Hot Schemes

by Sherryl Woods

He scowled at her as Lara rejoined them and spread a typed list on the table. Molly tried to get a look at it, but it was upside down and she didn’t think standing up to peer anxiously over Michael’s shoulder was the thing to do. And Michael, damn him, didn’t reveal a damn thing in his expression.

  He jotted down a couple of notes. “Any of these people in this week?”

  Lara shook her head. “But I took a reservation earlier for tonight from Señor Hernández. He said he was bringing some very important people from out of town.”

  Molly recognized the name at once. It had been on the contact list given to them by both Felipe and Walt Hazelton. “Did he mention who these friends were?”

  “Not to me,” she said.

  Molly’s spirits sank.

  “But,” Lara said, “my boss said we should pay special attention because this man he’s bringing could one day be president of a free Cuba.”

  Molly shot a triumphant look at Michael. If that wasn’t Orestes León Paredes, then she didn’t know who it could be.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Michael used his considerable persuasive skills to convince the cooperative, smitten Lara to give him and Molly a dinner reservation at a table across the restaurant, but with a clear view of the one being held for Señor Hernández and his party.

  “You will not disturb them,” she asked worriedly.

  It was the first indication that she didn’t entirely trust the newfound love of her life. Trust was always the first thing to go, Molly noted dryly.

  “Absolutely not,” Michael promised, his expression all innocence and reassurance.

  Molly was astounded at how easily he blatantly lied to the poor woman. It raised some interesting questions about the things he’d whispered in her ear the past few nights. Of course, given her own willingness to bend veracity for the sake of getting a piece of relevant information, maybe she didn’t have a lot of room to talk.

  When they left the restaurant, Molly insisted on finding a hotel room, taking a shower, and buying a new dress for dinner, not necessarily in that order.

  “Why don’t I drop you off back on Duval Street to shop?” Michael suggested. “I’ll get the hotel room, pick you up in a couple of hours, and we can take that shower together.”

  “Are you sure you’d prefer sharing a shower with me, rather than your new conquest?” she inquired crankily.

  “That was only business, querida.”

  Molly was beginning to notice he pulled out the more affectionate term when he wanted something. “Just how far were you willing to take this business in order to get answers?”

  “I suppose you have never flirted with a man to get what you wanted?”

  “Never,” Molly said piously.

  “Liar,” he accused. “I myself have been the victim of your wiles.”

  She turned on him indignantly. “Michael O’Hara, I never flirted with you to get information.”

  He grinned unrepentantly. “Ah, then it was only because you wished to flirt with me? Perhaps you’ve been hoping all this time to seduce me?”

  Molly glared at him as the car stopped for a group of pedestrians crossing the street. She opened the door, got out, then slammed it shut. She walked around to Michael’s side and leaned in the window. “Better make that two rooms, amigo.”

  • • •

  It was amazing how little petty annoyances vanished in a puff of steam, during a long, friendly shower, Molly thought as she and Michael were led to their table that night by someone other than Lara. With the hostess absent, Molly found she could hardly recall what her argument with Michael had been about.

  They had arrived fifteen minutes earlier than their quarry, so they would already be seated when the others turned up. With any luck, Paredes wouldn’t even notice them until they’d managed to eavesdrop on quite a bit of the conversation.

  Actually eavesdrop was a polite description for it. Michael had managed to plant a tiny transmitter in a wall plug near the other table and had put a pocket-size receiver in Molly’s handbag.

  “Isn’t this illegal?” Molly inquired when he returned from his surreptitious trip to install the fake plug in the wall outlet. “I mean, don’t you need a court order or something before you go tapping somebody’s dinner conversation?”

  “I would if I had any intention of taking this to court. I’m just an innocent citizen trying to locate a missing relative. The ethics are questionable, but right now the only thing I give a damn about is Miguel’s safety.”

  “But what if you hear them plotting something illegal. You won’t even be able to turn them in, will you?”

  “An anonymous tip,” he said with a shrug. “It would then be up to the authorities to follow up in a by-the-book manner.” He slanted a curious look at her. “Why so worried about my ethics?”

  “Because you seem to be breaking every rule you live by. I’m just wondering how you’re going to feel about that when this is over.”

  “If I learn the truth about Miguel, the price will not be too high.”

  Molly wondered about that, but she couldn’t debate the point with him because a handful of men in the Hernández party arrived and were led to the table across the room. Based on the deference being paid him, Molly picked out the tall, well-dressed man with silver hair as Señor Hernández. He, like all the others, looked like a successful middle-class businessman. Despite the season and the summer heat, they wore dark business suits, expensive dress shirts with monogrammed cuffs, and silk ties. She suspected all of them had been told to tuck their checkbooks in their pockets for the occasion. Or perhaps they were the types who’d just peel off hundred-dollar bills from a bundle held together by a sterling-silver money clip. Half a dozen cellular phones were placed on the table, yet another indication of their success.

