by Jose Latour
Maria’s expression reflected bafflement and disbelief. Elliot suspected she had no clue what to do, where to begin, and felt sorry for her. She moved her eyes to the sliding door that opened into the backyard and took a moment or two to think things over.
“Well,” she said at last, “I have to check a few things to get to the bottom of this. I mean, we’re not talking about nickels and dimes here. But help me figure this out, Elliot, please. I’m very confused. Play devil’s advocate. Let’s consider the first thing that comes to mind: that this is a complete fabrication, Ruben never traded pharmaceuticals, no such cash exists. If so, are these two out of their minds? How can they think I’ll give them a hundred thousand in cash just because they concocted an incredible story? When you’re trying to con someone, you have to offer something in exchange for the money. They haven’t offered a thing, except for this ‘gratitude’ that would allow me to invest and buy real estate in Cuba; but that’s bull. Besides, I’m not interested. The Cuban government can’t take me to court, they didn’t furnish any proof, either. So, are they crazy? Did they look crazy to you?”
“No, ma’am, they didn’t.”
“They made no threat.”
“No, ma’am.”
“They didn’t say ‘If she doesn’t gives us back our money we’ll set her home on fire.’”
“No, ma’am.”
“You are not hiding something so as not to scare the life out of me.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Elliot, you make me feel like I’m a hundred years old. Stop ma’aming me.”
“Yes, m … Maria.”
“So, if they are not crazy, if they didn’t make any threat, if what they’re so politely asking is for me to check my husband’s safe-deposit boxes and personal bank accounts and, should I find one hundred thousand unaccounted for, to please consider if I would be willing to give back what’s theirs, then: What the fuck is this, Elliot? Pardon the swearing. I guess I’m freaking out.”
Elliot fought off a smile, crossed his legs, and moved his gaze to the front door. He couldn’t say what he suspected: that this was a State Security operation in which the money and all this crap about Scheindlin buying medicine for Cuba was just a cover for something much more sinister. That the FBI was on the alert. That she and he were just fifth-billing actors in the play.
“Maria, I don’t know.”
“You are so helpful.”
“Listen, you’ve spent a few minutes thinking about this. I’ve been considering the whole thing for nine days and I’m still unable to find a rational explanation.”
Maria bit her right thumbnail for an instant, then rearranged herself in her seat.
“Okay, let’s then consider what seems impossible. It’s true, Ruben was doing this for them, when he died he had the money. What should I do?”
“That’s for you to decide, ma’am. Sorry. Maria.”
“I know it’s for me to decide, Elliot. I’m asking your opinion.”
“As long as you don’t shoot the messenger.”
Maria chuckled and the tension abated somewhat.
“I think the first thing you should do,” Elliot began, “is to check if among Mr. Scheindlin’s personal papers there is some deal with medical supplies: tenders, invoices, packing lists, something like that. Regarding the money, he may have had personal bank accounts abroad, by now you probably know which. You could check the statements, see if a deposit for a hundred thousand took place two or three months ago. Another possibility is that he kept the cash in a safe-deposit box here in Miami or in some other country in which he had rented one. Do you have a safe here?”
“Here at home?”
“Yes.”
“Sure.”
“Have you checked it lately?”
“It’s not there. I’ve opened that safe many times since Ruben died. I have twenty-odd thousand dollars in it, important papers, stocks and bonds, and my jewelry.”
“I see. Well, I can’t think about any other step you could take.”
“Suppose that, against all odds, I find that the Cubans’ claim is true.”
“Then you decide if you are going to give it back or not, and let me know your decision. I call these people, tell them either that their uncle died or that he recovered completely, and gracefully bow out.”
For a moment Maria looked taken aback. “How chivalrous of you,” she said reproachfully.
Steil shook his head, clicked his tongue, and smiled mirthlessly. “Try to see it from where I stand, Maria, please. I am a Cuban citizen; Cuba has been designated part of the Axis of Evil by the present administration; some Cubans living here have been condemned to long prison sentences for spying for Cuba; I just got back from Cuba. Should this … thing be made public, I could be accused of being an enemy agent, be deported …”
“Okay, I understand,” Maria said lifting a hand, staring at the floor, not wanting to hear more. “Let me ask you something: Who knows about this?”
“Nobody.”
“You haven’t told anyone?”
“Not a soul.”
“Could you please do me the favor of keeping it like that? I don’t want to see Ruben’s name at the center of a political scandal for trading with Cuba. And you know he traded, not medicine maybe, but many other things.”
“I won’t tell anyone, Maria.”
“Okay, thanks. Now, Elliot, I need to be alone. I’m so confused …”
“I understand, Maria,” getting to his feet. “I shouldn’t have agreed to deliver this message to you. Only now I realize it was a mistake. I apologize.”
“It’s okay, Elliot. There’s no turning back the clock now,” she said, with an expression that Steil interpreted as, “You are either a fool or their partner.”
“I had two things in mind: Mr. Scheindlin’s reputation and the future of IMLATINEX,” as he ambled to the front door.
