[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Well, don’t get too excited. There are—issues.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, first off it’s not certain that it is coltan.”

  “That’s a risk we have to take.”

  He held up his palm. “Hold on. If it is coltan, you need to know that everyone and their brothers are scrambling for the stuff. It’s incredibly valuable, and all sorts of bad things are happening because of it.” He paused. “Do you remember the blood diamond conflict?”

  “I saw the movie. With DiCaprio, right?”

  “Right.” He nodded. “What’s going on now is similar. There’s a huge tug of war between the armed rebels in the Congo and the government. The rebels have control of the coltan mines and are reaping huge profits which, of course, they use to further their fight.”

  Luisa shifted.

  “It gets worse,” Ham went on. “The rebels are also working with huge corporations who need the stuff badly. Companies like—well—a lot of them are Fortune 500 companies. And they’re in cahoots with the rebels. The rebels sell to them, they refine it, then resell it for an exorbitant profit.”

  “Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad.”

  “Farmers in the area have been kicked off their land and forced to work in the mines. Children, too. And the miners slaughter any elephant or gorilla that gets in their way. Actually, from what I read, gorillas are nearly extinct in that part of the world. The whole ecosystem is screwed up. And, of course, the rebels are torturing, raping, and killing civilians.”

  She propped herself up on an elbow. “All because of this coltan?”

  Ham nodded.

  “But that’s—that’s totally unacceptable.”

  Ham almost laughed at her tone. As if everything would automatically halt because Luisa DeLuca denounced it.

  Luisa said, “I told you last night how I was involved in the Occupy movement, right?”

  He nodded again.

  “Well, one of the reasons I decided to go for a masters in engineering is to fix what these giant corporations have fucked up. And I do mean fucked up.”

  “But you’re part of the one percent.”

  “Who cares what percent I am? I have a conscience, don’t I? I can’t stand by while corporations poison our water, land, and now, if what you’re saying is true, kill innocent people. Before you know it, the planet will be a giant strip-mined desert. It’s already happening. The fracking they do for gas? It’s incredibly destructive. People right here in Illinois are getting cancer right and left. If we don’t stop it, eventually society will break down, like it has in the Congo, apparently. We’ll all be fighting for the few resources that remain. And the few healthy people left will be leading the charge. It’s reprehensible.”

  Luisa was worked up now, her cheeks red, her eyes glittering with determination. “I’ll talk to Gran tomorrow. I’m sure once I explain it to her, she’ll reconsider.”

  Ham raised his eyebrows. It must be nice to have such faith.

  • • •

  It was after midnight when Luisa called her mother to tell her she wouldn’t be coming home that night.

  Carla was not pleased. “And why not?”

  “Mother, I’m an adult. Let’s keep our boundaries intact, okay?”

  Carla made a blowing-out sound. “Boundaries. What pendejada! So I’m not supposed to ask where you are and with whom?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about the bodyguard?”

  “Marta’s outside. I’m going to tell her to go home. I’m well protected.” She smiled at Ham.

  “No. You cannot do that.”

  “But Mom—”

  “But nothing,” Carla cut in. “She stays. Outside. But on duty.”

  Luisa made a face, knowing her mother couldn’t see. “All right,” she said sulkily. “By the way, Mama, I need to talk to you. I’ve found out some really bad things about the map and the part of the world it’s in. I don’t like it. I want Gran to back off.”

  Carla laughed. “And you think she’ll listen?”

  “Maybe. If we put up a united front.”

  A snort from Carla. “She’ll subcontract the job. That’s what they do these days. Form subsidiaries, create branches, contract with other organizations. That way they keep their hands clean.”

  Luisa knew her mother didn’t approve of Gran’s activities, but this was the first time she’d been so openly hostile. At least to Luisa.

