Hot Schemes

by Sherryl Woods

  “I will be fine.”

  “Fine?” Michael said angrily. “How can that be? How can any of us be fine again?” He slammed his fist on the table. “Damn them all to hell!”

  “Tell me,” Pedro insisted quietly.

  Michael repeated everything that they had learned from Paredes in Key West. When he’d recited the whole complicated story, Pedro made him go through it all once more, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “I will begin making calls in the morning,” Michael promised, his anger now under control. In a way the calm was worse. His voice was cold and emotionless. “I will call our senators and our representatives. I’ll call the State Department. Perhaps it is not too late to bring him back home. What use has Castro for one old man?”

  Pedro clasped Michael’s hands in his own. “I know you will do what you can. Remember something, though. This was Miguel’s choice. No matter how badly it has turned out, you cannot lay the blame entirely with Paredes. Allow Miguel the dignity of respecting his decision.”

  The simple request seemed to take Michael by surprise. Slowly and with obvious effort, he let the last traces of his anger die. Finally, he nodded. “I will do my best,” he said wearily. “But something tells me that knowing Miguel did what he felt he had to do will be cold comfort to Tía Pilar.”

  “Perhaps not,” Tío Pedro agreed. “That is why all of us must be strong for her. We are a family, Michael. We stand together, and from that we will draw whatever strength it takes to get through the coming days.”

  • • •

  Despite the lateness of the hour, the García house was crowded with family—Pilar, Elena, Rosa, Michael’s cousins. Molly wasn’t sure she belonged among them on such a tragic occasion, but Michael’s grip on her hand convinced her that he needed her there, whatever the others thought of her intrusion.

  Surprisingly, though, the mood was oddly euphoric when they arrived. Apparently several bottles of wine had been consumed with a meal sent over from the restaurant by Pedro. Rosa was even singing along with an old Cuban ballad to the applause of her nieces and nephews.

  Standing in the doorway observing the light-hearted moment, Michael and Pedro exchanged looks. Molly wondered which of them would spoil it by revealing the news of Miguel’s fate. Apparently that time was to be put off. Glasses of wine were pressed into their hands by Elena.

  “Sit. Rosa has been singing all of the old songs for us.”

  “She has not sung in a long time,” Pedro noted.

  “Sí,” Elena agreed quietly. “But it seems to keep Pilar’s spirits high. Look, have you seen her looking so happy since all of this began? She has been that way since dinnertime.”

  “Perhaps it is the wine,” Pedro suggested.

  “More likely the call she had from an old friend. They talked for some time. It seemed to give her comfort.”

  “Whatever it was, I’m glad for her,” Michael said, giving his uncle a pointed look. Pedro nodded. Molly guessed they intended to postpone telling Pilar anything, at least for the moment.

  Molly, however, was puzzled by Tía Pilar’s sudden shift in mood. Compared to earlier visits, this time her expression was actually serene. The older woman looked as if she’d found some sort of inner peace, as if she already knew about her husband’s fate and had accepted it. It was not what Molly had expected after watching her state of mind deteriorate hour by hour in the early aftermath of Miguel’s disappearance.

  Trying to make sense of it, Molly crossed the room and took a seat beside Tía Pilar.

  “You are feeling better, then?” she said.

  “I must be strong,” Pilar said with a faraway smile, her gaze on Rosa as the lyrics of yet another song filled the tiny room. “For Miguel.”

  “I understand you had a phone call earlier this evening, just before dinner. It was from an old friend?” Molly said, wondering if it was remotely possible that what she was beginning to think could be true.

  Pilar regarded her sharply. “Who told you this?”

  “Elena. She said the call seemed to lift your spirits.”

  “It was nothing,” Pilar said.

  “Elena said you spoke for quite some time.”

  Pilar’s expression suddenly and conveniently went blank. “No comprendo.”

  Molly watched her closely. “I think you do understand, Pilar. It was Miguel, wasn’t it? Did he call you from Cuba?”

  “You don’t know what you are saying,” she said, suddenly agitated. “We don’t know where Miguel is.”

  “No, we don’t,” Molly agreed. “Not exactly, anyway. But I think you do. He’s safe, isn’t he?”

  Pilar glanced around worriedly. “Please, you must not say this.”

  “But the others deserve to know, especially Michael. He has been worried sick. Tonight he learned from a source that his uncle might be in a Havana prison, but that’s not true, is it?”

  “I cannot say anything. Miguel made me promise. The danger is too great.”

  Molly took her hand. “No, Tía Pilar, the danger is over,” she told her gently. “You can tell the truth now.”

  Michael joined them just then. He looked from his aunt’s distressed face to Molly and back again. “What is it? What truth are you keeping from us, Tía?”

  “Tell him,” Molly insisted.

  Pilar’s hands trembled. She linked them together in her lap to keep them still.

