on Bravo’s house. Thought you’d be interested.”

  “Why?” I said shortly.

  “Well”—he sounded puzzled—” they said you were working on the story.”

  “Oh, I am.” My eyelid had begun to twitch. Lucky I hadn’t chosen a life of crime. I could never pull off a successful caper, I thought.

  “Just thought you’d want the tip. The agent-in-charge appreciated your story on that bank robber, the one whose children turned him in after you put his surveillance camera photo in the newspaper.”

  “Thanks, Don. That’s great.” My enthusiasm sounded weak and phony even to me.

  “Okay, here’s the location.” He repeated Bravo’s address, which I dutifully wrote down. “The U.S. magistrate just signed the warrant, and agents from the terrorism task force will head out there in the next hour.”

  “He in custody?” I asked casually.

  “No. If he’s there they’ll bring him in for a statement, but there’s no arrest warrant yet. His bond may be revoked first. They’re looking for weapons, evidence of illegal activity, contraband, that kind of thing.

  “If you go out there, with a photographer,” he added, “be cool, like some neighbor called it in to you.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Don.”

  “The FBI wants their picture taken when they toss Bravo’s house,” I told Bobby Tubbs at the desk, “probably to deter other groups Bravo might inspire to go south for a bite out of Castro.”

  The feds may just want to lure me away from the newsroom and the paper’s lawyer, I worried, hoping Lottie was free. She was, and we rode together.

  “Don’t let on that we’re familiar with the place,” I warned her. “And if Bravo shows up, the operative word is duck? I filled her in on what had happened, talking fast.

  “Slow down.” She squinted sideways at me as she drove. “We better git you some water afore you overheat. If what don’t kill you makes you strong, you must be the toughest woman in town. Now tell me about your breakfast date. Did you go out to breakfast with him or did you meet him for breakfast? Big difference.” She cut her eyes at me again.

  I told her everything—almost. She was more interested in my romantic interlude than in my close encounters with death and/or arrest. Life-threatening occupational hazards are routine to Lottie. She has hiked through a jungle with Shining Path guerrillas in Peru, been caught in firefights in El Salvador, and dodged bullets in bombed-out Beirut.

  “Great guns and little fishes, Britt. You mean we both have a personal life at the same time? Too bad you and Hal can’t join us on the Gettaway in the morning.” She read my expression. “You’ll really like Stosh when you get to know him.”

  “It might be fun,” I conceded. “I do love to be out on the water.”

  “You’d love the dancing and the gambling and the nightclub acts too.”

  “But no way, not on such short notice. Hal is working, and I have the parents’ meeting tomorrow night.”

  “Just one favor, then. You’re an early riser. Kin you drive me to the port to meet Stosh in the morning?”

  “You’re not going together?”

  “He’s working late tonight, preparing for some trial. The man is not an early riser. Always in trouble with some judge for being late. The ship sails at dawn. He’s coming from south, I’m coming from the north. The port is in the middle. Imagine sailing into Government Cut at one A.M., beneath a blanket of stars and seeing the twinkling lights of the city, then disembarking from a romantic cruise and going home in separate cars. Puleeeze, Britt, you owe me one,” she pleaded. “And I want this to be perfect. He’s so gorgeous, so red hot, so…”

  “Okay, okay, okay. What time do I pick you up?”

  “Five,” she said, beaming.

  “A.M.?”

  A course.

  “Oh man,” I whined. “Deal. On one condition. Hal is nervous about the inquest. We have to be there for moral support. You’ll like him.”

  A single Miami patrol car and several unmarked FBI vehicles, mostly white, a Dodge Aries or two, a few Chevrolet Caprices, were clustered on the gravel and in the street around Bravo’s house. Much to my relief I saw no beige Crown Vic among them, or the old Lincoln. Half a dozen agents, four men and two women, from the terrorism task force were descending on the house. They wore jeans or cargo pants, sneakers, and blue baseball caps and raid jackets with FBI emblazoned on them in yellow letters. Two had gone to the back doo
r. All had on the new bulletproof vests that fasten at the sides with Velcro and have handy pockets for shotgun shells. I remembered Bravo’s words as I watched them. It is ironic that the federal government now targets exiles for doing exactly what it once trained, equipped, and encouraged them to do.

