Suspicion of Rage (18 page)

On the top floor Garcia knocked lightly on a door at the end of the hall and pushed it open. A young man not far out of his teens rose from a chair. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but his erect posture and precise movements left no doubt he was military.

Anthony made a quick inventory of the living room: carved mahogany sofa with fringed, red brocade cushions, two chairs with cane seats, a brass floor lamp with a red silk shade. Oriental rug, bamboo screen. Bedroom behind a closed door. An opening to the kitchen. By the window, a wooden table and chairs. A black enameled vase with yellow flowers. Anthony noticed that the walls and ceiling bore no cracks, no water damage. That itself was as odd as the opulent red upholstery.

He detected the faint smell of incense.

Garcia asked him what he wanted to drink. "Whiskey, a beer, coffee?"

"Coffee, thanks."

"And for me."

The aide nodded and went into the kitchen. Garcia crossed to the window and pushed open the shutters, which were painted bright green. He touched one of the chairs, an indication that his guest should sit down. Garcia took the other and crossed his legs. Thin nylon socks left no skin exposed. He put an elbow on the windowsill, settling against the frame as though warming himself in the sun.

"I don't live in this apartment."

"I didn't think you did," Anthony replied.

"Whatever you and I say, you may repeat to Ramiro Vega. He's a good soldier, a loyal comrade. A friend." Garcia's smooth gray brows lifted, something at street level having caught his attention. After a moment he said, "How is your wife enjoying Cuba? Your children?"

"They are sightseeing today. I expect a report later on," Anthony said.

Garcia folded his handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. His forearms were completely hairless. "When I was young I lived in the United States for a year. A large and varied country, no? I worked on farms in the southern states. Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana. There was great poverty and prejudice against the blacks, and myself as well, a foreigner who spoke so little of their language. I drove to Chicago with some friends. My God, the cold from hell. The American workers are naive but good-natured, do you not agree? After the Triumph of the Revolution I returned to Cuba."

His jaw seemed hinged on only one side. His lips barely moved, but his speech was distinct, if slow.

Anthony said, "Why did you ask me here, General?

He pulled his gaze away from the street. "I want to know who you are. Your grandfather, Ernesto Pedrosa, is an old enemy of Cuba. Your father lives here, one of our heroes. Your sister is here. You are a friend of General Vega and yet also a friend of the oppositors such as José Leiva. A puzzle. How do you explain it?"

Again Anthony heard the voices of children.

He said, "I'm not political."

Garcia smiled. "Anyone with a brain is political."

Anthony said, "Yolanda Cabrera is an old friend of mine from Camaguey. She would have been a doctor, but she had the wrong politics. Now she's a nurse in my father's old-age home. Leiva is a writer. He and his wife have a lending library in their house. They aren't enemies of Cuba."

"Do you know that Leiva writes scurrilous articles about me and sells them to newspapers in the United States and other countries?" Garcia laughed, and his hollow cheeks creased into deep folds. "These stories are so false as to be amusing. How could anyone believe them?"

"If that's the case, what is your objection? It looks bad, cracking down on journalists. You'll get the world press up in arms. Even the left might notice."

The smile faded, replaced by a sigh. "Don't call what he does 'journalism.' It's propaganda. José Leiva is supported and directed by the American Interests Section here in Havana. You must know this. The so-called dissidents receive thirty million dollars a year from the United States, through charities and international aid organizations. They hide behind human rights, but what they
want,
Quintana, what they
want,
is to replace the gains of the Revolution with predatory capitalism, the same system that perpetuates inequality in your country."

"Forgive me for saying so, General, but if the regime didn't stop them, hundreds of thousands of your countrymen would head north on anything that would float."

Again the crooked smile. "But you understand the situation. Cuba has been in an invisible war with the greatest power on earth for more than forty years. We are poor and weak. We can't change. It is the United States that must change its policies, beginning with the blockade."

"Ah. Well, on that one point we might agree," Anthony said.

