“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.”
THIRTY-FIVE
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.
THIRTY-SIX
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.