Suspicion of Rage

by Barbara Parker

  "We're the enemy," Anthony said. "He doesn't like us. If he leaves Cuba, it's because he's sick of watching it rot. I believe he'll talk to you, but he'll give you as little as he can. Whatever that is, it must be worth a great deal to someone in Washington."

  "Not a million dollars, it isn't. We could offer two hundred thousand and his freedom."

  "Tell him yourself," Anthony said.

  Swiveling around sideways, Bookhouser squinted at the long stretch of deserted white sand and the waves curling and falling back. The bridge of his nose had a break in it. He said, "Please don't get cute with me. You tell your brother-in-law that I want him where I can find him, whether that's Times Square, Disney World, or one of our embassies overseas. His choice. Otherwise, we can and will make it so hot for him that he will be wearing his flak jacket indoors. Are you hearing me?"

  It took some effort for Anthony not to reach across the table and grab a fistful of Everett Bookhouser's shirt. "I'll pass him the message."

  "Good. When are you meeting Garcia?"

  "Tonight, providing I have something to give him."

  Bookhouser looked around. "I'm trying to keep Ramiro Vega out of harm's way. Believe that or not." Putting his back to the pizza stand, where some teenagers had lined up at the window, he said, "This is what I want you to tell Garcia. Admit that Navarro talked to you about Omar Céspedes. Tell him that Navarro wanted you to find out if Céspedes was planted or if he decided on his own to defect. You told Navarro to go screw himself. If you started asking Ramiro questions like that, he would kick you out of Cuba. You came to Havana and forgot all about it. Then Garcia showed up asking what Céspedes had told the CIA. You didn't know, but you said you'd find out, so you called your grandfather."

  Bookhouser paused for a sip of his cola. "The following part is true. What Céspedes told us has to do with the Cuban oil shortage, which is chronically bad. There's no cash to buy oil on the open market, and with twenty billion dollars' worth of unpaid foreign debt, loans are out. So Castro is getting a cut fate on Venezuelan oil in exchange for supporting Hugo Chavez. Cuba has already sent medical doctors and technicians. The next step is to send agents to infiltrate the opposition. Naturally the United States is interested in keeping Venezuela from turning into another Cuba."

  "And interested in Venezuelan oil," Anthony added.

  "Aren't we cynical? You can tell that to Garcia if it helps your case, but oil isn't our motivation. The Venezuelan economy is going to hell, thanks to Chavez, and if Castro keeps meddling, it could destabilize the entire region."

  Anthony smiled. "García won't buy it. Anyone who reads a newspaper could come up with that story."

  "Probably, but Céspedes is giving us the details. We're getting the names of Cuban agents and where they're being sent. Your grandfather doesn't know who they are, or he would have told you. I think it's enough to satisfy General Garcia."

  "Who is he doing this for?" Anthony asked. "Himself? Or the Cuban government?"

  "That's a damned good question," replied Bookhouser.

  The teenagers had taken their pizza and sodas to the beach. The sun was dodging the clouds and dropping patches of light on the ocean. One of the boys pulled his T-shirt over his head. His ribs showed in his skinny torso. A girl ran down to the water and shrieked when a wave splashed her bare legs. The wind carried their laughter to the palm grove on shore. Anthony wondered where Danny was, if he was having fun. It was a strange thing, but Danny rarely laughed. Anthony didn't know why.

  He felt his headache coming back and pressed his fingers against his temple. "What does Ramiro know that's worth so much to you? He has no contacts in the Cuban intelligence service. He's a bureaucrat who keeps the electricity turned on."

  "Well, it's this way. We get. a guy like Céspedes, and maybe we can believe him, maybe not. Some people— some even in Washington—will accept anything that fits their idea of what's going on in Cuba. I for one don't like acting on sketchy information." Bookhouser swung a leg over the bench. "I need to get going."

  "Just a second." Anthony looked up at him. "Did you check into the visas I asked about? For the Leivas."

  Bookhouser dropped his beret over his gray buzz-cut. "First you get me a reasonable answer from your brother-in-law, then I'll see what I can do."

