Anthony said, "Do you like doing this? Does it make you proud to be Cuban?"
Yolanda looked around and said, "Anthony. It's all right."
By then, the guests were arriving for the meeting. Some saw the police cars and kept going. Others parked nearby and stood in the yard. There were shouts, accusations. The police saw a flash and took away someone's camera.
Looking in through the front window, Anthony saw a face he recognized. Alvaro Sánchez came into the living room from the hall. A policeman behind him carried a stack of equipment, including the notebook computer Anthony had just brought from Miami. He went to the door and called to Sánchez.
The detective's manner was less cordial than before, but their acquaintance from two days ago was enough to provide a connection. Sánchez said that José Leiva would be taken in for questioning in the Saavedra case. However, that was not the reason for his arrest. They had also received information about contraband items in his house. If Leiva had no permit for the computer, it was illegal. The fax machine, the Internet connection—
Anthony asked who had given them this information. A neighbor? The spy in the house across the street? Sánchez said he was sorry. He told Anthony to wait with the others. When Anthony continued to look at him, Sánchez turned away and went back into the library.
State Security opened desk drawers and dumped papers into a box. From the door Yolanda argued with them. José Leiva told her not to worry about it. They could take what they wanted.
Anthony heard yelling and crossed the porch to see a young man in a white shirt struggling to get past the police. Gail said, "Is that Mario?"
One of the officers raised his baton. Anthony got there in time to pull Mario out of the way. The officer's baton glanced off Anthony's shoulder, but he felt nothing. He put his arm across Mario's neck and pulled him backward. "They will take you too. Stop it! Mario, your mother needs you."
The boy suddenly went still, but his breathing was fast, and his eyes shot fire. The officers lowered their sticks. When Anthony turned Mario toward the house, Angela ran from the crowd and put her arm around his waist, clinging tightly, so that they held Mario between them. Her lips moved with silent profanities.
Mario stopped walking. He reached into his hip pocket and took out a sealed envelope, folded in half. "Mr. Quintana, I don't want to forget this. Would you please give it to my mother on Sunday?"
"She's inside. You can give it to her yourself."
"No, she would open it now, and I want her to read it later."
Anthony nodded and took the envelope. When they reached the porch, Mario went to his mother and embraced her. She took him to the front door, and he spoke to his father. A few minutes later, one of the men from State Security told Leiva to get up. The police directed everyone to move back.
Leiva kissed his wife and son and told them he would be home in a few days. He smiled at Anthony. "
34
Ramiro Vega sat behind his desk shining papers from one pile to another, putting some aside but tossing most of them into a cardboard box, which was already overflowing. Anthony had watched the level in the bottle of Canadian Club go in the other direction. The bottle and a shot glass sat at a precarious angle on some folders. Leaning around them, Ramiro reached for a stack of mail, but instead picked up a small white stone glued to a piece of varnished wood.
"Ha! Look at this." He showed Anthony. "It's from Pico Turquino, the summit. My Pioneer group made the hike. I was fourteen. It rained. The only good thing about the trip was I lost my virginity. Should I take this with me? Why not? It would fit in my pocket." Ramiro slammed the piece against the edge of his desk and peeled away the stone.
"When are you going to make the disk?" Anthony said.
"I'll do most of it tonight. I won't be getting much sleep, that's certain. Marta is crying with her head under the pillow. If we had a dog, I would be sharing his blanket. The kids don't know we're leaving. They think mami and papi are having another fight."
He swung his chair around toward the computer on the table behind him and fumbled with the drawer of a small plastic cabinet. He removed a blank compact disk. "Most of my notes are here. Some at my office. I'll finish it there and clean out my computer. This one too."
"Make an extra," Anthony said.
"Why? It's safe with me."
"Ramiro, if the disk is damaged, you will have only your word that this goes no higher than García. I don't think that will be enough."
"The disk will be next to my heart. Very safe." As Ramiro propped it against the monitor, he noticed a cable draped over the keyboard. He picked it up and squinted at the end of it, then followed the cable to a USB port. He pulled it out. "The kids have been in here again with their games and their music. I hope I don't press the wrong keys and make a collection of rap songs." He looped the cable and handed it across the desk. "This is Karen's, I think."
"Ramiro, let me have a copy to give to Bookhouser. A thousand things could happen."
He finished the whiskey in his glass. "Cin-cin." As he drank it down in one gulp, the light slid over his bald head. He wiped his wiry gray mustache with the back of his hand. "Anthony, my brother, I am sorry, but... no. You, I trust. It's the people around you that make me think twice. Ernesto Pedrosa. Forgive me. And Bill Navarro. God save us, what a disaster that would be! Don't worry. I'm going to take very good care of it."
The whiskey had not cut off Ramiro's ability to understand what he needed to do. Get the proof out of Cuba that Abdel Garcia, not the Cuban regime, planned to divert radioactive materials to the international black market. The files had to reach the Intelligence Committee.
About a year ago, Omar Céspedes had made Ramiro an offer: evidence against Garcia in exchange for $50,000 in an offshore account. Céspedes had worked under Garcia; he had documents, notes, and records. He told Ramiro that Garcia wanted to be ready when the comandante made his final departure. If events turned against him, he would have enough money not to worry about it. Ramiro recognized the motivation—he had it himself. He had observed Garcia becoming more unstable, but he didn't believe the general would become involved with terrorists. Céspedes assured him it was so.
To confirm this story, Ramiro quietly investigated his boss through his own connections at the Ministry. He put the information into encrypted files and waited for the right time to use it. And then Omar Céspedes defected. He betrayed Cuba, and Ramiro lost his best ally. Who would believe a story that had come from a traitor? The documents wouldn't be enough against a master of innuendo like Abdel Garcia. The general had friends who didn't like Ramiro Vega's quick rise to power. Unfortunately for Ramiro, he was not innocent. He had profited by doing favors for his business associates: over a quarter of a million dollars in an account in the Caymans—minus what he'd paid to Céspedes for the files on Garcia.
Anthony asked him why he'd accepted the money. He couldn't spend it; Marta would have noticed.
It's a key in the door, Ramiro told him. It gave him freedom. It gave him the confidence to push, to criticize, to move ahead. And it had made him a little too reckless. Garcia had found out. And now, to save his skin, Ramiro had to make a deal with the Americans. All he had to offer them were the files. To make only one copy was a risk, but Ramiro didn't trust anyone. Anthony couldn't say that his brother-in-law was entirely wrong.
Spinning his chair around, Ramiro grabbed the desk and abruptly came to a stop. "What a mountain of shit. I can't be ready to go in two days. It would take two months." He picked up the stack of letters, glanced through them, then flung them into the trash box with such violence that it tipped over. Ramiro got out of his chair and kicked it across the room. He stared at the papers scattered across the floor. "Let them find it this way." He picked up the box, set it back by his desk, and opened another drawer.
He laughed. "I am reminded of a joke. Capitalism is a trash can filled with useless material objects. TVs, Cadillacs, Rolex watches. Communism is the same trash can, but it's empty."
When Anthony only looked back at him across the desk, Ramiro pulled out another drawer and lifted out more papers, which he threw into the box. "I should have let Olga leave Cuba when she asked me. You say she was unconscious at the first blow. Should that make me feel better?"
"She wanted me to help her get away," Anthony said. "I'm sorry I didn't, but we can't blame ourselves."
"Then you have no conscience." Ramiro looked into an envelope, then tossed it into the box. "She thought someday we would have a house in Spain. That was her fantasy. She was mine. I am Marta's fantasy. Everyone has a fantasy. It's hard to exist without one. I should be grateful for Olga. You know, if not for her, I would not have my little savings account."
"Did you tell Marta?"
"Are you crazy?" Ramiro smiled. "It's bad enough she thinks I'm a traitor. If she knew I was a traitor and a thief, she would kill me. What a trap I've made for myself! If I stay, the army will kill me. If I leave, my wife will kill me." Ramiro sighed. "No. Marta wouldn't do that. She loves me. How did your parents produce such a foolish woman? I knew she would come with me. But telling her! I've been less terrified in combat. 'My love, would you and the kids like to see Disney World?'"
