“Shoot.”
“What if we have to alter the date of exit?”
“Ha! Please don’t. It’s hell to bribe a gap in Cuban radar.” He paused. “But if you do …” He pulled out his own cell phone. “Dial 7734 on the phone you will have. It will connect with me. Keep the call under one minute and call close to the hour on the hour. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“What else?”
“What’s the backup if I lose the phone?” she asked.
“There isn’t one. Don’t lose it.”
“What sort of dead drops are we talking about?” Alex asked.
“One of them is a brick wall,” Fajardie said. “Another’s in a church. Iglesia de San Lazaro. That’s the first place you should try. Go in, enter two rows to the left, sit down, and search under the pew. There’s another one in a cemetery. You’ll see it all in your notes, plus the map,” he said. “Memorize everything because you shouldn’t bring the notes onto the island.”
“What’s in it for you?” she asked. “For the CIA?”
“We’re getting back a defector and turning him over to the Justice Department.”
“I know that part, but what’s in it for you?” she asked again.
“It doesn’t make sense. Violette comes back to spend the rest of his life in prison. He’s cut a deal somewhere with you, I’d guess.”
“He’ll be carrying a small suitcase,” Sloane said. “He’s managed to rifle some Cuban intelligence documents. Mostly political stuff. Shore defenses. Whatever. The deal is that we get him and his booty back to the U.S.; then we assess what value it has. If it has good value, he may serve less than five years and die a free man.”
“With senile dementia?”
“All the more reason to get him back now,” Fajardie said, “before he goes popping off to the wrong audience, if you know what I mean, and sells his bag of goodies somewhere else. At least if we have a collar on him, we can control him.”
“He’s cut a deal with you?” she asked. “Or someone has on his behalf?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Because I’m going to Cuba and have to sit down with him.”
“A deal exists in principle,” Fajardie said. “He’s got one of the red lawyers from New York, one from the Brandeis/New School/Columbia axis of Maoist legal training, all right? Does that keep you happy?”
“Almost,” she said.
“Look. He wants to come back, Alex,” Fajardie said, his voice rising a notch in irritation, “and we’re willing to take him. That’s all. We’re even arranging free pickup and delivery, rather generous, I would submit. What more could he want after the acts of villainy he’s committed against this country?”
He settled down.
“So he can enjoy his old age and retirement in America,” Meachum said.
“Like all the agents whom he caused to be slaughtered could never do,” Fajardie added. “Further questions?”
“None for now, other than whether I should read your notes now while you’re still here or look at them tonight.”
“Suit yourself,” he said.
She thought about it for a moment, then opened his packet. She read them and followed. “Okay,” she said. “One final question. What’s the Mayday scenario. What do I do in the case of complete disaster?”
“Complete disaster,” Fajardie said, “is if you get arrested. And then there won’t be an awful lot we can do for several months, if then.”
“What if it’s disaster and I’m still at liberty?” she asked.
“Remember the Swiss lady I just mentioned? Elke? Go to the Swiss Consulate. Not the embassy, but the Consulate. It’s in Miramar, which is the upscale section of Havana where the embassies are. Ask to see Elke Bruhn. She’s a political officer there. Use your Anna Tavares identification. Elke will take it from there.” He paused. “Keep in mind, also, that if you’re badly blown on an operation, that Cuban authorities – police, army, civil guard – will be looking for you in exactly that area. So be forewarned and be careful. Whatever you do, stay out of custody. They’ve got some military stockades in Camaguey and Santa Clara that are human roach motels. You go in, but you never come out. It’s where they stash their toughest prisoners and most valuable captives.”
“Okay,” she said at length. There was an uneasy pause. “Is that it?” she asked.
“That’s it,” he said. “Buen viaje. See you in a week. We hope.”
The room was cold and gray, with concrete walls and soundproofed. Manuel Perez was strapped to a steel chair in the middle of the room, his clothes filthy, his shirt soaked with sweat, red welts and gouges across his temple.
The first interrogator, the taller, younger, and leaner of the two men surrounding him, reached for the end of the duct tape across the lower part of Perez’s face. He yanked it off with a sharp ripping sound. Perez responded by gasping for air, then with a torrent of obscenities in Spanish. Then the interrogator yanked a second tape off Perez’s eyes, taking blotches of the prisoner’s eyebrows with it.
“Buenos Dias, Senor Perez,” the interrogator said. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Who are you?” Perez demanded.
