“No, no. Of course not. But obviously I’m in no position to schedule an interview with him. Now, please, leave us alone.”
Jack heard a retching noise in the background, which only confirmed that Mrs. Pintado wasn’t making up stories. “Is that him?” asked Jack.
“Yes, yes. I told you he was sick. I have to go.”
“I understand. Take care of your grandson.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
“Good night.” Jack hung up. He was concerned about Brian’s illness, but a sardonic smile slipped across his lips. He’d seen photographs of the boy, and Lindsey had told him a little bit about him. But this was the first time Jack had ever heard him. And he was puking his guts out.
Kids. Gotta love ’em.
Then he thought about going home to no one, and suddenly schlepping towels and buckets and making late-night runs to the emergency room didn’t sound quite so bad.
He cleaned up the empty food cartons, then went to his desk to check his mail. It took him an hour to get to the bottom of the inbox. He had other cases, but none seemed quite as important as this one. This evening, however, he didn’t have another late night in him. He packed up his briefcase, switched off the lights, and locked up the office.
The main lobby was locked, so he left the building through the nighttime exit. His car was parked in the garage across the street. He walked up the ramp to level Red 2. The parking garage catered to a working crowd, so most of the cars had gone already. The lighting was dim, several bulbs burned out. The lonely click of his heels echoed off walls of unfinished concrete. As he reached for his keys, he heard footsteps behind him, but he had no time to react.
“Don’t turn around,” the man said.
Jack froze. He started to put his hands in the air, but the man’s gruff voice stopped him. “Don’t make a move. Don’t do anything.”
“What do you want?” said Jack.
“I’m not a robber. I’m not going to hurt you. I work for the government of Cuba.”
A Cuban operative in Miami? Pretty good reason not to let anyone see your face. “What’s this about?”
“Coronel Jiménez sent me. I have a message for you.”
It took an extra moment for Jack to process that thought. It almost seemed too bizarre, but if the guy knew about Colonel Jiménez, he had to be for real. “Tell me.”
“He wants you to know that he has something for you. He says you’ll be pleased.”
“Fine. How does Colonel Jiménez intend to get this ‘whatever it is’ to me?”
“He doesn’t. If you want it, you come to Cuba and get it.”
“When?”
“Your plane leaves tonight for Cancun. From there you fly to Havana.”
Jack scoffed. “You expect me to get on a plane and fly illegally to Cuba just because some guy who claims to work for the Cuban government tells me to?”
“It’s your choice. If you go, it’s your client who benefits. If you don’t go, it’s your relatives back in Cuba who suffer.”
Jack felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. “How do you know I even have relatives in Cuba?”
“Your father was the governor of Florida. We have a long file on you, Mr. Swyteck.”
Jack didn’t want to play into his hands, but his curiosity was getting the best of him. Could this man possibly know about his half sibling? Or was he talking about second and third cousins twice removed? “Exactly what relatives are you talking about?”
“Get on the plane, and Colonel Jiménez will be glad to tell you. Or don’t get on the plane, and live with the knowledge that every last one of your relatives in Cuba will be treated as gusanos.”
Gusanos. Worms. It was the label Castro used for the “traitors” who fled to Miami or otherwise betrayed the government. The backlash was never pretty. Food rations were cut. Employment was impossible. Their own neighbors might spit on them in the street.
Jack swallowed hard, but if this man had planned to hurt him, Jack would have been facedown on the pavement by now. There was a big potential upside in going. Having just visited Cuba and seen its hardships-and with the possibility of a half sibling living there-the downside of not going was too much to bear.
“All right,” said Jack. “I’ll go.”
“I’ll leave your plane tickets on the ground behind you. Count to twenty, then turn around and pick them up. I’ll be long gone. You understand?”
Not even remotely. “Sure,” he said, his head spinning, “I understand perfectly.”
26
Morning came quickly. Jack was dressed and ready to go when he answered the knock at the cottage door.
“Coronel Jiménez will see you now,” said the man, standing in the open doorway.
Jack checked his watch. A driver had met him at the airport the previous night and told him to be ready at eight o’clock. It was closer to nine now, but Jack had lived in Miami long enough to know all about Cuban time.
“Right on schedule,” said Jack.
Jack wasn’t sure of his exact location, except that he knew he was in Havana and that this wasn’t a hotel. His driver had taken him to a relatively quiet neighborhood in the Vedado section, west of central Havana, and Jack spent the night in a one-room cottage behind a main house. His room had no television, no radio, and no telephone. He’d had no time to pack before leaving Miami, just time enough to grab his passport and go. But the cottage came with a toiletry kit and a clean pair of socks and underwear, compliments of the Cuban government. He assumed he was staying in another casa particular, undoubtedly owned by someone loyal to the regime. He’d conducted himself under the assumption that he was under constant surveillance, which basically meant that he went to the bathroom in the dark.
His escort this morning was dressed in the civilian clothes of a house servant. He led Jack down a cobblestone walkway to the main house. It was an old neoclassical mansion, not so grand in design as old Havana’s decaying three-story gems, but undoubtedly one of the many prerevolution homes that had been taken from Havana’s wealthy, its owner either shot dead on the front steps or sent fleeing to Miami-perhaps someone Jack had even met. The grounds were small but well maintained. Tiny pink and purple flowers gathered like butterflies on the tangled vines of bougainvillea, and tall hibiscus hedges bore larger blossoms of bright red and yellow. The walkway led to a central courtyard, a traditional nineteenth-century layout where all rooms exited to the outdoors. Some windows still had original stained glass, which was not only beautiful but helped to filter the punishing tropical sun. It had been well after midnight when Jack arrived from Havana airport, so he hadn’t noticed how charming the place was. He also hadn’t noticed the armed soldiers posted at each corner of the walled-in property.
“Who lives here?” Jack asked in Spanish.
“Coronel Jiménez, of course.”
A guest of the colonel, himself. Communism suited him well, Jack thought.
Jack followed the man along a covered walkway, then upstairs to the second floor. At the end of the hall was a pair of massive wooden doors, each one carved elaborately and adorned with large brass knockers. The grand entrance seemed to trumpet the fact that someone important was waiting inside, an impression that was reinforced by the armed soldiers standing like pillars on either side of the doorway. Without a word, and with all the personality of the Queen’s Guard at Buckingham Palace, the soldier on the left turned, knocked, and announced Jack’s arrival.
“Send him in,” came the reply. Jack recognized the voice as the colonel’s.
The soldier opened the door and escorted Jack into a spacious, dark-paneled library. With a click of his heels the soldier retreated, leaving Jack alone with the colonel, who rose, smiled pleasantly, and offered Jack a seat. The colonel seemed to have learned from their previous meeting that Jack had no interest in shaking his hand.
“Café?” asked the colonel.
“No, gracias.”
The colonel shifted to English, which was exactly what most Spanish speakers did as soon as they heard Jack massacre their language.