  "Forget it. I'll put them on a boat. As long as they reach U.S. soil, they don't need a visa."

  "They could also be intercepted by the U.S. Coast Guard and turned over to the Cubans."

  Anthony let out a short laugh. "You're a son of a bitch."

  "Maybe, but I'm our son of a bitch, not Fidel's." Bookhouser poured the rest of his soda into some weeds at the base of a palm tree. "I'm constrained in what I can tell you. Nobody really knows where you stand. Bill Navarro didn't want to use you for this at all. He thinks you're a closet communist. What I think is, you're trying very hard to have it both ways. There will come a time when you can't do that anymore. In this game, everybody has to choose sides."

  Bookhouser flattened the Tu-Cola can between the heels of his thick, muscular hands. Holding the mangled aluminum basketball-style, he flexed his knees and aimed the can at a rusting trash bin. It clattered inside. "Keep in touch."

  Anthony left his car in the lot and walked to the blue Etecsa booth outside a boarded-up tourist hotel down the street. The wind was coming in from the north, and he felt the chill. He inserted his phone card, dialed a number, and counted the rings on the other end. He was about to hang up when Hector answered.

  Anthony asked if he had talked to the old man.

  "Yes, but he doesn't know anything. I was able to contact a friend in the company."

  Meaning the CIA.

  "What did he tell you?"

  "Omar is talking about that restaurant in Juraguá. You know. The vodka drinkers were building a big restaurant, but they ran out of money and went home. So it's sitting there for fifteen years. That place."

  Hector was being more obscure than usual: vodka drinkers. The Russians. The uncompleted nuclear reactor outside the town of Juraguá in Cienfuegos province.

  "I know the place," Anthony said. "What about it?"

  "They say Omar is talking about it. He's a cook. He went to a famous cooking school. What's that city that starts with an M? He went there and got an advanced degree in cooking, and he used to work at the restaurant. That's why he knows about it."

  Anthony had to think before he deciphered Hector's meaning: Omar Céspedes went to Moscow and studied ... what? Nuclear engineering? "Hector, don't worry about the phone. I'm on the beach, and no one's around. Let me understand you. They want to finish Juraguá?"

  There was a long pause, then a sigh, as though Hector would rather be talking in circles. "That's what I heard."

  "It would be suicidal." Three U.S. presidents had promised dire consequences if the Cubans ever attempted to finish the Chernobyl-style reactor. "Are they taking Céspedes seriously?"

  "I don't know. What did they do with the stuff for the oven? You know, to make it hot?"

  "The Russians never shipped it."

  "There isn't any?"

  "If we can believe Vladimir Putin, there isn't."

  "They have some in the hospitals, no?"

  "It isn't the same."

  "You can make a dirty bomb from that stuff. Señor Ernesto says the Beard would give it to the terrorists for free—"

  "Do you believe that?"

  Hector hesitated. "He might. He's getting old. If he could make a final strike at the Americans, he could die happy."

  "I've heard that theory already on Radio Mambi in Miami," Anthony said. "Did Céspedes mention Venezuela? The Cubans helping Chavez in exchange for oil?"

  "My friend didn't say anything about that."

  Anthony wondered if Hector's friend simply hadn't mentioned it, or if Céspedes hadn't talked about Venezuela at all. Anthony didn't mind lying to Garcia, but the best lies lay close to the truth. Otherwise, something would invariably get screwed up. If Garcia knew he
was being lied to, the consequences could be serious. Anthony could sense rumblings, the ground shifting, about to crack open. He needed to know which way to jump.

  Leaning against the phone booth, he noticed a few wet circles appearing on the dusty sidewalk. A drop of rain hit the plastic side of the booth. He asked Hector, "So that's all you have for me?"

  "It's not easy." Hector's tone said he was miffed that his efforts weren't appreciated. "Everybody's got their mouths shut. No interviews, nothing on TV or in the papers. They don't even admit Omar is in town. Usually people talk to me, but this? Ooof. Do you want me to keep trying?"

  "Only if you can get it to me soon. I'm meeting the Chinaman tonight. Hector, I need a favor."

