"It says here a million people are buried in this cemetery. Isn't that something? The more important you are, the closer you get to the chapel. Nobility over there, common folks in the back. And the ordinary rich somewhere in between. Like this one. An excellent example of the classical Greek influence popular in the late nineteenth century."
Bookhouser glanced up from his tourist guide to gesture toward a tomb built like a small Parthenon. He read, " ‘The family vault of Julio Amador Pedrosa, 1814 to 1892, who founded the national railroad system of Cuba.' Do you want me to take a photo?"
"No, thanks. There's one hanging on the wall in my grandfather's study."
"I saw it," Bookhouser said.
With the toe of his shoe, Anthony gently nudged Bookhouser's foot off the wall. "Ernesto carried hopes for many years that this would be his final resting place. Now he wants me to wrap his body in a Cuban flag and bury him in a field. Red earth, he says. Make sure it's the red earth of my homeland." Anthony was halfway through crossing himself before he realized he had fallen into this old habit again. He finished, put his fingers to his lips, and reached over the iron fence to touch one of the columns.
Bookhouser watched without comment.
"Tell me about Céspedes," Anthony said.
"How did you find out, by the way?"
"You aren't the only one with friends."
Bookhouser closed his tourist guide. "At one-fifteen this morning, Omar Céspedes was shot five times with a .22-caliber pistol. The round in the back of his head was fired at close range as he lay on the ground. A neighbor happened to be awake checking on her baby and saw the whole thing from a third-floor window. Céspedes parked his vehicle in the common alley behind the town houses. He got out, walked toward his back fence, and a man came out from behind one of the cars and shot him. The witness said it was very fast, very neat. The man took Céspedes's wallet and walked away. The D.C. police initially classified it as a robbery-homicide, but the FBI monitors all murders in the District. The name Omar Céspedes rang a bell, and they called us."
"Not a robbery," Anthony said.
"No. And it's going to affect your brother-in-law in two ways. First, we need him more than ever, because Céspedes was only halfway through his sworn testimony before the House Intelligence Committee. And second, Ramiro should get out as soon as possible. Céspedes is dead. Olga Saavedra is dead. Unless you can think of some reason why not, I'm going to say that the same person is behind both murders and that Ramiro Vega is next."
Anthony said, "Do you want me to tell him to call you?"
"Please." Bookhouser checked some readings on his camera, then raised it to his eye and focused on a weeping angel across the path. Her hand hid her eyes, and her wings drooped. "Look at the skill in that carving. Did you know that Cuba has its own marble? I thought all this stuff was imported from Italy. No, most of it was homegrown and carted over from the Sierra Maestra." Click. "Tell Vega we'd like him to leave on Friday night. That gives him a little over forty-eight hours."
"Marta won't like leaving Friday. Their daughter's birthday party is on Saturday."
"Yes, I'm sorry about that," Bookhouser said. "Are they coming? Vega hasn't told me. We can accommodate as many of the immediate family as he wants to bring with him, but he has to let me know who they are."
"I'll see him tonight," Anthony said. "How do you plan to get him out?"
Bookhouser aimed his camera west. "See that white marble cross over there? It marks the grave of 'La Milagrosa.' Woman of the miracles. She died in childbirth, and they buried her and her baby in separate caskets. When they opened hers for some reason, who knows why, the baby was in her arms. Faith is required, Mr. Quintana." He squinted through the viewfinder. "Faith in the resourcefulness of your friends in the United States government."
Click.
Checking the photo's image in the viewing screen, Bookhouser said, "If you would, let Ramiro know that additional compensation has been approved. He and I can talk about it."
"Are you taking my family out, too, or am I supposed to arrange my own miracles?"
"No, we'll get you out." Bookhouser snapped the lens cap back on. "What I need you to do is stay in Havana through Friday night so the house doesn't look empty. You leave on Saturday. I can give you final details by tomorrow. Do not—I repeat this—do not attempt to leave Cuba on your own. I know you have ways of doing it, but we need you here. You and your family are not in danger."
"That's good to know."