  The case agent did not look surprised to see us, or perturbed as Lottie began shooting pictures. He was reading the warrant to Nerida, who stood submissively on the front porch in a simple cotton housedress. Resigned and stoic, she was shrugging her shoulders, as though saying she did not know the whereabouts of the comandante. She had been through this drill before. A few neighbors had begun to gather, idly watching.

  As the agents brushed by her, we joined Nerida on the porch. “No está home.”

  “Good,” I said. Her eyes agreed.

  She stepped back inside to watch and we followed. Agents were opening closets, pushing up ceiling panels. Our eyes went immediately to the tarp in the corner. It was still there. One agent approached and lifted the canvas. I caught my breath as he yanked it back to expose what was hidden. Lottie fired off a picture.

  Vacuum cleaners. Half a dozen, ranging from the basic no-frills model to a deluxe top-of-the-line carpet beautifier with an automatic cord winder and all the attachments. Canisters, uprights, power nozzle connectors, flexible hoses, and disposable filter bags.

  “Mi esposo es vendedor de vacuum cleaners,” Nerida told them.

  I remembered what Reyes had said. Bravo did demonstrate and sell vacuum cleaners.

  One of the agents peered suspiciously down a hollow aluminum wand. “You attach that to the hose, then plug it in,” Lottie said helpfully.

  “I’ll have to ask you ladies to step outside,” the case agent snapped.

  They searched for forty-five minutes. Wherever Bravo had stashed his arsenal, it was not at home. One agent even crawled under the house. They found no weapons, but did carry out some papers in a cardboard box. They left Nerida, who did not seem upset, with a copy of the search warrant and an inventory of what they had seized: some old maps of Cuba, bills and telephone records, a personal telephone directory, and “an eleven by fourteen framed photograph of several armed men.” My father’s picture.

  The crowd of neighbors outside had grown. “¡Cuba si, Castro no! ¡Viva Bravo!” they were shouting.

  The agents were not happy as they departed. I knew the drill necessary for the warrant. First they had taken a detailed description of the premises and exactly what they sought to the U.S. Attorney’s office and requested an affidavit. The case agent who signed it then took the affidavit to a U.S. magistrate, who issued the warrant. Agents had photographed the premises and scoped out the house and surrounding neighborhood for factors like small children and vicious dogs. They had checked out the phone number and the types of doors and windows and outlined a plan. A final briefing took place in front of a blackboard with sketches of the house, yard, and adjacent streets. Each agent had read the entire warrant. Radio channels had been set up and the route to the nearest hospital noted in case something went wrong. Miami police had been contacted and asked to send a marked patrol unit. The officer who responded had been filled in immediately before the warrant was served.

  A great deal of effort had been expended. The FBI probably was not going to like a newspaper picture of its elite terrorism task force clad in body armor and uncovering—vacuum cleaners.

  I called my Aunt Odalys later from the office, determined to carry out my threat to take her to a doctor if she was no better. No problem, Berta said, “No doctor. Hold on, she wants to talk to you.”

  “Mi hijita.” Her voice sounded weak. “The spirits in the caldron are weeping. They say that what you seek is gone forever.”

  “What does the heck does that mean?”

  “Only you know, mi hijita.”

  “My father’s diary? The missing boys? Love? All hope of a raise, or a normal family life? Or my car out there in the News parking lot?” I was beginning to sound and feel hysterical.

  “You will soon see, mi hijita.”

  Deliver me, I thought. Whatever they meant, I didn’t like it one damn bit. “Gone forever” did not have a positive ring. Overtired and stressed out by the ups and downs of this day, I was already depressed. Hal had not called. Had I been seduced and abandoned? Bummer. Although I, myself, was a major player in that seduction, which was one of the reasons I was short on sleep. I had to get some rest if I was going to pick Lottie up at 5 A.M.

  I finished my story and went home, eager for a message from Hal, determined to eat something light and retire early. The heat hit me when I opened the door. The air conditioner was dead again. The Goldsteins were out. They had mentioned taking Seth down to Big Pine Key to visit a cousin. No message from Hal on my machine.

  All I found in the freezer was a frozen cheesecake. As I stood in front of the open door, pressing it to my feverish brow, the telephone rang. I snatched it up, hoping for Hal’s voice.

  “Britt, you’re home!”

  I caught my breath at the unexpected sound of my mothers voice instead.

  “I was hoping to catch you.”

  “Yes?” Tears welled as I sank into my armchair, orphan no more, clutching the telephone expectantly, the melting cheesecake in my lap.

  “At Neimans first thing in the morning!’’ she said. “Gloria Vanderbilt jeans marked down to half price. The ad won’t hit the papers until Wednesday. The cut is perfect for your long legs and narrow hips. You must get there early before your size is gone. It’s smart to pick up two or three pair at that price. You can always dress them up with a nice shirt and a blazer.”

  “Thanks.” I spoke the word awkwardly, as though conversing with a stranger. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “They have some nice pastel sweats, too. Marked down.”

  “Uh, it’s too hot to think about sweatshirts,” I said, moisture from the cheesecake pooling on my skirt and chilling my thighs.

  “When it’s cooler and you need them, they’ll be full price,” she warned. “Just trying to help.”

  Numbly, I thanked her again.

  “Have to go now, dear,” she said happily, and hung up as though all was swell between us. I sat for a long rime, my hand still resting on the telephone, the cheesecake sodden in my lap, ignoring the TV weather and its color radar pictures of the storm far out at sea.

  16

  “You owe me,” I croaked. Dawn was more than an hour away. Not even a glimmer of light cracked the eastern sky. Lottie’s face glowed with anticipation. She wore sea green, striking with her red hair, and looked as happy as I’ve ever seen her.

  We drove into the darkness on the soaring bridge to the port, the giant neon guitar atop the Hard Rock Cafe at Bayside a predawn beacon to our right, huge cruise ships to our left. I found the terminal, where passengers were already being welcomed by a steel band.

  “There he is!” Lottie said, spotting Stosh as he parked his shiny black Jaguar. Tall and lean, he wore a slightly rumpled loose-fitting linen sports jacket, designer shades folded in the breast pocket, over a silk T-shirt and lightweight slacks. He did cut a dashing figure. But as he scanned the crowd for Lottie, he looked tense, as though he hadn’t slept much, like a man burning the candle at both ends. His wit and quick mind that never ceased calculating the angles, coupled with his longish blond hair and intense pale blue eyes that grew hungry when he spoke to women, all gave him a certain fey charm. But his chin struck me as weak. So did his character.

  We waved and he approached with a long-legged stride, his restless eyes inspecting the other arrivals. He kissed Lottie on the cheek, winking at me over her shoulder as he put his arm around her.

  “Coffee, coffee,” he muttered. “Take me to some coffee.”

  “They’ll feed us a sumptuous breakfast right after we board,” she promised, gazing at him as though he were the only man in the world.

  “Bon voyage, you two,” I said. “Hav
e fun, the weather report says its gonna be a great day out there.” The storm was more than seventeen hundred miles to the southeast. Residents of Barbados and the French West Indies on the Caribbean’s eastern rim were beginning to heed advisories and batten down the hatches, just in case.

  The passengers boarded through an arch of bobbing red, blue, and green balloons at the foot of the gangway. The ship’s photo concessionaire was shooting color stills to hawk later on the cruise. A splash of light bathed the happy couple as the camera’s flash froze them forever in time. Would future grandchildren treasure it some day? It’s the lack of sleep, I told myself as I drove west across the high bridge at first light, directly toward Freedom Tower. I was becoming as romantic as Lottie.

  Instead of sacking out for an hour, I went to the beach and ran south along the surf toward Government Cut, the shipping channel from the Port of Miami to the deep blue Gulf Stream and the open sea. Summer clouds, low, white, and fluffy, banked the horizon and the smooth surface of the ocean sparkled with scattered diamonds.

  Breathing hard and soaked with perspiration, I stood at South Pointe and watched from the jetty as the big white cruise ship glided east toward Africa. Of course it would make a U-turn after a stop at Freeport in the Bahamas and be back late tonight. I squinted at the ant-sized passengers clustered along the rails on the upper deck. With binoculars I would have been able to spot Lottie and Stosh. Those two would stand out in any crowd.

  I waved anyway, then went home. Mr. Goldstein said he was giving up on my air conditioner and promised a brand-new one, installed by the time I got home that night.

  I drank a glass of orange juice, showered, dressed, and studied the picture of my father with his old comrades before I left. The copy Lottie had shot was now simply framed and hung in my living room. If I was ever to read his diary of those times, I decided, I would have to find it myself. Bravo insisted it was in the possession of some newly arrived rafter who might or might not actually exist. Reyes claimed it was tucked away among his musty relics of the past. Like those associated with most Cuban exile (actions, each accused the other of lying. Who was the liar, and why? If Reyes didn’t have it, why would he have mentioned it to me in the first place?