by Jose Latour
The minister acknowledged that the man had most certainly been in the right place—XEMIC—at the right time—from 1991 to 1999—in the perfect position—network administrator. But he needed evidence in order to act. Had Victoria put two and two together and made five? Maybe her husband had asked her for a divorce, and she wanted to frame him and send him to jail. After all, the brilliant psychologist didn’t exactly make men turn their heads; he would not blame Pardo had he fallen for a better-looking woman. The minister had seen people do worse things out of jealousy. He remembered that many years ago, in the province of Camagüey, a man was sentenced to death for engaging in counterrevolutionary activities. His wife and her lover had framed him, planting C-3 and detonators in his closet. Fortunately, the woman lost her nerve six hours before the scheduled execution time and confessed everything. Her lover had been executed; she was sentenced to twenty years. Perhaps other innocent men had not been so lucky.
But even if Victoria’s suspicions turned out to be right, had Pardo been the lone culprit or just an accomplice in the theft the Chief knew nothing about, he saw no reason to inform him now. If Victoria was right on the button, once the case had been solved the Chief would be informed that her loyalty had reached the point of turning in her husband. That would make the Commander happy! Glowering, he would ask what crime Victoria’s husband had committed and then he would learn that Pardo had stolen, or helped others steal, $2.7 million. Yes, that was the way to do it, after the case had been solved. The minister turned to face Victoria.
“Well, Comrade Colonel, what do you propose we do?”
It was precisely what Victoria had hoped for; everything hinged on the minister asking that question. She had seen him articulate the same request several times in the past and had heard many stories in which the man, after learning about a problem, asked subordinates if they had any suggestions. The opposite of the Chief, who always knew the best course of action. She turned her gaze to the floor as though considering her answer, then looked the minister in the eye.
“Comrade Lieutenant General: I have carefully reflected on this. I place the interests of the homeland, the party, and the Commander in Chief above everything else. My personal feelings are secondary, but I would like to clarify one thing. I loved my husband very much; I thought my feelings for him would never decrease. But when I found that cash and remembered that Pardo had been discharged from XEMIC because over two million dollars were electronically stolen, that at the time he was the corporation’s network administrator, and that he had traveled abroad on many occasions and could have retrieved the money, or deposited it in a bank, or invested it, I felt sure he had stolen that money or helped others steal it. And in an instant something crumbled inside me: my love for him. I can’t love a thief, but above all I can’t love a man who betrayed the confidence that the Revolution placed in him.”
Moments of respectful silence followed as Victoria bowed her head, removed her glasses, took a tiny handkerchief to her eyes, then dried her nostrils, put on the glasses, pocketed the handkerchief.
“I respectfully suggest investigating if my husband acted alone or has accomplices,” she went on, “whether or not it’s possible to recover the money before arresting him, or them. I feel sure he hasn’t spent his share, or the whole amount, depending on whether he acted alone or not. Well, maybe he has squandered ten, twenty, or thirty thousand, but I believe the remainder is stored somewhere, in a foreign bank possibly. He traveled extensively. I told you I saw a statement. My husband acted very nervous over my seeing what was on the screen and clicked on Exit immediately. I wasn’t trying to sneak up on him. I was bringing him a cup of coffee …”
“Yes, comrade, you already explained that. Tell me what you advise to try to recover the money,” the minister, throwing a side-long glance at General Lastra.
“I’m sorry. I’m so nervous and ashamed. Forgive me, Comrade Lieutenant General.”
“You are forgiven. Go on, please.”
“My advice is this. I confront my husband with the cash he has at home, tell him that I saw the bank statement on the laptop’s screen, and demand that he come clean with me. I tell him that I am sick and tired of the Revolution and the Commander in Chief, that I kept this from him thinking there was no way out. Then I say I suspect he stole the XEMIC money. I ask him if he acted alone or if he got a cut, ask him where he has his share. If he admits he stole the money, I compliment him, term it the cleverest thing he could have done. If he has it abroad, then I tell him we should flee to Mexico, the Dominican Republic, Jamaica, or any other country from which he can access his bank account, or we can travel to where the loot is stashed. Once we get our hands on it, we will move to some faraway country, Australia or India or some other place, and begin a new life.”
