Escape to Havana

by Nick Wilkshire

  “So, what brought you to Havana, anyway?” Landon asked, as a waitress arrived with menus. “I understand you were in HR back in Ottawa.”

  “I started out in finance, actually,” Charlie said, opening the menu, “then moved into HR. As for what brought me here,” he said, gazing around the square. “I don’t really know. Just looking for a change, I guess.”

  “Well, MCO in Havana’ll sure be a change.”

  “I’m thinking of it as a challenge, too, I suppose,” Charlie lied, preferring the statement to the truth — that he just wanted to get as far away from Ottawa, and Sharon, as any job could take him. As he looked across the square at the little trio playing a mixture of guitars, bongos, and some sort of wooden stick instrument Charlie had never seen before, he decided this place fit the bill. “I just went through a divorce, and …” He paused to see if Landon’s face betrayed any knowledge of Sharon’s indiscretions before continuing. “I stayed out of the rotational stream for a long time because my wife … my ex-wife wanted to stay in Ottawa. So I found myself suddenly free.”

  Landon nodded as if it made perfect sense. “Well, if you’re looking to get over a divorce, you picked a pretty good place. There are plenty of beautiful women in Havana.”

  “How ’bout you? Why’d you choose Havana?”

  “You mean apart from the beautiful señoritas?” Landon laughed. “Wasn’t much of a choice, really. It was either here or Abuja.”

  “That’s somewhere in Africa, right?”

  “It’s the capital of Nigeria.”

  Charlie understood perfectly, given his own limited options. “Hopefully, we both made the right choice.”

  They ordered their meals and chatted over drinks as the patio filled with the lunchtime crowd.

  “So, what do you think Ruiz is going to offer us?” Landon said. “Maybe something’s come up on Fifth Avenue?”

  “I don’t know, but I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.” His assistant had received confirmation of the meeting just before Charlie had left the embassy.

  “Not bad progress, considering you’ve only been here a week. The ambassador will be thrilled that you got a meeting already.”

  Charlie felt a glow of pride, but it was soon dulled by the image of all that cocaine floating in his pool. He had tried to forget about what had happened by focusing on work, but it was always there at the back of his mind, and whenever it popped up, he had to struggle to reign in the ever more horrendous scenarios his freewheeling imagination produced.

  “I’d like to see what they’re offering before I start getting his hopes up,” he said, returning his focus to the conversation.

  “Well, whatever it is, I think it’s a step in the right direction.” Landon raised his glass. “And a good sign for your prospects here.”

  “Cheers,” Charlie said, clinking his glass off Landon’s. For all he knew, he would be returning from tomorrow’s meeting with a solution to the ambassador’s number one problem. In that sense, things were looking positive, even if was just dumb luck. He chose to push the lingering fears farther to the back of his brain, if only to allow himself to enjoy a brief moment of satisfaction.

  Chapter 8

  Charlie sat in the leafy garden restaurant and sipped his bottled water as Ruiz told a story about a Spanish hotel developer in Varadero. La Cocina was one of the better private restaurants — paladares, as they are known in Havana — and Charlie certainly couldn’t argue with the setting. The vine-covered pergolas kept the midday sun at bay, and the competing background sounds of Spanish guitar and the bubbling of a fountain at the centre of an artificial pond added a relaxed atmosphere, broken only by laughter as Ruiz delivered his punch line.

  “So, Señor Hillier,” he said, as the laughter subsided and the menus arrived. “What do you think of your site?”

  “I’m very impressed,” Charlie replied, genuinely. The morning meeting had turned into an impromptu visit to the site on the prestigious Quinta Avenida, where an aging administrative building was currently located. The size of the site, as well as its location, made it perfect for the new embassy, and the presence of an existing office building meant it was unlikely to be contaminated by any significant environmental liability. He would have to get advice from the engineering, planning, and security experts, but he was having a hard time thinking of any serious hurdle. Still, he had to be careful. “It’s a wonderful location. Definitely worthy of further investigation.”

