Comrades in Miami

by Jose Latour

  Victoria paused.

  “But? But what?”

  “But Maria could have been turned as soon as she defected in ’73, in which case she fed crap to her center until the very last. Then, having become redundant once Solidarity took over, she was transplanted to us. Such a wide range of possibilities is what makes espionage the perfect fertile ground to breed paranoids and schizophrenics. And Fisherman might be feeding us crap through her.”

  “Who’s Fisherman?”

  “Nathan Smith, the bureau’s chief of counterintelligence at the South Florida field office. He knows that the Israelis and the Cubans are his only serious concerns. Considering Mossad is a friendly service, I’m sure we are his number one priority. And he may have turned one or two of our agents.”

  “You think so?”

  “No, I don’t, but it’s in the cards.”

  “Do you trust anyone, Vicky?”

  “I trust you. Nobody else, not even my mother, my father, and my two brothers. I know it sounds extremely callous, but it’s a feeling all professionals share. What do you think CIA or FBI people experience when they find out one of their own has been selling secrets to the Russians? Guys like Ames, Hanssen, Howard? They start wondering if their superior is a mole. You only dealt with the technical side, Pardo. Computers, cryptography, and software. The first time you voiced your dissent to me, I suspected you. I suspected you for months.”

  “You suspected me?” pointing his thumb to his chest, eyes wide open.

  She nodded emphatically.

  “Oh, really? Least you could do is tell me what cleared me.”

  “The most absurd and irrational of feelings: love. Feeling that you love me and that I love you.”

  Unprepared for such an astonishing admission, Pardo could not think of something appropriate to say and opted for finishing his beer. The unromantic consequence was that he belched loudly just as something came to mind.

  “Excuse me.”

  “You are excused.”

  “Is it because of this fear of being double-crossed that you changed your mind about the pickup?”

  “Yes and no. Yes because this concern is so embedded in intelligence and counterintelligence officers that it influences our patterns of behavior. No because if it hadn’t been for Pola’s neighbor the day before yesterday, it would have taken me much more time to realize how ill equipped we are to adjust to a different country. Any foreign country, in fact, but less so in South America, Spain, the Caribbean. Here? Here we are babies learning to walk. Suppose Maria has installed tiny surveillance cameras and mikes at her place.”

  “Victoria, please!”

  “Many people do, you know? She’s filthy rich, can afford cutting-edge technology. Just to keep an eye on the help. Or to tape conversations with her lawyers or accountants, or with her manager, this Steil. To have proof of what was said or agreed upon at a certain date.”

  “You are taking things …”

  “Isn’t it logical to assume”—cutting him short—“that a trained, veteran spy would want to have on tape the dude who comes to pick up the money? Have this little insurance policy stored away in a safe just in case one day she needs it?”

  “If you put it that way …”

  “Always err on the side of caution.”

  “So, you’ll ask Bonis to collect the cash.”

  “He personally requested and collected our first loan. He paid her back with the Guelph lot. She’ll be more comfortable dealing with her handler than with a couple of strangers. In fact, she probably expects Bonis to act as a go-between. Steil is our stand-in in case something happens to Bonis. Maria’s neighbor made me realize it would’ve been a mistake to meet her in person. You’ll give Bonis my photos and a note asking him to do her garden on May 8 at 11:00 A.M. He’ll bring the cash to us.”

  “Is that the right date and time?”

  “Time, yes. But the right date is one day earlier, May 7.”

  “Has it occurred to you that the network’s field officer may already have been warned that something is amiss?”

  “Of course they have contacted him. Chances are they’ve sent him an urgent message. ‘Unexpected situation. Bolster countermeasures.’ I sent him a similar message when Fisherman iced Wasp. But Lastra won’t freeze our best men, and Bonis is one of them, before making sure what really happened to me. Maybe I drowned in the Florida Straits, maybe you murdered me, maybe I’m alive and kicking but won’t squeal on my former comrades. Time is on our side, macho. When there’s an alert and communications are restricted to a minimum, like right now, because of my disappearance, I supersede Bonis’s superior. For Bonis, I’m still Papa. And in this note you’ll pass to him the day after tomorrow, I’ll say something to justify the alert. The pianist at the Cuban Interests Section in Washington defected, for example. ‘But don’t worry, we are just playing it safe. The traitor doesn’t know about you,’ I’ll add.”

