He tried to remember what he’d been doing last night. Another Saturday night. He’d gone bar hopping on Rush Street with Arnie. It was coming back. They were getting wasted as usual, but this time they’d met a couple of women. What was her name? Tracy? Stacy? She was blond. He remembered that. He liked blondes. He thought he remembered a teddy bear on the bed. He must have gone back to her place. He felt his cheeks get hot, then shook it off. He was single and almost thirty-two; she was over twenty-one. So, what the hell was she doing with a stuffed animal on her bed?
He stood up slowly, found his balance, and went to the window. A bleak November gray had descended on his Lakeview neighborhood. Unlike the fiery passion of October, November was a dreary old maid. He turned on the tube, went to the kitchen, and brewed a pot of coffee. He sipped it while watching the mindless TV chatter that passed for intelligent discourse these days. What do you get when you combine predictable questions and talking point answers? Ersatz communication. He knew all about that.
In the bathroom he idled under a hot shower. Afterwards, he felt tolerably well enough to shave. His mother hated the scruffy look that was popular on men these days and let him know it. Frequently. He shared the same dark hair as she, and lots of it. He’d shaved it off when he was in the military, but now it was back, long, thick and curly. Women described his brown eyes as soulful, whatever that meant. A patrician nose and a scar under his chin from a fall when he was young were enough to make his face not quite handsome, but interesting. Hard to look away from, he’d been told. He was big enough to be tall, fit enough to be buff. He’d never had problems attracting women. Men, either, although he didn’t swing that way.
He finished shaving and threw on some clothes. He’d come back from the Persian Gulf in May and was still at loose ends five months later. Not that he hadn’t been offered opportunities. He’d been an MP with the 285th Military Police Battalion from Illinois, headquartered in Kuwait, but he’d made several missions into Iraq. Now the Agency was extending their hand, thanks to his grandfather, but Michael wasn’t interested. Like other bureaucracies, climbing the ladder at the CIA was increasingly a matter of who you knew and whose ass you kissed, and Michael had never been a team player.
He finished dressing, rinsed the mug in the sink, and put on a jacket. He’d have to drive forty minutes to Barrington where his parents lived. He wasn’t anxious to go. Not that he didn’t enjoy seeing his mother. But his father, well, that was another story.
• • •
The men at Miami’s Maximo Gomez Domino Park in Little Havana were at least twenty years older than Ramon. So much for a place where he wouldn’t be conspicuous. He wove around crowded tables that were shaded by a permanent portico, listening to the clack of tiles and the occasional grunt. The scent of Cuban cigars wafted through the air. He’d been to the cigar store a few blocks away; the owner always seemed to have a supply on hand, but they cost three times as much as they did back home.
He sat on a bench painted green at the edge of the portico and pretended to read a newspaper. He was waiting for a meeting with a man he’d hoped he would never see again. He’d been living in the States almost two years now, but he still didn’t know whether it was a blessing or a curse. A blessing because he’d assumed his life was over when the UNITA rebels shot him in Angola. A curse, because he could never go back to Cuba.
He recalled how the Angolan rebels had slapped a blindfold on him, tied his arms and legs, threw him in the back of the Jeep. How, after being jostled and bumped for what seemed like hours, he arrived at an unknown location, a dark, dank, stifling hut. Someone dressed his wound, but over the next week the beatings, the sleep deprivation, and the waterboarding took him to the edge of death. All because the Africans didn’t speak Spanish, and he didn’t speak Portugese or Bantu.
Then, just when he thought he wouldn’t survive another day, two white men appeared. From their accents, he guessed one was South African, the other American. A second interrogation followed, this time in Spanish, with no pain. Ramon spilled everything: what the Cubans were doing in Angola, how much longer they would stay, their relationship with the MPLA, Swenson’s discovery of coltan, and what he and Luis were doing at the site of the future mine.
A week later, the American returned. Suddenly Ramon was treated better. There was no more torture; he was fed. When his wound healed, he was given asylum and flown to Miami. A new year, a new decade, a new life. A new name, too. Like a snake shedding his skin, he was no longer Ramon Suarez. He was Hector Gonzales. He received a monthly stipend, too. Just enough to live on. When he asked why, the American, who told Ramon to call him Walters, said it was a down payment. “You never know when we might need you again.”
Which was why “Hector” was in Domino Park today. Walters had called him last night. By now Ramon had figured out he was CIA. The Americans had been quietly working around the edges of Angola for years, allying themselves with UNITA and the South Africans, hoping to take advantage of the anarchy.
Now, as he waited in the hot Florida sun, rings of sweat dampened his shirt. The hottest part of the day in Miami was still cooler than Havana, but the absence of the trade winds turned Miami into a boiling cauldron. What a difference ninety miles made.
A few minutes later a man sat down. Ramon glanced up from his newspaper. The man wore wrap-around sunglasses, a fancy sports shirt, pants, and well-shined loafers. Although he was heavier and his hair was longer, Ramon recognized Walters. He went back to his newspaper, but smells carried in this heat, and he picked up the scent of Walters’ aftershave. Brut, he thought. Figured.
