long as I have to for him to finish off what he’s doing, and then I’ll get lost. I’ll give him the money and get lost.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Camaro said.
“If something happens to me, I need you to get Lauren out.”
A memory of Lauren in the photograph flashed through Camaro’s mind again, flickering with the elements of life, but not quite, frozen in that moment. Now she was a fourteen-year-old girl whose father Camaro knew only a little but who had no one else to cling to. “I don’t know, Parker,” she said.
“ Please . The money is hidden at my place. There’s a loose board in the back of my closet. You pull it out, and you’ll find the case. There’s forty thousand bucks in it. Take some of it for yourself. Take all of it, I don’t care. Just make sure no one can get to Lauren.”
“What am I supposed to do with your kid?” Camaro said. “Take her on my boat and raise her?”
“My brother. He lives out in Texas. You can get in touch with him, make him come out and take her. I just know you won’t let anything happen to her.”
“You don’t know me at all,” Camaro said.
“I know you were a soldier. That has to count for something. You’re not the kind of person who’d let a little girl get hurt. Tell me I’m wrong.”
The waitress came in their direction. Camaro motioned her away. “No, you’re not wrong,” she said.
“You’re not in love with me or anything,” Parker said. “And I know I’m asking for something big. But don’t think about me. Think about her.”
He scrabbled for his pocket and brought out his battered wallet. Inside was the photograph. Parker folded the wallet open to the photo and put it on the table in front of Camaro. There they were again. Parker and his little girl on the beach, blonde hair long and face tanned from the sun. They smiled happy, unburdened smiles.
Camaro closed the wallet. “No more,” she said.
“Please don’t go,” Parker said. “Not until I’m finished.”
“You are finished,” Camaro said.
“Listen, I don’t have anywhere else to go!”
“I’ll do it,” Camaro said, more sharply than she intended.
“You will?”
“I will. If something happens to you, I’ll be there for her. But you have to keep me in the loop. Whatever goes on, I need to know. I can’t go into this blind.”
“Done.” Parker snatched up a napkin. “Let me give you the address.”
Camaro watched him write, and a wall of dark anticipation rose up within her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A LEJANDRO G ALDARRES OF the Intelligence Directorate was given access to an official car with the services of a driver, but he rarely used the privilege. Fuel was a precious and expensive commodity in the Republic of Cuba, even with the relaxation in American sanctions. The government was starved for money, and old allies could no longer help. In the mornings he left his Havana apartment in an old and cozy neighborhood and rode a steel-framed bicycle all the way to the directorate’s headquarters. He would chain the bicycle to a lamppost, take his briefcase from the bicycle’s basket, and go inside, where air conditioning awaited to wick away the sweat of his journey.
On this morning much was the same, though the day might have been hotter and his linen suit a bit more uncomfortable. Going in through the entrance and showing his identification to security before having his briefcase x-rayed, he reveled in the cool air. It was another almost unheard-of luxury in Cuba outside the resort hotels, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.
He gave his service weapon to one of the men operating the security choke point and passed through the metal detector. His pistol was returned on the other side. His briefcase emerged from the x-ray machine. Galdarres bid both men a good morning and went to his office.
Behind his desk he followed his routine, putting his lunch into the deepest drawer and then sorting through the overnight briefing documents.
“That doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Camaro said.
“If something happens to me, I need you to get Lauren out.”
A memory of Lauren in the photograph flashed through Camaro’s mind again, flickering with the elements of life, but not quite, frozen in that moment. Now she was a fourteen-year-old girl whose father Camaro knew only a little but who had no one else to cling to. “I don’t know, Parker,” she said.
“ Please . The money is hidden at my place. There’s a loose board in the back of my closet. You pull it out, and you’ll find the case. There’s forty thousand bucks in it. Take some of it for yourself. Take all of it, I don’t care. Just make sure no one can get to Lauren.”
“What am I supposed to do with your kid?” Camaro said. “Take her on my boat and raise her?”
“My brother. He lives out in Texas. You can get in touch with him, make him come out and take her. I just know you won’t let anything happen to her.”
“You don’t know me at all,” Camaro said.
“I know you were a soldier. That has to count for something. You’re not the kind of person who’d let a little girl get hurt. Tell me I’m wrong.”
The waitress came in their direction. Camaro motioned her away. “No, you’re not wrong,” she said.
“You’re not in love with me or anything,” Parker said. “And I know I’m asking for something big. But don’t think about me. Think about her.”
He scrabbled for his pocket and brought out his battered wallet. Inside was the photograph. Parker folded the wallet open to the photo and put it on the table in front of Camaro. There they were again. Parker and his little girl on the beach, blonde hair long and face tanned from the sun. They smiled happy, unburdened smiles.
Camaro closed the wallet. “No more,” she said.
“Please don’t go,” Parker said. “Not until I’m finished.”
“You are finished,” Camaro said.
“Listen, I don’t have anywhere else to go!”
“I’ll do it,” Camaro said, more sharply than she intended.
“You will?”
“I will. If something happens to you, I’ll be there for her. But you have to keep me in the loop. Whatever goes on, I need to know. I can’t go into this blind.”
“Done.” Parker snatched up a napkin. “Let me give you the address.”
Camaro watched him write, and a wall of dark anticipation rose up within her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A LEJANDRO G ALDARRES OF the Intelligence Directorate was given access to an official car with the services of a driver, but he rarely used the privilege. Fuel was a precious and expensive commodity in the Republic of Cuba, even with the relaxation in American sanctions. The government was starved for money, and old allies could no longer help. In the mornings he left his Havana apartment in an old and cozy neighborhood and rode a steel-framed bicycle all the way to the directorate’s headquarters. He would chain the bicycle to a lamppost, take his briefcase from the bicycle’s basket, and go inside, where air conditioning awaited to wick away the sweat of his journey.
On this morning much was the same, though the day might have been hotter and his linen suit a bit more uncomfortable. Going in through the entrance and showing his identification to security before having his briefcase x-rayed, he reveled in the cool air. It was another almost unheard-of luxury in Cuba outside the resort hotels, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.
He gave his service weapon to one of the men operating the security choke point and passed through the metal detector. His pistol was returned on the other side. His briefcase emerged from the x-ray machine. Galdarres bid both men a good morning and went to his office.
Behind his desk he followed his routine, putting his lunch into the deepest drawer and then sorting through the overnight briefing documents.
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