Gail ran to keep up. "Your secretary said you were in trial this afternoon. What were you doing, following me?"
"No. Dixon. He stayed in his office, so I went to Hialeah and got there in time to see Octavio leaving with the truck. I was waiting in the parking lot deciding what to do next when I noticed a rental car. I said to myself, Oh, that looks so familiar. But no, it couldn't be Gail. Not even Gail would be that foolish."
They passed behind the middle cargo plane, moving toward the offices.
"Anthony, wait!" She jerked free. Opening her purse, she ran back the way they had come, her footsteps echoing.
He caught up. "What the hell are you doing?"
She pulled out the camera and lens. The staggering fear had gone, leaving nothing but an anger so cold her teeth were chattering. "I want to know what's under that tarp. Somebody tried to kill me, and by God I'm coming away from here with pictures."
Speeding past the figure still lying prone, then past the pickup truck, she spotted an empty wooden pallet, then a blue tarpaulin with three rectangular shapes underneath. "Look under that tarp!" The lens snapped onto the camera. She popped open the flash.
"There isn't time! The others could come back."
"Thirty seconds."
Anthony produced a small flashlight. The beam hit the tarpaulin, and bright blue surged from the darkness. He pulled back the tarp, revealing three heavy black plastic boxes with rounded corners, each about three feet wide, two deep, and six feet long. Handles were inset along the sides, and latches fastened the lids with spinning nuts that locked into place.
Squatting down, Anthony moved the beam of light along the edge of the first box. Shadows danced on the floor. "They're designed to be waterproof."
Gail told him to move back, to look away. There was a flare of white. Then again at another angle. "Open it."
The men had left the lid unlatched. Anthony raised it and blew out a breath. "Look at this." The beam of the flashlight passed over military rifles with folding front grips. From the other end of the box he lifted a pistol. The light gleamed on the dull gray metal. "Makarov. It's Russian. There are at least a dozen in here. Get a closeup." He wiped off his fingerprints, then laid the handgun on top of the rifles.
Gail spoke from behind her camera. "Why would they send Russian guns?"
"Because they fit the ammunition already in Cuba. You bring in American weapons, what happens when you run out?" He shielded his eyes.
Click-whine. Click-whine. "How can these be enough weapons for a counterrevolution?"
"It's more than enough to cause some serious problems." A moan came from the darkness. Anthony rose silently, listened for a few seconds, then said, "We should hurry."
The second box contained survival equipment— small stoves, tents, rope, knives, shovels—along with medical supplies. By the time they got to the third, she could see the sweat on Anthony's forehead, and her fingers were shaking. The flashlight picked up more handguns. Metal boxes of ammunition. He pointed to a rectangular gray shape wrapped in. clear plastic. "C-4. Plastique. Thirty . . . forty kilos, at least. And here are fuses, timers, detonators. Over here, some two-way radios. Batteries, various sizes."
Gail took the pictures. "Do you think they're flying this stuff out tonight?"
"I doubt it. There's a storm front moving through. In any event, they won't fly over Cuba. They'd be spotted. Both the Cubans and the Americans track everything in the western Caribbean. I think they'll land somewhere else."
"Costa Rica?" she suggested.
"Why do you say that? Ah. Because Lloyd Dixon went there with Tom Nolan two years ago. No, it's too far. What he might do is fly that little jet to an island somewhere. They could take the boxes in on a fishing boat. Or they could get the boat close to shore, then clip the boxes to underwater cables, and someone pulls them in."
She looked at him. "Has anyone ever really done that?"
"I've heard stories. What's this?" He pulled out a small black bag.
Gail came closer. "That looks like the bag Octavio gave the owner of Sun Fashions."
Anthony unzipped it and shook out U.S. currency in rubber-banded stacks. "Take a picture. That's about fifty thousand dollars. Maybe they are flying out tonight. They wouldn't leave this much cash around during the day." He moved back, and Gail zoomed in for a closeup. "The owner of Sun Fashions is a man named Bernard Levy. He's a Cuban Jew who travels frequently to the Middle East. A friend of mine in the federal public defender's office told me."
