Michael and his contact, Walters, had prepared a cover story back in the States that wasn’t far from the truth. The gist of it was that Ramon Suarez was still alive, living in Miami, and wanted to reestablish ties with Luis. When he finally did meet Perez, Michael would case Perez’s home and decide how best to get the map.
It was a shoot-to-kill mission. If Perez resisted before Michael had the map, he would be eliminated. If not, he would be dispatched afterwards; they’d agreed it was better not to leave loose ends. Michael had killed while he was in the Gulf; he could do it again. Especially because, despite his grandfather’s denials, he suspected he was helping get Tony Pacelli out of a tight spot.
Michael spent a sleepless night planning his strategy. He decided to carry out the mission the next morning. Lawton was working class; people would be on the streets; he wouldn’t stand out. Once he arrived at Perez’s house, he would try to win the man’s trust. Maybe swap war stories. Perez had been in Angola; Michael in the Middle East. He mentally brainstormed the questions Perez would ask. Questions like what happened to Ramon after the rebels kidnapped him… why he never came back to Cuba… why he never got in touch. Michael rehearsed his answers. He didn’t know what happened to Ramon, but he knew it had been gruesome. Ramon settled in Miami because the South Africans turned him over to the Americans who granted him asylum. He didn’t write because the mail—telegrams and telephones as well—couldn’t be trusted. And Ramon didn’t want to make trouble for Perez if the wrong people discovered they were communicating.
Dawn seemed to take a long time coming, and when it did, streaks of clouds strafed the sky with pink and purple. Two gulls that resembled vultures circled above Carla’s balcony. Michael watched them as he drank what Carla called coffee, a weak and watery brew that tasted like chicory. Carla told him the P-2 bus would take him to Lawton but warned it might take a few hours because of the erratic schedule. Michael made sure his pistol was in his backpack along with a change of clothes. He kissed Carla goodbye but didn’t tell her this might be the last time they’d see each other. Still, something made her turn away from him.
Carla was right about the bus, and it was too early for bicycle taxis, so Michael waited over an hour. When the bus finally lumbered up, belching black smoke from the exhaust, it was standing room only, and he hung onto the overhead bar during the entire trip. He got off at a major intersection in the 10th of October neighborhood where buildings with crumbling columns flanked the streets. He imagined how grand and imposing the buildings had once been; now laundry was suspended on a line between them.
He turned the corner and started walking. He was in what looked like a barrio, although in Havana, what wasn’t? Eventually he reached the intersection of Camilo Cienfuegos Avenue and San Francisco, and headed up a hill. He found himself in a residential area. It wasn’t prettier: a canopy of telephone wires marred the view, and the pavement was cracked with weeds poking through. But a copse of healthy-looking trees stood in the center of the block, and ramshackle buildings were grouped around them. He recalled Carla telling him every house was technically the property of the state. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting these.
He’d been right about the people on the streets. Most of them, caught up in the activities of their day, paid him no heed. The faces he passed were black or tan and looked like they needed a good meal. He passed only a few white faces. Which made him wonder why Perez lived here. His military status could probably get him a nicer home, along the lines of Carla’s place. Then he remembered the officer from Chinatown and the enlisted men at the warehouse. Maybe not.
He followed the street numbers and came to a drab, one-story house with slatted European-style shutters on the windows. One or two were missing, but the rest were partially open to let the light through. The door was open, and the smell of coffee—real coffee—wafted out. Maybe there was something to being an army officer. Maybe they got the first pick of rations.
He strolled past the house and circled the block, passing three women and one man. No one took any notice of him. Looping back around, he returned to Perez’s house. The street was empty. He wanted to race to the door and break in, but he forced himself to walk up and knock.
The man who came to the door had no shirt on, just pants. He was about the same height as Michael, but thinner. His face looked especially gaunt, but he looked—familiar. Thick dark unruly hair. A Roman nose that was too big for his face Full lips but an unimpressive chin. Olive skin. His eyes were dark and smoky, but Michael couldn’t read his expression. It was part knowing, part kind. Why? Michael felt uneasy.
“Buenos dias, Señor.”
The man nodded.
“You are Luis Perez?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “You must be Michael DeLuca.”
Michael nodded. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“So I hear.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “I wasn’t expecting you this soon.” He stepped back from the door and motioned Michael inside. “Make yourself at home. Let me get my shirt.”
He led Michael into a small room. The living room. Perez disappeared into the back. Michael couldn’t believe his luck. He had the opportunity to case the place. He started to explore. The furniture was worn, but the room was immaculate; everything seemed to have its place.
Bands of light poured through the slatted shutters, but the only colors came from a collection of books, which lined two walls of the room. Plain wooden planks supported by cinderblocks; the kind of thing you’d see in a college dorm back home. He scanned the titles. They were all in Spanish, but he could see works of literature, poetry, as well as non-fiction. Michael ran his tongue around his lips. Perez was exceptionally well-read. Practically an intellectual.
He surveyed the rest of the room. A tiny sofa, a chair. A lamp. An open sketchpad on the sofa. A set of pencils sat on a small table, and a framed photo lay on top. He went to take a closer look. The photograph was of a woman and a man. They were both quite young. The man had his arm around the woman. The man was tall, slender, fit, and looked very much like Michael in his twenties. The woman looked to be barely out of her teens. Dark hair. Slender but curvy. High cheekbones. Dark, luminous eyes that sparkled through the frame across time. As Michael stared at it, he felt his eyes widen, and his jaw dropped. He felt as if he’d been struck by lightning.
Perez came back into the room. Michael spun around. Perez was buttoning his shirt. He peered at Michael, the photograph, then back at Michael.
Michael blurted it out. “What the hell are you doing with a picture of my mother?”