Breaking his silence, Frank in the front seat laughed. But not for long.
Outside the Navigator, ninety humid degrees gripped Miami. Even the beaten-up cars on the expressway had air conditioning. Mere survival.
They passed the Orange Bowl and then the dull skyscrapers of downtown Miami. Cordero paid a toll. Then they took the causeway that led to Miami Beach.
“You know the address, right?” Alex asked to the front seat.
Linda answered. “Yeah,” she said. “Frank’s got it. We know the way.”
On their left was an island set in a lagoon. Rising from it were mini-mansions. On Alex’s right was the maritime channel, the exit for ships leaving the Port of Miami. The sight of them reminded her of Panama, and, with a shiver, the thought of Panama reminded her of the bullet that had come through her window on the west side of Manhattan.
The causeway led to Miami Beach.
Linda reached down to a shopping bag at her feet. From it she drew a cardboard box, the type that might contain six gourmet oranges. She handed it to Alex. “Here,” she said. “Welcome to south Florida. Merry Christmas in June. Present from Frank and me.”
Alex opened the box and examined the contents. The centerpiece was a Walther PPK 9mm short. Alex made sure it wasn’t loaded. The pistol was slim and sleek and would carry well. It was small but could pack a lethal wallop if necessary. It came with a box of fifty bullets and a nylon holster.
“Thanks,” Alex said, still examining it. She hefted it.
“Keep it low below the window levels,” Linda reminded her. “I don’t want other drivers to see it. It’d be a pain to explain to the Miami police what we’re doing here.”
“Of course,” Alex said.
There was one more item in the box. An ankle holster that was in heavy waterproof canvas. Alex could hit the water, if necessary, or endure a rainstorm, and her ordnance would be secure.
Frank guided the vehicle up and down a couple of side streets, then pulled up in front of a deco-streamlined house in South Beach with the usual Miami pastel paint job, pink and blue on white stucco, four stories on a quiet street, windows curtained. Alex eyeballed it from her car. Frank parked.
“We’re staying outside,” Linda said. “Don’t worry about us. We’re babysitting you till you go on to Key West tomorrow,” she said.
“You sure? You don’t need to.”
“We have our instructions,” Frank said from the driver’s cockpit.
“Got it,” Alex said.
Alex moved her gun into her own duffel bag and closed it. She took the bag with her as she opened the car door and stepped out. Heat hit her. A lot of it. Plus a wall of humidity. Miami in late afternoon: thick, nasty air and low clouds.
She went to the door and drew a final breath. She knocked. Solid oak on top of steel reinforcement. Better to stop bullets, she reasoned. Better to stop a battering ram!
No response. She knocked a second time. Then she heard rustling within the house and the fall of latches from within. The door swung open and Paul Guarneri stood in front of her.
“Hey!” he said. “Nice of you to drop by.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said.
There was an awkward moment as they stared at each other. Then he opened his arms wide to embrace her. Against her better judgment, she fell easily into his arms and accepted a long hug.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The screened porch behind the house was long and low and overlooked a busy marina on the north end of Miami Beach. The screens were hung with net curtains, which made anyone sitting in the porch more difficult to see, much less be shot at, from the water. Alex and Paul sat at a small table, she on a sofa, he on a chair, over some cold fish salad, fruit, iced tea, and soft drinks. Frank Cordero sat smoking Camels on a patio that was below the porch. He watched the water approaches behind the house while Linda Rosen watched the front.
Alex sought to commit to memory the notes given to her by Maurice Fajardie at her final briefing, plus the brief instructions about Figaro. When she felt she had everything, she looked up and eyed her prospective traveling companion.
“Tell me about your uncles,” Alex said to Guarneri out of the blue.
He met her inquiry with surprise; then he eased back. “Ah,” he said, “you’ve been doing some checking. FBI files?”
“They were sent to me,” she said. “It’s not so much that I requested them as they were thrust upon me.”
“What about CIA files?” he asked. “I’d like to see those. Have you?”
“What? Seen them?”
“Yes.”
“There isn’t much,” Alex said. “Nothing on you at all. At least not that I’ve seen. Only minor information on your father. He’s a footnote in several anti-Castro operations.”
“A footnote to everyone else,” Paul said. “Significant in my life. I don’t suppose …?” he began.
“That I could slip you a look?”
“Yes.”
“Not allowed,” she said.
“Understood.”
“Now,” she said. “My question. About your uncles …”
“What do you want to know, Alex?”
“The file says that one is dead. There’s no date of death on the other. What can you tell me about that?”
“Why are you asking?” he asked.
“You alluded to your mission being heavily related to family,” she said. “Family here and family in Cuba. So what better place to start than with your father’s brothers?”
Paul was quiet for several seconds. In the marina in front of them, a massive Chris-Craft flying a Bermudian flag navigated a thin channel and exited toward Biscayne Bay.
Then he began. “One uncle is holding the money for the other,” Paul said.
“I thought you said the money was buried.”
“It is.”
“So now you know better where it is?” she asked. “Better than you knew when we first met a year ago?”
“Much better,” he admitted. “I have a source in Cuba, a very authoritative one. Someone in the government, with some influence. I didn’t have that source a year ago when Yuri Federov first introduced me to you. Back then, going into Cuba was more of a fishing trip if you don’t mind the Hemingway analogy. Now it’s Moby Dick. I know which whale I want; it’s just a matter of getting it.”
“Captain Ahab got killed trying,” she said.
“Did he? I never got to the end of the book. That’s a spoiler, Alex.”
She laughed but was equally vexed. “Don’t goof around with me, Paul,” she said. “You’re good at it. You raise evasiveness to an art form sometimes. I don’t like it.”
“No offence intended, and I’m telling you what I can. For now. What else do you want to know? My social security number? You probably already have it.”
“Tell me a couple of things,” she said. “They’re both in Cuba? Both uncles?”
“That’s correct.”
“Is one of your uncles your source?”
“No. But my task is to move the money from one uncle to the other, then get off the island as fast as
