Comrades in Miami

by Jose Latour

  “I know that, Berta,” Steil said impatiently. “Have you been to the Scheindlins’?”

  “No. Of course not. We weren’t supposed to go there until today.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  It was the first thing she had said that Elliot knew was a blatant falsehood, and the hardness of his stare bespoke his irritation. Victoria realized something had gone wrong, but had not the slightest notion what it was. He tried to make his gaze neutral and failed. Victoria raised her guard and her eyes crinkled a little.

  “Well, downstairs you said you needed my advice. You still do?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think you should call the police right now. Report what happened at the airport. Make a full statement and apply for political asylum under the Cuban Adjustment Act.”

  With her gaze fixed on him, eyes rounded, Victoria blinked twice. She had expected that suggestion and, knowing that it would be a mistake to brush it aside, had prepared for it. She thought it wise, however, to pretend that the notion had not crossed her mind and she was considering it.

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Umm. Yes, you are right. But don’t you think first I should collect the money the widow has?”

  If she doesn’t know Maria is dead, neither she nor Capdevila killed her, Elliot reasoned with some relief. Should he tell her? No, not for the time being.

  “I mean,” Victoria went on, crossing her ankles, “Pardo was murdered three hours ago, his killer must be in hiding or in full flight. Reporting his death right now won’t bring my husband back. And that money means a lot to me, Elliot.”

  Steil considered Victoria an extremely hardened woman. She had not shed a tear in his presence, her corneas were white. She was asking for help, not consolation. Greed overcoming grief? Or maybe she and Capdevila had not had a relationship of any kind. Either way, it taxed him to mask his dislike for a person who had been cleaning the floor with him since the day they had met. On the other hand, she could not imagine that the FBI would be waiting for her at the Scheindlins’ with open arms. She would never touch the money.

  “Let me think about it,” Elliot said, aware that he had remained silent for too long. The notion of letting her walk unsuspecting into the trap, however, was repugnant to him.

  Neither rival surmised that each was ignorant of something the other knew and that they were locked in a duel of lies and half-truths.

  “No, Berta, the situation you are in, you should forget about the money. Report Capdevila’s murder to the police and then apply for political asylum. I have a friend who’s a police officer. I can call him now and ask him to come over.”

  Victoria unzipped the tote bag and extracted the Tokarev. “I’m sorry, Elliot. But you leave me no choice,” she said ruefully.

  Nine

  Elliot had always considered that cornered individuals are liable to become desperate. If armed and dangerous, they shouldn’t be contradicted. Berta was armed, and the impression that in a tight spot she could become quite dangerous began to loom large in his mind. After dropping all pretenses, she had grown pale again, had a haunted look about her, and seemed nearing desperation. He held up his hands, palms outward, then shook his head and clicked his tongue.

  “No, no, maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” Elliot said. “I won’t force you to do what you don’t want to do. I made what I thought was a helpful suggestion. You think I’m wrong; do what you think is best. You want to leave, I won’t stand in your way.”

  Victoria nodded in slow mo, thinking ahead. “That’s very understanding of you, Elliot,” she sneered. “Thank you. I appreciate that, even if it’s at gunpoint. But no, I’m not leaving. And if you try to pull a fast one on me, I won’t hesitate. I will shoot you. We clear, Elliot?”

  “Very clear, Berta.”

  “Good. Now I will ask you to stand up and open the bedroom door. Let’s join Fidelia.”

  “Listen, Berta. I’ll do whatever you say. But leave her out of this.”

  “I think I know why she was given that name. Like many others born in the sixties to destitute parents, they named her after the Commander in Chief, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And ten or twenty years later they regretted it. Am I mistaken?”

  “Leave her out of this, Berta.”

  “Right now the sweet, kind, espresso-making Fidelia is standing right behind that door, eavesdropping on every word being uttered in this living room.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You can bet your life she is, Elliot. I don’t know how American wives react to this situation, but a Cuban wife won’t go to bed and leave her husband talking to a strange woman in her living room in the middle of the night. So, stand up, Elliot,” Victoria said as she got to her feet, “let’s go join Fidelia.”

