Hostage in Havana ct-1

by Noel Hynd

  She came back inside, still functioning in an information void of what had transpired the previous morning. She knew the rumors that the locals were spreading, but questions haunted her: Was Paul dead? What was the larger picture? Did Washington yet know what had happened? Who was looking for her? Cuban police, Cuban security? Violette? Figaro? Anyone?

  As for Roland Violette, Alex had carefully memorized the contact procedures. She had little choice but to persist in her initial assignment until it blew up completely. But ugly scenarios further presented themselves. What if, by contacting Violette, she was walking further into a trap? What if the CIA wasn’t leveling on their intentions with him. There were plenty of questions and some fly-by-night morality. But no answers emerged.

  That evening, as the sun was setting, the family took Alex to a small cafe in town. Alex went warily, not wishing to be spotted by police, but the hour passed uneventfully, during which she watched the street from a corner table. Working men knocked back slugs of rum in the bar lit by fluorescent light. She listened as dominos banged on tables. She tried to tune in on the bawdy passionate conversations among lovers and strangers. The ever-present whiff of puros permeated the night air, and she heard the beat of drums and maracas through bad speakers.

  Later, Alex sat in the small living room with her new friends and they chatted. Maria seemed to be preoccupied with correspondence that she was writing by hand. They had no extra bedroom for her, so when they retired to their single bedroom at about 11:00 p.m., Alex slept on the sofa.

  FORTY-FIVE

  At a side-street cafe in Old Havana, shortly before midnight, business was finally slacking off. Gradually the cafe El Rincon Cubano emptied out. Two couples still sat at separate tables, as well as a single man in a suit, reading a newspaper. At a table in the rear sat an old revolutionary named Garcia, drinking by himself. One of the couples rose and left, followed by the man who’d been reading the newspaper. Then the other couple started smooching, but soon they got up and left as well. Watching all this was yet another man at the bar, alone, nursing a mojito.

  Jose, the bartender, spoke to the barfly. “I’m going to close,” he said. “Time for everyone to go home.”

  The final drinker nodded. “May I finish?” he asked politely.

  “You may finish,” Jose answered.

  The drinker turned to the window and spotted a man lurking outside. He checked to see if Garcia was still at the rear table. A figure appeared at the door and entered. The man at the bar looked at the new arrival and gave a decisive nod.

  Jose was about to speak when the man at the bar drew a pistol, held it low across the bar, and aimed it at Jose. He raised a finger to his lips to indicate silence. Everything would be okay if Jose remained silent.

  Meanwhile, the lone man in the suit got up, yawned, and stretched. Manuel Perez closed the door behind him. He went straight for Garcia, who was straightening his jacket.

  “?Que quiere usted, Senor?” Garcia asked. What do you want?

  What he wanted was not conversation. Perez reached a hand into his jacket and quickly pulled it out again. It now held a small powerful pistol, one of those Italian ones that are just perfect for killing in tight areas.

  Garcia yelled in terror when he saw the weapon. He tried to bolt but Perez fired. The first bullet caught the old revolutionary in the stomach and hurled him backward over a table. Then Perez pounced on his fallen prey and pushed the nose of the pistol to Garcia’s head. He fired point blank.

  Two loud pops got the job done.

  Perez turned and was quickly out the door. His accomplice gave Jose a curt nod and packed away his own pistol. He was out the door as quickly as Perez, disappearing into the shadows of a pleasant summer night in Havana.

  Alex tried to sleep, but a violent fight between two feral cats just beyond the open screened window woke her up at 2:00 a.m. The animals screamed like banshees and the brawl recurred around 3:40. The next morning at 5:00 a.m., sunlight flowed in brilliant yellow into the living room through the same window, followed by the incessant crowing of several roosters.

  The Cuban family gave her breakfast. At 8:00 a.m., Guillermo walked her to the bus stop on the road that led out of the village and westward into the town of San Ferrer. He explained that she should go to San Ferrer first, then take a connecting bus in San Herlito, two stops down the road, which would connect to Havana.