"Levy is an arms dealer?"
"Let's say he has connections." Anthony stuffed the money back into the bag and zipped it closed. He slammed it into the box.
"Anthony?"
"I didn't expect this. I don't know what to do." He stood with one hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair.
"You're thinking of your grandfather," she said. "He may not know about it."
"Oh, I'm sure he does. He probably paid for it. God damn it." He let out a breath. "Come on. Help me put everything back the way it was." They snapped the lids on and threw the tarp over the boxes. The circle of light swept the floor, looking for anything they might have dropped, then moved ahead of Anthony as he went back to the man he had knocked out. "Here. Hold the flashlight."
She looked away from the man's head. There was a gash over his ear leaking blood on the floor.
Anthony turned him over, found his wallet, and shuffled through the papers and cards inside. "Rodriguez. Okay, señor, I see you have no objection." He put the driver's license on the man's forehead and told Gail to get a closeup. This was a heavy-featured man with black hair, a thick mustache, and a purpling bruise around his left eye.
"Oh, great," she muttered, hoping that the flash wouldn't wake him up. It didn't.
Anthony returned the license and wallet. "Let's go."
Silently they ran across the hangar to the other exit door. Hand on the pistol inside his jacket, he looked through the small window, pushed on the bar, then motioned for Gail to follow. They walked out into the yellowish glow of security lights along the fence. Thumps and muffled yells were coming from the back of a Chevy sedan parked by the wall.
A mile or two past the gates, heading east toward Miami, Gail saw Anthony's right blinker flashing. She followed onto a smaller cross street, then into the driveway of a Catholic church parking lot. He was not driving his Eldorado, but a borrowed Camaro. Tires splashed through a puddle and the headlights went out. The rain had stopped, leaving a chilly mist in the air.
Anthony got out and came to sit in Gail's car. They had parked at the side of the lot under some trees, and drops of water fell at irregular intervals on the roof and windshield. A twig stuck to the glass.
He reached for her, and for several minutes they embraced without speaking. Then he asked if she was all right. She said she was. "Gail, what in the name of God were you thinking of?"
"I wanted to catch Octavio at something." Gail laughed. "I'll bet he wet his pants when he found out that Lloyd flew missions to resupply the contras. Octavio, all his life selling discount furniture, the Furniture King. Cowardly son of a bitch. I hate him for what he's done to you. Not just to you. He pulled your grandfather into this mess."
"Don't underestimate my grandfather. He's a smart old bastard—as long as he knows what's going on. I'm not sure how much Octavio has told him."
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm not sure."
"Please be careful. Seth and Rebecca are dead. They must have known what Octavio and Lloyd were doing."
"Why are you assuming that they would commit murder? That's a leap." Anthony shook his head. "Listen, what Octavio wants is to free Cuba. That doesn't make him a killer."
"Then what about Lloyd?"
"Because he flew some missions for the CIA?"
"Anthony, if the CIA is involved, this is bigger than we think it is."
The tapping on the roof came faster, and silvery flashes of rain appeared around the streetligh
ts.
"Did any of those men recognize you?" Anthony asked. "Is there any possibility?"
"No. The one who chased me couldn't have seen my face clearly."
"What about at Sun Fashions?"
"I was wearing a dark wig and glasses."
"Diós mio." Anthony let out a slow breath and stared through the windshield. "It wouldn't do any good to yell at you for this."
"No, please don't." Gail leaned her head on the headrest. "Oh. The guard. I left my name with the guard at the gate."
"Okay. I'll take care of it."
"How?"
"I'll bribe him. I'll give him some story. Listen to me. I'll make sure you get home, then I have to go somewhere. I'll be back later, okay?"
"Where are you going?"
"We'll talk about it later. Gail, I'm going to need the film." When she stared back at him, he said, "Also the pictures you took at Sun Fashions."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Please don't argue with me." He picked up her purse from between the seats and gave it to her.