  “It is a shame your ambassador is not here to view the site for himself,” Ruiz said, a little frown clouding his aquiline features.

  “I’ll send him a report this afternoon,” Charlie assured him. “And I’m sure he’ll be anxious to see it himself when he gets back next week.”

  Ruiz seemed satisfied, and as he perused his menu, the rest of the table followed his cue, and the conversation soon shifted to Cuban food. Charlie was treated to an explanation of some Cuban staples by Ruiz’s second-in-command, seated directly opposite. The man was explaining a pulled beef dish he was considering for himself as Ruiz looked on.

  “It’s peasant food, Señor Hillier,” Ruiz said, with a dismissive wave. “The swordfish is excellent though.”

  “I’m sure they’re both good,” Charlie said, noticing the other man’s glum expression. Because the man had spent five minutes describing the dish for his benefit, he decided to try it when the waitress arrived.

  The conversation soon shifted back to the embassy site, and the more he heard, the better Charlie felt. They hadn’t talked price yet, but the timing worked, and the assurances from the Cubans about the permitting and planning process sounded genuine. It was all going so well.

  The meals arrived, for all but the Cuban directly opposite Charlie. He insisted, as any good host would, that everyone start without him, and after some mutterings and glares in the direction of the kitchen from Ruiz, they all began. It was only when the last meal eventually arrived, and Charlie caught the expression of disgust across the table within seconds of the first bite being taken, that he knew something was wrong.

  Charlie had spent the past five minutes eating rancid meat.

  He supposed he couldn’t be blamed for not noticing anything wrong with the dish, since he didn’t know how it was supposed to taste. In any event, he assured his apologetic hosts he hadn’t eaten that much and that he felt fine. In reality, he was seriously debating whether to run to the washroom and force his fingers down his throat as a preventive measure, but while Ruiz made a show of dressing down the waiter, and apologizing profusely, Charlie accepted a substituted plate of chicken and beans and the lunch continued. In fact, after his initial horror, he felt just fine. A close call, but nothing more.

  “So, Charlie,” Ruiz said, as they finished their meals and the waiters cleared away the plates. “What do you think of Havana so far?”

  “I think it’s charming,” he said, glad that Ruiz had started calling him by his first name. “I haven’t really had a chance to see much of Old Havana, but I look forward to exploring it.”

  Ruiz smiled. “You must visit the Museo de la Revolución,” he said, referring to the former presidential palace that Landon had pointed out on their way to the municipal architect’s office the day before.

  “It’s on my list,” Charlie said. “And I’m told the Gran Teatro de la Habana is one of a kind.”

  “There’s a Spanish company there for the next few months,” Ruiz said. “I hear they are excellent.”

  They continued to chat over coffee and dessert, and by the time the two groups parted in front of the restaurant, Charlie was pretty sure they would have a deal before too long. He and Landon hopped in the embassy van, eager to get back to the office and start planning the next steps.

  Charlie sat in one of the wing-back chairs in the ambassador’s office, wishing he was at home paddling around in his pool. He and Landon had been on their way out
for the day when they were summoned by the acting head of mission to give a debrief of the day’s events. Charlie had been warned about Miles Johnston, and could only think the man was living up to his reputation. Whereas Stewart wielded his authority with a quiet confidence, the chargé d’affaires had a different approach — one that did little to inspire either confidence or loyalty, and belied an underlying insecurity.

  “What do you mean you didn’t talk price?” he snapped. Landon looked to Charlie, who took a deep breath before answering, feeling oddly short of breath.

  “Well, we focused on the specifications of the site, and its suitability …”

  “How the hell do we know it’s suitable if we don’t know how much they’re asking?”

  “We do have a follow-up meeting scheduled for tomorrow,” Charlie continued. “We expect that’s when …”

  “Why the hell didn’t you say you had another meeting set up? You don’t have to tell me how things work in Cuba,” Johnston fumed. “Just make sure they know we’re not going to get taken to the cleaners.”

