Suspicion of Deceit (30 page)

"But he was brought up in Miami, not Cuba."

"Is there a difference?"

"What does he ask you to
do
that you don't like?"

Gail tossed the stack of papers back into the box and reached for her drink. "Mother, why do you make everything sound so trivial? It's basically—and you will bug me until I tell you—an inability to open up. He is an emotionally closed man."

"Anthony?"

"There are important issues that he refuses to deal with. And I can't discuss them, so please don't ask me."

"Well, I think it's his gender more than his culture. Your father and I went round and round, fighting about every little thing. You don't remember because you were so young when he died. I have learned since then how much wiser it is just to be quiet and listen. Try to understand. If you become angry and insist on your way, you might end up losing what you want to save. You have to be subtle and patient."

"Yo soy como soy."
She saluted with her glass. "It means, I am what I am."

Irene stirred her daiquiri. "You know, darling, you could look in the mirror when you accuse someone of having a temper."

Gail was silent for a while, then held out her arms. "I'm sorry." She put her head on her mother's shoulder. "Please don't tell anyone, especially not Karen. She likes him so much. I don't know what to do. Oh, Mom, I can't talk about it anymore now."

When Irene went to see how the girls were doing, Gail cried for a few minutes into a corner of her towel. Sick of her own self-pity, she blew her nose and picked up another newspaper article at random.

In 1986, at the Torch of Friendship in downtown Miami, two hundred liberal protesters had gathered to sing folk songs and make speeches against U.S. aid to the Nicaraguan contras. On the other side of police barricades, two thousand screaming exiles waved American and Cuban flags and threw eggs. Inevitably, the crowd broke through and police had to get the peace protesters out of there.

Scanning the article again, Gail recalled that the contras had been fighting the Sandinistas. Curious when that had started, she rummaged in the box for a book she had seen on socialist movements in Latin America. She opened it on her lap.

In 1979, the corrupt dictator General Anastasio Somoza had fled Nicaragua, and the Sandinistas took over. The contras had launched a counterrevolution to oust them.

In 1985, with Reagan in the White House, a group of Cuban exiles went to Nicaragua to fight with the contras. The exiles had trained at a secret base in the Everglades operated by Brigade 2506—the same Brigade that had been defeated at the Bay of Pigs in 1961.

Gail remembered having seen on the wall of Ernesto Pedrosa's study a flag of Brigade 2506, and alongside it, a framed black-and-white photo of men in fatigues. She did not know that Cuban exiles had gone to Nicaragua. Seven years before that, Anthony had been there, age twenty-two, with a beard and long hair, carrying an AK-47 lent to him by Felix Castillo, the spy from Havana.

The Cuban exiles had gone to Nicaragua in 1985, she assumed, to do there what they could not do in Cuba: Kick some communist ass. There had been a slogan: Today Nicaragua, tomorrow Cuba.

She rummaged through the box, found a book on the CIA in Central America, and opened it on her lap.

The United States undertook to supply the contras with arms and ammunition. Reagan had said we wouldn't walk away from this one—referring, perhaps, to the fact that the U.S. had walked away from Cuba. When Congress voted to cut off anything but humanitarian aid, ways were found to keep the guns flowing. Working with the CIA, Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North set up a secret supply route. Cargo planes flew from bases in El Salvador and Costa Rica and dropped weapons to the contras on the ground. Laws were broken at the highest levels. The White House was implicated.

When the scandal broke in 1987, the participants were forced to give testimony before a U.S. Congressional committee. Gail had been in law school, and the subject had been a hot topic on campus. Oliver North defiantly admitted that he had lied.

Gail had forgotten that many of the weapons had been purchased and prepared for shipment in Miami, and that an air cargo company based in Miami had actually been owned by the CIA, and that one of its planes had been shot down over Nicaragua in 1986.

Cuban exiles had raised money for the contras. Gail would bet that Ernesto Pedrosa had kicked in with a substantial contribution to Oliver North and company. And during all this, Anthony had been safely away in New York, practicing law in the federal public defender's office, married with two kids.

Swinging her legs off the lounge chair, Gail stood up to refill her glass. With the book open on the table, she read that Colonel North had turned the operation over to Major General Richard Secord, who acquired five aircraft, built airstrips and warehouses, and hired pilots to fly the missions.

