The Night Charter (22 page)

C
AMARO BROUGHT
L
AUREN
to the remote motel only a little before dawn. The sky was already pink in the east. It seemed like it had been forever since she slept. Together they cleared out the saddlebags of their stuff and went inside. Lauren saw Chapado immediately.

He was handcuffed to a pipe beneath the sink in the room's small bathroom with his hands behind his back. A wad of washcloth had been stuffed into his mouth deep enough that it could not be spat out. The room was redolent with his smells.

“Oh, my God,” Lauren said. “Who is that?”

“That's the man who got your dad killed. He's the reason we're hiding out,” Camaro said.

“He killed my dad?”

“No, but he's why.”

Camaro put her phones on the nightstand and tucked the shotgun between the bed and the wall in a way that she could get it if she needed it. She went to the bathroom and yanked the washcloth from Chapado's mouth. “You all right?” she asked. “You need water? Got to use the toilet?”

“Water, please,” Chapado said.

This motel room did not supply glasses but gave their guests plastic cups in separate wrappers. Camaro tore one open and filled it from the tap. She saw Lauren watching them, frozen by the door, her eyes feral. “What is it?” Camaro asked.

“You should kill him,” Lauren said.

“No,” Camaro said. “Not him. Him we want alive. Your dad died because there are people who want this guy no matter who they have to kill. Matt played games with them. Now none of them have him. As long as we have this guy, we have power.”

She helped Chapado drink. The man gulped at the water. When the cup was empty, he said, “You know who my people are. If it's money you want, they will give it to you. I'll tell them you saved me. They won't try to hurt you. I promise!”

Camaro crouched on the bathroom floor beside him. She held up the cup. “You want more?”

“Yes.”

The cup was filled again and Chapado drank. Some escaped his lips and trickled down his chin onto his sweat-soaked and dirty shirt. Camaro noticed he had some of Soto's blood on him. “There's no reason to keep me,” Chapado told her. “This can all be made right.”

“I don't need your help to make things right,” Camaro said. “I just need you alive for a couple of days. Let me see your arm.”

Chapado twisted his wrists around so Camaro could examine his wound. It was deep, but not so deep that stitches were needed. The flesh was swollen and an angry red. Two flaps of skin were completely loose. “That man, he tortured me,” Chapado said.

“These look like they might be getting infected,” Camaro said. “They have to be cleaned out.”

She left Chapado in the bathroom and went to the room's small desk. There was stationery in the drawer, along with a Bible and a pair of pencils, both sharp. She sat and scribbled a few things down. Lauren was still by the door. Camaro handed her the sheet of paper. “What's this?” Lauren asked.

“It's a list of supplies. There's not a whole lot I need. I saw a drugstore about a mile or so back up the main road. I want you to walk down there when they're open and pick this stuff up.”

“I thought you didn't want people to see me.”

“There's no one out here who'd recognize you. It'll be all right. I don't want to leave you here alone with him if I don't have to.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Not locked up, but I don't want to take the chance.”

Lauren accepted the paper. She folded it in half twice and put it in her pocket. Finally, she left the door and went to sit on the bed. In this room there was only one. “Okay,” she said. “I'll do it.”

“Hey, you,” Camaro said to Chapado. “You want to take a shower?”

“Very much.”

Camaro went to the bathroom with the key to the cuffs. “I'll let you loose for five minutes. You try and get out of this room, I'll break your arm.”

“My clothes…they're filthy.”

“There's nothing I can do about that. Make sure you wash that arm with plenty of soap. We'll take care of it better later.”

She unfastened the cuffs. Chapado stood slowly. “Thank you.”

“Five minutes,” Camaro said, and she closed the door.

M
ATT SLEPT A
few uneasy hours in an Econo Lodge in Homestead. The room was clean and nice, but all he could smell when he woke up was stale cigarette smoke and sweat. If he showered, he would just have to put on the same clothes again, which made the whole thing pointless. Instead, he washed his face and his hands and got his hair wet in the sink. Enough to feel a little fresher, but that was all.

He got back on the road earlier than he expected and made his way south out of town to the warehouse. Nothing was disturbed at the gate, and the Nissan Soto had borrowed or stolen was in the same place it had been the night before.

“Hey, Sandro!” Matt called as he went in through the office. “Hey! You awake? The relief is here!”

There was no answer. He came into the warehouse itself and saw the blood. After that he saw Soto.

Soto's gun was still lodged in his waistband. His shirt was a sodden, shredded mess. Blood had expanded beneath him into a pool almost six feet across. Little flies were already buzzing around the rich, dark red liquid, looking to feast.

A long trail traced back to where Chapado had been held. Matt's heart seized in his chest when he saw the chair empty, the shiny gray duct tape hanging limply. “Oh, shit,” he said.

He advanced into the circle, unable to take his eyes off the chair, as if he could magic Chapado back into place if only he concentrated hard enough. Cold sensations passed through his arms and legs. Sweat sprang up on his face and trickled down from his pits, as though he had run a mile in the heat.