The aide came out of the kitchen with a tray. He set two small cups on the table and a linen napkin beside each of them. Garcia told him he could leave. The young man backed away, pivoted, and went out, closing the door softly behind him.

The general turned the vase and plucked a misshapen petal from one of the flowers. "Quintana, I don't care to argue with you about José Leiva. We have differences, but I believe that you and I want the same thing, a normalization of relations. A prosperous Cuba. A free and independent Cuba. Yes, I want this as much as you do, and I'm looking for friends inside the United States who can help shape that future."

Anthony drank some coffee. He could guess where this was going. He was about to be propositioned.

Garcia brushed the petal off the windowsill. "Vega tells me that you are the heir to Ernesto Pedrosa's wealth and also, perhaps, his influence, but you are not part of the Miami Mafia. I believe this is true. I believe you would help our fatherland if you were given the chance." Garcia used the phrase
nuestra patria
as though already certain where Anthony's loyalties lay.

"Near the end of November, a major under my command went to Brazil with a group of technicians from the Ministry of Basic Industries. His name is Omar Céspedes Ruiz. I hesitated in sending him." The general made a self-effacing smile. "I should have listened to my doubts. Céspedes went over to the Americans. You may guess what agony of remorse I've suffered."

"My sympathies," Anthony said.

Garcia eyed him, then continued, "Last week Céspedes arrived in Washington, where he testified in a secret session of the House Intelligence Committee. Congressman Guillermo Navarro is on the committee. Two days ago Navarro flew to Miami. He was met by a private car and taken immediately to the house of Ernesto Pedrosa in Coral Gables. There was a party at the house that night. I do not know if you were there, but I assume it. The next morning Navarro was on a flight back to Washington, and the same day, yesterday, you arrived here. I conclude that Navarro's trip to Miami was related to yours to Havana. In what way? This I do not know."

With care Anthony set his cup into its saucer. The back of his neck was prickling again. How in hell had Abdel Garcia learned so much? He said, "You've come to the wrong conclusion. Navarro may have had business with my grandfather. If so, he didn't share it with me.

"Yes, yes, you will say that. Let me finish. I trusted Céspedes, but as I look back, his opportunism and his avoidance of sacrifice become clear. I see his lies. He would sell his mother for the right price. He will tell the Americans whatever they want to hear. And the exiles? He will build great castles of lies, and they will believe them. You know this is so. It has happened before. You might say, what has this to do with me? My friend, if Céspedes is lying, it affects us all, this country and the United States."

Garcia paused to blot his mouth. "I would like very much to know what Céspedes said to the committee. And what you intend to do with that information here in Cuba."

"What do
I
intend to do? I've never heard the name Céspedes. I know nothing about this."

Garcia stared back as though waiting for a confession. When none came, he said, "If you don't know what Céspedes said, your grandfather does. He would tell you, I think."

"He and I don't discuss Cuba." Anthony added, "The lie could be yours. You want me to take your accusations about Céspedes back to Miami to throw the Committee into a panic. This is exactly why I stay clear of Cuban politics. It's a swamp of lies."

The general gazed out the window through half-closed eyes. "I would like very much to know what he said."

"You won't get it from me. I will be very clear. If I did know anything, I wouldn't tell you or anyone else in Cuba."

"I understand. You have your principles." He sipped his coffee. "If you asked for money, I could find it, but you're already a wealthy man. What can I offer you? I can promise that when you come here, you will have our hospitality. A furnished apartment. A car and driver, a housekeeper. The most beautiful girls in Havana, if that's your fancy. To come and go as you please. Whatever you want. You can say no, but if you do, this is the last time you will walk on Cuban soil. I spoke to Vega this morning. You can ask him about it. Don't expect him to intercede. He has a good career. He won't risk it for you."

Anthony could feel the heat of anger and confusion building in his chest. He drummed his fingers on the table, then stood up. "Find someone else."

Pausing his cup at his lips, Garcia said, "I don't want your soul, Quintana. I want to know what Céspedes said to the Committee. That is all. I believe you have that information, and I want it. You will do this for Cuba if not for yourself."