  “Well, then, I guess we’ll have to persuade her she’s wrong. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Luisa hung up and rolled over towards Ham. Underneath his lean hard body was a core of softness, and she couldn’t get enough. He was what she’d been looking for, except she hadn’t realized she’d been looking. She tossed her cell into her purse and snuggled closer. She stroked his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders, his chest and then moved her hands lower. He moaned softly. She rolled on top of him and a moment later he moaned again.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Ramon Suarez, aka Hector Gonzalez, and now Tomas Martinez, was peeling an orange when he heard the thrum of an engine. He put the orange down with a sigh of regret. Florida oranges were better than any others, including oranges from Cuba. He went to his living room window and peered through the shade. A black limo was idling in front of his house.

  An uneasy feeling rushed through him. Limos didn’t come to his Tampa neighborhood in Ybor City, the Cuban district. Most of the area was commercial and reminded him of Miami’s Little Havana, but the residential section was beginning to be re-gentrified, and Ramon had rented a small casita near Columbus Drive and 17th Street. A swath of woods cut across his back lawn, conferring a rustic feel. For the first time in his life, he was living in a nice place with decent amenities. Leaving Miami had been a good move.

  Until now. Had Miami followed him here? He gazed at the limo. The windows were dark, but he thought he saw three people inside: two in the front, one in the back. He tried to convince himself they weren’t a threat. If they were, they wouldn’t have come in the middle of the day.

  The man in the passenger seat got out. He was a beefy guy with a shaved head and an empty expression. Muscle. He went to the rear door of the limo and opened it. The man who climbed out appeared to be early to mid-fifties. Trim. Not tall. Battleship gray hair, and lots of it, nicely styled. Expensive-looking clothes, but casual. Fancy sunglasses.

  Still, you never knew.

  Ramon went to his closet and fished out his Russian Marakov, the one he’d been issued by the Cuban Army. He shoved the pistol into his waistband and pulled his shirt out to cover it as the doorbell chimed.

  Ramon opened the door but kept the screen closed. The man who’d been in the back seat was flanked by his goons. The driver, now that Ramon could see him, was big and burly like the other guy, but had wavy blond hair. They didn’t look like Mob. But if they weren’t wiseguys, who were they?

  The man between the bodyguards smiled. “Hector Gonzalez?”

  “Sorry. You have the wrong man.’’ He was about to close the door when the man said, “But you were Hector Gonzalez, once upon a time.”

  Ramon felt his eyes narrow. “Who’s asking?”

  The man patted his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card which he offered to Ramon. When Ramon hesitated, the man said, “It’s okay. I won’t force my way in.”

  Ramon hesitated for another moment. Then he opened the screen door enough to take the card. He scanned it. After thirty years in the U.S. he could read English, but barely. Luckily, a name and title was all that was written. David Schaffer, CEO Schaffer Electronics, Boston.

  Ramon looked up. The security guys made no move to rush him. He allowed himself to relax a bit. “You’ve come a long way.”

  The man called Schaffer spread his hands. “It’s a no-brainer, as the kids say. It’s snowing in Boston.”

  If Schaffer was trying to get him to let down his guard, he was doing a good job.

  “I’d like to ta
lk to you,” Schaffer said.

  Ramon shifted his gaze to the goons.

  Schaffer caught it. “Wait for me in the car, boys.”

  It was the bodyguards’ turn to hesitate, but they retreated to the curb and leaned against the limo, arms crossed.

  Ramon opened the screen door, stepped back, let his guest come in. In his late seventies now, Ramon was stooped with arthritis, and he had a limp. His doctor had told him he would need a hip replacement soon, but Ramon wasn’t eager to be cut open.

  Schaffer must have seen the limp. “Whoever said you get old gracefully is a liar, aren’t they? This aging shit takes guts.”

  Schaffer was trying to be likeable. Why?

  They sat in matching easy chairs. The chairs, a taupe velvet, had been one of the few things Ramon had bought new. Usually he got furniture from Goodwill or the Salvation Army. But surviving the life he’d led was grounds for a reward, wasn’t it? A pair of goddammed chairs at least.

  Schaffer took his shades off, slipped them into his shirt pocket. Despite his smile, his eyes were gray thunder. “You remember the man who brought you out of Angola over twenty years ago?”

  Ramon had to force himself not to reach for his Marakov. Aloud he said, “Of course. He was with the Agency.”

