Why the fuck would anyone want to live here, Walters thought as he stared out at Havana Bay. Whitecaps sparkled in the Caribbean waters, but the beauty of the bay was lost on him. He’d only been here twenty-four hours—he’d sneaked in from Mexico—but he was already disgusted by the poverty, the come-ons from both sexes, the incessant din of the music. This place was no better than the African jungle. Well, maybe one step up. At best a third world society, where desperation leaked from walls like water from broken pipes. Even the hotel he was staying in—one of the best in the city, he’d been told—wouldn’t rate two stars back in the States.
He turned away from the view and rummaged in his suitcase. Although he was furious, he wasn’t entirely surprised the operation had gone south. He should have realized when you dealt with spics, it was never smooth. He should never have listened to that punk Gonzalez or Suarez or whatever he was calling himself now. Fucking Cuban lizard turncoat. Like all of them. They told you what they thought you wanted to hear. Just enough to snatch the money you dangled in front of them or a free ride to Miami. His pals back at the Agency had warned him. At least the rebels in Angola were honest. Stupid but honest.
On top of that DeLuca had disappeared. Taken off. The kid sent him a telegram when he’d arrived in Havana. And another a few days ago asking for more time. But when Walters replied, he never got a confirmation reply. The little wop had vanished into the fog that shrouded the harbor at night. Either he’d decided to rip off the map for himself, or he had fucked up the assignment and was dead. Too bad. Either way, his client would be enraged. He might have him taken out.
A wave of anger rippled through him. He should never have brought Suarez to the States. But his superiors back in Langley were hot for the chance to turn a Cuban Army officer. They’d debriefed Suarez “aggressively,” as the Agency put it, when he arrived, but the guy had no intel worth passing on. He could have told them that would happen. Angola was a hemorrhoid on the continent of Africa. Nobody cared about FAPLA or UNITA or the South African Army. They were unimportant. A footnote in history. The day he’d been relieved of duty in Angola was the best day of his life.
Not like today. He scowled. To make things worse, the Outfit was breathing down his throat. The guy who’d hooked him up with Pacelli kept telling him Pacellli wanted updates on his goddamned grandson. Sure, he’d replied. He had shit to report. But if he didn’t give him something, Pacelli might send his thugs after him. Not good, the guy who’d made the connection kept saying. Not good at all. Like a fucking parrot. Like Walters didn’t already know?
He sat on the bed, head in his hands. What had he gotten himself into? All he wanted was a decent living. Too old for the Agency, too smart for a desk job. This was supposed to be his swan song. His “I’ll-never-have-to-work-another-day-in-my-life” reward. God knows he’d earned it. Listening. Currying favor. Making things happen. But now he didn’t know a goddamned thing about his own operation. If there weren’t so much money involved, he’d shitcan the whole thing. Leave this godforsaken place and get back to America.
But he couldn’t. He had to find the asshole with the map. He hoped it wouldn’t take long. When he did, he’d find out if DeLuca made off with it, and, if so, where. Then he’d take care of them both. He opened his suitcase, removed two pistols, a revolver, and a hunting knife. Checked to see they were all in working order. As he did, he realized he’d never be done with clean-up operations. At the Agency he was the guy who made everything neat and tidy. And untraceable. He snapped his suitcase shut. Some things never changed.
The chirp of birds woke Carla at dawn the next morning. Most likely a family of trogons, the blue, red, and white national bird of Cuba. She didn’t mind. She’d slept well, which was unusual for her. It must have something to do with sorrow. Knowing she would never see her father again, she’d bid farewell to him in Santiago de Cuba. They’d both shed tears. Hugged each other close. Afterwards all she wanted to do was sleep.
But now she felt rested and energized. Perhaps there was a limit to the amount of sorrow a soul could absorb. Whatever the reason, she decided to get up and make breakfast for Michael and Luis. In the kitchen she found eggs, bread, and enough coffee for three cups.