  Guillermo stayed with her. A dozen people assembled to wait for the 9:00 bus. Then a blue vehicle appeared at a bend down the road, and Guillermo explained that this was the bus Alex wanted.

  “Thank you for everything,” Alex said. “And thank your family again for me.”

  Guillermo nodded. But Alex could tell that the boy had something more to say.

  He made sure no one else could hear. “At Dona Ramona’s dress shop yesterday,” he said, “my mother saw your gun. She told my father.”

  Alex tried to take it without missing a beat.

  “That will be our secret won’t it, I hope?” she said.

  “Yes, it will,” the teenager nodded. “My parents won’t tell anyone.”

  He then reached into his pocket. He pulled out two envelopes. They were letters, sealed, unstamped, and addressed.

  “My mother has a brother who lives in Florida,” he said. “And she has a grandfather who lives in New York. Maybe you can mail these letters to them when you get back to America.”

  Alex took the two envelopes. “One way or another, Guillermo,” Alex said, “I’ll see that these get to the proper destination.”

  Guillermo nodded. He smiled. “Good-bye,” he said in English.

  “Adios, Guillermo,” she answered in Spanish. “Vaya con dios.”

  “Con dios,” he nodded. She carefully put the envelopes at the bottom of her tote bag, near her gun, and zipped the bag shut again. She gave the boy a hug and released him.

  The bus was a Toyota, made in Japan, battered but not as old as some of the automobiles on the street. Alex mounted, found a seat, and waved to her host. Guillermo raised a hand and waved back, seeming sorry to see her go. Then he turned and walked away. Moments later the bus accelerated and was gone. Alex settled in for the three-hour journey to Havana. She leaned back in her seat with a smile. She knew that at about that moment, back at the Valdez home, Maria, straightening the kitchen, would find the hundred-dollar bill that Alex had left beneath her breakfast plate.

  FORTY-SIX

  When Alex arrived in Havana late that morning, it was obvious that early summer had arrived. She stepped off of the bus at the Plaza de Armas, the administrative center of the capital. The Plaza de Armas was also the city’s oldest square, a beautifully landscaped park where booksellers bartered with tourists and residents. The trees had flowered and the old square was open and alive with people. She drew a breath and took in the new part of the world that was before her, a city that was vibrant but had the feel of being frozen in another era.

  In her new cotton dress and with her tote bag slung over her shoulder, she blended in. On her head, she wore her blue Monterrey Sultans baseball cap. She moved along a street that was populated by people and bicycles and a few moving cars. Many of those that moved were pre-1959 American models.

  Alex sighed. More than anything, she felt as if she wanted to call a time-out, to step outside of herself and her assignment for a few weeks, a few days, or even a few hours. The horror of what had happened on the bay two mornings before was still with her.

  She crossed the square and walked down two streets before finding a bar that was open. It was on another square, filled with pedestrians and small stores that catered to tourists. Postcards, camera equipment, and snacks to go. Alex sat down at a small wooden table outside on the sidewalk. She ordered a coffee with some pastries. Her morning was slowly transformed into something modestly more pleasant than it had been. She watched the street. Out of nervous habit, her hand checked in her tote bag for her gun.

  Now. What to do?

  She fo
rmed a plan. She would not go to the hotel that had been her and Paul’s designated meeting place – but rather to one nearby. She would register. Mexican passport, Mexican credit card, but no one would be the wiser as to who she was as long as her IDs hadn’t been blown. She thought back again to Paul’s “catastrophe plan” involving the Hotel Ambos Mundos, and Fajardie’s “disaster” advice involving Elke at the Swiss Consulate. She hoped that Paul was still alive and she would attempt to make that rendezvous later in the afternoon. Between 3:00 and 5:00 he had said.

  As for Violette and Figaro – they were who she was here for. She would still try to snag Violette, coax him onto the airplane leaving the country. And she would stay alert to any attempt by the phantom-like Figaro to contact her and accompany her to the U.S. as well.