“It doesn’t matter, Manuel,” said the interrogator. “You’re our prisoner.”
The hostage continued in Spanish. “Americans? Police?” Perez asked.
The two men laughed quietly. There was one stream of light in the room, and it came from directly above Perez. “What do you want?” he asked. “An admission? You get no such thing. I know American law. I want to see a lawyer.”
“Manuel,” the second man began. “We don’t obey the law, and we’re not in America. We wish to put you to work. We are going to put a proposition to you, and you will have to decide what you wish to do. Either we will pass you along for imprisonment – or possibly even execution – or we will restore you to your liberty in your beautiful home in Mexico. The choice will be yours.”
A profound silence overcame Perez. He sat motionless, like a massive rock. His eyes followed his interrogators.
“It is true that the American police would like to discuss matters with you,” the first man said. “They were a few hours behind us, ready to smash into your hotel room and put handcuffs on you. If that had happened, you would have appeared before a judge by now, and your picture would be all over American television. Then you would have had a long prison sentence.”
There was a pause and Perez still held his silence.
“You’re not going to deny that you were the sniper on West 61st Street the other night, are you, Manuel?”
Perez tried to move his ankles. He couldn’t. They were attached to the chair by straps. His arms, he was now aware, were attached to the arms of the chair in the same way. He glanced to the floor. The front of his chair was bolted to the floor. He assumed the back of the chair was also. Still, he didn’t speak.
“Do you remember Suarez, the Venezuelan? Gattino, the Italian? Brave men whom you served with when you were young. Do you know why you never see them or hear of them now? They were turned over to the filthy Islamics in the Middle East, whom they fired shots against. So naturally, they will never be seen or heard from again.”
Finally, Perez spoke. “What is it you want me to do?”
“Be a sniper. Perform an execution,” the first man said.
“The woman is either in hiding or has protection,” Perez answered.
The first man smiled. “Oh, she is in Cuba,” he said. “She is vulnerable and you will see her again. We will take you to Cuba. So why don’t we discuss the details, what we need you to do so that we can send you home again.”
Perez looked back and forth at them.
“How do I know I can believe you?” Perez asked.
“We keep our word,” the second questioner said. “And we’ll prove it.”
“How?” asked Perez.
“We have your wife and your daughters in protective custody,” he said. “And your bodyguard, Antonio, we have him too, in a different location.”
Perez’s eyes went wide, but he controlled his rage.
“We will let you speak with them,” he said. “After you have spoken and agreed to finish this assignment for us, we will escort them home to your villa. We will allow you to speak to them again tomorrow. Then, once you complete your mission in Cuba, we will put you on a plane to Mexico City. And that will be that.”
The first interrogator undid the strap that had held Perez’s right arm. He handed him a cell phone. “Phone your wife, Manuel. She has been waiting with her cell phone for two days. She expects your call any minute. You can tell her that you will be home soon, or you can tell her that she will never see you again.”
“The choice,” the second man said, “is yours.” As he spoke, he fiddled with a silver pen in his hands. It had Alex LaDuca’s name engraved upon it. “Make the call and choose wisely,” he said.
Alex flew to Miami International Airport the next day, still accompanied by MacPhail and Ramirez. They were met at the airport by Special Agent Frank Cordero and Special Agent Linda Rosen from the local office. They would serve as her new driver and bodyguard. With embraces, Alex thanked MacPhail and Ramirez, who had now completed their assignment. They turned around and headed to their flight back to D.C.
Cordero led her to a black Lincoln Navigator. Alex carried a small duffel with her personal effects. They were minimal.
The SUV was soon on the expressway that led to downtown Miami. Agent Cordero drove. He said little. Agent Linda Rosen sat in the backseat and was friendlier. She made some small talk about her dog and how the two of them, Frank and she, would be with Alex for the next day. “Pretty much till you hit the water for Cuba,” she said.
“Water?” Alex asked, surprised they knew so much about her plans.
“It always starts with water, continues in the air, then ends on a beach. No matter which way you go.”
“You send people in and out of Cuba frequently?” Alex asked.
“If it happened any more frequently, they could print a schedule.”
Breaking his silence, Frank in the front seat laughed. But not for long.
Outside the Navigator, ninety humid degrees gripped Miami. Even the beaten-up cars on the expressway had air conditioning. Mere survival.
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.
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.”