She dropped her hand on it. "After what I've been through, you can at least give me one simple explanation."
"Okay. The explanation is, it's dangerous. I don't want you to get hurt."
She laughed. "Really. I just got shot at."
"Exactly. You could have been killed. I'm not going to let that happen to you."
"I know you want me to be safe," she said, "and I love you for that. But why can't you talk to me?"
He touched her cheek. "All right. I want to get the film developed, see what there is, and then—maybe— talk to Lloyd Dixon."
"Oh, my God. Why don't you go straight to the police?"
"What if my grandfather is involved, Gail? If U.S. Customs busts this group and he's part of it, it could kill him. It would destroy my family."
She nodded. "Okay. The film is yours."
Anthony clicked on his flashlight, shielding the beam to a small point. Gail slid the cartridge from the camera and gave him two others. "There. That's all."
He put the film into his jacket pocket. "I should have told you this already. Felix gave me the film from Rebecca's camera."
Gail said, "I figured that. Where is he, Anthony?"
"I don't know. We talked for a couple of hours at my house. He left around ten-thirty, and I haven't seen him since."
"Anthony, listen. He's your friend, but maybe he didn't tell you everything. Isn't it possible that he really did plant the bomb that killed Rebecca?"
"No." Anthony's voice was deadly calm. "He was framed by someone. He was used. Someone drove his van by the opera before the bomb went off, assuming it would be seen. The van was pulled out of a canal with Daisy's body inside it, but not Felix. Maybe he's still alive. If he is dead, and I find out who did it, don't ever ask me what happened to that person."
He took his car keys out of his jacket pocket. "I'll follow you home and make sure everything is all right. I'm sure it is, but I need to see for myself."
She put her arms around him. "Please be careful."
"I will. I promise." He held her tightly, then reached for the door handle. He let go and turned back around to look at her. "When Felix came over, the last time I saw him, he said you and he had talked about Los Pozos. I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you about it myself."
"Me, too. Felix's was the fourth version I've heard."
Anthony looked at her.
She said quietly, "Two are from you—Pablo did it. Felix did it. Then Felix told me it had to be done because Emily cost the lives of eleven men. The night of the bombing, Rebecca gave me one more version. She said you did it."
"No. That's not true."
"She said you had to. Pablo threatened to kill all four of you unless one of you executed Emily Davis. Rebecca didn't say it was your fault. That's what you told me, too. That Pablo was responsible."
"Gail, she lied to you."
"Why? What motive would she have?"
Instead of anger, a great weariness seemed to have settled on Anthony, and he made no movement except for the slight rise and fall of his chest. "I told you the truth. Felix shot Emily. I don't know why Rebecca lied to you. Maybe . . . she hated me. She wanted to cause trouble."
"But why?" Gail could not see his face clearly, could not read his expression. "Felix had a reason to lie. He owed you a lot, and he knew I wanted an answer. So he gave me one."
"You believe Rebecca Dixon instead of me. You have my word, and you have Felix's, and you believe her. Is that how it is between us? You have no trust in me, do you? None."
"Trust me, Anthony. Tell me what happened."
"I didn't do it!"
There was silence except for the rain whispering in the trees. A car went by on the street.
"A technicality. I didn't do it. I am technically innocent, Your Honor." Anthony put an elbow on the window frame and rested his forehead on his fingers.
"Emily didn't want to go, but I talked her into it. When Rebecca told me that she had seen Emily talking to a CIA agent in La Vigia, I didn't believe it. And then when Emily said it was true, I told her nothing would happen. So. Pablo and his men came. They marched us outside. He tied Emily's hands and made her kneel, then he held his gun out, the butt of it toward us, and said we had to choose. If not, we would all die. I knew he meant it for me. Not for Seth and Rebecca. For me. It was about power. Who was I? An American college student pretending to be a Cuban guerrilla. I had challenged him too many times. I took the gun. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped it. I thought of killing myself. Or Pablo. Emily was begging me. Crying for me not to do it. Then Felix shot her."