"The people behind this aren't after you."
"People? How about Abdel Garda?"
"García? Maybe. García and a few others."
"Does Ramiro agree with that?"
"Ramiro wouldn't say."
"Ah. Well, that's Ramiro." Anthony noticed that on the pediment of the Pedrosa mausoleum, a small tree had taken root in a crack. The roots reached through and hung in the air below it, seeking earth. A crow flapped away, cawing loudly, and the noise echoed across the cemetery.
Anthony said, "Garcia was at MININT last night when I was being questioned. Afterward we had a talk, a brief one, in the elevator on the way down. I gave him your story, that Céspedes was talking about Cuban spies in Venezuela. I found out—through one of my friends— that Céspedes had also talked about finishing construction on the nuclear reactor at Juraguá. I told Garcia. He didn't buy either story. Let me give you my theory. Céspedes told you that the Russians made an unaccounted-for shipment of uranium. Someone in the regime—if not Fidel himself—wants to put it to good use by selling it on the arms market. It could wind up in a backpack bomb on the New York subway or at the next Super Bowl game."
Bookhauser's ice-blue eyes moved to look at him. He smiled. "Please don't. I myself think you're just trying to figure it out, but if your actions were to affect the outcome adversely, there are some people who would get a lot of satisfaction in labeling you as an agent of the Cuban government."
"It would be a lie."
"Since when does that count? Don't take the risk. Friendly advice, okay?"
"I should be getting back," Anthony said.
His companion followed a few paces behind. They passed a low crypt where someone had laid yellow carnations, some beads, and a handmade doll dressed in blue and yellow. The colors of Yemayá.
Bookhouser aimed his camera. Anthony kept walking.
He heard Bookhouser say, "We erect crosses and we leave beads and flowers. The afterlife. How badly we want it."
The wall of the cemetery ran alongside a narrow sidewalk. Sections of iron fence interrupted the long stretches of concrete and white, bas-relief crosses. Anthony had left his car across the street in a line of them at the curb. Trees cast heavy shade, and the side streets angled past low apartment buildings. He saw no one standing nearby, but as he was reaching for his keys, he heard car doors opening. Two men got out of a car ahead of his. One leaped out of the driver's side; the other hurried around the rear bumper. They wore sunglasses, and their shirts hung over their trousers. If they were armed, the guns would be on their belts.
Muscles tensing, Anthony shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. Another car door slammed. A third man came from the other direction. It was useless to run, even if he'd had the chance. One of them was a muscular black guy in his late twenties; the other was a little older, a trigueño, white with a touch of café in his blood.
The younger man said, "Anthony Quintana?"
"Who the hell are you?"
"Get in."
His partner opened the rear door of their car. Small brown model, no markings, typical of undercover police.
The third man followed close behind. The negro had a hand on Anthony's upper arm. He limped. Anthony registered this fact, and as they shoved him into the backseat, he wondered who they were. State Security wouldn't use a man with a bad leg.
The trigueño drove. The negro sat in the backseat. He took out a cell phone and told someone they were on their way. The car did a tight U-turn and. headed eas
t.
"Where are we going?"
The pair of sunglasses in the seat next to him turned slightly, but the man behind them said nothing. A young guy, mid-twenties, a smooth brown face. Big arms. A scar across his knuckles. They drove down the hill past the university, then farther into the old part of the city. The dome of the Capitol drew nearer.
Anthony was not surprised when he began to see Chinese characters on the buildings. The car slowed in a river of pedestrians, bicycle taxis, and exhaust fumes and went under some wooden scaffolding. The driver turned onto an even narrower street rutted with potholes. The car stopped. Doors opened.
When they told him to get out, Anthony looked up and saw the bright green shutters of Abdel Garcia's apartment.
This time, the shutters and the windows were closed. The darkness of the room was relieved by a floor lamp. The light glowed on the gold silk fringe and painted large yellow circles on the floor and ceiling. Everything else was the same, the red upholstery and carved wood and lingering smell of sandalwood.