“I understand,” reaching for the knob. Her tone said she did not.
“Well, if there’s anything else I can do …”
“No, thanks, Elliot. You are Cuban, you may be accused of being a spy, you may be deported. Hopefully in a few days I’ll call you, ask you over, and ask you to make that phone call to Havana and say whatever I decide you have to say. I would make it myself if I were fluent in Spanish, to minimize your involvement. But I’m not. After hanging up, you gracefully bow out.”
Stung by how cowardly his words sounded, befuddled by the disappointment in her voice, Steil inclined his head. “Sorry, Maria.”
“Thanks for bringing the presents,” she said, opening the door.
Steil stretched out his hand. “Don’t mention it. Good night.”
“Good night, Elliot.” Maria pretended she had not seen the proffered hand.
…
“Three sets of cameras and mikes: two in your living area and one in your bedroom in case he goes in there. In the living room, camera one sweeps from the wall facing the street to the dining room and from the center of the living room to the wall facing the front door, where the wraparound sofa is. Camera two sweeps exactly the same area from the opposite end, that is, the front door, the two loveseats in front of the sofa, and the coffee table. The whole area is covered. He can sit by your side or facing you, he can change seats, stand, move around, we’ll be watching him. The set in your bedroom faces the bed, the side tables, and the window. Surveillance says that when couples have arguments in their bedrooms, they almost always sit or lie down in beds. But it would be best if you confront him in the living room.”
“I suppose all this paraphernalia is conveniently concealed.”
“Micaela, please, these people are pros.”
“Of course.”
They were in Lastra’s office, the chief of intelligence behind a beautiful desk of African cedar presented to him by the president of Angola, Victoria in one of the two cedar club chairs upholstered in genuine antelope hide facing the desk. The general had on a checkered shirt, khakis, and gleaming brow
n loafers. Victoria had a light brown sweater over her white blouse, blue jeans, and moccasins. Lastra always had his air conditioner at full blast and whenever she was asked to present herself at his office, she put on the sweater. It was Wednesday, April 24.
“The monitors, VCRs, and the operator on duty are stationed a few floors below,” Lastra continued. “Let me know when you are ready to go ahead. I want to have a couple of men watching, too, in case Pardo gets violent …”
Victoria’s wistful smile and the way she shook her head from side to side several times prompted Lastra to ask: “You don’t think he will?”
“I told you, Brigadier General. Pardo loves me.”
“Good. But the men will be there in any case, to be on the safe side. Since this isn’t a regular stakeout, Surveillance would appreciate it if we could wrap it up ASAP so they can dismantle the whole shebang and install it somewhere else. They are as hard pressed for men, money, and equipment as we are.”
“I see. What about tonight?”
“That would be perfect. Where does he keep the money?”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“You said in a closet, but where? A drawer? In a molding?”
“I thought I had. When we moved to this apartment we stored many books and magazines in a closet of an empty bedroom. I was looking for an old issue of Psychological Bulletin and noticed that, in the middle of his pile of computer magazines, one bulged. I pulled it out and found an envelope with a wad of hundred-dollar bills, sixty-four to be exact, stored between the pages.”
Lastra mulled this over. “Have you considered the possibility that he hid it there because he wanted you to find it?”
“Yes, I have. And this provocation I’ll carry out allows for that possibility. I’ll say I saw the bank statement on the screen, a few days later I chanced on the money, then I made all the right guesses. I react accordingly. Which reminds me, have you had our server’s network administrator check my account?”
“Yes, and you were right. An offshore bank website was accessed.” Lastra lifted an eyebrow, interlaced his fingers behind his head, reclined back on the swivel chair, gazed into her eyes. “You are the psychologist. Tell me. What makes an honest man become a thief overnight?”
Victoria considered it. “In this particular case, and in many other cases, as you well know, maybe traveling to capitalist countries made Pardo renege on his principles. Remember our coordinator for Western Europe in the eighties?”
“I remember him. You weren’t with us then.”
“I wasn’t, but I read his file. Born and raised in a farm, fought the bandits in the mountains of Escambray, joined Intelligence when he was nineteen. Clever, followed orders, majored in law, had a beer every month or so, didn’t smoke, model guy. So, he gets appointed resident director for all our illegals and informers in Western Europe, stationed in Prague. Then, less than a year later, Mr. Perfect steals the fund for expenses, drives to Paris, walks into the American embassy, and betrays his country. Why? I have a theory about it.”
“Out with it.”
“Cubans born after 1959 grew up in a very austere environment, lacking articles that are taken for granted in rich countries, from sanitary napkins to laptops. When they travel to those countries, some suffer a shock. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry has what no Cuban has. Capitalism begets consumerism. And what’s the first thing a consumer needs? Money. And what’s the easiest way to get your hands on the money you need to live as those people live?
