Hostage in Havana

one conceals an identity the more one reveals it.”

“And what does ‘Figaro’ tell you?”

“Well, what are the associations? The original Figaro was a character in a pair of eighteenth-century French plays, who then became a character in an opera by Mozart and an opera by Rossini. Figaro was a barber – the “barber of Seville” – who was a subversive against the ruling class. If a Cuban took the name, it suggests an unusual affinity for European culture. Unless, of course, it means nothing.”

“The Figaro issue began about two years ago. There was some sort of flap involving a Spanish passport,” Fajardie said. “I saw that part of the file. Not my department, and I’m not the case officer. I’m your case officer but not Figaro’s. I don’t suppose that connects to anything, does it, the Spanish passport?”

“It might,” Alex said.

“How?”

“I spent some time in Madrid last year. I suspect you’re referring to one of the provisions of Le Ley de Memoria Historica. Several thousand Spaniards fled Spain during the 1936 – 39 Civil War, as well as during the Franco regime, and settled in Cuba. Only a handful are still alive. But they, their children, and grandchildren now hold legal rights to Spanish citizenship. It’s part of the reconciliation process put forth by the current Spanish government. Seville, by the way, is in Spain, so there’s a subtle subtext with your Figaro. He’s not the Tailor of Saville Row in London; he’s the barber in Spain.”

She looked at Fajardie and wasn’t sure if she was connecting.

“So you think he’s a barber?” he asked.

“It’s always possible, but how would an ordinary barber have access to anything important? More likely he has an affinity for opera. Or Spain.”

“Could be,” said Fajardie.

“Before we overthink the point,” she added, “I’ll also point out that Figaro was a kitten in Pinocchio, and it’s also a chain of pizza joints in Los Angeles. So I’m as wary of overthinking as you are, okay?”

“I’m told Figaro was supposed to get a Spanish passport but didn’t,” Fajardie said, expanding. “That’s unofficial.”

“If a Cuban got Spanish citizenship and a Spanish passport, he – or she – could leave immediately,” Alex said. “Sounds like the Cuban government prevented this individual from getting a passport and exiting.”

“Only one reason they’d do that,” Fajardie said.

“Sure,” Alex said. “If he worked for the government or in defense or in anything sensitive, the government wouldn’t want him to leave.”

“That jibes with the scuttlebutt. He wanted to vamoose and they wouldn’t let him. The they in my sentence is the Castro government. And they’d have to be watching him pretty closely. So he had to be waiting for the perfect moment to slip his leash. He’s probably looking for someone from our side to contact him. He wants to find us. That’s where you come in. If he makes the wrong move at the wrong time, they’ll shoot him. And anyone helping him.”

“How do you know Figaro’s a man?” Alex asked.

Fajardie shrugged. “We don’t, but we’ve assumed it from the information.”

“Might be a foolish assumption,” Alex said. “You never know about the demure middle-aged woman who’s been a party functionary for years. She’s quiet and outgoing, but seething beneath the surface and ready to clean out the vault.”

No response. Then, “Maybe,” Fajardie said with absolute certainty, “our Figaro has already slipped us some engaging tidbits. Apparently, Figaro worked as part of a high-level Cuban delegation to Iraq in 1991. He says that, based on intelligence from a Russian spy facility at Lourdes in Cuba, the delegation had tried to convince Saddam Hussein that he could not win a war against the U.S. He claims to have met Saddam on several occasions. Do you know the name Arnoldo Ochoa?” Fajardie asked.

“No.”

“General Ochoa was the commander of Cuba’s intervention in Angola in the 1980s. He was scheduled to take over the most powerful and important command in Cuba after Angola. But he began speaking against Cuban colonialismo in Africa and in favor of glasnost, the new openness of Soviet President Gorbachev. Soon afterward, Ochoa was convicted of narco-trafficking. He was executed in 1989 with Fidel Castro’s permission. With his death, as when Che Guevara died in Bolivia, a popular and powerful potential rival to the president was eliminated. The real reason Ochoa was executed was political. We never knew that.” Fajardie laughed. “What does that tell you about Fidel and his regime? Fidel was pleased when Che died and pleased when Ochoa died. He is a low-budget Stalin who would never tolerate his Trotsky.”

“This is news?” Alex asked.

“The people on the sixth floor crave this stuff. What can I say?”

“So? What am I supposed to do about Figaro?” Alex asked after another moment.

“Keep your eyes and ears open. Be prepared to think on your noble feet, and if anything comes up while you have your boots on the ground in Cuba, rope him in. Bring him to the U.S. Getting Violette up here would be a home run. Bringing in Figaro, I’m told, would be a grand slam.”

“I assume I don’t mention any of this to my travel companion,” she said.

Fajardie laughed. “Absolutely not!” he said. “The only one you mention this to is me. And the aforesaid Figaro if you meet him.”

“If I’m lucky enough to find him,” she said.

“No,” Fajardie said in conclusion. “There’s no chance that you will find him. As I said, Figaro will find you – or it doesn’t happen at all.”

THIRTY-ONE

MacPhail and Ramirez checked Alex into Washington’s Madison Hotel that evening. The two agents sat outside her door, waiting to be relieved overnight by agents from a local office. Even the room service waiter had to pass a security check.

After 8:00 p.m., Alex opened her laptop. She had a soft drink on ice after changing out of her meeting clothes into a T-shirt and jeans. Might as well be comfortable. Tonight, the Madison was the crown jewel of the American protective-custody system. Five floors below, along 15^th Street, traffic rumbled along. As her computer booted, Alex walked to the window and pushed back the curtain.

Was she still in danger? she wondered. Was another sniper preparing to pick her off? Maybe the same sniper? But she felt like a fugitive. She used to live in Washington and, by and large, enjoyed her time here. She used to move around freely as a younger woman. Restaurants, clubs, the gym.

She had a man in her life back then, someone she loved. She enjoyed her various promotions, the career excitement. Then abruptly the disaster and tragedy in Kiev struck. Now, more recently, there was the promotion to her job in New York. Yet fate and emotions kept pushing her back down. Tonight she felt overwhelmed and lonely. She thought about the two million sitting in a bank account for her in New York. She drew a long breath. Why did God allow her to get that money?

But as long as that sniper was out there, she couldn’t lead a normal life. Most other women her age had families, husbands, or steady relationships. What, she asked herself, did she have to show? She had the burden of a job in which she could get her head blown off. So why did she keep doing it? What if God intended for her to use that money to get away from it all?

She continued to gaze out the window, making herself a target as she stood. She watched couples, presumably happy, going to movies, bars, and restaurants. Right at this moment, Alex would have traded places with any of them.

Then her thoughts tripped a mental landmine, one of sadness and longing, one of still painfully missing her late fiance. The memories set off a worse wave of loneliness within her, one she fought almost every day for at least a few moments. Intellectually she had accepted what had happened in Kiev, but emotionally she hadn’t.

She let the curtain close. She didn’t feel like working. She didn’t feel like praying more. So, dragging herself