out for myself.”
“And who told you such a thing might occur?” Castilo asked.
Jonas held up a finger. “I’m afraid that I cannot reveal my sources. However, they were acquaintances of Mr. Pierre Lalond, late of Florida, before his unfortunate departure for less pleasant climes.”
“Oh? And if I were to mention the name Sahak Sohan, it wouldn’t be unfamiliar to you?” Castilo asked, mentioning another prominent arms dealer.
“It is difficult to do anything in certain circles without hearing about him. He is one of the best at his profession, of course.”
Castilo exchanged glances with his bodyguard. “You claim to be a businessman, yet I see something else. You know what happened to Pierre, and I think you’ve come to Miami to take advantage of the vacuum he has left behind.”
“I’ve always said that good business is where you find it.
In this case, it seems that Miami—and perhaps places farther south—would be very good for business, indeed.”
Castilo fixed Jonas with a sharp stare, as if trying to see through him. For his part, Jonas tried to look as relaxed as possible. He had played out his line, baited the hook with just enough suggestion; now all that remained was to see if Castilo was hooked.
“Let’s say that I knew someone who had need of your
“To paraphrase Sahak, everything in this business is done either through a middleman or a government. I don’t think this kind of operation would be sanctioned by any government. Therefore, a private organization is handling it. And, while I know many, there are just as many that I don’t know, and therefore require an introduction from someone that both sides trust.”
Castilo chuckled. “Oh, so you trust me already, do you?”
He nodded toward his bodyguard. “Let’s not forget who was recently holding the pistol.”
“Would you really have ordered me killed, in your car, after dozens of witnesses saw us talking in the restaurant together? Excuse my directness, but I don’t believe I was ever in any danger.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. I have resources here, and your disappearance could be attributed to any number of possibilities.”
Before Jonas could answer, his cell phone rang. He opened his suit jacket to reveal no weapon. “With your permission?”
Castilo waved a hand. Jonas opened his tiny phone. “Yes?
Yes, my dear, we’re just finishing our conversation.… I’ve been enjoying a very good cigar with Mr. Castilo.… Of course, I’ll be out in just a moment.… Yes, please bring the Porsche around.” He snapped the phone closed and held it up. “She does love the toys. So, would you be eliminating my companion, as well?”
“It would be a shame for that to happen to one as lovely as she.” Castilo smiled and tilted his head to one side, as if considering. “Very well, for her sake.”
“Maybe I’ll let her know that she saved me from a fate worse than death,” Jonas said as he reached for the door handle.
Castilo frowned. “I thought we weren’t finished with our conversation.”
“Mr. Castilo, I have presented as much to you as I am willing to at this time. Now it is up to you to decide what you wish to do with this information, whether it can help you, or whether you decide to ignore it, in which case may I say this afternoon has been a pleasure.” He started to get out of the car, but paused as if considering something. “Do whatever checking you need to do into my transactions. I’m sure you will find plenty of people willing to recommend my services.” He extended a business card. “My cell number, should you change your mind. Perhaps we can have drinks on my yacht and discuss this further. My man makes a killer Stinger.”
Jonas stared into Castilo’s eyes as he spoke, and was rewarded by a raised eyebrow. “And if I had some very thirsty friends?” the Cuban asked.
“Oh, he could make at least fifty if necessary, ten pitchers’ worth.”
Castilo nodded as he digested this new information, and Jonas knew he had him. “As I said, give it some thought. I’m in town for the next week. Enjoy your afternoon, gentlemen.”
Jonas left the car and strolled to the purring, sleek, silver Porsche 911 Turbo. He felt Costilo’s stare on his back as he walked to the passenger side and got in, relaxing in the air-conditioned interior.
“Enjoy your cigar?” Karen asked as they pulled away.
Jonas carefully tapped it out in the ashtray. “It would be a shame to waste such a fine Cohiba. But yes, I think we’re in. All I have to do now is wait for his call.” He turned to look at her through his Dior sunglasses. “How would you feel about a little ocean cruise tomorrow?”
Damason maneuvered his Lada into the cramped parking lot of the temporary headquarters his army unit was sharing with the police while they were working together. His head buzzed with what he had just seen—the protest in the plaza and the government’s typically heavy-handed response. But what excited him even more was what was safely stowed in a place that only he knew about. The Dragunov.
That, more than anything, was proof that what he was involved in was real, that the plan was actually happening.
Until now, it had seemed to be the airy dreams of people living far away, in the United States, who, try as they might, could not truly affect what was happening in Cuba. But when he had held that solid weapon in his hands, the reality had sunk in. The architects of the operation to free Cuba had the ability to smuggle this weapon into the country and guide him to it. That was power. And with that power behind him, Damason could take that next crucial step toward freeing his homeland. A step closer to making sure that no matter what his people had to say about their government, they could say it freely, without fear of reprisal.
Not like that afternoon, where he had been forced to escort his commander away from the plaza, leaving the protesters to suffer under the clenched fists and heavy boots of the progovernment men. Damason had brought up the idea of having the army oversee demonstrations as a way to keep the peace once, but it had been shot down immediately. His superiors said those who weren’t happy with the way things were got what they deserved. Damason hadn’t been surprised at this callous attitude. He had always known that his commanding officers used the system to get whatever they wanted.
He walked into the stifling building to find Garcia inside the door, greeting him with a crisp salute. “Sir, the women have been transported to a safehouse and the efforts to re-unite them with their families are ongoing. Several have already been put in contact with their various embassies.”
“Excellent. How is the peacock taking this?”
“If anger was gunpowder, there would only be a smoking crater where Sergeant Lopez-Famosa y Fernandez stands right now.”
“I cannot say I am disappointed that he will not get to take his usual gratuity for rescuing those women.”
“Also, Colonel Hermosa is in your office, and has requested that you be brought to him immediately regarding a matter of utmost importance.”
Damason didn’t check his stride, but frowned at Garcia.
“Unusual.” Normally Hermosa couldn’t be pried out of his office chair, preferring to give orders by telephone from the comfort of his plush office near the plaza. “He gave no indication as to what it was regarding?”
“No, sir.”
Damason halted at his office door. “Well, I’ll find out soon enough. Dismissed, Sergeant.” He paused, gathering his thoughts and reassuming the guise of a loyal Communist revolutionary before knocking on the door.
“Enter.”
Damason opened the door and beheld Colonel Alejandro Armenteros y Hermosa coming dangerously close to pul-verizing his wooden chair. His sweating, corpulent body was stuffed into his tailored uniform, making him look like a beach ball swathed in olive green that had sprouted flabby arms and legs and was topped by a florid, pudgy face.
“Ah, Major, come in, come in. Please, close the door.”
Damason did, although already he could hardly stand the odor in the room. He knew even if he aired it for the rest of the day, it would still smell. Swallowing, he came to attention and saluted, his hand faltering a little as he realized that the leg of his desk was askew, leaning to one side, as if it was about to come off. The fat pig must
