Noel Hynd - Hostage in Havana
“Back from the dead,” he muttered. “Who says it can’t be done?”
Alex turned, walked back to the memorial slab, and sat again.
Paul brushed the soil off his hands, then washed and disinfected them with rubbing alcohol. He held the valise, came back over to Alex, and sat down next to her. The diggers began to fill in the grave.
“You okay?” he said.
“I’m all right,” she said. “Stunned. Horrified. Revolted. Repelled. But not for the first time in my life and probably not the last. So I’m all right.”
“Quite a night,” he said.
“Quite a night,” she agreed.
The crew of diggers was efficient with the back end of their assignment. They filled the open grave within thirty minutes, tamped it down, and replanted turf on top so that it would not immediately appear to have been disturbed. They replaced the marker and steadied it. Then they replaced the low fence. To Alex’s amazement, Paul huddled everyone together. He tucked his pistol into his belt and led a short prayer for his deceased uncle’s soul. She was amazed at his apparent sincerity but wondered if he was doing it more for the conscious of his very Roman Catholic crew. There was no way to know.
They retraced their path to the iron gate that led to the back side of the burial grounds. While walking, Paul telephoned his contact to inform him that pickup time was at hand. When they came out of the cemetery, three vehicles were waiting: the red truck, the white Nissan with Paul’s driver inside, and the battered old Peugeot 404 that Alex recognized from the family home by the sea. Alex could see movement inside the French car but not much more.
Paul had an iron grip on the satchel.
“Paul, how much is in there?” she asked softly.
“More than I expected,” he said. “I did a vague count as I was packing it. Maybe eight hundred thousand dollars. There were more hundreds and fifties than anyone would have thought. All U.S. currency. Still legal tender.”
“Not a bad night’s work,” she said.
“Nope,” he said. “Not bad at all.” He motioned. “Come with me.” He walked to the Peugeot. There was just enough light for Alex to see. She recognized Thea, Paul’s cousin, as the driver. There were two young men in the car with her, one in the front seat, one in the back. They looked expectantly at Paul.
“Yo lo tengo,” he said to them.
The driver’s-side window was open. Paul handed the satchel to Thea. She pulled it in and set it at the feet of the young man next to her. The young man quickly covered it with a small blanket.
He sat close to her, so close that he appeared to be a friend or a fiance. He gave Alex a nod and a slight smile. Thea had a pistol on her lap and the two young men had rifles.
“Give Uncle Giovanni my love,” Paul said. “Alex and I have to leave the island quickly. We’ll be back when we can. It may take a few years, but I’ll be here again.”
Through the window, Paul embraced his cousin.
“Vaya con dios,” Thea said.
“Vaya con dios,” Paul answered.
Thea offered Alex an embrace as well. Alex accepted.
Then the Peugeot backed up, turned, and drove away.
“They’ll be safe with all that money?” Alex asked.
“They’re going to a friend’s home in Havana,” Paul said. “They’ll be safely indoors in three minutes.”
“So Uncle Johnny gets the money?” Alex asked.
“And his extended family,” Paul answered. “It’ll be spread around wisely. They deserve it. They spent their lives in this infernal place living under a Marxist regime. To them it’s a fortune. Things will thaw in the next few years, probably during an Obama second term, if there is one. The family will have some seed money to start over with. I pray to God that the next regime is kinder than the ones that have preceded it. God knows the Cuban people deserve better.”
“Agreed,” she said. They walked back to the white Nissan.
“Get in the car if you want,” Paul said to Alex. “I need to take care of the men. Then I’ll join you.”
Alex hesitated, then went back to the Nissan while Paul walked back to his crew. Warily, she opened the rear door but did not enter. She held one hand on her Walther, still wary of trouble. She checked the sky but saw no aircraft. She looked back at Paul. His faithful diggers huddled around him. Paul carefully withdrew an envelope from under his shirt and paid the men for their night’s work. It was the same envelope that she had seen in his belongings, she realized, the one with the stack of hundred dollar bills.
Alex watched him count out ten to each of them, and fifteen to the thug who drove the Nissan. It was a fortune in Cuba, a thousand dollars of hard currency. Paul thanked each man with a handshake and a hug. A voice inside Alex suggested that Paul might have been a distant Corleone relative, working the street, building his organization from the ground up, dispensing largesse.