  Pardo kept shaking his head. “Victoria, tell me, how come you don’t get lost in this netherworld of facts and fictions, truths and half-truths and outright lies? Don’t you risk getting dates and codes and … stuff mixed up? Confusing places for live drops and dead drops?”

  “When you are at headquarters, desk job, nothing happens if you forget something. Sure, you try to memorize, open files in your mind. Like you said: fact, fiction; true, false; name, cryptonym; live drops, dead drops. But if you have a memory lapse, you reach for the hard copy. In the field it’s another story. Not easy, macho, not easy at all. It requires many years of considerable effort. I spent the last three years training for these days.”

  “And you’ve performed admirably.”

  “Thank you. How about in bed?” with a sly wink.

  “Best fuck in the world.”

  “Atta boy. What do you say we pay for one of those adult movies? We could find some inspiring example to follow.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Get me my glasses, will you?” as she reached for the remote.

  …

  Maria sat back on the sofa and gazed at Elliot thoughtfully. After an instant, he looked away. The man wasn’t easy to stare down. At their first meeting he seemed self-assured, remarkably composed. During her visits to the warehouse he had proven to be a knowledgeable, quite capable executive. However, since his trip to Cuba he had changed. And tonight he looked so different: discomfited, evasive, and … ashamed? As if he was doing something he regretted? Be careful, she said to herself.

  “Well, that’s quite decent of you, Elliot,” smiling, feeling her way. “But I’ve also done some reconsidering. On the evening you told me about the Cuban request, I acted rudely, failed to see things from your perspective.”

  “It was I who failed to see things from your perspective.”

  Make him feel guilty, Maria decided. “No, no. It was my fault and I apologize. I was thinking only of myself. I didn’t see that your involvement in this mess could get you in trouble should it somehow become public that Ruben had been buying medicine for Cuba. Then the other day? When I asked you to call Havana? It wasn’t nice to say I would’ve made the call myself had I been fluent in Spanish.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Later I realized I hadn’t been fair to you. You could be accused of acting on behalf of the Cuban government, be expelled, or deported. I’d never forgive myself if that happened and I was to blame. Never. You’ve been so cooperative after Ruben’s death. I depend on you so much. The firm depends on you.”

  “You are flattering me, Maria.”

  “Not in the least. We’ve already discussed Sam. He’s a wonderful human being, but he’s too old. You are capable, intelligent, and much younger. You are an invaluable, intangible asset we—Jenny and I—can’t afford to lose.”

  The term “intangible asset” made Steil blink. Having claimed to lack all knowledge about business matters, for the second time Maria had properly used a specialized business term. Part of the guilt he felt for concealing his coll
aboration with the FBI from her evaporated. There was something about Maria, inconsistencies, or concealed abilities, or simulated weaknesses, he wasn’t sure, that nagged at the back of his mind.

  “Thanks, Maria. I don’t deserve your praise. It’s you who deserve more cooperation from me on this issue. It was inconsiderate of me to come here, drop the problem in your lap, and walk away after washing my hands of responsibility.”

  Maria smiled, took a sip from a glass of grapefruit juice, then dabbed at her lips. They were sitting in the same pieces of furniture they had chosen on two previous occasions: she on the sofa, he in a club chair in her living room. This time she was barefoot, sporting blue culottes and a light blue T-shirt. Steil wore Dockers, a dark green polo shirt, and brown loafers.

  “Okay, let’s make a deal,” she said, returning the glass to the side table. “If I need you, I’ll let you know.”

  “Fine. But don’t hesitate to call me. I can drop around at 10:00 or 10:30 on the eighth if you want me to. It’d be best if someone’s with you when the man comes.”

  Does he want to be present? she wondered. “I’ll let you know,” Maria reiterated.

  “Good. I feel less guilty now.”

  “Conscience doth make cowards of us all.”

  Again, Steil blinked. It sounded familiar. Was it a barb? Did she suspect him?

