“ Key West, this is Brother One,” he said. “Looks like a happy group. Fairly good shape, considering.”
Alejandro had definitely seen worse. He’d started in the early nineties as a pilot with Brothers to the Rescue, a group of Cuban exiles who formed their own search-and-rescue missions after a nine-year-old boy died of dehydration on his journey from Cuba. Not everyone agreed with the organization’s hard-line anti-Castro stance, but it won international praise for an amazing recovery record. On average, the group saved one person every two hours of flight time, sparing thousands who might otherwise have perished at sea in their journey to freedom. The organization’s focus seemed to shift, however, after Cuban MiGs shot down two of its planes in 1996. More and more resources went toward printing and distributing anti-Casto leaflets. That was when Alejandro broke off and formed his own group, Brothers for Freedom. Eventually, the better-known Brothers to the Rescue would stop flying altogether. But Alejandro had vowed never to give up. Rescue missions were costly, and private donations were hard to come by, so he used his own money. Brothers for Freedom-and the search for a free Cuba -went on.
“Brother One, this is Key West. Do you have a location yet?”
“Copy that. Let me make one more pass and-” He stared out the window toward the horizon, his anger rising at the unmistakable sight of a vessel headed toward the rafters. “Forget it,” Alejandro said into the radio. “Coast Guard’s on its way.”
Alejandro could hear the disappointment in his own voice, and it seemed ironic even to him. In the early years, the sight of the Coast Guard was a blessing. In fact, he would have radioed for the Coast Guard upon sighting a raft. All that changed with the shift in U.S. immigration policy in 1996. Rafters intercepted at sea were no longer brought to the United States. They were either routed to another country or returned to Cuba. And if they went back to Cuba, it could mean five years in Castro’s prison.
“Dirty sons of bitches got another one,” said Alejandro.
“Sorry, Alejandro. You headed back?”
“Affirmative.”
“Okay. By the way, I got a phone call about twenty minutes ago. There’s a lawyer headed down from Miami to see you. His name is Jack Swyteck.”
Alejandro adjusted his headset, making sure he’d heard correctly. “Swyteck? Any relation to Harry Swyteck, the former governor?”
“I believe it’s his son.”
“What does he want?”
“He said it’s a legal matter. About your son.”
Alejandro’s throat tightened. Several weeks had passed since he’d received the kind of news that no parent should have to hear, but it still felt like yesterday. “How is he involved in this?”
“He was calling on behalf of Lindsey.”
Lindsey. Lindsey Hart. The Anglo daughter-in-law who in twelve years of marriage had never taken her husband’s Hispanic surname. “Don’t tell me that woman has gone out and hired herself the son of the former governor,” said Alejandro.
“I’m not sure. I got the sense he wants to talk to you before he takes her case. I told him to come by around two o’clock.”
Alejandro didn’t answer.
The radio crackled. “You want me to call him back and tell him to get lost?”
“No,” said Alejandro. “I’ll meet with him. I think he should hear what I have to say.”
“Copy that. Be safe, Alejandro.”
“Roger. See you in about forty minutes.”
Alejandro stole one last look at the rafters below, his heart sinking as he watched them waving frantically at the rescue plane overhead. Surely they were convinced that they’d reached freedom’s doorstep, that in a few hours they’d be safe and dry in the United States of America. But the U.S. Coast Guard had other designs, and once the border patrol interdicted rafters at sea, there was nothing Alejandro or anyone else could do. It sickened him to turn his plane away, knowing that their brief moment of hope would evaporate as his Cessna disappeared from sight.
Alejandro’s hand trembled as he reached inside his collar. Hanging around his neck was a gold medallion of the Virgin of Charity of El Cobre, the patron saint of Cuba, a good-luck charm of sorts that Cuban relatives in Miami often sent to their relatives in Cuba to keep them safe on their journey to freedom. He’d worn it on his own crossing of the straits in a rowboat, thirty years earlier.
Sadly, he gave the medallion a kiss and headed home to Key West.
7
I love this car,” said Theo.
Jack glowered from the passenger seat. “It’s mine, and it’s not for sale.”
Theo slammed it into gear, and the car nearly leapt from the pavement.
It was a good four hours from Miami to Key West, three if Theo was driving, and he had insisted on it. Owning a thirty-year-old Mustang convertible had its drawbacks, but a drive through the Keys was something any car lover lived for. Mile after mile, U.S. 1 was a scenic ribbon of asphalt that connected one Florida Key to the next, slicing through turquoise waters and one-stoplight towns that seemed to sprout from the mangroves. Plenty of warm sunshine on your face, amazing blue skies, a sea breeze like velvet. The deal was that Theo would drive down and Jack would drive back. A fair compromise, Jack figured, if for nothing else than the sheer entertainment value of having Theo come along.
“What did you say?” asked Jack. Theo’s mouth was moving, but it was drowned out by the rumble of the engine and whistle of the wind.
Theo shouted, “If you won’t sell your wheels, at least leave ’em to me.”
“What do you mean, ‘leave’?”
“In your will, dude.”
“I don’t even have a will.”
“A lawyer with no will? That’s like a hooker with no condoms.”
“What do I need a will for? I’m a single guy with no kids.”
They exchanged glances, as if Jack’s mention of “no kids” suddenly had a footnote next to it.
“Screw the will,” said Theo. “Take it with you. God would love this car.”
Jack turned back to his reading. Before leaving Miami, he’d jumped on-line and pulled down some background information about the U.S. naval base at Guantanamo Bay, just enough to know what he was talking about when he interviewed Lindsey’s father-in-law. Theo left him alone until they reached the Stockton Bridge, about a mile from Key West International Airport.
“So, you gonna have to go to Camp Geronimo?”
“Guantanamo, not Geronimo. It’s a naval base, not an Indian burial ground.”
“How is it we got a naval base in Cuba anyway?”
Jack checked one of the web pages he’d printed. “Says here we lease it.”
“Castro is our landlord?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Shit, what does a guy like Castro do if you’re late on the rent? Kill your entire family?”
“Actually, he’s never cashed one of our rent checks. The lease was signed long before he came into power, and he refuses to recognize it as valid.”
“Guess he’s not about to try and evict us.”
“Not unless he wants a made-in-America boot up his communist ass.”
“So we stay there for free. But for how long?”
“The lease says we can stay there as long as we want.”
“Damn. Whoever drafted that document must be in the lawyers’ hall of fame.”
They entered the airport off Roosevelt Road and headed toward the general aviation hangars, following the instructions that Jack had gotten over the telephone. A security guard directed them to a fenced parking area. The
