explosion.”
“And how did you learn of that? Also from friends?”
“No, from the radio. I have heard nothing except what was on the
noticias
, the news reports. Díaz-Nuñez has talked of little except the explosion this morning.”
“And has he offered an explanation?”
“Nothing.”
“He is not calling my uncle a hero?”
Señor López began to look faintly uneasy. “No, those were not his words.”
“A traitor, then?”
The old man’s gaze sharpened. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“It is possible, is it not? If one does not support the cause wholeheartedly, if one perhaps makes a mistake in trusting the wrong people, then there are those who would be quick to label this person a traitor. We have seen this with something as simple as the condemnation of a singer who had dared to perform in Cuba,
si
?”
“Es posible
, yes,” Señor López admitted. “But you are speaking of your uncle. I ask again, why would you say such things?”
“Tell me about him,” Michael suggested. “As you know him.”
“No comprendo.”
“I know that you were boyhood friends in Havana. I know that he considers José López to be like a brother. I also know that you used to go with him to meetings of the Organization of the Revolution. He told me that.”
A stream of Spanish greeted Michael’s statement, then in English, “He should not have said that. That is Miguel’s problem. He does not know how to be discreet.”
“You do not take pride in your membership?”
“That is not the point. Obviously you comprehend that no better than Miguel.”
If Michael was irritated by the criticism, Molly couldn’t tell it. He was displaying far more patience with this irritable old man than he ever displayed in an interrogation or even with Molly. Clearly, he expected to wheedle something important from Señor López, but Molly couldn’t help wondering how long his restraint would last.
“Would that problem have caused him difficulty with Paredes?” he asked bluntly.
Molly watched Señor Lopez’s eyes at the mention of Paredes. They betrayed nothing.
He shrugged and conceded, “It is necessary to know the value of silence within a group such as ours.”
“Where can I find Paredes?”
This time there was no mistaking the flicker of unease in his eyes. López avoided Michael’s gaze. “I cannot say.”
Michael’s hands clenched and Molly guessed that his patience was at an end. He looked as if he wanted badly to reach across to shake the old man.
“Someone put a bomb on my uncle’s boat yesterday,” he said softly, though there was no mistaking his carefully contained fury. “I want to know who and I want to know why. I believe Paredes can provide the information I need.”
The old man’s expression shut down completely. He struggled up, and Molly realized with a sense of shock that one leg was missing below the knee. His pant leg was folded up and sewn together. She wondered when and under what circumstances his injury had occurred.
As he balanced himself carefully, one of his friends handed him a pair of crutches. “I must be going now,” he said. “My daughter will be expecting me.”
“You do not care what has happened to your old friend?” Michael snapped at him. “He could be dead and it does not matter to you?”
Tears brimmed in the old man’s eyes before he could blink them away, and he sank back down on the concrete bench.
“Por favor,”
he whispered. “Do not do this. Leave me in peace.”
“I will go,” Michael said, his expression as hard and forbidding as Molly had ever seen it. “When you tell me how to find Paredes.”
Señor Lopez’s hands trembled as he tried to stack the dominoes in a neat pile.
“Señor?” Michael prodded.
The dominoes tumbled to the table. “Tomorrow night at La Carreta.” Lopez said finally, referring to a chain of Cuban family-style restaurants.
“Which one?”
“Here, on Calle Ocho.”
“And Paredes will be
“And how did you learn of that? Also from friends?”
“No, from the radio. I have heard nothing except what was on the
noticias
, the news reports. Díaz-Nuñez has talked of little except the explosion this morning.”
“And has he offered an explanation?”
“Nothing.”
“He is not calling my uncle a hero?”
Señor López began to look faintly uneasy. “No, those were not his words.”
“A traitor, then?”
The old man’s gaze sharpened. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“It is possible, is it not? If one does not support the cause wholeheartedly, if one perhaps makes a mistake in trusting the wrong people, then there are those who would be quick to label this person a traitor. We have seen this with something as simple as the condemnation of a singer who had dared to perform in Cuba,
si
?”
“Es posible
, yes,” Señor López admitted. “But you are speaking of your uncle. I ask again, why would you say such things?”
“Tell me about him,” Michael suggested. “As you know him.”
“No comprendo.”
“I know that you were boyhood friends in Havana. I know that he considers José López to be like a brother. I also know that you used to go with him to meetings of the Organization of the Revolution. He told me that.”
A stream of Spanish greeted Michael’s statement, then in English, “He should not have said that. That is Miguel’s problem. He does not know how to be discreet.”
“You do not take pride in your membership?”
“That is not the point. Obviously you comprehend that no better than Miguel.”
If Michael was irritated by the criticism, Molly couldn’t tell it. He was displaying far more patience with this irritable old man than he ever displayed in an interrogation or even with Molly. Clearly, he expected to wheedle something important from Señor López, but Molly couldn’t help wondering how long his restraint would last.
“Would that problem have caused him difficulty with Paredes?” he asked bluntly.
Molly watched Señor Lopez’s eyes at the mention of Paredes. They betrayed nothing.
He shrugged and conceded, “It is necessary to know the value of silence within a group such as ours.”
“Where can I find Paredes?”
This time there was no mistaking the flicker of unease in his eyes. López avoided Michael’s gaze. “I cannot say.”
Michael’s hands clenched and Molly guessed that his patience was at an end. He looked as if he wanted badly to reach across to shake the old man.
“Someone put a bomb on my uncle’s boat yesterday,” he said softly, though there was no mistaking his carefully contained fury. “I want to know who and I want to know why. I believe Paredes can provide the information I need.”
The old man’s expression shut down completely. He struggled up, and Molly realized with a sense of shock that one leg was missing below the knee. His pant leg was folded up and sewn together. She wondered when and under what circumstances his injury had occurred.
As he balanced himself carefully, one of his friends handed him a pair of crutches. “I must be going now,” he said. “My daughter will be expecting me.”
“You do not care what has happened to your old friend?” Michael snapped at him. “He could be dead and it does not matter to you?”
Tears brimmed in the old man’s eyes before he could blink them away, and he sank back down on the concrete bench.
“Por favor,”
he whispered. “Do not do this. Leave me in peace.”
“I will go,” Michael said, his expression as hard and forbidding as Molly had ever seen it. “When you tell me how to find Paredes.”
Señor Lopez’s hands trembled as he tried to stack the dominoes in a neat pile.
“Señor?” Michael prodded.
The dominoes tumbled to the table. “Tomorrow night at La Carreta.” Lopez said finally, referring to a chain of Cuban family-style restaurants.
“Which one?”
“Here, on Calle Ocho.”
“And Paredes will be
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