those Tequestas. Soto would probably consider the Spaniards to have been plundering colonialists. And, of course, he would be right.

In the afternoon, Lourdes talked to her father, who stood sullenly on the bridge. When I tried to join them, a crewman waved a military. 45 under my nose and gave me the impression I wasn’t wanted near the controls. Through the glass, I watched Lourdes argue with her father, gesturing with both hands. He listened grimly, shaking his head, occasionally saying something I could not hear. Then he turned his back to her and spoke to the captain. She flung her arms in the air one last time, then rejoined me on the deck.

“I guess you didn’t convince him to give up his ideals and join the Hialeah Rotary,” I said.

“This isn’t funny. I pleaded for your life and his.”

“What did he say?”

“That his life wasn’t worth saving.” She looked away. “He asked if I loved you.”

“To which you responded…”

“I told him no…”

Until now, I had always appreciated candor in a woman.

“… But that I liked you, that you were a good man who was not his enemy. He said you are meaningless as an individual but important as a symbol.”

I watched a wad of sea grapes and other flotsam ride the midget waves into the hull of the freighter. I watched the water change color from bright turquoise to deep indigo as the depth changed along our route. I watched three dolphins jump in unison off the starboard side where motor yachts and oil tankers crisscrossed the Straits.

I allowed myself some heroic imaginings. If life were a B-movie, I would break a mirror and, holding it to the sun, bounce messages to a Coast Guard cutter just waiting to rescue a few billion dollars in art and a halfway honest lawyer. But I didn’t know Morse code. Or I would dive off the side and swim to shore. Maybe two or three miles, nothing to it, except a couple of jellyfish stings. But my protectors would gun me down before I hit the water. Or I could overpower Soto and hold him hostage. But he would order his crew to blow us all up. That’s what he was going to do anyway, right? But what about Lourdes? Wouldn’t he want to save her? Maybe, but what had Soto said? Individual lives are meaningless.

“Jake, I’m sorry. I really am.”

Maybe it was the wind, but Lourdes had tears in her eyes. “It’s not your fault,” I told her.

“Not just about this. About ever getting involved with Yagamata and Foley. I did things…”

She let it hang there. So I helped her out. “You did what your father asked you to do.”

“Yes, he had this planned all along, I’m sure, that somehow he would help Fidel. So Papi asked me to provide him with information while I worked for Yagamata. And when the operation was threatened, when it appeared we would be stopped inside Russia…”

Again she couldn’t continue. Just like her father, she puzzled me with her riddles, the words unsaid. Sometimes the best way to get a reluctant witness to talk is to ask a pointed question. But often, it’s best to just remain quiet. Let the silence invite an answer to the unspoken question.

“I had to help,” she said. “I was there when it unraveled. I knew he would ruin everything unless he was stopped, and when…”

Who was he? She didn’t say.

Unless he was stopped. Okay, let’s count the bodies, going backward.

One potato. Kharchenko, of course, but Foley did that.

Two potato. Eva-Lisa, who wasn’t a he.

Three potato. Crespo, dispatched by Kharchenko.

Four. Vladimir Smorodinsky.

… He would ruin everything unless he was stopped, and when…

I grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her close, and looked her hard in the eyes. “The reason you offered to help me in the Crespo case was to make sure I wouldn’t get too close to the truth-”

She turned her head away.

“-And to report to Yagamata if I got too smart. Of course, if I did, you could always run me down with a forklift.” I took a deep breath. “Just like you did to Vladimir Smorodinsky, who would ruin everything unless he was stopped.”

As I spoke, I pictured it. Lourdes and Yagamata watched from the offices overhead as Crespo lay unconscious on the floor of the warehouse and Smorodinsky, battered and woozy, headed for the exit. Lourdes raced down the stairs, hopped onto a forklift, and chased Smorodinsky down, spearing him like a fat olive on a toothpick. Oh, she can handle that forklift, all right. She could have killed me if she had wanted to. But she didn’t. It was her father who would have that honor.

“You and Yagamata cooked up those phony affidavits,” I said, “not to save Crespo, but to keep him quiet, to protect you. When it didn’t work because I wouldn’t use fabricated evidence, and when Crespo looked like he would crack, you had him killed.’’

She began sobbing. “Not me, Jake. Yagamata ordered Kharchenko to do it. You must believe me. Yagamata did it for the money and his obsession with the art. Kharchenko did it for his politics. I only followed orders. To me, it was just a job.’’

She collapsed in my arms, seeking comfort and forgiveness. Still holding her shoulders, I gave her a shove. She landed on her bottom, looking up at me with disbelief. “That only makes it worse,’’ I said.

27

THE LITTLE ENGINE THAT COULD

The freighter stayed wide of Fowey Rocks and came up along Key Biscayne. I caught sight of the lighthouse at Cape Florida just as the sun was setting. Music blared from the outdoor bandshell at the marine stadium, and a score of boats skimmed across the bay and into the open water. By the time we crossed Government Cut between Fisher Island and the southern tip of Miami Beach, it was dark, and the water was crowded with boats angling for good views of the fireworks. Offshore, half a dozen freighters and a cruise ship lined up, waiting for tugs to take them into port in the morning.

The two crewmen with sidearms had been my shadows for the past three hours. One stayed on each side of me wherever I went, except to the head, where one went in, and the other stayed outside the door.

“Want to hold it for me?” I asked the one who ventured inside.

“ No comprendo.”

“You guys flip a coin, and you won, is that it, Jose?”

“ Mi nombre no es Jose.”

I returned to the deck, and the two crewmen followed. I can understand a little Spanish if it’s spoken slowly. From the guy who wasn’t Jose and his friend who was Xavier, I learned that tomorrow’s edition of Granma, the Party newspaper named after Fidel’s boat, would carry the story of our heroic act, including the names of all the martyred crew members. Mine, too, I guess. My footnote in history. So these bozos were trading their lives for a half-inch of newsprint.

“I want to reason with you two,” I said to Xavier. “This is pointless. Ridiculous. Estupido! ”

They exchanged looks and shrugged. I heard footsteps on metal stairs. In a moment, Lourdes appeared and walked quickly to me. On the deck, crewmen were preparing her lifeboat. The gray haze of dusk was backlit by a fiery pink glow to the west as the sun dipped into the Everglades.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I know what you think of me, Jake. Believe me, I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Now let me help you.” When I didn’t say a word, she lowered her voice even more. “I’ll be the only one in the boat. You could jump over…”

“What about Yagamata?”

“He knows all hell will break loose and doesn’t want to answer questions on shore. His helicopter will be back for him. He’s headed straight to the Bahamas. He has arrangements to return to Japan.”

Вы читаете False Dawn
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату