by Noel Hynd
They passed the Orange Bowl and then the dull skyscrapers of downtown Miami. Cordero paid a toll. Then they took the causeway that led to Miami Beach.
“You know the address, right?” Alex asked to the front seat.
Linda answered. “Yeah,” she said. “Frank’s got it. We know the way.”
On their left was an island set in a lagoon. Rising from it were mini-mansions. On Alex’s right was the maritime channel, the exit for ships leaving the Port of Miami. The sight of them reminded her of Panama, and, with a shiver, the thought of Panama reminded her of the bullet that had come through her window on the west side of Manhattan.
The causeway led to Miami Beach.
Linda reached down to a shopping bag at her feet. From it she drew a cardboard box, the type that might contain six gourmet oranges. She handed it to Alex. “Here,” she said. “Welcome to south Florida. Merry Christmas in June. Present from Frank and me.”
Alex opened the box and examined the contents. The centerpiece was a Walther PPK 9mm short. Alex made sure it wasn’t loaded. The pistol was slim and sleek and would carry well. It was small but could pack a lethal wallop if necessary. It came with a box of fifty bullets and a nylon holster.
“Thanks,” Alex said, still examining it. She hefted it.
“Keep it low below the window levels,” Linda reminded her. “I don’t want other drivers to see it. It’d be a pain to explain to the Miami police what we’re doing here.”
“Of course,” Alex said.
There was one more item in the box. An ankle holster that was in heavy waterproof canvas. Alex could hit the water, if necessary, or endure a rainstorm, and her ordnance would be secure.
Frank guided the vehicle up and down a couple of side streets, then pulled up in front of a deco-streamlined house in South Beach with the usual Miami pastel paint job, pink and blue on white stucco, four stories on a quiet street, windows curtained. Alex eyeballed it from her car. Frank parked.
“We’re staying outside,” Linda said. “Don’t worry about us. We’re babysitting you till you go on to Key West tomorrow,” she said.
“You sure? You don’t need to.”
“We have our instructions,” Frank said from the driver’s cockpit.
“Got it,” Alex said.
Alex moved her gun into her own duffel bag and closed it. She took the bag with her as she opened the car door and stepped out. Heat hit her. A lot of it. Plus a wall of humidity. Miami in late afternoon: thick, nasty air and low clouds.
She went to the door and drew a final breath. She knocked. Solid oak on top of steel reinforcement. Better to stop bullets, she reasoned. Better to stop a battering ram!
No response. She knocked a second time. Then she heard rustling within the house and the fall of latches from within. The door swung open and Paul Guarneri stood in front of her.
“Hey!” he said. “Nice of you to drop by.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said.
There was an awkward moment as they stared at each other. Then he opened his arms wide to embrace her. Against her better judgment, she fell easily into his arms and accepted a long hug.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The screened porch behind the house was long and low and overlooked a busy marina on the north end of Miami Beach. The screens were hung with net curtains, which made anyone sitting in the porch more difficult to see, much less be shot at, from the water. Alex and Paul sat at a small table, she on a sofa, he on a chair, over some cold fish salad, fruit, iced tea, and soft drinks. Frank Cordero sat smoking Camels on a patio that was below the porch. He watched the water approaches behind the house while Linda Rosen watched the front.
Alex sought to commit to memory the notes given to her by Maurice Fajardie at her final briefing, plus the brief instructions about Figaro. When she felt she had everything, she looked up and eyed her prospective traveling companion.
“Tell me about your uncles,” Alex said to Guarneri out of the blue.
He met her inquiry with surprise; then he eased back. “Ah,” he said, “you’ve been doing some checking. FBI files?”
“They were sent to me,” she said. “It’s not so much that I requested them as they were thrust upon me.”
“What about CIA files?” he asked. “I’d like to see those. Have you?”
“What? Seen them?”
“Yes.”