“Then look at the other side of the coin. We have thousands of men and women in this country who grew up in well-to-do Cuban families. They were middle class, a few were upper class. They should have left Cuba. And what did they do? They betrayed their class and sided with the working class. Some of these people are members of the Central Committee, officers in the armed forces, ministers, vice ministers; they enjoy privileges. But the majority are intellectuals, doctors, lawyers, retirees. They eat what they get on the ration card, ride ‘camels,’ stand in line for hours. Yet, almost all those who travel to the United States to visit relatives return to Cuba. They don’t defect, they don’t steal, most have a sympathetic attitude toward the Revolution. They had the opportunity to make a choice and live with the good and the bad consequences of that choice.”
Lastra just smiled and seemed lost in reverie for a while. Victoria had heard that he came from a rich family that owned hundreds of hectares of grazing land and thousands of heads of cattle in the eastern part of the island. Rumor had it that he had attended college in Kentucky, or Alabama, or another American state before joining Intelligence. Old photos proved that when young he did not have his present glum manner. Another victim of the profession, she thought. She liked him because he was a stickler for efficiency, cared for his subordinates, and never acted superior toward others.
“Then how do you explain Cubans born after 1959 who travel to First World countries and remain faithful to the Revolution?” asked the general.
“They are living proof that the majority don’t succumb to the siren calls of capitalism, that we’ve been able to teach the new generation the importance of upholding our principles. Unfortunately, my husband belongs to the minority.”
“Right.”
Lastra opened a drawer, extracted a Lancero, bit its tip, and lighted it with a throwaway. “So, are you certain you’ll do it tonight? I have to tell Surveillance.”
“I’ll do it tonight, Comrade Brigadier General.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
“Just one more thing, Comrade. He’ll probably want to make love tonight. I can’t refuse, so I’d appreciate it if you tell Surveillance not to watch or tape that.”
“Don’t fret. I will. Take care, Colonel.”
“You too, comrade.”
…
Tony Soto seemed deeply embarrassed. Perched on a bar stool, talking in a low voice, his tone apologetic, he watched the circles he was drawing with the bottom of his glass on the mahogany bartop at Charlie’s Lounge. Frequent tongue-clicking and shoulder-shrugging went with the soft tone and downcast eyes, the unconscious body language Cubans learn from the cradle when providing justification for an action they regret. It can also be seen when one is self-deprecatory, usually following the admission that you put your foot in it. Although hearing Tony attentively, the teacher in Elliot could not fail to notice how many expressions in English and in Spanish have the same signification. He had just discovered another: Put your foot in it is meter la pata in Cuba.
Tony said he had requested Elliot’s presence at the bar to excuse himself for introducing Hart and McLellan. As a police officer, he could not refuse to collaborate with law-enforcing agencies, Tony argued. Besides, they had asked politely, made it seem like it was a favor. Tony also thought he could mediate in case Elliot lost his cool, as indeed he had. But he felt lousy about the whole thing, and he wanted Elliot to know it.
“Don’t worry, Tony. It’s okay. They were right. I was appr—”
“NO! I don’t wanna know. You can’t tell anyone.”
“For God’s sake, Tony. You were there, you know they said someone would approach me.”
“Didn’t they say you can’t discuss this with anyone?”
“They did.”
“So, don’t.”
“Hey, don’t panic. I won’t tell you anything. Jesus, I’ve never seen you so scared. What’s the fucking matter?”
“Nothing is the matter. It’s none of my business and I just don’t wanna know, okay?”
They remained silent for almost a minute. Tony finished his beer and ordered a refill. Steil sipped his Seven-Up. The barman poured Tony’s third beer and the cop swilled down half without even tasting it, wiping a knuckle across his lips and mustache. Once again Steil registered how much his former pupil had aged in eight years. He had developed a gut that hung over his pants and lines on his forehead and wrinkles in the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there. A few white hairs shone on his temples, too. Li
dia was five years his senior, and in 1994, Steil had predicted that eventually she would come across as his mother, not his wife. Another prediction that turns out to be wrong, Elliot thought. Now Lidia was thirty-nine and looked forty-something. She never touched the stuff, followed strict diets, dyed her hair, and spent a fortune on face and hand creams as well. Tony just pumped iron. He came across as forty at thirty-four. If he kept up his lifestyle for another ten years, she would end up looking younger than him.
“Elliot … I wonder … if it would be possible, you know … to keep from these people that I occasionally do things for the company. They may think, you know, that a police officer shouldn’t get involved in … well, you know, debt collecting, helping out with difficult clients, contacting customs, and stuff, you know …”
“I know,” Elliot said, thinking about American buzzwords. Some people just had to interpolate “you know,” or “fuck,” or more recently “basically” into each sentence. And this was not restricted to the undereducated. The media was in love with “basically” and “having said that.” Today he was very language-oriented, he admitted to himself.
“They may tell Internal Affairs and, you know, make things tough for me.”
“Tony, I won’t tell them a word. But be sure that in the next weeks, maybe months, these people will place the company under a magnifying glass.”
“Really?”
“Positive.”
“Why?”
“You don’t want me to tell you.”
“Right. So, you think I should get lost for some time?”