Victoria fell silent. The minister took his eyes away from her and again paced the room. General Lastra bit the end of a Lancero and lit it. After a little over a minute, the minister came to a halt in front of Victoria.
“Then what?”
“Then, Comrade Lieutenant General, it depends on what he admits and denies. He can’t say the cash is not his. No relatives, friends, or colleagues of ours have set foot in the new apartment. How will he react? What will he say? I have no clue. Without wishing to sound conceited, I believe he hasn’t defected because he is very much in love with me, albeit not enough to live an honest life. I will try to corner him. I don’t think he’ll lie to me. But I can’t predict what he will say. However …”
She opened a dubious pause.
“What?”
“I realize that, in this case, there’s no reason to trust me just because I’ve been for some years in Intelligence. Should I be taken at my word? You may be wondering. Has my husband been playing the field and I want to take revenge? Well, so you can have irrefutable evidence of this face-to-face that I’m suggesting, I ask you to consider installing mikes at my home, maybe even one of those tiny TV cameras Counterintelligence has, and tape my husband’s reaction to what I’ll say to him.”
It looked as though Victoria had nothing more to recommend, and the minister returned to his executive swivel chair, snuggled down in it, reclined, and stared at the ceiling. Despite so many disappointments along so many years, humankind never ceased to amaze him. Victoria’s willingness to film the whole thing so others could watch what went on dissipated his suspicion that she was framing Pardo. It also made plain as day that this Heroine of the Republic was a bitch. And she felt sure the man loved her very much! He could not imagine what she would do were she to think that Pardo hated her. However, he had learned many years ago that personal feelings should not be allowed to interfere with the job at hand. It might be another interesting video to watch.
The minister also considered that this was one of the handful of women in Cuba who could lift a handset, punch a number, and ask to be granted a private audience with the Commander, feeling sure that it would be conceded. He doubted that she would dare go over his head, but with premenopausal women, he never felt sure. Those flashes and mood swings! If he overruled her proposal, might she complain to the Chief that the minister of the interior had forfeited the opportunity to recover all or part of $2.7 million? Not probable, but neither impossible. Take nothing for granted was his motto. He rotated the chair somewhat to his left to face Victoria.
“Suppose he admits that he has all or part of that money abroad, Colonel. Suppose he likes your idea of betraying and fleeing to another country. Then what?” he probed.
“Then, Comrade Lieutenant General, the decision is yours to make. I’ll abide by your orders. If you decide that we ought to do all we can to recover the loot or part of it, especially now that the Revolution needs every penny, I’d probably have to make him believe that I’m willing to leave with him, agree to what he proposes concerning arrangements to leave Cuba. If you decide that the money is best considered lost, as far as I’m concerned you can arrest him and charge him with embezzlement. The tapes would be incontroverti
ble evidence.”
The minister turned to his chief of intelligence. “What do you think, Lastra?”
The general cleared his throat. “Well, comrade, I think that Comrade Colonel Victoria has proven that her loyalty to the Revolution is extraor—”
“I know, Lastra, I know. What do you think of Victoria confronting Pardo with the cash, asking him where it comes from, saying she wants to defect, and taping the whole thing?”
“It depends, Comrade Lieutenant General, on what you decide concerning the total stolen. If you consider it lost, there’s no need for that. We just search the apartment, find the cash, demand to know to whom does it belong. If Pardo loves Victoria as much as she thinks he does, he’ll admit it’s his. We’ll ask him where all that cash comes from, remind him that when he was XEMIC’s network administrator a bundle of money disappeared. He’ll confess eventually and that will be all. We won’t be able to recover the rest of the money if he and his possible accomplices transferred it abroad, but we will try him and sentence him to life without parole.