The general stood by the opening to the kitchen as one of his thugs put a hand between Anthony's shoulder blades and shoved him inside the apartment. The heavy door closed, and Abdel Garcia crossed the room, his steps silent on the oriental rug. Cigarette smoke trailed behind him. He carried the ashtray in his other hand. Not a sound entered the room from the street below.
It might have been the quick walk up four flights of steps that made it hard to breathe Anthony drew in some air, then said, "You're in uniform. Did you remember to punch out at the office?"
The light from the floor lamp was doing strange things to Garcia's uneven bone structure. He smiled slightly and paused his cigarette at his lips. "Please, sit down. I have a favor to ask you."
"I've already done you a favor." Anthony pivoted as the general walked over to his little table by the window. "Tell me. Who shot Omar Céspedes last night?"
"Who knows? Washington is a dangerous city. There's a lot of crime in your country." The general settled into a chair and crossed his thin legs. He crushed out his cigarette and put the ashtray on the table. Anthony saw that the black enameled vase held a fresh arrangement of flowers. "Do you have ancestors in the Colón Cemetery, Mr. Quintana?"
"Yes. My grandfather's family, the Pedrosas. I drop in to say hello when I'm in town. What do you want, general? I don't like being followed."
Garcia lifted the flap on his uniform shirt and took out a small tape recorder. He pressed a button, and Anthony heard someone speaking. After a second he recognized the voice: his own.
—Céspedes is talking about Juraguá. He says you want to finish construction as soon as possible. You need the energy, and you believe the United States is in no position to object. With world attention diverted—
Garcia stopped the tape and slid the recorder back into his pocket. "You don't want this tape to show up in Miami, so please listen and do not interrupt. For many years, Ramiro Vega and I have been friends and fellow officers. I have tried to contact Vega for two days, but he won't talk to me. This is not only rude, it is insubordinate. I could have him arrested. But I don't. For the sake of that friendship, I will be patient. I could cause him harm, but I'd rather not. I admire Vega. And his wife. Your sister, no? Marta. And their children. Paula. Giovany. Janelle."
He took his handkerchief from his side pocket. He refolded it and dabbed at his mouth. "A lovely family. For many years I felt a part of it. No longer. This is not a complaint. It's how life is. People are loyal, and then you feel the blade sliding into your heart."
The room was overheated, and sweat ran down Anthony's back. He said, "Tell me what you want."
The small black eyes lifted slowly. "Some information ... a collection of lies. Vega knows what it is. He will give it to you, and you will deliver it to me. I will tell you where. If he refuses, I will have him arrested and charged with treason. My duty would require me to ask that he be executed. You will give him this message ... and my regrets. It isn't easy for me, because I am fond of his family. Tell him that. Ask him to think about who will suffer. My pain, his pain. That's not so much. We are men. What about his wife? His children. If he went to prison... if he were executed ... what would happen to them?"
Abdel Garcia's thin body appeared to be floating, and his face was a mask of old ivory. A trick of light, of perspective.
"What is it?" Anthony asked. "This information you want."
"Vega knows. You get it for me, Quintana. I trust you. Get it for me."
31
A long porch went across the front of the veterans' home, and afternoon sunlight brightened the flowers in clay pots on the stone railing. The old men watched from their chairs. Gail gave the taxi driver an extra ten dollars and told him to wait.
She had come to pick up her father-in-law for dinner. No one else could do it. Marta and Irene were still out shopping, and Anthony hadn't come back yet. Cobo had gone who-knew-where. So Gail had called Marta on her cell phone and said she'd take care of it, not to worry. Gail didn't want Luis to sit there wondering if he'd been forgotten.
What a lie, she said to herself, scanning the shady yard and crumbling stone columns. She hadn't come for Luis, though soon enough she would be helping him into the taxi, telling the driver to take them back to Miramar.
She had come because of Yolanda.