“There isn’t much,” Alex said. “Nothing on you at all. At least not that I’ve seen. Only minor information on your father. He’s a footnote in several anti-Castro operations.”
“A footnote to everyone else,” Paul said. “Significant in my life. I don’t suppose …?” he began.
“That I could slip you a look?”
“Yes.”
“Not allowed,” she said.
“Understood.”
“Now,” she said. “My question. About your uncles …”
“What do you want to know, Alex?”
“The file says that one is dead. There’s no date of death on the other. What can you tell me about that?”
“Why are you asking?” he asked.
“You alluded to your mission being heavily related to family,” she said. “Family here and family in Cuba. So what better place to start than with your father’s brothers?”
Paul was quiet for several seconds. In the marina in front of them, a massive Chris-Craft flying a Bermudian flag navigated a thin channel and exited toward Biscayne Bay.
Then he began. “One uncle is holding the money for the other,” Paul said.
“I thought you said the money was buried.”
“It is.”
“So now you know better where it is?” she asked. “Better than you knew when we first met a year ago?”
“Much better,” he admitted. “I have a source in Cuba, a very authoritative one. Someone in the government, with some influence. I didn’t have that source a year ago when Yuri Federov first introduced me to you. Back then, going into Cuba was more of a fishing trip if you don’t mind the Hemingway analogy. Now it’s Moby Dick. I know which whale I want; it’s just a matter of getting it.”
“Captain Ahab got killed trying,” she said.
“Did he? I never got to the end of the book. That’s a spoiler, Alex.”
She laughed but was equally vexed. “Don’t goof around with me, Paul,” she said. “You’re good at it. You raise evasiveness to an art form sometimes. I don’t like it.”
“No offence intended, and I’m telling you what I can. For now. What else do you want to know? My social security number? You probably already have it.”
“Tell me a couple of things,” she said. “They’re both in Cuba? Both uncles?”
“That’s correct.”
“Is one of your uncles your source?”
“No. But my task is to move the money from one uncle to the other, then get off the island as fast as possible.”
“The FBI file suggested that one brother, Salvatore, is dead. And the other became active in Cuban revolutionary politics.”
“That’s correct, but it’s also misleading,” Paul said. “Yes, our family was torn apart. The older uncle, Salvatore, was a casino worker. So he was quickly on the outs with the Twenty-sixth of July Movement, which is what Castro’s revolutionaries called themselves. The younger brother was a university student. A good number of students were pro-Castro, as was he.”
“So who’s dead and who’s alive?”
“My father’s dead, but when we’re in Cuba, if all goes well, you’ll see both of my uncles.”
“Why do you keep saying that – ‘If all goes well’?”
“Because frequently things don’t go as planned. So I’m saying that this is what’s going to happen if they do go well.”
“You’re obscuring things, Paul,” she said. “You’re being cryptic.”
“You’re right. I am.”
“Why can’t you tell me? I’m putting a lot on the line for you.”
“Alex, listen. W
hat if this trip gets aborted tomorrow? What if we get turned back from the Cuban beaches before we land? And then what if your employer puts you on a witness stand and puts you under oath about what you learned before this trip got zipped. Where would your allegiance be? To me? To the people who sign your check?”
“Under oath, square as it sounds, I’d have to tell the truth.”
“That’s my point. I know you would. So if the truth is that you don’t know, you can’t be forced to tell, and we’re both protected,” he said. “Right?”
“But after we return, then I’ll know, correct?”
“If all goes well,” he said with a smile. “Correct.”
“Then …?”
“If all goes well, it will no longer matter,” he said. “Trust me on that.”
“I’m already trusting you.”
“So you are,” he said. “I appreciate that.”
“So trust me on something else,” she angled. “Tell me something about Paul Guarneri that I don’t know.”
Paul rubbed his eyes with fatigue and watched another cabin cruiser for several seconds. “All right,” he finally said easily, “let’s try this. This might slide a few more pieces of the Guarneri puzzle in place for you.”