From March to October 1986, Secord's Operation Enterprise flew over forty missions into Nicaragua, dropping pallets with machine guns, rocket launchers, mortar shells, grenades, rifles, C-4 plastic explosives, detonators, fuses, parachutes and rigging, and various forms of ammunition and other supplies. The party ended on October 5 when a Sandinista SAM-7 missile brought down a C-123 transport plane over Nicaraguan territory. The Reagan administration denied all knowledge of the flights.

Gail flipped to an appendix at the back of the book listing the types of airplanes: C-123, C-7 Caribou, L-100. She did not know what they looked like, but imagined dark gray, propeller-driven aircraft flying at low altitude over the hills at midnight, the pilots watching for a signal from the ground, their faces illuminated by the instrument panels, and the pallets stacked next to an open cargo door, ready to be shoved out or however they managed it. She turned a page and read a list of pilots, flight crew, and ground support.

She reached for her glass, then froze with it suspended in midair. She let it down slowly, as if to do otherwise might jostle the print.

A voice seemed to come from far away. "Gail, I said what do you want for lunch? Gail? Are you all right?"

Slowly she looked around at her mother. "Guess what Lloyd Dixon was doing in 1986."

Irene hesitated. "I don't know, dear. What?"

"Flying a C-123 cargo plane out of secret air bases at Ilopango, El Salvador, and western Costa Rica, dropping weapons to the Nicaraguan contras." Gail closed the book. "I wonder if you could do me a favor. Call Rebecca's house? If Lloyd picks up the phone, I don't want him to know it's me."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The last light had faded when Gail drove her car off the ferry onto Fisher Island. She spotted a golf cart waiting by the main road, and a woman at the wheel. The guard checked her name off a list, then said that Mrs. Dixon had already arranged to show her the way. Gail blinked her lights. The cart did a quick U-turn and Gail followed. They went past the marina, then around the golf course, the same route she and Anthony had taken after Thomas Nolan's recital at the clubhouse.

A curving driveway went under the portico of the building where the Dixons lived, but Rebecca swerved left into the small parking lot for visitors, vanishing for a moment behind the thickly planted tropical landscaping. She stopped the cart at the back of the lot.

Gail got out of her car and heard Rebecca's soft laugh. "Your
hair.
I didn't recognize you."

"It's a wig. Am I Fisher Island enough?"

Rebecca took a look at Gail's black cashmere tunic and loose trousers. "Not nearly enough jewelry, and I don't see a face-lift, but it's a start." She patted the seat beside her. "This seems like a lot of trouble to take a picture."

"I don't want Octavio to recognize me." Gail put her shoulder bag on the floor of the cart and got in.

"But why do this at all?" Rebecca tossed her hair back, and long pearl earrings swung. "Lloyd can be very persuasive. He'll say . . . Octavio, if you don't stop attacking the Miami Opera, I'll take you up in my airplane and kick you out over Havana. Oh, come on, Gail. Laugh, will you?"

"I'm too wound up," Gail said. "No, I want a photo. The city is close to making us lose tens of thousands of dollars, and the lawsuit could go either way. And maybe Lloyd doesn't really care if Octavio stops. I want a picture of the King of Commentary, WRCL, going into the apartment where Thomas Nolan is singing. It would be too, too sweet."

Rebecca turned around in the seat to look at Gail directly. Her coat fell open to reveal a slim black dress with silver beading around the low neckline. "Something tells me," she said, "that this is personal. You're out to get him. Admit it."

Gail shook her head "Well . . . not out to get him, exactly. I wouldn't put it like that, but in a way I feel responsible for what's been happening. Octavio started this, but only because I was involved with the opera. He's using the issue to drive a wedge between Anthony and his grandfather."

"Ahhh. Ernesto Pedrosa. Lloyd says he's worth over two hundred million dollars. Oh, yes, I would think that's highly personal."

"Look, Rebecca. Anthony doesn't want the money—"

She laughed.

"He
doesn't.
He has his own money. He wants his place in the family. I can tell you this because you'll understand. Anthony's grandfather still holds it against him that he wanted to join the Sandinistas, and Anthony never told him what really happened. Their relationship is fragile, Octavio knows it, and he'll do whatever it takes to ruin it completely, or at least keep them from reconciliation till Pedrosa is dead."