She went to the stove to heat water and toast the bread, but when she turned the knob for gas, nothing happened. Like the electricity, the gas often shut off without warning. There was no way to tell how long it would last. She would slice fruit instead. Still, her mood didn’t dampen, and she hummed as she searched for a knife.
She’d known Miguel barely a month, but her life had changed dramatically. And now irrevocably. She went back into the tiny space they used as a bedroom. Miguel was still asleep, his legs tangled in the sheet. She watched the rise and fall of his chest and breathed in his scent; she loved knowing their smells had blended together. Was it love? Perhaps. Perhaps not. She’d never been in love before.
A moment later, as if he’d felt her presence, he rolled over and slowly came awake. His thick hair was tangled, and a cowlick stuck out on top. His eyes were still hooded and smoky with sleep, but they tracked her up and down. She sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over and kissed him. His lips were sweet and full of desire. She felt herself become aroused. She forgot about breakfast and crawled back into bed.
Afterwards, she brushed the thatch of hair off his forehead.
“Buenos dias,” he said, still on top of her.
She grinned.
He rolled off, leaned back, and laced his hands behind his head. “We have an expression in English: ‘You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.’”
“What does it mean?”
“It means to be very pleased with oneself.”
She nodded. “Ahh. In Spanish we say “Estar más ancho que largo. No cabe en si de satisfacción.”
Michael tickled her chin. “I think I see your whiskers,” he teased. “Why so happy?”
“Because I am two weeks late with my period. And I am never late.”
She watched as it sank in. His brow furrowed. He looked pensive. Then comprehension dawned. “You are pregnant?”
She nodded tentatively.
His face lit. “This is wonderful!” He gathered her in his arms.
Carla hadn’t realized how tense she’d been. Now she sagged against him. She couldn’t have hoped for a better reaction. Maybe it was love. Her eyes filled.
He tipped up her chin with his fist. “No,” he whispered. “This is a time for joy, not tears. Let’s tell my father. We’ll wake him up.”
She giggled and stroked his brow, aware she was laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh, let the poor man sleep. There is plenty of time.”
Michael clasped her to him, planting kisses on her neck, her chest, her breasts. When at last he stopped, she whispered, “Now who is the gato?”
He slipped his arm around her neck and nestled her into the crook of his elbow. “Maybe there is something to your philosophy.”
“Which one?”
That everything happens the way it is supposed to.” He made tiny circles on her stomach.
She stretched to give him more of it to rub.
“There is only one thing,” he said. “We cannot have the baby here.”
“Not in Havana, you’re right. We should probably go to—”
He cut her off. “Not in Cuba. You are coming with me to America. My father, too.”
“America?” She extricated herself from his arms.
He nodded, still patting her belly.
She tensed. His stroking ceased. “Are you crazy? How will we get there? I do not have a tarjeta blanca, and they are impossible to get if you are not connected.”
“You won’t need one.”
She removed his hand from her stomach. “What are you suggesting?”
“There are—other ways.”
“What other ways? I am a doctor. They will never let me leave.”
His confident expression faded.
“I know it is dangerous, but perhaps we could find a place to hide here. Cuba is not perfect…” her voice trailed off, “… but it is the only home I know.”
“Carla, you have no life here; at least no life worth living anymore. If the CDR finds you…”
It was her turn to interrupt. “But—your mother… she will never accept me. And your grandfather. They do not want to be reminded of Cuba. I will be—”
“Carla. You are going to be the mother of my baby. Our baby.” His expression was solemn. “I want our child to grow up in America. I was planning to take you with me anyway, before I knew about—this. But now…” he got out of bed. “…it is more important.”
“Miguel, this does not feel right. It is not the time. Perhaps in a while…”
His voice sharpened. “Are you still putting stock in what that Santería priestess said?”
When she didn’t reply, his voice spiked. “Don’t you realize she was a total charlatan? A fake? All she wanted was our money. She was making it up. All of it. ”
Carla kept quiet. Her mouth felt as dry as dust.