A slight breeze wafted through. Alex dropped some ice in a fresh glass and sipped another Coca-Cola.
Paul looked away, a far-off look, then his gaze came back.
“I’m going to tell you something, Alex,” he said. “Something I’ve never told anyone else. But I guess you should know. I like you, I trust you, I have a hunch you understand me. So I’m going to tell you something more about why I’m here, why we’re here. It’s not so much a fact, although it is a fact, as a feeling. Can I share this with you?”
“Go for it,” she said.
“Cuba …,” he said, “Cuba is the life I didn’t lead. I told you, I was born there, I was a kid there. Then, after Castro came in, the family was pretty much split. My father had the two brothers and a sister who never left Italy. We lost touch with her half a century ago. Same way most Cuban families got separated. Fidel has a sister who lives in Miami, for example. She hates Fidel and what he’s done to the country. She’s an anti-Castro Castro. Did you know that?”
“I’d heard something,” Alex said.
“Good. Most people don’t. But that’s beside the point. See, some in my family chose to stay. They believed in Castro and the revolution. That’s okay; I understand that. The American Civil War divided families too. Same as the Spanish Civil War. Same as the Bolshevik revolution. Some circles of hell can’t be squared. Some things never work out perfectly. But here’s the thing,” he said. “There was that night I told you about in 1961. I was a kid, asleep. My mother came and got me. No warning, but she knew ahead of time. She knew because, in looking back, she had been packing, making arrangements. My father was flying us to the U.S. I told you that story, right? My father was connected and knew how to work the citizenship thing. By the time I was fourteen I had a U.S. passport. Never used it as a kid, but my father got it for me. He was probably afraid someone would grab me and try to repatriate me to Cuba. But no one ever did. Thing is, and here’s what has dogged me for fifty years: What if I hadn’t made that flight? What if my mother had refused to go or the police had stopped us? I would have grown up in Cuba. My life would have been so different that I wouldn’t have even recognized myself. So that’s part of what I’m doing. I’m reconnecting with the life I would have led, as well as carrying out the wishes of my father in setting things straight between his brothers. It’s not the only reason that I feel a pull back to the island, but it’s a big part of it.”
“Okay,” she said. “I think I get it. Or as much of it as you’ll let me get.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You still haven’t painted the whole canvas for me.”
“And when I can, I will, Alex. I promise.”
She let his words sink in. Some of Cordero’s smoke drifted up from the patio. He had shifted locations, Alex figured. She further noticed that it was now dark outside.
“So that’s what lies beneath this, Paul?” she asks. “It’s about recapturing the past, repairing the past?”
“I prefer to call it ‘coming to grips with the past,’” he said. “‘Setting the past right.’ Think about it. We have few opportunities in life to do that. I’m taking mine before it disappears forever. That’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re here.”
A full minute passed in silence, aside from the sounds from the marina, voices, and the dull drone of a distant diesel engine or two. Alex thought about Ben, about Robert, and what Paul said about coming to grips with the past. Maybe God was trying to tell her something.
“Okay,” Alex finally said.
“You’re sure you’re up for this trip?” he asked.
“I’m ready. I’m going tomorrow. Same as you.”
“You’re a trooper,” he said.
They then spent half an hour comparing their cover stories, quizzing each other, and setting their mutual fictitious past in place in case disaster befell them during the time in Cuba. After the half hour, they both felt comfortable with the fiction they were to live with.
When they were finished, he rose and moved to her. He took her hand, then, impetuously, leaned down and, to her astonishment, kissed her on the forehead.
“It will all go well,” he said. “The trip. It has to.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
I’m Anastacio,” the fat man said.
He spoke his name as if it were a challenge. He smelled of sweat and wore a massive pistol on his left hip. He was thuggish and scary. He stood in the driveway of a three-story stucco house, with a tall cement fence around it and a huge iron gate. But when he smiled his countenance went from surly to kindly. Alex had no idea whether Anastacio was his first name or last. It could have been either. She didn’t ask.
She and Paul Guarneri had arrived there after a short flight to Key West. Special Agents Cordero and Rosen had traveled with them. The flight had been private from a small airfield south of Miami. They arrived at the Key West airport and were met by a small jittery man named Pete, who had a deep voice, a straw hat, a goatee, and bad breath. He said little and led Guarneri, Alex, and their guards to a white van in short-term parking.
Twenty minutes later, on the south shore of the island, the van arrived at its destination. Pete whacked his horn twice. From within the stucco house, someone must have given a signal because the gate gave way and rumbled open. Then the big man, Anastacio, had appeared and loomed in the driveway. He was fortyish and had a Latin face, arms like ham hocks, and was tremendously obese. He was stuffed into a light blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt and wore a pair of shorts the size of a small tent. He opened the van doors from the outside and extended a fleshy hand to Alex.
“Watch your step, Senora,” he said protectively. “Los charcos. Puddles. Been raining all day.”
“Thank you,” Alex said, heeding the advice. Guarneri followed her.
The privacy of the interior driveway and courtyard of the Anastacio house had been carefully created. High black walls rose on both sides, as did foliage. There was a surreal effect because the area was brightly lit, sort of like what Alex had seen in her experience with organized crime households, which prevented any gunmen, cops, or a combination of both, from hiding in any shadows. She had no idea if this was a mob-connected place or a CIA house or both. She only knew it was her route out of the country.
The rain had stopped but the mistiness and the humidity had not. The asphalt driveway below her feet was slippery, as she had been warned. Everywhere around her was the incessant ticking of wet leaves dripping on one another. A squadron of bugs flocked around one of the outdoor lamps. A pair of mosquitoes buzzed Alex almost as soon as she drew her first breath of air, right in front of her eyes. She waved them away.
“We’ll get a little rest here maybe and something to eat if you like,” Guarneri said. “We can unwind fo
r a couple of hours.”
“Got it,” Alex said. She looked at her watch. It was 5:00 p.m. She wanted to shower because she had no idea when she would be able to again. And the push-off in the morning would be obscenely early. Sneaking into one of the world’s few remaining communist countries was, she reasoned, never an easy thing.
Paul gave her a soft pat on the back, showing the way, which was a flagstone path to the house. She walked as directed. Beyond the house she could see a pier and beyond that, water. Well, they were on a small narrow island after all, so why wouldn’t there be water? At the end of the pier she saw two vessels. One was a small skiff, lashed to the pier. The other, moored in the water a few dozen yards beyond the pier, was a small Cessna seaplane. She felt a surge within her, anxiety combined with dread, mixed with, she hated to admit it, a rush of adrenalin over what she was about to do. She fingered the small cross at her neck, again without realizing. Anastacio saw her do it and smiled.
“Good idea,” he said.
They all went into the house. The inside of the building was modern and nicely air conditioned. A small, stunningly pretty dark-haired woman presided. Anastacio introduced her as his wife, LaReina. She was a foot shorter than he was, maybe two hundred pounds lighter, and ten years younger. She wore denim shorts and a light green Paulina Rubio Gran City Pop tank top. She had a floral tattoo a few inches above her right breast. It never ceased to amaze Alex how mismatched couples like this ended up together.
“Welcome,” LaReina said in perfect English. “You won’t be here long, but our home is yours for the next few hours. Come with me.” Alex took her to be a Cuban-American who had probably never been to Cuba.
LaReina was like a dormitory housemother, officious, generous, and proprietary. She led Alex to the kitchen, where she displayed a spread of food for sandwiches on the counter. She indicated an array of drinks – beer, water, sodas – in the refrigerator. Then she led Alex up a short series of back stairs. They passed a votive to the Virgin of Guadalupe on the steps. A small flame burned.