"I can't give you what I don't have."
 

"Then find out."

Anthony stepped away from the table. "Don't contact me again."

"What will happen when the story appears in the
Miami Herald?
You have been an agent of ours for years. You have given us information about Ernesto Pedrosa and the militant exile organizations. You have given us the names of American spies in Havana. You have told us about your meeting with Congressman Navarro regarding Omar Céspedes. What will you do when the news is made public? Where will you go? You and your new wife?"

Anthony crossed the room to escape the image of his own hands sending Abdel Garcia through the window.

"José Leiva. Your friend. What about him?"

Anthony turned.

Garcia said, "Leiva is a mercenary of the United States. He's guilty of spreading enemy propaganda. If he goes to prison again, it won't be for four years like last time. What
do you think the prosecutor should ask for? Twenty years? Life? "

The possibilities turned Anthony's words to sand in his throat. Garcia leaned back against the window frame, and the sun flooded across his body, glowing on his white shirt. "I'll give you a day to think about it. Vega knows how to reach me. Don't try to leave Cuba. You won't be allowed on the flight. Any of you."

 

Coming onto the sidewalk Anthony Quintana staggered and put a hand to his eyes. The gloom of the stairs had momentarily robbed him of sight. Gradually the street came into view: pedestrians maneuvering around him, a bicycle taxi, a fifty-year-old Buick picking its way through the potholes. He wanted to leave here, to get back to the Capitol, where he could easily find a taxi.

He turned the way he thought they had come, remembered nothing familiar, and doubled back. Looking up to get a sense of north and south, he noticed a set of green shutters at a window on the top floor of the building. He followed the imaginary trajectory of the general's gaze across the street and into a courtyard, and through the open arch he could see children, bare-chested boys about ten years old, chasing a soccer ball.

 

 

 

 

14

 

 

Expecting to be followed from Chinatown, Anthony swerved into an alley, went through the back door of a restaurant, and merged into the stream of tourists. He mixed with a group of them outside the Partagas cigar factory. He walked with them as far as a souvenir shop, then went inside and bought a ball cap with a Havana Club logo. He found a matching black T-shirt, changed in the store, and tossed the bag with his old shirt into a trash can on the street.

There was a phone kiosk just north of the Capitol. He called Miami.

Using references Hector Mesa would understand, Anthony told him about the meeting with Abdel Garcia and the general's curiosity about what Céspedes may have told the CIA. He had no plans to share anything with Garcia, but he needed to know what was going on.

"I don't like working in the dark, my friend. See what you can find out from the old man."

"I already ask him. I say to myself, well, Señor Anthony is going down there and they want him to do this and that, and maybe it's all a plate of shit, you know how these people are, so I'm going to check it out."

"And?"

"He says it's top, top secret and they didn't tell him anything, but I never seen the old man so happy. Don't worry, I got some ideas. It might take some time. A few days maybe. You want me to come down there?" "Not necessary, but thanks."

"Listen, you should get a cell phone. They got them for tourists, you know? I give you a number in Havana to call if you need to go someplace quick."

Anthony had to laugh. "You're amazing. Wait, I have a pen. All right, what is it?" He wrote the number on the back of a business card.

"Listen," Hector said. "What about that guy? The American. You going to ask him about all this stuff?"

"I already did. We're meeting in an hour."

"I can come down. It's no trouble."

Anthony told him, "No stay there, but if things change, I'll call you."

 

He calmed his nerves with a Scotch on the rocks at a bar near the
Plaza de la Catedral,
Sitting in a back corner, he could look through the window at the tourists aiming their viewfinders at the church, at the
mulatas
in bright scarves and long skirts, at the toothless old men playing their guitars, music straight out of Buena Vista, the whole scene right off a postcard. It occurred to him that he might see his family walking across the square, his sister impatiently beckoning everyone to hurry up.

He stared at each cobblestone and mildewed column, the iron rings on the cathedral doors, the bright blue trim on the balconies across the plaza. When would he see them again? Ever? He dragged them into his heart through his eyes and ordered another drink.