“But if you want to try to recover the rest of the money, I think that what Comrade Victoria suggests is a good starting point. We should tape their exchange, see how he reacts. Again, if he loves Victoria so much, he’ll be overjoyed when she says she’s willing to defect. Maybe he reveals where the money, or his share of it, is. Then we’d have to meet again, study the situation, and redefine our objectives. I don’t think we can see the whole picture or make all the right presuppositions here and now.”
The minister considered things for a while. His secret reserve fund had reached an all-time low of forty-four thousand dollars. As the saying goes, Cuba was in debt “to the eleven thousand virgins and additionally owed one peso to each saint.” That year’s sugar output was expected to be the second lowest in the history of the Revolution; the world price of the sweetener was depressed, too. Tourism had collapsed after September 11. By closing their intelligence base in Lourdes, the Russians had shaved off $200 million from the revenue planned for 2002. The oil bill would exceed $1 billion. As a student of war history, the situation reminded him of Dunkirk, an economic and financial Dunkirk. Therefore, he would not get any cash for his secret reserve fund. But if he could recover part or all of the stolen money, maybe the Chief would let him keep some.
“Okay, I approve Victoria’s plan. Lastra, clear this with the guys in Surveillance. Victoria, Lastra will let you know when your apartment is operational, then you tell us when you’ll proceed. We’ll meet a day or two after you have this exchange with your husband, examine results, and decide our next moves. And thanks, Colonel. You are a true revolutionary.”
Victoria jumped to her feet and stood at attention. “I serve the Socialist Revolution,” she hollered.
…
That evening, in their bedroom, the deathly pallor of his skin frightening, Pardo collapsed in bed.
“You what?” he mumbled.
“Take it easy and hear what I have to say. I got it all figured out,” a smiling Victoria said.
…
Elliot crossed his legs and watched as Maria Scheindlin, bubbly as a girl finding an unexpected gift, opened the plastic bag he had just handed her. She pulled out two blue velvet pouches that contained bottles of rum and placed them on the coffee table. She extracted one and read aloud from the label.
“‘Isla del Tesoro.’ So, this is the famous rum aged fifty years.”
“Or so they say.”
Next, Maria took out five CDs by Camerata Romeu and a box of Cohiba Espléndidos, which she also deposited on the coffee table.
“Good. David Sadow will be thrilled. So will Jenny. Thank you very much, Elliot. So kind of you. How much do I owe you?”
Elliot drew his wallet out and produced three receipts. “The cigars were three hundred eighty-five, the rum …”
“Elliot?”
“Yes?”
“Just tell me the total, please.”
“Six hundred twenty.”
“Okay, I’ll write you a check. And throw away the receipts, please.”
The widow stood from the sofa in one swift motion, ambled to a closed door, opened it, and disappeared into the library. Lost in reflection, Steil returned the receipts to his wallet, pocketed it, then with unseeing eyes contemplated the still life on the opposing wall. The previous evening, at an FBI’s safe house in the NW section of the city, Hart and McLellan had made him repeat his Sunday report word by word, probably fishing for contradictions. Remembering Berta’s surname—Arosamena—was the only addition he had made. Then the agents had proceeded to give him instructions for this evening’s meeting. Basically, Hart reiterated what he had said at the airport, McLellan emphasized the need for secrecy, but the gravity with which both men treated the whole case had made Elliot realize that something serious was at stake. He wanted out badly.
But even if he were sent to the sidelines after making the phone call to Havana, the firm’s future worried him. At the airport, Hart had mentioned that they would look into IMLATINEX’s connection with Trans-Caribbean. Maybe he should have omitted that. Before the agent had said they would look into it, the inescapable implication eluded him. So stupid of him. What would happen if the FBI found that the guys in Panama were nothing more than Scheindlin’s figureheads? Would the federal government fine IMLATINEX for violating the Trading with the Enemy Act? Would he, as a Cuban, be considered an accomplice? Worse, an agent? He had to start searching for documents proving that the Panamanian company had been established almost twenty-five years before he settled in Miami; that it began trading with Cuba in the seventies. And talk to a lawyer. Who? He could not ask Fidelia to recommend someone. She would demand to know why he needed a lawyer, and that would start a fight. Was he going back to his old habits? Concealing serious problems from her? Steil heaved a sigh of quiet resignation.