  When Elliot opened the door to the bedroom, he found a fiercely glaring Fidelia standing by the bed, arms crossed, still in her robe. Her face was taut.

  “Okay, Fidelia, just in case you missed something, let me run it by you,” Victoria said from behind Elliot. “You two do what I say, I won’t harm a hair on your heads. But I’m telling you: Don’t try anything. I’m desperate and you won’t have time to regret it. Okay?”

  The balking lawyer remained silent. The corners of her mouth, curved downward, showed the intense aversion to the intruder she had developed in a minute or two.

  “Did you understand what I said, Fidelia?”

  No response.

  Victoria pressed the muzzle of the Tokarev to the back of Elliot’s neck. “My husband was killed less than three hours ago. Would you like to experience what I’m experiencing right now?”

  “No.”

  “So drop the attitude. Will you cooperate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Victoria said and drew back the gun. “Where’s your passport?”

  Elliot immediately read her mind. Fidelia took a moment to think. “In the second drawer of that chest.”

  “Get it for me.”

  Victoria inspected the lawyer’s American passport using her left hand only, shifting her eyes from the document to the hostages several times. Flipping through the pages, she found Spanish entrance and exit stamps, nothing else. She bore no resemblance to her, though. Not that Fidelia had a beautiful face; they just were different in physiognomies. It had to do, though. If asked, she could always say she had sued her plastic surgeon. Victoria slipped the passport beneath the right cup of her bra.

  “Okay. Now get a pair of scissors and start cutting that bedsheet lengthwise in four-inch-wide strips.”

  As Fidelia returned to the chest of drawers for the scissors, Steil saw it coming again. She would instruct Fidelia to tie him up, then order her to lie down and immobilize her, too.

  “Before going any further, Berta, maybe you should know where I went tonight,” he said, staring at the headboard of his bed.

  Victoria squinted suspiciously. “Should I?”

  “I think you should.”

  “Out with it.”

  “I got a phone call tonight. But just so you don’t think I’m making this up, ask Fidelia who called.”

  Victoria and Fidelia glanced at one another, the lawyer having stopped midway from the chest of drawers to the bed, scissors in hand.

  “Well, Fidelia?” asked Victoria.

  “Jenny Scheindlin called,” the lawyer said.

  A three-second pause crept by. The caller’s last name made Victoria remember who Jenny was.

  “And who is Jenny Scheindlin?” Elliot prompted Fidelia, just in case.

  “Jenny Scheindlin is the daughter of Ruben and Maria Scheindlin.”

  “Now tell her what Jenny told me.”

  “She told you that her mother had been murdered.”

  The news jarred Victoria and she was momentarily lost. Elliot could not see her reaction but, sensing that he had gained an edge, he pressed on with his idea.

  “It’s true,�
�� he corroborated, turning his head left to watch Victoria out of the corner of his eye. “Think. How could I possibly know you’d be waiting for me when I got back? How could I know you’d pull a gun on me? Did I have time to cook this up with Fidelia the couple of minutes I was alone with her when we came up? Believe me, Berta. Maria Scheindlin was murdered yesterday at her Bay Harbor home. Her daughter called me and I went there to see if there was anything I could do for her. Right now the police are trying to find the murderer. If you go there tomorrow, I mean, today, you’ll be questioned. What are you going to say? You should report your husband’s murder right now. Maybe the same person who killed him killed Maria, too. Listen, Berta, this is madness. You are not thinking clearly, you should …”

  “Shut up!”

  A minute of silence ensued as Victoria processed the implications. She knew it to be true. She knew who had killed Maria. He had been following orders to execute the traitors and return to Cuba immediately. It was why he had picked the airport for the live drop, because after killing her and Pardo, he would take the first flight to Mexico City, Bahamas, Kingston, or any other capital in which he could amble nonchalantly into a Cuban embassy or consulate. Lastra and Morera had decreed that both she and Pardo were to be executed. From a professional standpoint, Victoria discerned that ordering her put to death was technically correct. Nevertheless, how had her superiors inferred that they would be heading to Miami? Had they connected the cigarette boat to her and Pardo? Maybe all resident directors on the American continent were on the alert. She would never know. Her bronchi began contracting and her breathing became labored. Not now, please.