Walters stretched his arms across the back of the bench and looked away from Ramon. Still, his words were clear. “How you been, Hector?”
“Not bad. All things considered.”
“You getting by on that pension?”
“Sì. Es muy bien.”
“Bueno. You suffered a lot.”
Ramon nodded. “I wish I could say it was worth it. But I don’t know. I thought I would be going back to Cuba.”
“I understand.” Walters cleared his throat. “Well, I have news that will make you feel better. At least, dull some of that pain.”
Ramon turned to him, skeptical.
Walters subtly shook his head. It was only a tiny movement, but Ramon lowered his eyes.
“You remember telling me about that coltan mine you and your buddy found?”
Ramon nodded, wondering where this was going.
“Well, I have a—client—who is interested in it.”
“Client?”
“A guy in Boston. I’m not with the Agency anymore. But I’m in the same business. You know what I mean?”
Ramon didn’t know, but he played along. “I see.”
“We want you to go back over there with us. Show us where it is. There’s a big cut in it for you. In fact, you’ll probably make a fortune. You’ll be set up for life. Your kids too.”
“I don’t have kids.”
“Well then, this could be a reason to start.”
Ramon pretended to think about it, but knew what his answer would be. After a moment, he said, “I’m sorry, but I’m never going back to that place. Not for all the fucking money in the world. You know that movie—Apocalypse Now or something? When they go up that river to that hell on earth? That’s how I feel about Africa. If you hadn’t come along, I would be dead. So I’m grateful to you for that. But I can’t—I won’t—ever go back.”
Walters persisted. “It’s different now. You won’t be in danger. My friends and I will be with you.”
Ramon thought about the scars on his back from the beatings. The limp he still had from the time they broke his leg. The ache in his side that started whenever he was tired. The sheer terror of not knowing whether he would make it through another hour, much less a day. “I know I owe you, but this would be like death. I want to forget it ever happened. Even if you take my stipend away.”
“You do owe me,” Walters said. “You k
now that.”
Ramon massaged his temples, wracking his brain. Then it came to him. He looked over. “What if you could get a map instead? A map that would lead you right to the mine?”
Walters’ eyebrows arched. “It’s a possibility. But how will I know it’s accurate? And how would I know you’re not leading us down a blind alley?”
“It’s the real thing. I’ll swear to it. On my life.”
Walters was noncommittal. “It’s tenuous, but it might work. At least it’s a first step.”
“Good.” Ramon smiled. “That’s good.”
“So?” Walters asked. “Where is it? When can you get it to me?”
“Ahh…” Ramon said. “Sadly, I don’t have it.”
“Then why the fuck are we talking about it?”
“Because I know who does.”
Walters snickered. “And I suppose he’s going to hand it over, no questions asked? We’re not playing games here, Hector. My client is prepared to pay for the information, and I’d like to cut you in, but not if I can’t come up with the goods.”
“I understand. I do. And I know someone this man would hand the map over to.”
Walters faced Ramon. “And who would that be?”
“You ever hear of Tony Pacelli? He’s an old friend of the Agency’s.”
“The name sounds familiar. But, like I told you, I’m not there anymore.”
Ramon waved a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t matter. Pacelli used to run a casino in Havana in the old days. Meyer Lansky was one of his friends. Anyway, Pacelli has a grandson. He’s your guy. He can get the map.”
“How do you know?”
“I can’t tell you. But my information is good.”
Walters flashed him a doubtful look. “So let’s say I get to this guy, Pacelli, and I use your name. What’s he gonna say?”
“You can’t use my name. I worked at his hotel, but—we didn’t part under the best circumstances.”
“Then why the hell would he let me use his kid?”
“Because I know something about Pacelli he doesn’t want out. And I guarantee he’ll cooperate if you bring it up.”
“Is that so?” Walters leaned back, extending his arm on the back of the bench. “What?”
Ramon held up a finger. “First, we negotiate.”
The two men haggled for a few minutes. Then Ramon said, “Yes. That will do.”
“So, what is this information?”
“I can provide information that proves Pacelli supplied arms to the rebels during the revolution.”
“Fidel? Not Batista?”
Ramon nodded.
“So? He wasn’t the only one.”
“Yes, but I have dates and times. Details on shipments, too.”
Walters rubbed his hand across his chin. “Well, now, given our current relationship with Castro plus all the Kennedy assassination, Mafia and CIA crap, I can see that might be information Pacelli doesn’t want to get out.”
This time Ramon didn’t try to hide his smile.
“But what about the kid? His grandson? Why can’t I send one of my own men?”
“First off, he’s not a kid,” Ramon said huffily. “He’s in his thirties, was an MP during the Gulf War. But now I hear he doesn’t know what to do with himself. More important, though, he’s about the only person in the world who can get you that map.”
Walters narrowed his eyes. “What’s so special about him?”
Ramon hesitated. “He’ll get the job done. That’s all you need to know.”
The ex-CIA officer looked like he was weighing whether or not to believe him. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then both of us will lose a fortune.”