Maria came back, a check dangling from her right hand. She was wearing a sleeveless yellow cotton blouse, a green knee-length skirt from a lightweight fabric, and leather thongs. She looked better with her hair hanging loose about her shoulders. Same gold studs in her earlobes, watch on her left wrist. Steil scrambled to his feet.
“Oh, for God’s sake, sit down Elliot. Save those manners for strangers. You make me nervous. Here you are.”
“Thanks.” He smiled, put the check in a side pocket of his guayabera and eased himself down onto his club chair. The beaming Maria got back to the sofa, crossed her legs, tugged at the hem of her skirt. Steil got ready to do what he was so reluctant to do, what he never would have done under different circumstances. He had patiently told Hart and McLellan that, had he been acting of his own free will, he would have sent Capdevila and Berta to hell, absolutely refusing to tell such a ludicrous tale to Maria Scheindlin. It was the logical thing to do, he had argued further. Maria would judge him stupid, or an accomplice in the swindle. Hart had smiled enigmatically and advised him to say he had done it to protect Mr. Scheindlin’s reputation.
“Well, tell me. How’s Cuba? How are your friends and relatives?”
Elliot’s grin appeared forced as he broached the subject. “Now, let me see. Cuba is much better than when I left. However, were it not for the dollars sent by Cubans living abroad, the country would be in ruins. I found my relatives in fairly good health, a friend is not so well, she’s been diagnosed with cervical cancer.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. But I must tell you that something quite … strange happened to me, and it concerns you, so I think—”
“Concerns me?” knitting her brow, losing the smile.
“Absolutely. Listen, the Sunday before last, same day I arrived, as I was getting ready to go to bed around 8:00 P.M.—hadn’t slept a wink the night before—a guy who identified himself as Carlos Capdevila and a woman who said her name was Berta Arosamena knocked on the door of my hotel room …”
Having told it twice before, he finished the story in less than thirty minutes. After Elliot revealed tha
t, according to his two visitors, Scheindlin had been trading in pharmaceuticals with Cuba, Maria looked mystified. When he said they claimed that, at the time of his death, Scheindlin had in his possession one hundred thousand advanced by XEMIC, Maria covered her open mouth with the palm of her hand and kept it there for close to a minute. She still had not articulated a single word a minute after he finished. Hart had instructed: “Don’t say anything after you are done, don’t move, don’t breathe. Wait for her reaction.” He was doing exactly that.
“Well, Elliot,” she said at last, “this is … news to me. I didn’t know Ruben was … doing that. It’s so hard to believe. I mean, I knew he was trading with Cuba, but not medicine, he never traded in medicine. Did you ever hear Ruben talk about medicine?”
“Never, ma’am.”
Shaking her head in wonder, Maria was gazing at the carpet spread underneath the coffee table. “Is it possible these people lied to you?”
“It’s perfectly possible.”
“But then, is it possible Ruben was doing this for them?”
“Nothing is impossible, Maria. The first time you invited me here you asked how reserved I thought Mr. Scheindlin was. I said with strangers he was very reserved. You said he didn’t bring business matters home. Maybe he was much more secretive than we were aware of. In the last six months, IMLATINEX’s bank accounts haven’t registered any inexplicable hundred thousand deposit, or a few mysterious deposits that added together approach a hundred thousand. I’m certain of that. I checked it yesterday. All our revenues come from legitimate sources well known to me. But what these two said is not impossible. Now Cuba is buying from American companies on a cash basis. It’s possible that Mr. Scheindlin asked for the money up front. He may have had personal bank accounts abroad, or safe-deposit boxes, or a safe here at home, to deposit or store cash he didn’t want to flow through American banking channels. I don’t know. These people think you know or can find out. And that’s what they’re asking you to do. That you tell them whether or not you know where their money is, and if you find it, whether or not you are willing to give it back.”