  Fidelia, seeing how the intruder’s face slowly drained of color as she looked off thoughtfully, realized the news had hit her hard. Good; she hoped things would go from bad to worse for the miserable bitch. This was a consequence of Elliot’s trip to Cuba. Why were men so hardheaded? She had begged Elliot not to go. But no, he knew best. He always knew best. There was nothing to fear, he had said. She threw him a sidelong glance of reproach.

  Elliot perceived despair in Victoria’s tone when she ordered him to be quiet. Besides, the duration of her silence, and the soft wheezing that reached his ears, indicated the news had caused a greater impact than he had hoped. She had been counting on the money to get away, he deduced. Now she realized it was out of her reach. That had to be it. He felt sympathy for the woman. She had to understand there was no way she would pull out of this mess by herself. If her boss—or husband or whatever Carlos Capdevila was for her—had been murdered, why was she so reluctant to report it? In all probability she was a State Security officer, granted, but she had nothing to fear. The Cuban American Foundation claimed Miami was crawling with former officers of the Cuban Ministry of the Interior who had grown disaffected.

  “From now on, I’ll do all the talking,” Victoria said at last, absolutely adamant. “Start cutting the bedsheet, Fidelia.”

  “You’re taking it out on us, Berta,” Elliot said, reprovingly.

  “This gun says I can. Get to it, Fidelia.”

  When the lawyer had cut two eight-foot-long strips, Victoria instructed her to cut them in half. Next, she ordered Elliot to lay prone in bed.

  “Tie him up, Fidelia.”

  Under Victoria’s watchful gaze, the lawyer bound Elliot’s hands behind his back with one strip, his feet with another. The psychologist had to order the knots tied tighter, as Fidelia tried to make it possible for Elliot to free himself. When she finished, he found himself tied loose enough not to hinder circulation yet tight enough to be unable to move.

  “Great. Now lie down by his side, Fidelia.”

  Abhorring all sorts of violence, the lawyer did not try anything when Victoria let go of the gun twice, for maybe fifteen seconds each, to immobilize her feet first, then to tie her hands up. Next Victoria plucked the phone cord out.

  “Okay, guys, listen up,” she said after glancing at her watch. “It’s 1:45 A.M. At this hour nothing can be done, and I need to rest a while. I don’t want to gag you, but if you holler for help, I will. Try to relax and fall asleep; time will fly.”

  Victoria used the bathroom before turning off the bedroom lights. Leaving the door ajar, she returned to the living room, approached the loveseat, and eased herself onto it. She let go of the gun, retrieved her purse from the tote bag, fumbled for her inhaler. After shaking the canister she held it upright less than one inch from her open mouth, pumped, and held her breath for a few seconds. She recapped the canister and dropped it into her purse. Fidelia’s passport went there next.

  Closing her eyes, she took the deepest breath she could. The emotional collapse she had been able to ward off for almost four hours came about and tears started streaming down her cheeks. For over five minutes, not wanting to be heard, she muted her sobs as much as she could and wept and wept. To her surprise, giving vent to her grief and the medication combined to clear her airways perceptibly. Having regained her self-control, she strode to the kitchen sink and blew her nose, then washed her face. Back in the living room, she set the alarm of her watch for 8:00 A.M.

  At 2:04 A.M., still angst-ridden, Victoria curled up in the loveseat to find obliviousness in sleep. She felt her emotional foundations shifting, slowly and tentatively attempting to bypass the void created by the death of someone she had taken for granted. She had never imagined he was so indispensable to her. Having been so sure of herself and her actions for so long, it was amazing to realize that much of her strength, decisiveness, and confidence had derived from him. She felt like an earthquake survivor who had lost all her loved ones. There was nobody to comfort her in her tribulation. Her future had faded away in that damned garage. What could she do without him? Following almost an hour of this, at last Victoria Valiente lost consciousness.

