intersected with Zuluete, not far from the Ambos Mundos where she had rendezvoused with Paul the day before.
Alex entered the hotel with Paul fifty feet behind her. The lobby was vibrant with sunlight, tourists, and bright mosaics. A floor of off-white tile gleamed. There was a surprisingly festive air, supported by groups of laughing Italian travelers. An upbeat salsa melody pulsed from the sound system.
Alex, nervous, scanned the lobby and proceeded directly to the first-floor bar. She carried her small tote that she had bought on her first day in Cuba. Her gun was in it, beneath her traveling clothes.
The bar was bright like the lobby. It jutted out from the main hotel building, a separate one-story annex with a high ceiling. There were tables for four, topped with white Formica and light wood. A skylight lit the room and a fountain bubbled unobtrusively at the center. More music was piped in from somewhere, but a different track than in the lobby.
Alex picked a table where she could watch both doors. Paul, following her a minute later, disappeared to a table in the corner.
A waiter found Alex, and she ordered a Coca-Cola. She waited. From the corner of her eye, she watched Guarneri order a drink and start a small cigar. From a nearby table, he picked up a newspaper.
She scanned the bar again. Like the lobby, it was filled with tourists, mostly Europeans, and some wealthy South Americans. A group of eight young backpackers had pushed two tables together, four girls, four boys, college kids probably, their backpacks bedecked with Canadian flag appliques. They sat around bottles of Cuban beer, in no hurry to go anywhere. There were no cops that Alex could spot, nor anyone she could ID as Cuban security. For that, she was thankful.
According to the legends that Paul had told her about on their drive that morning, Babe Ruth had once made the hotel’s Suite 216 his personal den of iniquity during his barnstorming tours through Cuba in the 1920s and ‘30s. Also, several of the top dancers from the clubs in the 1950s had had suites there, and more than a few American GIs spent debauched R amp;R weeks there during World War II. Albert Einstein once attended a banquet there. Somehow, the Plaza had navigated both the Batista and Castro eras with comparative ease. Somewhere, Alex concluded, someone knew whom to pay.
Her soda arrived.
A quarter hour passed. Alex’s anxiety level spiked. The afternoon heat continued to build outside and started to overpower the air conditioning. Alex looked up and her heart jumped. She spotted a figure at the entrance to the bar. Roland Violette. She recognized him instantly from the surveillance photos she had seen in Langley.
He looked much older in person. In his khaki pants and rumpled shirt, he looked thin, almost frail, and stooped. He would have been about six feet as a younger man. He moved with difficulty, as if he had arthritis in his hips. His hair was thin and flecked with white, and his dark glasses wrapped around his narrow mocha face. He carried a cardboard box, about the size of a double ream of copy paper.
He was jittery and moved cautiously, as if at any time he might spot a gun aimed at him. He carried a pack of cigarettes in his right hand – Winstons – which seemed to be his security system, keeping him calm. Alex watched for several seconds and didn’t miss the irony of the cigarettes. She had seen it before. Even those who vilified America most often clung passionately to American products and culture. Ho Chi Minh smoked Kools. Castro loved baseball. Khrushchev had loved Fred Astaire movies. Kim Jung Il loves Elvis. Go figure, she mused.
Violette spotted Alex almost as quickly. His gaze settled on her. She gave him a subtle nod and a smile. She held him in her gaze, eye contact all the way, almost like radar to bring him to her table. He stopped and scanned the room. He didn’t seem to sense that Paul was an accomplice, though he took a long look at him. Or maybe he just didn’t care.
Violette came to Alex’s table and sat down.
“Anna from America,” he said in English. “Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna and the King of Siam. Anna from America come to take me home? Right?”
“Good guess. Right,” she said.
“Wasn’t much of a guess,” he said. “I used to be a spook. But you knew. You knew that.”
“I did,” she said. “That’s why I’m here, right?”
“Guess it is,” he said. “Guess it is.”
Her instinct was to extend a hand. In a flash everything Roland Violette had done went through her mind – the slaughtered agents behind the Iron Curtain in the final days of the cold war, the flight from Spain, the profligacy with his amoral Costa Rican missus – and she withheld her hand. Then another part of her was in rebellion against her moral instincts. She reminded herself that she was on assignment and not supposed to pass judgment. So she offered her hand.
He assessed her up and down. He gave her a dead-fish handshake and moved his left hand toward his left pocket. Her eyes shot down and spotted the contours of a small pistol. Her nerves simmered. He withdrew his hand. She pulled her own bag closer, just in case.
“I’m surprised they sent a woman,” he said.
“They?” she asked.
“The CIA people,” he said. “The Careless Intelligence Analysts. We all know who we’re talking about. So don’t flirt. Don’t flirt. Never used to do that, never used to do that. Send women, I mean. If I’d known women who looked like you I might never have left.”
“What’s done is done,” she said.
“Yes. It is. It is done.”
She wondered if he was acting or if his screws really were as loose as they seemed. “You had a wife for many years,” Alex said.
“Yes,” he said. “So I did.”
“I heard she passed away. I’m sorry.”
“I am too,” he said. “She’s in heaven. Waiting for me.”
Alex wasn’t sure if it were another place where his wife was, one even hotter than Cuba in the summer.
Violette stared at her. “Do they ever ask you to be a hooker?” he asked.
“What?”
He repeated. “You know. For spy stuff. Honey traps and all. Be a whore for Uncle Sam.”
“I once posed as one, but I never became one. In Cairo last year,” she answered.
“Nice,” he said.
“Does that excite you?”
“Not today. I’m too sick.”
Violette rubbed his face, then his chin. He had more nervous ticks and twitches than there were peanuts in a bag. A nervous eye flickered. A tick at the left side of the lips wouldn’t quit. Two fingers on his right hand wouldn’t stay still, and the other hand still was playing hide and seek with the pistol. She wondered if he had some neurological damage somewhere. Drugs, maybe, or a thrashing he had sustained somewhere. Or were his nerves just badly shot? The guy was one unhinged piece of work, Alex decided quickly. No act was this good. That made him even more dangerous. He might not respond to logic in a pinch, and that was exactly how she was supposed to make her pitch to him – with logic.
Violette sighed, long and loud. “So about time and all. You’re going to get me out of here, right?” he said.
“That’s my assignment. Assuming you want to leave.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Roger. I do,” he said. “I want to go.”
The waiter reappeared. Violette ordered a Pepsi with ice in a separate glass. Embargo or not, the waiter nodded and disappeared.
“That’s good, that’s good,” he said. “Getting out of Cuba. Been here too long, you know. Time to go home.”
“You’re lucky they’ll take you back,” she said.
He shrugged. “Jail time,” he said. “Going to have to pay some dues. I have prostate cancer, you know. I’m sick.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