  “Just a minute. Let me think. Bacon?”

  “Warm.”

  “Mmm. Shakespeare?”

  “Hamlet, 3.1.”

  Steil nodded a couple of times and a few seconds slipped by as he meditated. “Well, I guess I’d have a problem translating that into Spanish. In English, conscience is frequently associated with feelings of guilt. In Spanish, conscience is used in a broader context; it’s considered a philosophical category. Every individual has a conscience, according to some schools of thought. Having a conscience wouldn’t make a person a coward, per se.”

  “I see your point. You feel less guilt but are not a coward.”

  With eyes roving about the room, Steil tilted his head to one side, then to the other.

  “I’m not saying I’m a fearless man. I have experienced fear. All I’m saying is the Bard may have hit the nail on the head for English audiences and readers, but missed the nail completely in the case of Spanish-speaking people.”

  “Only if his translator into Spanish is not up to the author.”

  “So true. I stand corrected.”

  “In this particular case, Elliot, you are guilty of nothing. Nor do I think you a coward. So, don’t fret.”

  “If I had to deliver a hundred thousand dollars to a stranger, I’d feel better if I had friends around.”

  He does want to be present, Maria concluded. “Well, it depends on where you stand,” she said. “If I were picking up a hundred thousand dollars from a stranger, I’d like to have some backup. ‘Has this woman reported the situation to the police?’ the person may wonder. ‘Will they collar me? Charge me with being a Cuban agent?’ The courier should be much more worried than me.”

  “That figures.”

  “I’ll let you know, okay?”

  “Okay,” forced to stand up by the finality in her tone.

  Once the sliding gate clicked shut, Maria Scheindlin closed her front door and slouched back to the sofa, squinting at the floor, lost in thought. She sat and, taking small sips from her glass of juice, reviewed the whole situation.

  She had learned about Elliot Steil in 1995 following the murder of Ruben’s secretary. One evening her husband had told her the strange story of the Cuban teacher working for him. Save for the rich American father, he was just one more fleeing Cuban; there had been no reason to mention him to her gardener. By 1997 she had heard Ruben praise Elliot’s aptitudes more than once, so when she learned about the successful conclusion of the probate process that made the Cuban rich, she had pointed him out to her gardener. Bonis had listened intently, made her spell out Steil’s surname. In 1999, Ruben had termed Elliot an intangible asset whose value would increase considerably the day the embargo ended and IMLATINEX could open a Havana office. She had reported that to Bonis, too.

  Over the course of time, as Ruben got accustomed to the Cuban’s effectiveness, Steil ceased to be a topic of after-supper conversation and she forgot the man existed. Bonis had brought him up a few weeks before Ruben’s death. Her gardener had said Steil had applied for permission to visit relatives in Cuba. Bonis had wanted to know whether she could learn when he was planning to go and where he would be staying in advance. This had taken her by surprise. How could she? she had asked the gardener. She had not met the man. Her husband had not mentioned him for over a year, maybe two years. Should Ruben comment on the trip, she could ask when and for how long. But if he didn’t, she could not ask without making her husband wonder why she wanted to know. Bonis had seemed to accept her reasoning.

  Then Ruben had died on her. Four days after the funeral, once he had expressed his condolences, Bonis intimated that perhaps now, as heir to the family fortune and majority shareholder, she would be interested in sounding Steil out, see for herself if the man was as good as the late Mr. Scheindlin had said. The tactful Bonis had not reminded her what he wanted to find out more immediately. He knew it wasn’t necessary. But at his next visit, once he finished the yard and while sipping the lemonade that she always prepared for him, he had explained that the center required, once again, her invaluable collaboration.

  A hundred-thousand-dollar loan was requested. It would be reimbursed within six months—after only three months was possible, too—with real estate in Canada worth at least 10 percent above the borrowed amount. As in the previous loan, that signified a 20 percent annual interest rate, 40 percent if repaid in ninety days. Would she be willing to help the center again?