Walters stood up and left. Ramon leaned back, wondering if he’d sold out Luis along with Pacelli. Back in Havana during the revolution, Pacelli’s men had tortured him. No one could withstand that agony without spilling everything. Not even Luis. Pacelli deserved whatever was coming. But Luis? He had abandoned Ramon in Angola, leaving him to die with the rebels in the most godforsaken place on earth. If Ramon did sell out Luis, it was no more than he deserved.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The security guard waved him through the gate, and Michael parked in the circular driveway at the Barrington house. Instead of going in through the front door, he walked around to the side and slipped in through the kitchen. The scents of sauteed onions, garlic, and cumin came at him before he closed the door. His mother loved to cook, especially on Sundays when the chef was off. She was a great cook too, and Michael had memories of delicious Caribbean meals like langosta rellena, frijoles negros, and platanos en tentación. She often sang when she cooked. In fact, Michael realized, cooking was the only time his mother seemed content. She was humming now.
He hung his jacket in the mud room and headed into the kitchen. The white walls, splashed with swaths of bright red, blue, and green, took him back to his childhood when he’d spent hours in here with his mother. His father never joined them; in fact, he’d usually complain she was spending too much time in the kitchen—that’s why they paid a small fortune for a chef. Which only made Michael and his mother whisper and laugh like members of the Hole in the Wall gang.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her face lit when she saw him. It always did. He went to her, and she hugged him fiercely, as if it might be the last time. She did that a lot. Which puzzled him. She was over fifty, but she looked years younger. She’d kept her figure, colored her hair, and did whatever other wealthy women did to preserve their youth. On her, though, it all looked natural. He was proud to squire her around when they went out for the occasional brunch or drink. Her behavior was somehow younger, too, when they were together. She was more talkative, girlish, and often funny. Pretty much the opposite of how she was around the house.
“I got you out of bed, didn’t I?” she said.
“Guilty.”
“Who was it? No. Actually, I don’t want to know. We’re supposed to respect each other’s boundaries. Isn’t that what they say these days?”
“I don’t know what they say, but I say my mother is a busybody.”
She slapped him playfully.
He changed the subject. “It smells great.”
“I’m making a Havanaise. With lobster.”
“Fancy.”
“Burhops had a sale. And your grandfather is coming when he’s finished working.” She turned back to the stove. “He wants to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“He didn’t tell me. But you know how he—”
“Fran? What are you doin’?” A voice with a Brooklyn accent broke in from another room. Michael tensed. A moment later the kitchen door swung open and a tall man with styled but thinning gray hair entered. He wore a leisure suit, but he was impeccably groomed.
“I thought we were going to grill steaks.” He stopped when he saw Michael. “Oh, hello, Mike.” He nodded, his voice noticeably cooler. “I didn’t know you were here.”
Michael nodded back, equally cool. His father knew he hated to be called Mike.
His father turned to his mother with a frown. “This doesn’t look like beef.” He gestured to the food on the stove.
“I found lobster on sale at Burhops yesterday, so I thought I’d make a Havanaise.”
“Fran, you know I don’t like seafood.”
“Carmine, Papa is coming tonight and he does.”
“What’s wrong with pasta? He likes that, too.”
His mother didn’t answer. His father watched his wife break the shell of a lobster. With his sharp features and flat expression, he looked like someone who could break a man’s neck as easily as his mother did the lobster. Which, as a former capo for the Mob in New York, he’d undoubtedly done, Michael thought. Before he came up in the world and stripped the dirt—and blood—from beneath his fingernails.
His father turned back to him. “You find work yet?”
Carmine DeLuca had the unique ability to engage and insult at th
e same time, especially his son. If you didn’t know him well, you might gloss over the words, not realizing his insinuations and how deeply they cut. But Michael knew him well and had developed strategies to deal with their passive-aggressive warfare. He gazed at his father.
His father kept his eyes on his mother. “Oh, I forgot. You’re still waiting for the right opportunity.” His smile was as insincere as his words.
Michael managed a tight smile in return.
His father wheeled around and left the kitchen.
Michael fought back the bile in his throat. This was why he hated to come home. Every time he stepped across the threshold, he was not the skilled military officer who took little at face value and trusted no one. Instead he was the little boy he’d once been, desperately—unsuccessfully—seeking his father’s approval.
He stole a glance at his mother. Her lips were pursed. She turned back to the Havanaise. She wasn’t humming any more.
• • •
An hour later Michael helped his mother clear the table. The Havanaise was delicious, but it had been an awkward meal. His mother tried to make small talk with his father and grandfather, but his father left the table when they finished the main course.
“You don’t want dessert, Carmine?” Michael’s mother asked. “I made rum cake.”
“Please bring it to me in my office.” He motioned toward his den, a room off the living room where he spent most of his day, and, increasingly, his evenings.
“Of course.”
Michael’s father had always “worked” from home, but he wasn’t one of those stay-at-home dads people talked about. In fact, Michael never understood why his mother married him to begin with. He guessed she’d become pregnant—Carmine had once been handsome, Michael had to admit—and in those days, it was a sin to be unmarried and pregnant. But times were changing, and Michael wondered why she stayed married when it was clear there was no love between them. Was it because she was Catholic? He didn’t think so. Was it simply habit, honed over thirty years of living together? He wanted to ask but knew the topic was prohibido.
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