  But a further thought occurred to her. What if Paul had escaped but had been wounded? What if he were in a hospital somewhere? She thought this over carefully. To attempt to find him might result in her giving herself away. Yet Paul would need her help to get out of the country. Then again, if he had been captured as well as injured, then there would be no way she could be expected to bring him back to the U.S. And he wasn’t even alive as far as she knew. Well, she would wait and play her hand cautiously, she decided, keeping her eyes wide open.

  Patience, she reminded herself. Patience could save her life in such a situation. Today, she calculated, was June 12. She had been on the island for two and a half days. Now she would rendezvous at the Ambos Mundos today and tomorrow. Then she would have to play it by ear.

  She knew from the smell of the salty air that she was not far from the harbor. She paid her bill at the cafe and departed.

  A sign pointed her to the seafront. She followed the path out to the rocky shore, where she felt the warmth of the sun on her arms and face, combined with the salty spray of the surf crashing on the stones at water level beneath a promenade. Across the water, on the other side of the canal, was the ancient fort of San Carlos, built as a defense by the Spaniards at the end of the eighteenth century and later used as a prison by the dictators Machedo and Batista – and then by Che after the Revolution. The area reeked with history. With the exception of a few modern boats, the scene before her probably hadn’t changed much in a century and a half.

  She turned. She recalled from memory the address of the Hotel Ambos Mundos. Trying to look as much like a tourist as possible, she consulted her map and began the short walk through Old Havana. Her path led her through a warren of narrow cobblestone avenues lined with baroque buildings that had changed little since the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The street life was vibrant, the surroundings impressive.

  Then, eventually, she stood across the street from the hotel. A pink facade fronted a rambling old building. Ambos Mundos: both worlds, appropriately named. Alex walked toward it and entered.

  The lobby was a scramble of architectures, faded yellow with appealing dark woodwork. A rickety old Otis elevator cranked and creaked at the far end. Once again, Alex felt as if she had stepped into a time warp.

  The lobby was cooler than the outdoors. She looked each way and saw what had to be the piano bar to her left. Purposefully, she walked toward it. It was only moderately busy. Several large plants softened the look of the room. Large chairs were scattered around, comfortable big old leather and wicker chairs. A pair of ceiling fans turned slowly. The carpet was reddish and threadbare, and a piano player softly weaved a muted samba into the air.

  As she entered, several men, seated alone at the bar, turned their eyes toward her. She scanned them quickly. No Paul Guarneri.

  Who were the men? Tourists? Undercover police keeping an eye on the place? There were a couple of dozen people in the room and she tried to take them all in.

  She had hoped to see Paul there. She masked her disappointment. Please, God, next time, let him be there, alive and well. Please. She sent prayers off into the void. No answer, no acknowledgement. If only it could be that simple.

  Well, wrong time, she reminded herself. Not wrong time for prayer but wrong time for Paul. She turned and left the hotel.

  Then, working from memory and with only one glance at the map, she found her way down a maze of side streets to the old Iglesia de San Lazaro, a faded edifice in blue stucco. It was her primary drop site, but she wasn’t sure what she would find. The front door was ajar. There was a lovely pair of antique stained-glass windows on each side of the front portal, but one had been cracked. A plywood board protected it.

  She entered and, in keeping with her plan, slid into the back row on the left side. She reflected for a few moments, as if in prayer, and stared at the ornate rococo cross above the altar. She took stock. No one else present. God, she mused, had provided her the perfect time and opportunity for her visit.

  She looked around. Any spies? Any observers whom she hadn’t seen at first glance? Her nerves were suddenly on edge again. Who needed post-traumatic stress when she could have her traumatic stress while the events were taking place?

  Her thin cotton dress stuck to her skin. She felt sweat pouring from her. Inside, it felt like a dozen hummingbirds were zipping around her stomach.