  "Anything."

  "Find me a boat and a captain, will you? Something fast. I can't say we'll need it, but I'd like to have the option."

  "Yeah, yeah, no problem. Maybe two, then if you want to go south, you can." "Thanks."

  "I should come to Havana."

  "That's not necessary. Not yet."

  "Señor Anthony... I'm worried. Garcia is a bad man. Very bad. I heard that he has a place he goes to in the Sierra Maestra, where he keeps the bones of the people he killed. He has over twenty skulls lined up on a shelf."

  "Who told you that?"

  "A friend of Señor Ernesto."

  "Oh, Jesus, Hector. Why do you listen to those maniacs?"

  Patiently, slowly, Hector said, "The guy that told me knew a sergeant who used to be in the Chinaman's unit. He saw things. He wouldn't He. Señor Ernesto knows him a long time."

  Anthony remembered the general's small, tilted eyes, cold as stones. Even if he were a necrophiliac, it wouldn't interest the CIA. If they wanted Ramiro Vega, it was for some other reason. Not to ask if Castro had found the billion dollars necessary to finish a nuclear reactor that the United States would bomb before the switch was turned. And not even to confirm the existence of Cuban spies in Venezuela. That there were spies, Anthony had no doubt, but it was not why they wanted Ramiro.

  After lunch in the veterans' home, most of the residents sat in the main salon to catch the news on television. Luis Quintana, who could see only the vaguest outlines of his world, found a chair by a window. He had put on a sweater. The sun was too fickle to warm his shoulders.

  Anthony had come to have lunch with his father. Not to burden the kitchen, he had picked up some cold cuts and cheese at a dollar market. The old men at the table had shared the food, asked him about his kids, and wanted to know if it was true that Liván Hernández would sign with the Expos.

  He had hoped to see Yolanda, but they'd kept her busy in another part of the building. He wanted to ask about coming by her house later to talk to José. On his way back to the city, he'd recalled that José Leiva had written articles about Abdel Garcia, and at least one of them had mentioned Juraguá.

  More information might come from Olga Saavedra, who used to sleep with Céspedes. Olga wanted something, but Anthony had brushed her off. After talking to Bookhouser, he knew what it was: a way out of Cuba. He could give it to her, but she would have to tell him what she knew about her former lover. Tonight he would see her. After dinner at his sister's house, he would drop in on Olga Saavedra.

  On Tele Rebelde the big story was the debate in the United Nations on using military force in Iraq. The U.S. ambassador believed they were hiding weapons of mass destruction; the Iraqis denied it. President Castro was opposed to war. The picture occasionally flipped into a horizontal roll, and one of the men would get up to adjust the antenna. Through the window Anthony heard laughter and glanced out to see a foursome on the porch playing dominos. There was a bottle stashed under the table in a bag.

  He leaned toward his, father, elbows on his knees. "Papi, what time do you want me to take you to Marta's? I'm not rushing you, but I have something I could do later."

  "I'm not going to Marta's today," his father said.

  "No?"

  A smile appeared. Luis groped for Anthony's arm and finding it, pulled him closer. "It's my day with Zo-raida. Her uncle lives here. She comes from Matanzas every two weeks to visit him. She pays her respects, then she waits for me in my room. What breasts she has. Her skin, like rose petals. And the perfume between her legs! She's a goddess."

  "How old is this woman?"

  "Thirty. So what? I'm not as old as you think."

  "Do you give her money?"

  "Don't make it sound ugly. I like helping her out. She has a child to support She's a good girl, very clean. What do you want me to do, go out in the streets?"

  "Just be careful."

  "Pah! Don't worry about me. And don't tell your sister." With a finger to his lips, Luis leaned back in his chair to listen to the television. One of the men must have been deaf, because the sound was turned up so far it threatened to shake the plaster off the ceiling.

  Anthony set his empty cup on the window ledge and told his father he would be back.

  He found Yolanda upstairs mopping the floor. The blue paint on the walls had disintegrated in patches, showing yellow beneath, and pink beneath that, creating an abstract pattern of decades of paint. Light streamed in from the open doors to a balcony. Her reflection shone on the wet tiles, fading out slowly as the floor dried.