Matt looked back toward Soto, then whirled around on the chair again. Chapado still wasn't there. He glanced downward toward his feet and saw a yellow letter on the concrete: a capital C.

The message
CALL ME
was large and spray-painted in careful print. Underneath the letters was a telephone number. His pulse beat in his temples, and he pressed the heels of his palms against them to contain the pressure that built there. Matt knew he was breathing too quickly. Everything had a silvery sheen to it, the sign of hyperventilation. He turned around and around.

Only when the moment had passed did Matt bring out his phone. He looked at the number a second time, then tapped it in. He listened to the line ring. He recognized the bitch's voice the moment she answered. “Hello, Matt,” she said.

“What the fuck have you done with him?” Matt demanded.

“With who?”

“You know goddamned well who! What did you do with Chapado?”

“I knew you'd care more about him than about your friend.”

“Oh, I'm thinking about him. I'm thinking you're gonna die screaming. I saw you killed Sandro before he could get to his piece.”

“He was dead the minute he tried for it,” Camaro said. Her voice was flat.

“You are nuts. You don't know who you're dealing with.”

“I think I know exactly who I'm dealing with. And now you know I'm serious.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to squirm,” Camaro said.

Matt gritted his teeth. His jaw muscles stood out, and he felt a stab of pain in his head from the strain. He forced his mouth open. “What good is that gonna do?” he asked.

“It's going to make me feel better,” Camaro said. “And when I'm ready, I'll tell you exactly what to do.”

“I want to talk to Chapado.”

“No.”

“I want to know he's still alive and that you have him,” Matt insisted. “If you don't prove it to me, then you can go fuck yourself. Do it, or hang up!”

She didn't say anything for almost a minute. Matt checked to see that the call was still live. “Just a minute,” she told him.

Matt strained his ears to hear anything at all in the background that would tell him where Camaro was. He did not hear so much as a television. There was a mumble of quiet voices for a moment and then Chapado spoke. “Mr. Clifford,” he said.

“Is that you, asshole?”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“I'm gonna find you. I'm gonna kill that bitch. And I'm gonna take you back, and you'll wish you never saw my face. I'll cut your whole arm off this time. I'll peel your skin like a grape.”

“You will never touch me again,” Chapado said.

“I
will!
” Matt said. “I'll make you
suffer!
You hear me? You
hear
me?”

“He's gone,” Camaro said.

“You are so dead,” Matt told her. “You're dead right now, and you don't even know it.”

“I could have sat on Chapado and waited for you to show your sorry ass,” Camaro said. “You'd be dead right now. The only reason you're still alive is because I allow it.”

“Do it! Come at me! I'll show you what I can do.”

“You'll hear from me,” Camaro said.

Matt gripped his phone until his knuckles ached. “You don't hang up on me! You tell me where I can get Chapado right now, and I'll be merciful! You understand me? I'll do you
quick!
”

“Good-bye, Matt,” Camaro said.

The line went dead. Matt moved to dash the phone against the floor but stopped himself. He screamed instead, and his scream echoed in the space.
“Bitch!”
he bellowed. But there was no one to hear him except the body of Sandro Soto.

I
GNACIO ARRIVED FOR
his shift and ate an early lunch of a burger and fries at his desk. He was still clicking his way through his emails when he felt the man at his back. Ignacio pushed the mouse pointer to the corner and the screen saver activated automatically. He turned away from the screen. “Can I help—” he started.

The man brandished FBI credentials in Ignacio's face. “I'm Special Agent John Mansfield. We spoke on the phone.”

“Oh,” Ignacio said.

“You are Detective Montellano, right?”

“Yes. It's only…well, I didn't expect you to come all the way down here to talk. Another phone call would have been okay.”

“I like to work face to face,” Mansfield said.

Mansfield seemed about fifty, his hair completely white. He wore a blue suit and a red tie with a golden tie tack. A large college ring was on his right hand. His left had a simple gold band. Ignacio saw all this in a moment. “Okay, that's fine with me. Why don't you pull up a chair?”

“Actually, it's better if we had somewhere more private to sit down. Do you have a conference room?”

“Sure. It's right over there.”

“Let's go then.”

Ignacio stood up from his desk, abandoning his food, and led Mansfield to the small conference room. It had chairs for six and whiteboards on two walls. A rolling rack with a television on top and a DVD player underneath was crammed into one corner. The whiteboards were both stained with pinks and grays from long use.

“Close the door, please,” Mansfield said.

“What's with all the secrecy?” Ignacio asked.

“Everything I told you on the phone was pretty general,” Mansfield said. “Now we're getting into the serious stuff. I'd like to know that we're keeping this compartmentalized. In fact, I'm going to have to ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement.”

Mansfield had a briefcase, and he put it on the table. The locks popped open and he lifted the lid. The agent passed a form across to Ignacio and then a pen.

“What's in this?” Ignacio asked.