  When Orestes Léon Paredes walked in, escorted by two men the size of small tanks, Molly regarded him with astonishment. The military fatigues had been replaced by a suit that transformed him into a handsome, powerful-looking figure. Though he was shorter than many of the other men, his commanding presence immediately overshadowed them. Perhaps it had something to do with that charisma Michael had mentioned. The only person who was his equal in presence was Señor Hernández, who was treating all of his guests with the manner of a benevolent dictator.

  Molly tried to listen to the snatches of conversation being picked up by the transmitter. Michael reached over and touched her shoulder gently.

  “Do not stare so intently at your purse,” he advised mildly. “People may wonder if it is speaking to you.”

  She shot upright. “Sorry. Can you hear them?”

  “Enough.”

  “What are they talking about?”

  “The Florida Marlins’ latest victory over the Atlanta Braves, I believe.”

  “Oh,” she said flatly.

  “Never fear. They will get to the point of this gathering soon.”

  Molly prayed he was right. Michael’s tone was calm, but there was no mistaking the tension in the set of his jaw and the watchfulness in his eyes. She wondered how long he would wait patiently before physically trying to force Paredes to give him the answers he sought about Miguel.

  Forced to make a show of being there for dinner, they ordered a meal of paella, mainly because Michael knew it would take longer to prepare and guarantee them a reason for lingering. When it eventually came, it might as well have been sawdust for all the attention they paid it. Their worried waiter asked repeatedly if there was some problem with their meal. Michael waved him away, assuring him that their appetites were simply overwhelmed by the delicious seafood dish.

  “Damn,” Michael muttered irritably when the waiter had been temporarily placated.

  “What?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if they are ever going to get beyond these pleasantries after all.”

  “What if it turns out to be just a friendly get-together?”

  Michael shook his head. “At the least, I expect
Paredes to ask for money from these men to support his efforts. These are not men who would take up arms and raid Cuba themselves, but they would be sympathetic.” His expression turned cynical. “After all, in a free Cuba their businesses would stand to make a small fortune, especially with such well-established influence with a new government headed by their close friend, Orestes León Paredes.”

  Eventually cigars were passed around, and a haze of smoke rose from the table. Michael nodded in satisfaction. “Good. They will get to the bottom line now.”

  Listening intently, Molly picked out a smattering of familiar words, most of them bitterly spoken, unflattering descriptions of Fidel Castro, along with talk of his failing health and the already-failed economy.

  Paredes spoke with feeling. As near as Molly could translate it, he said adamantly, “The end is near for Fidel. I will see to it.”

  Cheers and a toast greeted his statement, along with promises of support. If she hadn’t known the context, Molly would have thought it the same as any other political gathering to generate early support for a candidate. She’d been to a few dinners for prospective candidates for local offices that had been no less hard-sell pitches for money.

  “Have they said anything at all about the raids?” she asked Michael.

  “Nothing. It appears that is something they dare not speak of in public, or else they talk in terms so vague that no one else can accuse them of plotting the overthrow of a foreign government.”

  Interestingly enough, it also appeared that no money was going to change hands. Perhaps one of Paredes’s minions would take up a collection after the leader had discreetly departed. Even now, he was standing up to go, a royal taking leave of his subjects with a slight bow and no looking back.

  “What …” Molly began before she realized that Michael was already on his feet, clearly intending to intersect Paredes’s path at the door.

  Before she could make a move to follow, she noticed another man slipping through the shadows on the far side of the restaurant. Just as she recognized Herman Gómez-Ortega, she saw that he had something in his hand, though he held it discreetly at his side.

  A gun, she realized with a dawning sense of disbelief. In her haste to warn Michael, she knocked over her chair and bumped into several people as she ran toward the door, trailed by a waiter assuming he was about to be stiffed for the check.

  In the back of her mind, Molly couldn’t help seeing Paredes’s house as it had looked after an assault rifle had blown out the front windows. Was he here tonight in his organization role to protect Paredes or did he intend to repeat the assassination attempt that had failed in Miami? Either way, Michael was in danger, she thought as she ran blindly outside after them.

  She was afraid to shout a warning, because she wasn’t entirely sure who was armed and who was on which side. Before she could figure out how to get past Gómez-Ortega, she saw Paredes grab Michael’s arm, spin him around, and yank him behind the cover of a van parked down the block.

  Suddenly men appeared from every direction, all armed and all wearing flak jackets with various official designations on the backs. Apparently the neon letters were meant to help distinguish the good guys from the bad. Molly hated to be the one to tell them, but it didn’t help. Everyone on the goddamned street looked downright dangerous. A man whose flak jacket identified him in neon orange letters as POLICE strong-armed Molly back inside the restaurant doorway.

  “Stay put,” he said, and left her there, trembling violently and face-to-face with their stunned waiter, who’d just caught on that this was no ordinary turn of events involving a couple of deadbeats. As rattled as she was, Molly managed to snatch a handful of bills from her purse and shove them into his hand.

  Not thirty seconds later there was a hail of gunfire, accompanied by shouts and screams. Then dead silence. Molly couldn’t have stayed where she was if her own life had depended on it. She kept visualizing Michael in the grasp of Orestes León Paredes, a man not known for his peaceful intent.