  …

  At 4:32 A.M., a parking attendant taking inventory of the vehicles found the two bodies. Sixteen minutes later two squad cars from the Miami Police Department secured the area; a few minutes before five the Crime Scene Unit began its work.

  At 5:54 A.M. a police cruiser pulled over in front of the Bonises.’ A uniformed officer got out and pressed the buzzer alongside the front door. The FBI specialists staking out the gardener notified Hart. When the cop departed at 6:16, an unmarked car driven by a man in civilian clothes intercepted him two blocks away. Flipping his badge holder open, the man explained that his superiors needed to know why a police officer had paid a visit to Mrs. Bonis so early in the morning. It was how the FBI learned that the bodies of two Caucasian males had been found at Miami International Airport’s garage. The ID on one of them had been issued to Eugenio Bonis. “I didn’t tell the missus,” the officer volunteered, “but whoever shot her hubby did a thorough job. Guy’s got more lead in his noggin than a radiologist in his apron.”

  Hart’s official car went up the garage ramp and screeched to a stop ten yards from the crime scene, now bathed in the klieg lights from three TV crews, twenty-one minutes later. The special agent and Smith approached the man in charge. Having learned the details, Smith used his cell phone to call Dade County’s chief of police and the Medical Examiner Department. He requested urgent collaboration in the forensic examinations of the two bodies, the gun, bullets, and casings, and of Maria Scheindlin’s corpse, too.

  Heading on back to the bureau’s Miami division, at Second Avenue, North Miami Beach, Hart took Le Jeune. The sunrise, luminous and cloudless, promised a hot day to the yawning and stretching city. Exhaust fumes spoiled the scents coming from the lawns, shrubs, and fruit trees flanking the wide avenue. The muffled rumble of engines and the hum of tires on the asphalt were the predominant sounds.

  “Do you remember how many rounds are in a Beretta clip?” asked Smith as Hart tapped the brakes for the red light at Fifty-fourth. From the median divider, an Aztec-looking man in his forties was hawking bouquets of roses to drivers.

  “Eight in a Compact. From thirteen to fifteen in other models.”

  “Bonis was
shot four times. This other guy … what’s his name …”

  “He told Steil his name was Carlos Capdevila. The Costa Rican passport was issued to one Evaristo Consuegra.”

  “Right. Capdevila was shot twice. That’s six. There should be two rounds in the clip. There’re none.”

  “Unless there were only six rounds in the clip.”

  “Yeah, that’s possible. But the gun was by Bonis. As if he had shot Capdevila twice, then Capdevila had wrested the gun from him, shot him in the head, dropped the gun by the body, tried to walk away, and fell. It doesn’t figure. You ask me, there’s a missing shooter.”

  “Berta Arosamena?” conjectured Hart as he stepped on the gas pedal.

  “Possibly. But consider this: Bonis did Maria Scheindlin’s garden; when he left, the gate remained open; no one was seen entering the place later in the day. That makes him the prime suspect. Now he’s found dead alongside the body of a Cuban agent. What do you make of that?”

  Hart moved from the center to the left lane. “That he was a CuIS courier?” CuIS was the FBI’s acronym for Cuban Intelligence Services.

  Smith nodded, pulled out a cigarette from a pack, and lit up. He took a deep drag, opened the ashtray, snuffed the butt. “Let’s recap. We’ve been on Maria’s trail since August 2001, following the tip of an anonymous letter that accused her of spying for Cuba. She was a Polish defector, had been living in the United States for thirty years, had married a lifelong informer for a friendly service who was doing business with Cuba and whose assistant was Cuban. Not a bad candidate for recruitment by our neighbors. Washington didn’t think much of it, though. Housewife, never dabbled in politics, no known Cuban acquaintances, quiet life, they pointed out.”

  “You have to admit the logic of the argument,” Hart said, stealing a look at the rearview mirror. “Then we found she went out at odd hours, bought phone cards, and made calls from pay phones.”