Rebecca's mouth was a perfectly outlined and lip-sticked O of wicked delight. "God, would this make a good opera. Somebody's got to die in the end. Who do we pick? Octavio, naturally. Then you and Anthony take the throne in the last act—"

"Rebecca, please." Gail let out a breath. "Anthony and I are having some problems right now. I don't know what's going to happen."

"Is it bad?"

She nodded. "It's tied up with his grandfather and Octavio, and so much crap in the past to deal with. You know about that. Then we've got our own differences on top of it. I'm not doing such a good job." She waved it away. "Never mind."

Rebecca scooted over and gave her a squeeze. "I'll help you with Octavio. His head on a pike."

Gail laughed. "No. Just a few pictures."

Reaching to turn on the battery in the golf cart, Rebecca said, "Why did you tell me not to say anything to Lloyd? He'd get a kick out of it, you lurking around in the bushes."

They started forward with a little jerk, moving silently across the parking lot. Gail said, "No, let's leave Lloyd out of it. What do you know about these men coming tonight? Who are they?"

Rebecca had already told Gail there would be eight, including Lloyd. Rebecca would have cocktails with them and listen to Thomas Nolan and the others sing, but then she was expected to quietly disappear to her own part of the apartment. The caterers would take care of serving and cleaning up.

"They're Lloyd's friends. I might remember a few names, but that's it. Lloyd never talks about them."

"Could you find out who they are? What they do?"

The golf cart suddenly slowed, its fat tires skidding a little on the pavement just at the edge of the parking lot. Rebecca turned off the key. "Why? There's something else going on. What is it?"

Gail didn't want to lay it all out. She had only suspicions, not evidence. Octavio Reyes and the others had not come for a chat about future investment opportunities in Cuba, but to plan more serious moves.

"You got me onto Fisher Island, so let's leave it at that," Gail said.

"I can turn around and take you back to the ferry, too. What's going on? I'm getting a divorce, so don't be afraid I'll run to Lloyd with anything you tell me."

"Fine. I think those men could be planning a coup against Fidel Castro. I'm not certain, but that's my guess. Lloyd's in on it."

That brought a stare of astonishment. "Lloyd?"

"How much do you know about his past? Do you know that in 1986 he was flying secret missions for Oliver North and Richard Secord, resupplying the contras in Nicaragua?"

"Yes, I know about it. He told me."

Gail asked, "Is he still involved with the CIA? What about his dinner guests?"

"They're businessmen."

"You're sure."

"Gail, really."

There was silence. Then Gail said, "Are you going to get the names for me? You don't have to."

"Yes, of course." Rebecca turned the key, and the cart moved silently around a row of cars, then out of the parking lot. They went across the road and past the portico, heading for a garage entrance.

But at the last moment Rebecca turned away, went fifty yards farther on, and parked in an area where thick trees cut the illumination from streetlamps. Rebecca's black coat drew her further into the gloom.

She spoke softly. "Okay. You're right. Lloyd did know some people with the CIA. I'm not sure if he still does. As I told you before, the boys get together for fun and games, and I'm not supposed to ask. After we got married—when I was at the clinic in England getting my head fixed—I told Lloyd about . . . Nicaragua. I was worried whether anything had ever come out. Lloyd said he knew some people in the CIA he could ask."

"The CIA made a report?"

"That girl's aunt wrote to the State Department, so they looked into it."

"What did they say? If you don't mind telling me."

"Lloyd got a copy. It was pretty vague. They had all our names listed as American volunteers for the church. Isn't that wild?"

"What about Emily Davis?"

Beyond the trees Gail could see the glint of the ocean, and Rebecca seemed to be staring at it, deciding what to say. "They sent a man up to Los Pozos. He got conflicting stories. She was alive, she was dead, the National Guard killed her, she left for Managua. The local bureau decided that she was officially missing and presumed dead. They sent the report to her aunt. Case closed." Rebecca took a breath that lifted her chin and exposed a long line of pale throat. "Want to know why they closed it? Emily was nobody. Emily was a scholarship student. She gave piano lessons to earn spending money. If she had been you or I, the government would have found out what happened. They would have stuck with it. But Emily's family accepted what we, and then the CIA, told her. Lucky for us. No problem."