  Schaffer nodded. “Right. Well, after he got back from Africa, he quit the CIA. A guy who worked for me knew him.”

  Walters. The map. He’d told Ramon he’d quit the Agency.

  “We launched an operation based on his intel, but, unfortunately, it failed.”

  Ramon remembered Michael DeLuca’s death. He’d heard about it through the Cuban exile grapevine. Walters had been killed too, but the woman with DeLuca had escaped. Ramon suspected that if anyone had the map, she did. Or knew where it was. He recalled that she was pregnant and was working at a Miami pharmacy. He’d actually gone to see her but missed her. And when he went back, the pharmacist said she’d left. Just up and disappeared.

  Ramon wasn’t happy, but what could he do? When, after a few months, nobody contacted him to give him his share of the proceeds, he figured the map had been lost. Or that he’d been cut out. It wasn’t fair, but in a way it was a relief. The map had become a curse. He wasn’t sorry to let it go. Lo que a uno cura, a otro mata. One man’s meat was another man’s poison. Still, given that he’d endured his fill of poison, he decided to play it safe. He moved north, changed his name yet again, and melted into the Cuban community of Tampa.

  That was over twenty years ago. Now he eyed his visitor. The fact Schaffer had tracked him down could only mean one thing. The map was back in play.

  “How did you find me?” Ramon asked.

  “My staff is skilled in all sorts of security activities.” Schaffer motioned toward the window.

  Ramon knew about the thriving high-tech security business. Ex-military and intelligence operatives working for corporations. Getting paid ten times as much. With unlimited resources, they could buscar una aguja en un pajar. Find a needle in a haystack. Anywhere on the planet.

  He got up, went back to the window, and raised the shade. The two goons were still leaning against the limo. Fidel had been right. He’d predicted that corporations would run the world. In his more thoughtful moments, which seemed to come often these days, Ramon wondered if the pursuit of profit was more or less evil than a dictator’s policies. He didn’t know. Luis would have had an opinion. Funny, Ramon hadn’t thought about Luis in years.

  But his attention had wandered. He went back to his chair.

  “A map of a mine in Angola has surfaced in Chicago,” Schaffer was saying. “The satellite photos indicate it looks promising. But I am a cautious man. Especially since I’ve been disappointed in the past. I want to make sure it’s the same map I’ve been looking for all these years. That’s why I’m here. I understand you were the one who told us about it in the first place.”

  “It was a long time ago. I do not know where it is.” Meanwhile, Ramon was furiously thinking. How had the map resurfaced? Who had it? He could only think of one family in Chicago. One family with the money and clout to pursue it. But aloud he said, “Why have you been looking for it? You are already a rich man.”

  Schaffer smiled. “I want to stay rich. And I have a feeling you’d like to be rich too, yes?” Before Ramon could answer, Schaffer added, “Theoretically, the map belongs to you. And the partner you sold out. Who is now dead.” He paused. “You want your share of the proceeds, don’t you? It will give you more money than you ever imagined.”

  Ramon blinked. He knew a con when he heard one.

  But Schaffer must have taken Ramon’s silence as tacit approval. His lips curved in a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “You and I have business to conduct. I need you to tell me who has the map.”

  Ramon needed time to think, but Schaffer wasn’t giving it to him. If Tony Pacelli’s family had the map, as he suspected, Ramon was screwed. The Pacellis would kill him as casually as they’d crush an ant. But what about this guy? With his two goons and high-tech security? Why didn’t Schaffer already know where the map was?

  There was only one reason. Ramon was the only other person on earth still alive who knew about the map. Which meant he was expendable. In fact, it was preferable that he be eliminated. That would make things nice and tidy.

  As if Schaffer had read Ramon’s mind, the man said, “I was hoping we could strike a deal. Your information in return for a sizeable—call it a finder’s—fee.”

  Ramon’s heart started to bang in his chest. The man wanted him dead. Would it be a clean shot? Or a slow, protracted death? If there was one thing Ramon knew he couldn’t stand, it was torture. He had survived it twice. The third time would be his last. He weighed his options.