“It's a non-disclosure agreement for sensitive, but not classified, information. What I'm going to tell you is background for your investigation, so anything you use will be subject to review by the relevant agencies—in this case, the Federal Bureau of Investigation—before it can be utilized in public documents, such as an indictment.”

Ignacio sat down and looked at the form. It was dense, but it was at least only a single page. “I feel like we're getting into some James Bond stuff here.”

“It's nothing like that. But it
is
the sort of thing we don't talk about on the nightly news. Please sign.”

He signed and let Mansfield take the form back. It went into the briefcase, and then Mansfield sat down opposite him. “Now what?” Ignacio asked.

“Now we talk about Alpha 66.”

“We already talked about Alpha 66. They're a Cuban militant group. They're small. They don't do a whole lot. The FBI isn't interested in them.”

“Some of that's true, and some of it's not,” Mansfield said. “They are a militant group, and they are small, but they do carry out operations, and the FBI is interested in them. We've been interested in them since 1961. They're an intriguing bunch of reactionary zealots.”

Ignacio watched as Mansfield brought out a file. From inside the manila folder, Mansfield produced a series of black-and-white and color photographs, which he laid side by side on the table. Most of the men in the pictures were old, but some of them were young. Ignacio recognized one of them immediately. “That's Pablo Marquez. He was murdered last night.”

“Right. And over here is a man named Hugo Echave. He's the nominal head of Alpha 66 these days, along with Carlos Molina. And this is Álvaro Sotelo and his son, Ulises. The rest of them you can see for yourself, but here's the core of the organization, minus Marquez.”

“Five guys?”

“Ulises is new to the inner circle, we think. Total membership in Alpha 66 is something less than a hundred. Maybe below seventy-five. Not many, and most of those people are simply fundraisers or the kind who give speeches in front of special-interest groups. The hardest of the hard core, though…they're still dangerous and are very active.”

“What do these guys do? Are they still training out in the Everglades?”

“Sometimes. The younger ones like to play soldier. But for the most part Alpha 66 funds radical action inside Cuba. And when I say ‘radical,' that's what I mean. We're talking about murders, bombings, and things like that. They'll put money into protest signs, but they're more interested in racking up the bodies of dead communists.”

Ignacio picked up Hugo Echave's picture. The man was distinguished looking, like a wise family patriarch with many, many grandchildren. “I read that they're terrorists.”

“They are.”

“If they're terrorists, then why aren't they in prison?”

“Because their targets are overseas. Let me give you an example. In 1976, a pair of timed explosives took down Cubana de Aviación flight 455. They were traveling from Barbados to Jamaica. Alpha 66 was involved, along with another group called Omega 7 and a few other violent factions operating under the Coordination of United Revolutionary Organizations. The bombing killed seventy-eight people. For a long time it was the worst airborne terrorist attack in the western hemisphere.

“Now, some people went to prison for it, but that was only outside the country. In 2005, one of the Alpha 66 bombers reentered the United States illegally. He was caught. Would you like to know what happened to him?”

“He got deported?”

“No. He went right back to his life. Pressure came down all the way from the president to make sure he skated on everything he might have been charged with.”

“How? Why?”

“Alpha 66 and the other American groups in CORU are our pet terrorists. They attack targets we don't give a damn about. Or targets we don't mind seeing taken out. Cuban functionaries? Who cares? A cop or two in Havana? So what? Don't let the kind face the president put on the situation fool you. We may trade bananas with these people, but Cuba's still not our ally. And as far as certain elements in the United States are concerned, the enemy of our enemy is our friend.”

Ignacio sat back. “That's screwed up.”

“So the question is, what's going on with your investigation. Shoot-outs? Throats cut? Are they cleaning house internally, or is someone picking them off from the outside?”

“I don't care about all that Cold War crap,” Ignacio said. “I want to clear murder cases.”

“These are your people,” Mansfield said. “The roots of this go deep.”

“I'm Puerto Rican,” Ignacio said. “I was raised in the Bronx.”

Mansfield smiled. He gathered up the photographs. “Well. I'm authorized to give you the information you need to locate and question the members of Alpha 66, including those that have stayed mostly off the radar. But I'll tell you, investigator to investigator, that your best bet is to go straight to the top.”

“Hugo Echave.”

“He's visible in his community; he's politically active; he's everything that says fine, upstanding American. Which means that if he's mixed up in something bad, he's going to want it put behind him as quickly and as neatly as possible. Go to him. He'll crack.”

“What if I find out this is some kind of terrorist thing?” Ignacio said. “What do I do then?”

“Then you come back to me, and we make it a Bureau matter. It'll be off your hands.”

“Or swept under the carpet. If people find out there's still spying and killing going on, they're not going to think making nice with Cuba was such a great idea. It'll be a scandal.”

“Maybe,” Mansfield said. He slipped a sheet of neatly typed names, addresses, and phone numbers out of the file folder and gave it to Ignacio. “So make sure you don't have to call me.”