  “Yes, Mi… sir,” Charlie said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He was feeling suddenly clammy. Landon sensed something was wrong and picked up the slack, describing the strategy for the next meeting. Johnston seemed appeased, and Charlie had managed to utter a few words about bringing down a team from Ottawa to check out the site for themselves when his bowels began contracting so forcefully that he thought they would empty right there, on the very rug that Stewart had made a point of mentioning he had picked up at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. But he managed to quell his straining stomach and steer the meeting toward its conclusion, with Landon’s help, and was actually feeling pretty good about his chances of surviving the debrief as it wrapped up. He was within a foot of the door, with Johnston looking on and grumbling about something when Charlie was overcome by a wave of nausea so intense that by the time he was done, a few short seconds later, his projectile streams had hosed down not only the prize rug, one of the chairs, and the coffee table, but Johnston himself, who stood frozen in place, his eyes wide as saucers.

  Charlie closed his eyes and sighed as he lay on the bed, his mind replaying the awful scene. Thank God for Landon, was all he could think. He had gotten him out of there in a hurry, and within the hour, Charlie had been cleaned up, seen by the embassy doctor, and driven home with some pills and a promise that he could expect to suffer no more dire consequences than having to spend the best part of the evening in the bathroom, provided he kept himself hydrated and took the medicine.

  As a new disturbance made its way through his system, Charlie tried to focus on the day’s progress on the new embassy site, but it was no use. Barfing on the acting head of mission in your first week on the job was difficult to forget, no matter what else you accomplished. And things had been going so well….

  Charlie was wondering how he could ever face Johnston again when he heard the distinctive clang of the doorbell, followed by a skittering of paws on the tile and Teddy’s barking. He briefly considered staying put — he didn’t feel much like moving from his current location for a number of excellent reasons — but after a few seconds the doorbell rang again, and Teddy was at the bedroom door now, his barking growing louder and more insistent. Charlie sighed, got out of bed, and slipped on a pair of shorts, the now-incessant ringing grating his already frayed nerves.

  He got to the bottom of the stairs and flicked on the outside light, casting the shadow of two figures across the frosted glass by the front door. He paused for a moment, wondering whether he should open it, as Teddy weaved through his legs and sniffed at the bottom of the door. Because Charlie had moved into the house ahead of schedule, the diplomatic guard that would normally be posted outside hadn’t yet been arranged with the Cuban Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He decided a quick look through the peephole was in order, and was surprised to see two young women standing there, one of whom was pressing the doorbell with an annoyed expression on her pretty face. Even in his feverish state, and through the distorted little lens, he could see they were harmless enough.

  As the door swung open, Charlie registered their obvious surprise and tried to interpret its meaning. True, he was sweating, pale, and had just spent the past couple of hours trying to rid himself of a formidable bout of diarrhea, but still …

  “¿Uh, es la casa de Javier?” said the one with her hand still on the doorbell, breaking the silence as she glanced from Charlie to Teddy, who was straining to sniff out the visitors.

  “No.” Charlie ran the back of his hand over his forehead and wiped the sweat on the bottom of his T-shirt as he held onto Teddy’s collar with the other hand.

  “Chu speak English?” said the other, perking up.

  “Yes.”

  “Wanna party?”

  Charlie looked at the two young women. They were dressed in halter-tops and skirts so tight that parts of them were spilling out in strategic locations. “Um, I’m really not feeling that great.”

  “Come on baby, we make you feel reeeaaal good,” the younger one said, running her finger down Charlie’s arm. He felt his stomach clench and he shifted his weight slightly to try and alleviate the pain.

  “You a friend of Javier?” asked the other.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know any Javier,” Charlie said, as his stomach resonated with the sound of another gurgle and he began to push the door shut.

  “This your place, baby?” The older woman gave him an appraising eye.