  A lengthy discussion had followed. She had warned Bonis that money always leaves a trail. He had countered by affirming that he would personally make sure it could not be traced to her. She’d spend years in jail, she had insisted, should it be found she had loaned cash to Cuba, not to mention what would happen if her past and present collaboration with communist intelligence agencies were to be detected. The gardener had said not to worry. Only four persons in the world, three of whom lived in Cuba, knew about her solidarity with the Cuban Revolution; he was the fourth. In the end she had agreed to make the loan, provided Bonis made clear to his superior that she hoped no further requests of this sort would be presented to her.

  Bonis had then mentioned that communications with Havana were severely restricted. After the Wasp ring was broken, the FBI had stepped up electronic surveillance of radio signals, phone calls, and letters. Therefore, Bonis had gone on, during Steil’s visit to Cuba, the center would approach him with a story concerning business dealings with Mr. Scheindlin and ask him to please refer it to her upon his return to Miami. The story would include the exact date on which the cash was to be delivered. One day earlier than the latest date mentioned, at the same time.

  It had sounded weird to her. Communications had to be restricted after the Wasp scandal, of course. It was an elementary precautionary measure. But to the point that a single coded message with a date couldn’t be transmitted? Why involve Steil in this? Were they trying to recruit a man who had fled Cuba and was well off? Not a good candidate, she judged. That could not be the reason. Maybe Bonis needed the money for something unrelated to espionage. But if such was the case, why involve Steil? She had not been able to figure it out. The first loan had been repaid with the lot in Guelph, which yielded a nice profit by the time she sold it two years later. Anyway, refusing the second loan was not an option.

  At the time, she had begun considering moving to another country. Ruben’s death provided the perfect opportunity to sell IMLATINEX and emigrate to Spain, France, or Australia. That would sever her ties with Cuban Intelligence. She was of value to them as long as she lived in Miami and Scheindlin was alive. As a widow and in a different country, she could not tell them anything. Maybe
they would blackmail her, though.

  Consequently, meeting Steil and pumping him for information was necessary. She had enjoyed playing the game she had not competed in for so many years. Having studied the guy, she concluded he was the kind of man most people would like to consider a friend. But after his return from Cuba, he had acted strange. Some change was to be expected, naturally. But on the evening he had told her the Havana story, he surprised her when he said he wanted his participation to end then and there. She had expected the opposite: The perfect gentleman would offer his services. Later that same evening, mulling over his refusal to be involved any further, she admitted to herself that she had been unfair. Why should he want to help her out? She was not a beautiful young woman, he wasn’t making a buck on this either, so why should he?

  Then, the afternoon she had asked him to make the call, at the warehouse, he had appeared upset for being left out. He had word-lessly reproached her with his eyes. “Are you leaving me out of this?” And tonight he had come to beg her to be present. However, something in his expression smacked of pretense, of acting against his will. Something she had not seen before. Was somebody pressuring Steil to witness the loan? Bonis? Of course not. He would probably be the one picking up the cash. Then who?

  You better be careful, Maria Berkowicz, she admonished herself. Get some plausible story ready. You are too old and too rich to go to jail.

  …

  Victoria and her husband slept late on Friday, May 3. They had a light breakfast before going to a photo studio on Peeblebrook Drive, where Victoria paid for six passport-sized photos. In a short while they walked out of the studio with the photos. The rest of the morning was spent pacing around Old Naples, window-shopping in the apparel shops and gift boutiques on Third Street, Victoria marveling at the prices and snorting at the offbeat odds and ends. At an office supply store they bought a pack of letter envelopes.

  After lunch, in their room, they flipped over the pages of the Miami Herald until finding and reading a piece on the four Cuban coastguardsmen. The men insisted that they had made their decision on the spur of the moment, motivated by the lack of opportunities and intense repression in Cuba. All four wanted to apply for asylum under the Cuban Adjustment Act. The Cuban government had demanded the immediate repatriation of the deserters and the return of the speedboat. What puzzled everyone was how easily the cigarette boat had sneaked in. The embarrassment of the Coast Guard spokes-person could be sensed. A suspicious reader might hypothesize that some editing out had taken place. No self-respecting journalist would have missed the opportunity to speculate about whether Osama himself was lurking somewhere in the continental United States, two portable nuclear-bomb suitcases by his side. But the article had nothing of the sort.