The men looked ecstatic, thanking Paul with effusive smiles, bows, and hugs. Alex realized that Paul was buying loyalty and silence also. De tal palo, tel astilla: like father, like son. The apple rarely falls far from the tree.
With payday complete, the men piled into the truck, and the drivers returned to their wheels. Alex slid into the backseat of the Nissan behind the driver. Paul slid in across from her. Both engines started. The truck pulled away.
“Wait! Give him half a minute,” Paul said in Spanish to the driver. “Two cars together will look suspicious at this hour. We don’t want police.”
Paul drew his gun and held it across his lap.
The driver grunted a profanity. He was itching to leave. When the truck turned the corner and was out of view, Paul spoke again.
“Okay,” he said. The Nissan moved forward with a small lurch. Paul turned to Alex and spoke in English. “Lock your door and keep your gun ready,” he said. He gave her hand a squeeze of appreciation, then released it.
“Expecting trouble?” Alex asked.
“No. Just in case.”
She drew her weapon and held it in her left hand.
They drove through the sleeping city, down narrow backstreets where there were no lights from residences and only an occasional street lamp. There was no traffic, only an infrequent stray dog or cat crossing a dimly lit street. At one moment a police car pulled up next to them at a stop sign. A tense moment passed as the cops eyed their car. But Paul, confident, gave the cops a friendly gesture, a wave combined with a thumbs up. The cops were satisfied. They continued on.
“I have a question,” Alex asked in English. “Those men who did the digging. I saw a few weapons. Were they all armed?”
“I imagine so,” Paul said. “You don’t get doctors and school teachers to come out in the middle of the night to do a job like that. I assume they all had pistols and knew how to use them.”
“Then what stopped them from turning on you once the money was out of the coffin?” she asked. “They could have shot you and split the money.”
Paul laughed slightly and smiled. “Oh, I was keeping an eye on them. They wouldn’t have dared,” he said.
“Why?” she asked. “Because your name is Guarneri and your family is still known here?”
“You could say that. Cubans respect the past. And they look forward to the future.”
“What’s the future? A restoration of old property and old influence?”
He laughed again. “If I knew the future, I’d know what horses to play and what stocks to pick,” he said. “But I don’t. One can only hope.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
“I thought I did,” he said.
“A restoration of old property and old influence?” she said again. “You’re looking to a personal future as well as attending to the past. Putting things in order, establishing loyal organization at street level as you filter in and out of Cuba. Those men, they know your name, who your father was, and they know you’ll be back. They wouldn’t mess with a Guarneri even after all these years. Is that it?”
“If you want to see it that way, I can’t stop you,” he said. “But as I said, who knows what the future holds?”
She looked out the window and watched as they passed a block with small shops with metal gates drawn across doorways.
She turned back. “You know, against my better judgment, I like you, Paul,” she said. “But you’re a crown prince of evasiveness. Deep down, you have a dark streak. You can be a bit of a rat. I don’t like that part.”
“It’s late,” he said, dismissively. “We can talk in the next couple of days. Eventually everything makes sense … except when it doesn’t.”
Their driver returned them to Old Havana. Paul had secured a small apartment for the occasion. They went to Paul’s address first. It was only a block from Alex’s posada. The driver stopped.
“Come on up,” Paul said to her. “We can have something to drink and celebrate. Then I’ll walk you back to your place.”
“Paul, it’s past 4:00 a.m.”
“You can sleep tomorrow. I need the extra gun right now.” He looked her eye to eye. Then he gave her a flirtatious wink. “Come on,” he said. “Live on the edge for a couple more hours.”
After a moment, maybe due to fatigue, “Okay,” she said.
They stepped out of the car. Paul dismissed the driver. They looked both ways, then walked quickly to Paul’s door. He kept his hand on his Browning.
They went through an outer door for which Paul had a key. No problem. They entered a dark courtyard, and Paul turned on a timed light. No one else was there. He signaled with his head, and they crossed the courtyard quickly, found a staircase, and climbed. Paul unlocked his door with a second key and entered with his gun drawn.
