“My father had theories and personal stories,” Paul said. “They weren’t backed by any evidence, but if true they filled in some dirty little pieces of history. You can only invade an island, poison cigars, hire homicidal mistresses, and plant contagious scuba gear for so long before the opposition hits you back.”
“True enough,” Alex said.
“Castro hated my father personally,” Paul said. “Maybe no more than any other North American gangster, but I had the idea it may have been over a woman. Maybe even my mother. Who knows now? Everyone’s dead. My father once told me, ‘Castro’s got a man named Julio Garcia who’s been assigned to kill me.’ “
Paul paused, admired the skyline, took in some air, and then continued. “We lived under the shadow of that for a long time. Garcia lived in Dallas and New Orleans in the 1960s. He took care of a lot of Castro’s dirty work in the U.S. He knew Lee Harvey Oswald personally. Also knew Che and E. Howard Hunt. That’s what my father used to tell me. What do you make of that?”
“Intriguing,” she said.
“Later on, after my father was murdered, there was some underworld scuttlebutt. Garcia had gone back to Cuba. Castro gave him some sort of medal. Top stuff, was what I heard. Hero of the revolution and all that.”
“But what direction does that go in?” Alex asked. “Does that mean that you went to Cuba to capture Garcia? Or kill him, like Major Mejias says?”
“I went there to kill him,” Guarneri said. “Honest to God. I wanted to kill the man who took my father from me, even so late in life. Whether I could have looked him in the eye and done it was another question. So, when we were set to travel, your friends in Langley approached me. They said they had a man they were ‘turning.’ A sniper who had worked for them in the past. They were bringing him to Cuba, and he was going to take care of one assignment, so why not have him take care of another?”
“Then what was your part?” Alex asked.
“I just had to be the spotter,” Paul said. “My team of diggers, the fellows you met in the cemetery, knew Garcia and led me to him the second night. I fingered him for Perez. Perez went in and finished the job and I paid my diggers handsomely.”
“Thirty-eight years after the fact,” she said.
“Better late than never,” he said. Then he looked troubled. “You know, I’ve been thinking about it long and hard since then, and I still can’t decide whether I’m glad I didn’t pull the trigger or sorry that I didn’t.” He pondered. “Instead of my hands being dirty, I suppose they’re only slightly soiled.”
Paul slouched slightly, but strolled with a carefree air, as if some great burden had been lifted. He was remarkably calm and at ease.
“Oh, I think your hands are a little dirtier than that,” she said. “You eliminated an old enemy, maybe your last enemy on the island. I can’t tell whether it was a gangland hit or a political payback or something with elements of both.”
“The world is gray like that, isn’t it?” he asked.
“You also laid a solid groundwork for your own future in Cuba. After the thaw. In those inevitable first years when democracy creeps back in and corruption and criminal organizations come with it. You’ve already got your own boys on the street, don’t you?”
“If and when,” he said. “If and when. But of course, it would be ninety miles offshore. So why should you care? It’s not your jurisdiction.”
Alex processed all this. But Paul wasn’t finished. “A good businessman needs to be prepared,” he said. “Fidel Castro will be dead before the American presidential election of 2016, maybe before the one of 2012, if we’re lucky. That’s what everyone on the island was telling me. How’s that for a ‘feel good’ moment, Alex?”
“I need to be getting over to Manhattan, Paul,” she said. “I’ve got to be back at my desk tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“Yes. It’s overdue actually,” she said. “Senora Dosi is still out there somewhere, and I owe her some attention. So I need to find a taxi.”
“The subway’s on Clark Street; it takes you straight to Wall Street. If you live in New York now, you should know that.”
“What else should I know?” she asked.
“You should know about a Tuscan restaurant in Greenwich Village called Vincente’s,” he said. “It’s on Greenwich Avenue near Tenth. I know the owner. He’s a connected guy like most of my friends. How about Saturday night? I can pick you up at seven. Car and driver. Then maybe some dancing afterward at some unlicensed dive in the Bowery with techno stuff, type of place where you can’t hear yourself think.”
“Are you insane?”
“No. I’m goofing around. Dinner’s the real invitation, but I know some jazz clubs in SoHo you might like. What do you think?”
“Paul? May I share a secret with you?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“After our trip to Cuba, and after the many, various, ingenious, and imaginative ways you lied to me, including the fact that a murder was on your agenda …”
“Yeah …?” he laughed.
“I wouldn’t touch you socially with a ten-foot pole.”
Guarneri scoffed. “Garcia was a bad man. He got what he deserved.”
“Everyone does eventually. And you will too. Good-bye, Paul,” she said.
Alex took a step to move away. His hand found her wrist. He held her firmly and stopped her.
“Good-bye?” he asked. “Don’t be too sure.”
She pulled her arm free and walked away. She ignored two taxis and went to the subway instead.
On the veranda of her beachfront property in North Africa, Senora Dosi steepled her fingers and stared at the Mediterranean. She had taken stock. She had assessed her legal problems in various countries and taken inventory of the vast wealth that she had stashed in various banks around the world, in Argentina, the Cayman Islands, Costa Rica, and the Dominican Republic – not to mention Panama and Israel, where she had citizenship.
There was a newspaper next to her, the International Herald Tribune. She picked it up and worked on the English-language crossword puzzle for several minutes. It was the Friday one, more difficult than most. She finished it quickly.
A pleasant breeze swept the porch. Her husband came to the sitting area and slid into a seat next to her.
Senora Dosi set the newspaper aside but kept the pen in her hand. It was a silver pen from a well-known jeweler in New York. She looked at Alex’s name engraved on it and smiled.