With the lip of the bottle at his glass, Ramiro said. "I should make some coffee." He screwed the cap on. "Go to bed, my brother. Why are you still here? Your wife is waiting."
"I want you to do something for me. Have José Leiva released from jail."
"What? I can't He's under preventive detention in a murder case."
"He didn't kill Olga Saavedra."
"He had a motive. And where was he? The police say he wasn't home when she died. No alibi."
"What happened between him and Olga Saavedra was six years ago."
"I can't tell the Ministry of the Interior what to do. Besides, there are other reasons to hold him. Leiva is a provocateur, a mouthpiece for the Americans. He whines about human rights as a cover for what he really wants—a Wal-Mart on the Malecón."
"That is not funny," Anthony said.
"I am so sorry."
"Are you the one who informed on him? The detective told me that they had a tip. Was that you?"
"No. It wasn't." Ramiro started leafing through the papers again.
"Do you want me to beg? All right. I am begging you, Ramiro. On your way out of Cuba, do one last, decent thing. Have him released. You can find some way to do it—"
"If he's released, they will only lock him up again sooner or later."
"I believe I can persuade him to leave. I can have a boat here within hours. Bookhouser said he would get U.S. visas for them. I'll have no trouble with that, but I can't do it if Leiva is in custody."
"He should be in custody. He and his lot are dangerous because of their phony pacifism. They would be more honest if they had mortars and rockets."
"It is you who are defecting, and Leiva is dangerous?"
"Why do you come here? Marta and I feed you and give you a place to stay, and you go behind our backs to help the opposition. I may be a traitor, but I'm not a hypocrite."
Anthony was around the desk in three steps, his fists on the front of Ramiro's shirt. "Make your jokes. No one is laughing. If you weren't drunk, I would kill you myself." He dropped Ramiro back into his chair.
Ramiro knocked his hand away. "It's a funny world. I will tell you who informed on Leiva. Your son." "You're lying!"
"I wish that I were. He asked Giovany what to do if he had information about a murder. Gio took him to the police. Tonight, after Gio heard your daughter crying, he came to me and asked if he had done the right thing. I said he should have come to me first, but yes, he and his cousin had a duty to report it."
Anthony took a step away and nearly stumbled. He righted himself on a corner of the desk. "Danny. Oh, God."
Straightening his shirt collar, Ramiro returned to his stack of papers. "I'm sorry that I had to tell you. Leave me alone now, my brother. It's late."
The feeling of helplessness was as heavy as grief. Gail lay on her side and stared at the cartoon faces over the baby crib. She had tried to read José Leiva's essays, thinking she might know enough words to understand his meaning, but her eyes wouldn't focus on the page.
After the jodido State Security cops had taken José Leiva away, they had taken his books. Not all the books. Not the encyclopedias and old National Geographic magazines in Spanish, or the children's books and medical texts. Not the boring stuff. They'd taken the books it would be hard to replace. The bastards had cleaned out the library, which they had no goddamn right to do because it wasn't illegal to have books. They had kept throwing things into boxes and carrying the boxes out to their van. Gail had demanded that Anthony ask them what they thought they were doing, but he told her to stay out of the way. Yolanda said she didn't mind if they took the books, if they would just read them. They snowed Yolanda a receipt and told her to sign it. They gave her a copy. She closed the door.
The house was full of their friends, and everyone stayed around talking, trying to decide what to do next, what foreign news organizations to contact, what the strategy should be. Finally Yolanda asked them all to go. She was tired, and Mario would be with her. In the morning she would look for a lawyer for her husband.
When they got home, Angela ran upstairs sobbing, and Irene went to her room with a bottle of wine. The house was too quiet. Nothing from the boys' room. Marta had her door locked, and Ramiro had closed himself in his study. Karen said they'd been screaming at each other, and Janelle had worn herself out crying about it. Gail told Karen what had happened to José, but she didn't have much success making Karen understand it. She told her to go back to bed; they'd talk in the morning.