  “So, do you want to take me up on my offer?” Schaffer turned toward the window and dipped his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Ramon saw the two bodyguards move leisurely toward the door. He was nothing more than a speck of black on a white surface. A speck of dirt to be wiped away and disposed of.

  “Well?”

  Ramon glanced through the window. The men were closing in.

  Schaffer flipped up his palms. “It doesn’t have to be like this, you know.” He stood up and turned toward the door, as if he was going to open it for his bodyguards. Ramon pulled out his Marakov, racked the slide, and pointed it at Schaffer.

  “Stop,” Ramon said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Schaffer spun around. When he saw the gun, his face registered surprise.

  “Call off your goons,” Ramon said. “And get your hands up.”

  Schaffer raised his arms.

  One of the bodyguards reached for the handle on the screen door.

  “Tell them!” Ramon barked.

  “Boys…” Schaffer’s voice was thin. “Back off. He’s got a gun.”

  A stunned silence wafted in from outside. Even the chirr of insects went quiet.

  Ramon flicked his eyes to the door. “Tell them to get the hell out of here.”

  “You heard him,” Schaffer said.

  Ramon couldn’t see the men, but he heard scuffling at the door. They weren’t leaving. In fact, they were probably planning an assault. Two against one. He had no chance.

  He backed up, still aiming the gun at Schaffer. What Schaffer and his men didn’t know was that there was a concealed garage door behind the casita. When developers built the place, they decided to experiment with a door that looked like two windows. When the homeowner pressed a button, the exterior wall with the windows quietly pivoted up to expose the garage. Which Ramon used for storage.

  If the guards split up, one covering the front and the other the back, the one in back might miss the door and continue around the side of the house. And if Ramon could open the garage door quickly, he might be able to sprint across the lawn to the cover of the woods behind.

  Ramon retreated down the hallway that led to the garage. Schaffer’s arms were still in the air, but he didn’t look scared. Ramon th
ought he saw a hint of a sneer.

  “You’re not going to make it, you know,” Schaffer said. “My guys are good.”

  Ramon didn’t answer. He was three steps from the door to the garage when one of the goons crashed through the front, clutching a pistol. Schaffer stepped aside. Ramon threw open the door and ducked out as the guard sprayed the hallway with a volley of bullets. Ramon pushed the button that raised the garage door.

  The door seemed to take forever to rise. Ramon couldn’t breathe. He heard a shout from inside, then the thump of heavy shoes pounding down the hall. Jesu Cristo! Open, you mother-fucker!

  At last Ramon saw daylight and started to run. Immediately his back screamed at him. Was he hit? No. His arthritis. He almost slowed, then realized if he did, he would die. He forced himself to keep going. The trees were only about twenty yards away, but they seemed like a mile to the seventy-five year old man.

  He was halfway across the yard when he heard a snick. The second bodyguard was racking his slide. A spray of bullets whizzed past him. Ramon wanted to twist around and return fire, but that would take time. Time he didn’t have. He had to reach the woods. His legs were on fire—again, he wondered if he had been hit—but the trees were only a few yards away. Shouts hammered out behind him. The goons were chasing him. He started wheezing and gasping for air, but he only needed a few more seconds. Por favor, Dios! He stumbled the last few yards and threw himself into the woods.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Over the next few days, Frankie learned more than she wanted to know about coltan. Nicky arrived at the house one rainy April morning with Trevor and Ham in tow. They also brought with them, after doing a thorough background check, a mining engineer who had started his own company but used to work in the Congo. Somehow, between the four men, they’d snared recent satellite photos, mining reports, and other information that made the prospect of working the mine near Dundo, Angola, across the Congo border, look promising.

  With Frankie at the meeting was her consigliere, a mild-mannered lawyer with snow white hair. He had advised her father for years, and Frankie kept him on. Her personal accountant was there, too, and while neither offered an opinion, they asked all the right questions. How much capital investment was required, what was the window of time, the potential return on her investment, the engineer’s expectations and fees. Frankie knew her consigliere was figuring out how to launder the necessary funds for a legitimate project, while her accountant was thinking through the tax consequences. But they knew her well enough not to advise her or discuss it in front of strangers.