  Then, convinced that no one was looking, she kneeled forward to pray. She closed her eyes and slid her right hand under the pew in front and groped along for several feet in each direction. She prayed it would be there.

  Finally her fingertips hit something – pieces of heavy plastic tape, such as Maurice Fajardie back in Langley had suggested. She followed these along until she found metal, a little square of it. Her heart surged. She could tell before she even retrieved it: a cell phone, complete with a power cord for recharging. She pulled it out of the tape and held it in her hand. She turned it on.

  It powered up. She checked it for messages. There were none. She examined it to see if it had been tinkered with in any way. She found nothing that alarmed her. As a precaution, she shut it down, removed the battery and the SIM card, then reassembled it. Then she slid it into her tote. She made sure it was turned off to minimize the chances that it could serve as a GPS for an enemy.

  Then she heard a loud bang behind her. In an instant her hand, still in her tote bag, jumped from the cell phone to her gun, and she was convinced she had waltzed into a trap. Her wet palm closed upon the weapon and clutched it.

  She turned. A priest. He was a small elfin figure, much like the little men in black cassocks she had seen in remote Italian towns when she was a college student. Her eyes swept the space. No one else. She was safe, or so it looked. She looked back at the priest. His hands were clear and clean. Not a fake priest who was actually a gunman or a cop, she deduced. She released her own gun.

  The priest crossed himself, then reacted in surprise to see a pretty young woman sitting in a rear pew. He nodded to her, smiled, and mumbled a blessing in Spanish.

  Alex returned the greeting. Then he walked down the center aisle and went about his business of tending to something behind the altar. She watched him all the way, making sure he was okay. Then she bowed to the cross and quickly exited the church.

  She returned to the small square near the Hotel Ambos Mundos, where she caught her breath and let her heart settle. She searched her soul. With all that money sitting in a bank account in her favor in New York, did she really need this? Is this truly what she was supposed to do with her life?

  Alex sat down at a table at a cafe on the square. A waiter – handsome with an easy smile – approached her. He spoke in Spanish and she answered easily.

  “I’m hot and very thirsty,” she said. “What would be good?”

  His smile widened. “Orange juice, just squeezed,” he said. “Or lemonade.”

  “From a bottle or fresh?” she asked.

  “Both are bottled,” he answered.

  “Lemonade would be excellent,” she said.

  He nodded and disappeared. She turned her attention to the plaza. She watched the city live and breathe. She was relieved that no one paid her any special att
ention. She was used to catching the eyes of men, and she was used to being able to ignore it. The linen dress she wore was reasonably demure. The hem was at her knee. She felt highly vulnerable.

  She finished the lemonade and was hungry again. She ordered a small plate of shredded pork with rice and beans. She noticed from people at other tables that Coca-Cola had slipped past the embargo. So she ordered one. Then a second, both with ice. A slight breeze kicked up. She felt better and began, for the first time, to relax.

  For a moment, she scanned the city street. There was not a brand, nor a neon sign, nor an advertisement of any sort. Rather, there was just a view of time slowly drifting from the far past into the present, with no particular hurry. The square was baked in Caribbean sunshine. Cuban socialism had created a strange mid-twentieth-century aesthetic, a city freed from agitation, caught in a strange state of decay and quietude.

  She saw vast spaces, away from the assault of every form of commercial message and, for that matter, far from Twitter and email as well. The global mall was nowhere to be seen in this city, and, in a way, she cherished it. It was so different from New York. Even when she took a taxi in New York, a television would come on with its infomercials. Here she could watch the square, watch the modest traffic, watch the sunlight on the walls of the old city, watch lovers passing, watch businessmen expounding, watch cab drivers negotiating, watch children smiling. Here was the idle sensuality of the pre-Blackberry age.

  Beyond street-level doors were courtyards, some shabby, some fine. Her eyes, rising one flight up, saw that Havana had also preserved its antique wrought-iron balconies and its old baroque Castilian flourishes. Even if the city was crumbling, even if it could be interpreted as a monument to the failure of communism, it had its charm.