Alex came in behind him and pushed the door shut. He reached past her and threw the bolt. The apartment was small, two rooms and a primitive kitchen, high ceilings, battered furniture, and fading wallpaper. Guarneri checked both closets and under the bed. Then he allowed himself to relax. They were alone. He put his gun away. He flopped down on an old sofa in the living room and shook his head.
“What do you know?” he said. “We did it.”
She flopped down next to him. She leaned back and exhaled a deep breath. For the first time, she realized how thoroughly exhausted she was. She felt her breath was as heavy as her eyelids. She responded to him with silence.
“I know,” he said. “I’m not a complete philistine. That was nasty stuff this evening. Unpleasant and horrible. But we got it done! Let’s do some rum; it will help us wind down.”
“Sure,” she said.
He reached to her, put an arm around her, and gave her an embrace. He kissed her, and out of fatigue and ambivalence and overall relief, she allowed it. Then he rose. “I’ll get something to drink,” he said.
“Sure,” she said again.
He was gone for several minutes. She slid sideways on the old sofa, intending to nap for a few seconds. But she crashed harder than expected and was sleeping soundly before he returned.
FIFTY-EIGHT
On the sofa Alex blinked her eyes open and looked at her watch.
It was barely past 7:00 a.m. She shook herself into consciousness for the new day and sat up.
The events of the previous night tumbled back to her mind. She felt another surge of disgust over what she had seen. She blinked again and took stock of where she was.
The small apartment was quiet. So was the street outside. She got to her feet and looked into the bedroom. Paul was sleeping soundly. Then thoughts of Roland Violette came into her head.
All right, she told herself. Paul had accomplished what he had come to Havana to do. Now it was time for her to complete her mission and get all of them back to the U.S. the day after tomorrow.
She went to the front window and pushed back the shade. The street seemed calm. There were a few parked vehicles and a street cleaner. Nothing suspicious. She gathered her things. She tossed her Walther into her bag and quietly let herself out of Paul’s apartment. She shouldn’t have even fallen asleep there, she reminded herself, but fatigue had won a battle with her common sense. She could go back to her own posada and sleep the rest of the day; then she would meet Violette again the following evening. Then the next day they would all rendezvous at the small plane and get off the island. With luck, the worst was over.
She crossed the courtyard. A caretaker was bagging garbage. She gave him a nod. He smiled back. She went to the front door and stepped out.
As soon as the door closed behind her with a loud click, the sidewalk came alive and her morning exploded. Two men jumped from the car parked to her left, and two women in the light brown uniforms of local police emerged from another. Alex knew she was trapped. The men had cell phones, were barking into them, and rushing forward.
From somewhere, another pair of men started running toward her.
“?Senora!” someone yelled. The men drew guns. The women had batons. There were so many of them that they seemed to be coming up from beneath the pavements and falling out of trees.
She tried to run forward and through them, hoping they wouldn’t shoot out of fear of hitting each other. But it was impossible. There was a rough hand on her arm. She straight-armed the Havana cop who was trying to pull her down. She broke free, but he had slowed her long enough so that her other assailants could converge. She threw a sharp elbow at one of them and must have caught him fully in the jaw, because she felt an impressive impact. The man recoiled.
She screamed and shouted. Loud enough to rouse the dead. She flailed. But now there were hands all over her, trying to pull her to the ground. Someone yoked her from behind; Alex thought it was one of the women. She caught one of them with her leg and wobbled a little, and then they were all falling, the whole scrum of them, onto the filthy pavement and then into the gutter.
Alex was face down. Her clothes were wet. The police were tearing at her arms, trying to pin them behind her and handcuff her. She kicked and screamed until someone held a hand to her mouth to muffle her. Then a pair of cuffs clicked onto one wrist behind her and then onto the other. Her arms felt as if they’d been pulled out of their sockets. She continued to fight, but two of the strongest men now had her pinned.
As she struggled, she looked up and caught a brief glimpse of Paul’s dimly lit third-floor window. He seemed to be standing at the window, the shade slightly to the side, watching. All she could think of was how she had just left him and that he should flee as fast as possible. Or, she wondered, had he set her up?
The hand at her mouth pulled away. “What are you doing?
Who are you?” she demanded in Spanish of her captors. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a citizen of Mexico.”