Not to talk. No, they would talk tonight at the meeting. They would chit-chat about their kids and politics and how terribly brave it was to open a library in a dictatorship. For now, Gail just wanted to walk through Yolanda Cabrera's magnetic field and watch the needle swing. Did she sleep with Anthony or not? No, that wasn't it either. What Gail really wanted was to push Yolanda into a chair and make her answer the question. But Yolanda, being noble and good, might tell her the truth, Gail would rather hear a lie she could believe in. Anthony could do it so well. He would just drop certain untidy pieces of his life into a box and throw it away. If he didn't have to think about it anymore, it didn't exist.
There was a flaw in that reasoning: Mario. He did exist.
Gail had played with the idea of being good. If Anthony and Yolanda still loved each other as they had as children, if culture and language, and now blood, fated them to be together, wasn't it wrong to stand between them? Gail did not think she could be that unselfish. She doubted if Yolanda's husband could either.
Crossing the street, Gail kept her eyes on the cracks in the pavement. She would find Luis and get the hell out of here.
It didn't matter what Anthony had done twenty years ago. Maybe Mario wasn't his son. If Yolanda denied it, Gail would only have succeeded in making an ass of herself And Anthony would go off like a rocket. You went behind my back! Why don't you call me a liar to my face?
Gail's mother had once told her, somewhere during a pitcher of martinis, that Gail's father had not been faithful. Irene had overlooked a lot of it. Had to. By the time she found out about yet another little indiscretion, it was in the past, so what good would it do, dredging it up? No good at all except to ruin the fragile truce they'd reestablished after she had taken him back. Darling, sometimes a woman just has to pretend it never happened.
Gail went up the steps to the porch. The row of rocking chairs came to a stop.
"Hello," she said. "Buenas tardes. Yo soy..." She had forgotten the word for daughter-in-law. "Soy la ... esposa de ... el hijo de Luis Quintana." The wife of the son. Is he here? "¿Está aquí?"
A man with a Yankees ball cap, and a back as bent as his cane, shuffled over and kissed her hand. The others laughed and told her to watch out, he was a devil. He opened the screen door for her, and they went inside. Painted tiles brightened the floor with stylized flowers of red and green, and two staircases with wrought-iron balustrades curved to an upper hall. One of the staircases had some missing steps and a rope across it.
He pulled her by the wrist to a door framed in carved mahogany, gone gray from age. There was a cardboard sign: OFICINA. The old man knocked, then rapped with his can
e.
Gail said, "No. Upstairs." She pointed. "Señor Quintana is upstairs—"
The office door swung open, and Yolanda Cabrera appeared in a white smock and a blue bandana. She seemed slightly out of breath. When she saw Gail, she smiled. "Hello!"
Gail took a step forward, still out of range for a kiss of greeting. "How are you, Yolanda? It's nice to see you again. I'm here for Anthony's father. Everyone else is busy, so I volunteered."
"I think that he is taking a nap. Do you want me to tell him you are here?"
"Yes, if you would." Gail turned and thanked the man who had brought her inside, then said to Yolanda, "I’ll just wait on the porch."
But Yolanda took her by the elbow. "Gail, are you in a big hurry?" She glanced at the door closing behind the old man, then said, "I have to make some copies. It will take five minutes. Can you help me?"
"Well... I suppose so."
She followed Yolanda through the outer office, then into a smaller room whose ornate plaster molding hinted at a history as a music room or library. Its current function was more practical. Molded chairs faced a large wooden desk, on which sat a computer and ledgers and paperwork. Filing cabinets took up one wall. Opposite, Fidel Castro in his green uniform smiled placidly at a poster of Monet's water lilies. Under them was a copy machine on a stand. Pieces of paper formed a semicircle on the floor.
Yolanda went over to look through the uncurtained window. "I pay the manager ten cents each to let me make copies. I bring my own paper and leave the money in the drawer. If I do it when he isn't here, he can say he didn't know."
She showed Gail what had to be done. Unstaple this, make twenty copies, staple, put with the copies already on the floor. And twenty copies of this other page.
"It's lucky you came! A supervisor from the Ministry of Health is on her way," Yolanda lifted the cover, laid a sheet on the glass, and pressed a button. "She is not so nice about it."
Suspicion of Rage Page 28