  “Um, hum,” he managed to say, doubling over slightly as another cramp hit him, along with an urgent need to get back to the bathroom. “Sorry … you’ve got the wrong address,” he said, shutting the door against their protests, locking it, and racing to the downstairs bathroom.

  Charlie lay there in the dark, praying that the worst had passed. It had been several hours since his last run to the bathroom, and the knots in his stomach seemed to be unravelling a little. He reached for the glass of water by his bed, but it was empty, so he slowly brought himself upright, swung his legs out over the side of the bed, and tiptoed out of the bedroom, careful not to disturb the snoring dog. After guzzling a bottle of cold water from the fridge in seconds flat, he stood in the dim light of the kitchen, catching his breath from the effort. Though he was relatively confident that he was out of the woods, he still felt awful, and the thought of going into work in a few short hours and facing everyone, Johnston especially, was not making him feel any better. He could imagine the chatter around the embassy after he had been driven home this afternoon.

  Did you hear? The new MCO yakked all over the charge d’affaires….

  And the ambassador’s chair, his coffee table … and his rug.

  It took a determined effort for him not to descend into further worst-case office scenarios, but as he looked at the clock over the stove, Charlie realized that his little barf-fest wasn’t the worst of his problems. It had been only forty-eight hours since he had discovered the dope under his floorboards and then dropped it into his pool.

  Jesus!

  Returning upstairs, Charlie popped another pill. After chasing it with a gulp of water, he made his way past Teddy over to the balcony. Outside, there was little sound, apart from the crickets, and he stood there for a moment just enjoying the warm night air. Turning to the train wreck that had been his day, Charlie tried to be positive. Accidents happened, and people got sick, he told himself. On the positive side, the property file was advancing rapidly, and even Johnston had seemed grudgingly satisfied, if not impressed, with the new site. Well, before Charlie had thrown up on him, at least.

  Glancing down at the pool below, Charlie wondered whether the water was safe. He was no scientist, but surely dissolving that much cocaine must have had some effect. Would it just evaporate? He had half expected to find an assortment of jacked up wildlife doing laps in his pool when he got up this morning. Fortunately, Teddy seemed fine, though
the housekeeper had complained that he had peed on the floor a couple of times during the day. He had been so busy that he had barely thought about his discovery, or whether to share it with anyone, like Landon, or the embassy security officer. Maybe it had been under the floor for years, long forgotten by a previous occupant of the house. In any case, there wasn’t much he could do about it now.

  As he leaned on the balcony railing and looked out over the glimmering water of the pool, the only thing that came to his mind was Sharon.

  How could she?

  Chapter 9

  Charlie read through a draft of an email he was about to send to Ottawa, asking the property officer responsible for Cuba to assemble a team for a site visit in order to address the architectural, engineering, security, and legal issues arising from the proposed new embassy project. He had never met the regional property officer, but Landon seemed to think he was pretty keen, so Charlie felt that organizing the visit in the next couple of weeks was feasible. He stared at the screen for a few more seconds, then hit send, just as a burst of laughter erupted down the hall. It was nearing closing time, and most of the staff were heading down to the bi-monthly Friday afternoon social at the little poolside cantina in the embassy’s courtyard. It was a scorcher outside, and the perfect occasion for an ice cold beer.

  Charlie still felt a little self-conscious about his spew-fest in Stewart’s office just forty-eight hours earlier, but he had forced himself to come in on the day after and go straight to Johnston with his apologies. The chargé had been gracious in assuring Charlie that no apology was required and that no harm had been done. Even the ambassador’s prized rug had survived a thorough cleaning without sustaining any permanent damage.

  Landon had attended the meeting with the Cubans to discuss price, and their opening number was within the expected range. Stewart had been briefed by email and seemed pumped about the Fifth Avenue site. As for actually signing the deal, Charlie had only a general sense of what needed to be done at this point, but he was confident he would know a lot more when he got a response to his email from Ottawa.