Hostage in Havana

possible.”

“The FBI file suggested that one brother, Salvatore, is dead. And the other became active in Cuban revolutionary politics.”

“That’s correct, but it’s also misleading,” Paul said. “Yes, our family was torn apart. The older uncle, Salvatore, was a casino worker. So he was quickly on the outs with the Twenty-sixth of July Movement, which is what Castro’s revolutionaries called themselves. The younger brother was a university student. A good number of students were pro-Castro, as was he.”

“So who’s dead and who’s alive?”

“My father’s dead, but when we’re in Cuba, if all goes well, you’ll see both of my uncles.”

“Why do you keep saying that – ‘If all goes well’?”

“Because frequently things don’t go as planned. So I’m saying that this is what’s going to happen if they do go well.”

“You’re obscuring things, Paul,” she said. “You’re being cryptic.”

“You’re right. I am.”

“Why can’t you tell me? I’m putting a lot on the line for you.”

“Alex, listen. What if this trip gets aborted tomorrow? What if we get turned back from the Cuban beaches before we land? And then what if your employer puts you on a witness stand and puts you under oath about what you learned before this trip got zipped. Where would your allegiance be? To me? To the people who sign your check?”

“Under oath, square as it sounds, I’d have to tell the truth.”

“That’s my point. I know you would. So if the truth is that you don’t know, you can’t be forced to tell, and we’re both protected,” he said. “Right?”

“But after we return, then I’ll know, correct?”

“If all goes well,” he said with a smile. “Correct.”

“Then …?”

“If all goes well, it will no longer matter,” he said. “Trust me on that.”

“I’m already trusting you.”

“So you are,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

“So trust me on something else,” she angled. “Tell me something about Paul Guarneri that I don’t know.”

Paul rubbed his eyes with fatigue and watched another cabin cruiser for several seconds. “All right,” he finally said easily, “let’s try this. This might slide a few more pieces of the Guarneri puzzle in place for you.”

A slight breeze wafted through. Alex dropped some ice in a fresh glass and sipped another Coca-Cola.

Paul looked away, a far-off look, then his gaze came back.

“I’m going to tell you something, Alex,” he said. “Something I’ve never told anyone else. But I guess you should know. I like you, I trust you, I have a hunch you understand me. So I’m going to tell you something more about why I’m here, why we’re here. It’s not so much a fact, although it is a fact, as a feeling. Can I share this with you?”

“Go for it,” she said.

“Cuba …,” he said, “Cuba is the life I didn’t lead. I told you, I was born there, I was a kid there. Then, after Castro came in, the family was pretty much split. My father had the two brothers and a sister who never left Italy. We lost touch with her half a century ago. Same way most Cuban families got separated. Fidel has a sister who lives in Miami, for example. She hates Fidel and what he’s done to the country. She’s an anti-Castro Castro. Did you know that?”

“I’d heard something,” Alex said.

“Good. Most people don’t. But that’s beside the point. See, some in my family chose to stay. They believed in Castro and the revolution. That’s okay; I understand that. The American Civil War divided families too. Same as the Spanish Civil War. Same as the Bolshevik revolution. Some circles of hell can’t be squared. Some things never work out perfectly. But here’s the thing,” he said. “There was that night I told you about in 1961. I was a kid, asleep. My mother came and got me. No warning, but she knew ahead of time. She knew because, in looking back, she had been packing, making arrangements. My father was flying us to the U.S. I told you that story, right? My father was connected and knew how to work the citizenship thing. By the time I was fourteen I had a U.S. passport. Never used it as a kid, but my father got it for me. He was probably afraid someone would grab me and try to repatriate me to Cuba. But no one ever did. Thing is, and here’s what has dogged me for fifty years: What if I hadn’t made that flight? What if my mother had refused to go or the police had stopped us? I would have grown up in Cuba. My life would have been so different that I wouldn’t have even recognized myself. So that’s part of what I’m doing. I’m reconnecting with the life I would have led, as well as carrying out the wishes of my father in setting things straight between his brothers. It’s not the only reason that I feel a pull back to the island, but it’s a big part of it.”

“Okay,” she said. “I think I get it. Or as much of it as you’ll let me get.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You still haven’t painted the whole canvas for me.”

“And when I can, I will, Alex. I promise.”

She let his words sink in. Some of Cordero’s smoke drifted up from the patio. He had shifted locations, Alex figured. She further noticed that it was now dark outside.

“So that’s what lies beneath this, Paul?” she asks. “It’s about recapturing the past, repairing the past?”

“I prefer to call it ‘coming to grips with the past,’” he said. “‘Setting the past right.’ Think about it. We have few opportunities in life to do that. I’m taking mine before it disappears forever. That’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re here.”

A full minute passed in silence, aside from the sounds from the marina, voices, and the dull drone of a distant diesel engine or two. Alex thought about Ben, about Robert, and what Paul said about coming to grips with the past. Maybe God was trying to tell her something.

“Okay,” Alex finally said.

“You’re sure you’re up for this trip?” he asked.

“I’m ready. I’m going tomorrow. Same as you.”

“You’re a trooper,” he said.

They then spent half an hour comparing their cover stories, quizzing each other, and setting their mutual fictitious past in place in case disaster befell them during the time in Cuba. After the half hour, they both felt comfortable with the fiction they were to live with.

When they were finished, he rose and moved to her. He took her hand, then, impetuously, leaned down and, to her astonishment, kissed her on the forehead.

“It will all go well,” he said. “The trip. It has to.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

I’m Anastacio,” the fat man said.

He spoke his name as if it were a challenge. He smelled of sweat and wore a massive pistol on his left hip. He was thuggish and scary. He stood in the driveway of a three-story stucco house, with a tall cement fence around it and a huge iron gate. But when he smiled his countenance went from surly to kindly. Alex had no idea whether Anastacio was his first name or last. It could have been either. She didn’t ask.

She and Paul Guarneri had arrived there after a short flight to Key West. Special Agents Cordero and Rosen had traveled with them. The flight had been private from a small airfield south of Miami. They arrived at the Key West airport and were met by a small jittery man named Pete, who had a deep voice, a straw hat, a goatee, and bad breath. He said little and led Guarneri, Alex, and their guards to a white van in short-term parking.

Twenty minutes later, on the south shore of the island, the van arrived at its destination. Pete whacked his horn twice. From within the stucco house, someone must have given a signal because the gate gave way and rumbled open. Then the big man, Anastacio, had appeared and loomed in the driveway. He was fortyish and had a