  “Tía, what’s going on?”

  “It is Miguel,” she said at last. “I spoke to him earlier tonight.” She lifted her gaze to Michael. “He is alive. He is safe.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Before any of them could fully absorb what Tía Pilar was telling them, the front door opened and Miguel García walked in. Dressed as always in khaki pants and a freshly starched guayabera, he had the unmistakable look of a man who had just completed a successful mission. His eyes, filled with happiness and affection, were pinned on his wife. For this moment, at least, the sadness had been banished and the strength and purpose of a young man were reflected there.

  While Pilar waited patiently, he was immediately surrounded by his emotional children. Tears were shed openly. Molly’s own tears were silent, but no less heartfelt.

  She looked for Michael and found him standing alone on the perimeter of the scene, his eyes suspiciously damp, his expression filled with longing. In that brief instant, Molly thought she caught a glimpse of the young boy who’d never had a father, who had never quite dared to admit how deeply he loved this uncle for fear that he could lose him as easily as he once had his mother. In the past few days that loss had been vividly transformed from nightmare to reality.

  Molly moved to Michael’s side and slipped her hand in his as Tío Miguel embraced his weeping wife and attempted to soothe her and make her laugh, even as she scolded him for frightening them all so badly.

  “How could he have put us all through so much heartache?” Michael said to Molly. He sounded as if the betrayal by someone he loved so dearly had cut right through him.

  “Ask him,” she urged.

  “I don’t need to ask. It’s the cause,” he said bitterly. “It is always the cause.”

  “Ask him,” she repeated.

  At first she didn’t think he would take her advice. Then, with a sigh, he took a reluctant step toward the uncle he so clearly loved. Catching the belligerent set to his jaw, she called him back. “Michael!”

  He turned.

  “Don’t just ask. Listen to what he has to say.”

  He gave her a faint grin. “Yes, querida, I will listen.”

  In the end, they all listened as Miguel spun his tale of intrigue and international spies. To Molly it was something out of a political thriller, a world that until now had never touched her own. She still wasn’t sure she entirely understood such passion and loyalty for a country left behind so long ago. Perhaps without the experience of exile, she could never fully understand the actions of men like Miguel Garcia and
Orestes León-Paredes.

  “We had to know,” Miguel explained to Michael in Spanish. Pedro sat by Molly’s side and translated for her benefit.

  “If any of us were ever to trust each other again, we had to know if what the Americans said of Gómez-Ortega was true. He and he alone was told by Paredes that I would be launching the first stage of an assault on Sunday. I took my boat to just inside Cuban waters. Any closer to shore and we knew the soldiers would capture it at once and we would never know for certain if they had been tipped by a traitor inside our organization. It was necessary for them to seek out a boat they had been anticipating.”

  “How did you escape, Papá?” one of his sons asked.

  “I dropped anchor, then launched my raft and motored to a pickup point a mile outside Cuban territorial waters. There another boat picked me up and carried me to safety in Key West. For the past few days I have been in hiding there to keep Gómez-Ortega from learning the truth. It was necessary to see how far he would go.”

  He gazed up at Michael, then reached out and clutched his hand. “I am deeply sorry for what happened to you, my son. You were not meant to find the boat, the soldiers were. And when they did, it was meant to blow them up. Instead, you were the one nearly killed. Had anything happened to you, my boy, I could never have forgiven myself.”

  “Are you so sure you would not have called it a noble sacrifice?” Michael demanded angrily.

  “I would have called it a tragedy and the greatest loss of my life,” Miguel replied softly.

  Michael drew in a deep breath, but trusting in his uncle’s love did not come so easily. “Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you let us know you were alive? After the plan had been set in motion, couldn’t you have let us know you were safe?”

  “It was necessary to keep the charade alive, to let Gómez-Ortega think that the attack was soon to be launched. We hoped he would become desperate, as he did. When he tried to kill Paredes in his own home, we knew for certain, then, that it was true. He was a spy for Castro. He was willing to kill for him. We staged the scene in Key West for the benefit of Gómez-Ortega, after alerting American Intelligence agents of what we knew.” He closed his eyes and sighed, then looked at Michael. “And again, you were nearly caught in the crossfire.”

  “Another trap,” Michael said wearily. “When will it end?”

  “When Cuba is free,” Miguel said softly, but emphatically. “Only then.”

  At Miguel’s words, Pedro lifted his glass of wine. “A una Cuba libre!”

  “A una Cuba libre!” the others echoed.

  Michael was the last to lift his glass and repeat the phrase. When he did, his gaze met his uncle’s, and a tender, patient smile touched Miguel’s lips. It was a moment of shared acceptance and of a deep and abiding love, if not of understanding.

  Miguel stood slowly then and held his glass high, his expression a mixture of pride and fierce determination. “Next time in Havana!”