  She shrugged off the detaining hand of the waiter and edged out the doorway and peered down the block. Police officials were kneeling on the pavement over what appeared to be a body.

  Smothering a scream with her hand, Molly crept toward the macabre scene, which was bathed in the glow of a streetlamp. Not until she was almost on top of the police and before she could identify the fallen victim did she see a movement from the direction of the van where she’d last seen Michael.

  First a policeman emerged, followed by Paredes himself. He didn’t look to be in custody. Finally, when her breath seemed to have stopped all together, she saw Michael, his gaze searching the scene as frantically as her own. By the time he spotted her, she was already running.

  He held out his arms, then enfolded her in an embrace. “You are okay, amiga?”

  She swallowed a sob. “Now that you’re here, yes,” she said, her voice steady. She looked up into Michael’s ashen face. “They shot Herman, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because of his attack on Paredes’s house the other day?”

  “That and his plan to kill him tonight.”

  “But why would he want to kill Paredes? I still don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. Perhaps when things have settled down a bit, Paredes will explain it to us.”

  At that precise moment, the exile commander walked over to them. Michael held out his hand. “I owe you my life, señor.”

  “De nada.” His grin turned rueful. “Had I not dragged you to safety, you would have persisted in questioning me in plain view of Herman and we both would have been shot to death. I was not prepared to die, not at the hands of a traitor.”

  “You call Herman Gómez-Ortega a traitor,” Molly said with evident confusion. “I thought he was your chief military advisor.”

  “For a time that is how I thought of him, as well,” he said with obvious pain. “It was only recently, in the last few days, in fact, that I learned the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “He was sent here as a spy by Castro. That is how he won his release from prison, by agreeing to infiltrate our organization and feed information to Cuban Intelligence. When I was told by American agents of their suspicions, I called them liars. But with so much at stake, I could not afford to ignore the possibilities. With the assistance of my most loyal associates, we devised a means of learning the truth.”

  He grasped Michael’s shoulders. “Your uncle, Miguel García, was vital to our plan. It was his heroic offer to act as the bait which enabled us to trap Herman into showing his hand.”

  Michael went absolutely still. “You used my uncle as bait?” he said in a voice as cold as ice. “How? Just today Díaz-Nuñez said you had called my uncle a traitor.”

  Paredes waved off the remark. “He misunderstood. I told him we had discovered a traitor and that we were dealing with him. Because of Miguel García’s disappearance, he leapt to a wrong conclusion. It was not unexpected. Even with such errors in judgment, I find him useful.”

  “Useful?” Michael repeated. “Is that all any of these men are to you, just pawns in your games? Explain how my uncle was useful.”

  “We made it known he was to be the point man in our raid.” Paredes said quietly. His burning gaze never left Michael’s. “And, as we anticipated, when he took his boat out on Sunday, the Cuban authorities were waiting to take him captive.”

  Molly gasped softly.

  Michael’s expression turned absolutely deadly. “You sent my uncle to sea knowing that he would wind up in a Cuban jail?” He jerked away from the other man’s grasp. “Look over your shoulder, Paredes. One day I will see that you share the same fate as Miguel García,” he vowed.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  “How will I tell Tía Pilar?” Michael asked over and over as they drove back to Miami. “How can I tell her that Miguel is back in his beloved Havana, but that he is being held in some harsh Cuban prison where he will probably die?”r />
  The question was rhetorical. He never looked to Molly for an answer. He just spoke and then fell into a brooding silence. It was just as well because she had no answers. She was as horrified as he was that sweet, gentle Tío Miguel was imprisoned in Cuba by a government that would treat him as a traitor. It was possible he would be shot, as others had been, to set an example for those thinking of staging future commando raids. A tear slid down her cheek as she considered that possibility.

  It was after midnight when they reached Miami, but Michael drove straight to Little Havana. Rather than going to see Pilar, however, he went to Pedro’s restaurant.

  They found his uncle nursing a cup of café Cubano, surrounded by a group of men actively debating the candidacies of two people running for the Dade County Commission. One was a high-profile attorney, originally from Havana, with ties to the powerful Latin Builders Association. The other was a woman, head of her own interior design company, active in the arts. What seemed to be splitting the group about evenly was the fact that the man had once attended a professional seminar in Latin America at which Fidel had been a speaker. For some, that alone was enough to disqualify him from holding a public office representing the Cuban exile community.

  Pedro glanced up and caught sight of them. He motioned them over, but Michael shook his head. “Por favor,” he said, and indicated a table in an empty section that had already been closed for the night.

  Instantly, Pedro’s expression sobered. “You have news, is that it?” he said as he joined them. “And from the look on your faces, it is not good.”

  “No, it’s not good,” Michael agreed.

  “Miguel is dead?”

  “Some would say that would be better news,” Michael said, urging his uncle to sit.

  Pedro clung to Michael’s arms, his gaze fixed on Michael’s face. “My God, do not tell me he has been taken captive? Is that what you are saying?”

  “I’m sorry,” Michael whispered, his voice catching as Pedro slowly sank down onto a chair, his complexion gray. Michael’s worried gaze sought his uncle’s. “Are you okay?”