Gail touched Anthony's arm. He was trembling. "That's enough."
He seemed not to hear her, and the quiet words went on. "For a second I thought my gun went off by itself, but I looked around, and Felix was putting his pistol away. He told Pablo I would have missed. He said, 'Make them bury her. It's raining, let's go inside and get dry.' Then he hit me across the face. Called me a coward, a poor excuse for a man. I figured out, somewhere on the road to Managua, that he had to say something like that to save his own ass. Pablo knew we were friends."
Gail said, "Maybe that's why Felix killed her. He did it for you and the others."
"We never talked about it," Anthony said, "so I don't know. And I don't know if I would have shot Emily. I will never know."
"But you didn't."
Slowly his head turned toward her. "That's what you wanted. The answer. Okay, there it is."
"Anthony, it wasn't your fault. You had no choice."
"But won't you wonder?" There was enough light to see him smile, a glint of light on his teeth. "Sooner or later, won't you ask yourself, what would I have done?"
"No."
"You will."
"Stop it! I don't care. I love you. Whatever happened in Los Pozos, whatever you've done or seen or have been in your life, I know who you are, and I love you."
"That sounds very pretty."
She drew in a breath as if he had slapped her. The windshield, the streetlights, and his silhouette wavered.
"Oh, my God. Gail—" He pulled her close. "I didn't mean that. Forgive me, sweetheart, please." He held her tightly and murmured, "Perdóname. Tú sabes que te quiero tanto, tanto. Why do I make you cry? I'm sorry."
It had been Irene whose call had interrupted Gail's climb down the scaffolding. Her note was stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet made to look like a miniature orange. Gail read it after Anthony had checked the house, then had driven away.
Karen and I have gone to a movie. Be back about eight-thirty. Tried to call you. Love, Mom.
Gail looked at her watch. 8:20. Days seemed to have passed since she had walked into the Dixon Air Transport hangar. She fixed a sandwich and a glass of milk and sat at the kitchen counter, but her appetite was off.
Leaning her cheek on her palm, Gail thought again of the ladies in Irene Connor's bridge club. How many versions of a story, and
which could you really believe?
She heard her mother's car in the driveway. In a few seconds there would be voices on the porch. Comments on the movie. Irene shaking off her umbrella. The door opening. Karen running into the kitchen. Irene appearing a moment later, bustling around to make some hot tea, saying it is just awful out there, and how was your evening, darling?
And then later—much later—Gail would hear her bedroom door open. Anthony would come tonight. Gail had no doubt of that. He would have been out doing whatever it was he said he had to take care of. He would come, and they would hold each other and go to sleep, but she was not sure they could survive Los Pozos.
CHAPTER THIRTY
On Donor Day, the Miami Opera allowed board members and major donors to attend the technical dress rehearsal. The action would pause if the set or lighting director needed to make an adjustment. An immense number of details had to come together before Don Giovanni opened on Thursday. Irene Connor talked Gail into taking Karen out of school early. Oh, come on, every kid needs to play hooky once in a while. So do you. Gail had given in when Irene slyly mentioned the educational value of looking behind the scenes.
Most of the audience clustered down front, their faces turned expectantly toward the stage while the orchestra tuned up.
Lloyd Dixon was not in attendance. He had told his friends he intended to take an extended vacation, but no one seemed to know where he was going. Irene had told Gail she had heard that Lloyd Dixon intended to move to South America with the housekeeper, Juanita, and don't you just know something is going on there?
The house lights dimmed. Gail squeezed Karen's hand. The conductor raised his arms, paused, and then the overture began, the long dark chords that signaled disaster in the final act.
The curtains parted, and moonlight shone on the house of Donna Anna with its balcony and red tile roof. Don Giovanni would be inside seducing the lady. Karen tapped on Gail's arm and whispered, "Who's that?" Gail answered, "Giovanni's servant. He's waiting for him. Shhh." She pointed to the surtitles projected above the stage. "Read that."
Suspicion of Deceit Page 31