  "Yolanda."

  She turned around.

  "Did the housekeeper tell you I was here?"

  "Yes. I'm sorry, Anthony. I had to finish this."

  "They make you mop floors instead of having your lunch?"

  Laughing, she said, "No, it was my idea. I'm leaving a little early today."

  He walked closer. There were doors open along the hall, but he saw no one in any of the small, tidy rooms. "You don't have to work at all, you know."

  "I don't mind. Really."

  "Your husband gets enough money from outside, doesn't he? You could stay home and help him."

  "You sound just like José."

  He said, "Don't accuse me of that."

  "I like it here," she said. "It's very peaceful. And they depend on me. The doctor at the clinic can't be found when you need him. They say he drives a taxi." With a laugh, she tucked some hair into her ponytail. He saw that she wasn't wearing her new silver ornament. Well, no. Not here. It was too much. She was not a woman who showed herself off. Her scent was the simple violet water sold in every Cuban market.

  Dropping the mop into the bucket, she said, "Let me finish this. I'll come downstairs before I leave."

  Anthony looked at her sideways, appraising. "Are you avoiding me?"

  "No. Why would I?"

  "I don't know."

  She pushed on the mop handle to roll the bucket a little farther down the corridor. The wheels wobbled on the tiles. "I'm in a hurry because at three-thirty I'm going to meet your mother-in-law. She wants to buy us some Internet cards. I'm grateful to you for letting her do it."

  "Of course. If Irene wants to help you, that's all right with me." Anthony walked alongside Yolanda. "Whatever you need, you have only to ask."

  She glanced at him, and the light filtering through the trees just outside put flecks of emerald in her eyes. Her brows were pure black; silver framed her face. "That's very kind of you."

  "It isn't kindness, Yoli. You and José have been my friends for many years." He stopped himself from putting an arm around her, and slid his hands into his pockets instead. "Come downstairs and see me before you leave. I brought you something to take home."

  "Oh, please, you shouldn't."

  "Something edible."

  "No, we don't need ... what is it?"

  "Apples from Oregon. They're delicious. I had one."

  "Where is that? Oregon?"

  "A state north of California."

  "So far! It would be rude to say no." She smiled and pushed down on the lever that squeezed the mop head. "I'll be there in a while. Go on."

  He watched the mop move across the floor, making a wide, shining arc.

  "I've been thinking about Mario," he said.
>
  "Mario?" She looked at him, surprise fleeting across her face.

  "He's a brilliant young man. Well-mannered. Ambitious. Tell me, what is his future in Cuba? What opportunities are there for him here? Very few. You must know this."

  "We've talked about it," she said. "Mario doesn't want to leave."

  "Of course he doesn't. He thinks he would be on his own, no friends or family. But Gail and I would help him, gladly. If he wants to enroll in a university, I would take care of his tuition. It's no problem. He could join a band if he wanted to. There are many young Cuban musicians in Miami. He could go to New York if he wanted. Anywhere. When things change here, he could come back and have something important to contribute."

  Yolanda's eyes were focused on the bucket and its gray water. Anthony wanted to take it to the balcony and pitch it into the yard.

  "He wouldn't be lost to you, Yoli. He'd come every year. As often as you like. I'd make sure of that."

  "He's twenty years old," she said. "Not a child. It's not my decision."

  "But he will ask for your advice. I want you and José to discuss it before I talk to Mario. Will you? He loves you. He would stay for your sake. You shouldn't let him."

  "I know that." She pressed her lips tightly together, and for a second he thought she might cry. "Yoli?"

  She cleared her throat and turned away, dropping the mop once more into the bucket. "If he asks me, I'll say he should go. Now, would you please let me finish? I'll be down later."

  Anthony walked a few paces before pivoting and coming back. "I almost forgot what I came upstairs to ask you. Will José be available later this afternoon? I need to talk to him. It's not about your son. It's something else."

  "I don't believe that José has to go anywhere." She looked past him down the hall. "What's it about?"