Gail reached over and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. A minute later, she got out of bed, turned on the overhead light, and started rearranging their clothes. She couldn't pack the suitcases. Although they would be leaving on Saturday, everything had to appear normal until the last minute.
Pulling out one drawer after another, Gail filled them in order of priority, reserving the top left drawer for things they'd need to grab if they had five minutes to get out of the house. It was a grim variation on what she did every time the Miami TV stations posted a hurricane warning.
She heard footsteps in the hall. The door opened. Anthony came in and put a coiled computer cable on the dresser. "Karen left this in Ramiro's study. I think it goes to her PDA."
After he had stood there without moving for several more seconds, Gail asked him if he was all right.
He looked around. "Ramiro says that Abdel Garcia is working on his own."
"Thank God. How did Ramiro find out about it?"
"Omar Céspedes told him, in exchange for fifty grand. Ramiro was looking for something on Garcia, because García had something on him." Anthony sat on the end of the bed and took off his shoes. "Ramiro was moving up quickly in the ranks, and Garcia doesn't share his power willingly. Their friendship is a pretense. Garcia had Ramiro by the throat. He knew he'd been taking kickbacks. Ramiro got some of them from the copper mines, if you can believe that irony. Omar Céspedes helped Ramiro with dates, shipments, lists of what came in, what went out. People would look the other way while technicians stole radioactive materials out of the storage rooms. Ramiro has proof of what Garcia and his group were doing. It's on encrypted files. He'll put eveiything on a disk, then he'll destroy the hard drive."
"I suppose he told Marta they're leaving," Gail said. "She hasn't come out of her room, but Karen said there was a lot of yelling and screaming a few hours ago."
Anthony nodded. "He told her."
"Well?"
"She'll go with him." "The kids too?"
"He didn't say. Probably." Anthony wearily let out a breath.
Gail stood between his knees and smoothed his hair off his forehead. "You want to take a shower? There's some hot water left. I saved it for you."
"Thank you. Come here, bonboncita, give me a kiss. I need one."
She laughed a little and put her mouth to his. She felt some of the tension let go from his shoulders. He buried his face in her stomach for a second, kissed each breast through her nightgown, then gently moved her aside and stood up.
He saw the open drawers of the built-in closet. "What are you doing with our clothes?"
"Pre-packing," she said. "In case we have to run for it."
He smiled. "Don't worry. That won't happen." Squinting toward the ceiling, he said, "That light is ripping my eyes out."
"Turn it off, then."
The room was dark for a moment. Gail turned on the lamp by die bed, and a soft golden glow fell on the nightstand and the pillow on her side. Anthony pulled his shirt out of his pants and unbuttoned it. "I asked Ramiro if he would use his influence to get José Leiva out of jail. He won't do it. He says Leiva is a threat to the state."
"Does he really believe that?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He replied with a shrug, lifting his hands.
"Anthony, I couldn't believe what was happening. They just pushed in there and took everything! I wanted to scream or hit somebody. It was worse for you, wasn't it? You're always rushing to the rescue, and there wasn't anything you could do."
His shirt was open, and when Gail put her arms around him, she felt the warmth of his skin through her silk nightgown.
He said, "Tomorrow morning I'm going with Yolanda to find a lawyer for José. There are some good ones, but they cost more. I want to make sure she gets the right person and that she has enough money for pay for it."
Gail could feel the pressure on her heart, the ache that radiated into her throat. She didn't want to be jealous. Not now, when Yolanda had just seen her husband taken by police for something he hadn't done. On the way home in the car, when Anthony had said nothing, and the silence had been broken only by Angela's weeping from the backseat, Gail had thought: Oh, God. If José Leiva dies in prison, Yolanda will want Anthony, and he will go back to her. Selfish, stupid thoughts. Gail wanted to be better than that, but she wasn't.
Suspicion of Rage Page 31
