Escape to Havana

by Nick Wilkshire

  Unnerved by the scene, Charlie hurried to his car, and had almost reached it when his phone went off.

  “Charlie?”

  “Yeah, Drew. What’s up?”

  “Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “It’s Amirjit. They found … her body, earlier this evening.”

  Charlie froze, his hand on the door handle of the car. “Holy shit! Where?”

  “Washed up by the San Pedro docks.”

  “Jesus. Do they know what happened?”

  “I just talked to Connors. He says there aren’t any details, or they’re not releasing them, anyway. I’m sure they’ll update us in the morning, I just thought I should let you know.” Charlie was barely listening, his mind taking him back to his only encounter with Saini at the official residence. He could still feel her warm arm on his as she led him away from Gustavo Ruiz. He had a vivid image of her beautiful face, with its bright smile and sad eyes. “You there, Charlie?”

  “What? Yeah. I just can’t believe it. It’s so … horrible. Such a waste,” he added, as the siren of a passing police car wailed.

  “I know. It’s awful. Where are you, anyway?”

  “Down by the market. I’m just getting in the car to go home.”

  “All right. I’ll see you in the morning. Be safe.”

  “Thanks, Drew.”

  Driving home, Charlie felt a longing for the safety of Ottawa, where nothing like this would ever happen. Until now, he had essentially thought the same of Havana — that its dark side was something foreigners never had to experience unless they went looking for trouble. As if to reinforce this new feeling of malevolence, a gust of wind sent a fine mist of water onshore, over the seawall and onto Charlie’s windshield, to remind him that, on top of everything else, the heart of hurricane season was just around the corner.

  Passing under the tunnel and heading along Fifth, the intricate spindles of the ficus trees took on an eerie quality in the dark, and Charlie couldn’t help wishing the avenue could lead him not to his darkened house in Jaimanitas, but all the way back to Ottawa and his familiar house in the Glebe, where he might find Sharon on the other side of the door, welcoming him back from his foolish little adventure with a drink and a hug.

  Chapter 19

  Charlie frowned at the cloud of black smoke coming out of the tailpipe of the Lada in front of him, thinking of the seventy bucks he had been forced to spend on emission-testing his two-year-old car back in Ottawa. One day, e-testing might find its way to Cuba, and when it did, he hoped he was in the garage business. He didn’t bother to put up his window, preferring the acrid smell of exhaust and burning oil to the lingering smell of stale dog piss that permeated the interior of his previously pristine vehicle.

  The smell aside, though, Charlie found himself actually missing the official mutt. He hadn’t seen much of the ambassador since his return from Panama, and given the property visit and Saini’s abduction and murder, there had been little time to discuss Teddy’s welfare. The dog had seemed healthy enough when he had brought him back to Katherine Stewart, and he was pretty sure Teddy hadn’t suffered any permanent effects from ingesting the narcotic-infused waters of his pool. Puking on the acting ambassador was one thing, but harming the official dog might just get Charlie posted to Tajikistan.

  It occurred to Charlie that his discovery under the bedroom floor had become almost irrelevant in light of all that had happened since. Everyone was still reeling from the news just a week ago that Saini’s lifeless body had been pulled out of Havana Bay, days after she was taken from her home. Though the police had said little, other than to confirm that the body they had found was, in fact, Saini’s, the rumours had already begun to circulate through the diplomatic community. Saini had been beaten to death and then drowned … she had been stabbed first, then drowned, or maybe shot…. Even the tight-lipped Cuban police couldn’t deny that her death had been the result of foul play of some kind.

  As for the drugs Charlie had stumbled upon, there was every indication that they had been long-forgotten by their owner.

  He parked the car in the lot across the street and made his way up to the office, where he was just settling in with his morning coffee when Landon appeared at the door.

  “Nothing new on the Saini case?”

  Charlie shook his head as Landon took a seat. They traded theories about what might really have happened to her for a while, before moving on to work, and some survey documents that had come in from the Cubans on the new embassy site. Landon was on his way back to his office when he paused at the door.“I never asked you how dinner went,” he said, returning to his seat.

  “What dinner?” Charlie replied. He didn’t think Landon knew he had eaten with Gray the night before she left, and was considering his answer when Landon continued.

  “You know … Maria. We were so caught up in the property visit, I completely forgot. She was somethin’ else.”

  “Oh,” Charlie said with a little smile. “Yeah, she was something, all right.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Little restaurant in the plaza nearby, I don’t recall the name. Had a really nice meal, though.”

  “And?”

  Charlie could tell Landon wasn’t going to be placated by vague recollections, so he gave a brief outline of the events of the evening, careful to avoid any mention of his apparent loss of consciousness.

  “Man, I can’t believe — I mean, I knew from the way she was acting at the bar that she was really into you,” he added quickly, “but, wow, what a hottie!”

  “She was beautiful,” Charlie agreed.

  “Have you seen her since?”

  “Well, I didn’t get her number.”

  Landon was aghast. “How could you not get her number?”

  “I … it was complicated.”

  “Wait a minute.” Landon hopped up out of his chair. “She said she worked at the Ministry of Culture, right?”

  Charlie nodded as Landon bolted out the door, returning a few seconds later with a little book.

  “What’s that?”

  “The government directory. We’ll just look her up.” He began flipping through the pages. “What was her last name again?”

  “Aguirre.”

  “Right. Here we are, Culture. Aguirre, Aguirre. There’s a Carlos Aguirre, but no Maria.”

  “She said she was just a clerk. Maybe she’s not listed.”

  “Hmm, maybe not. Hey, wait a minute; I’ll call my contact at protocol….”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said. “I don’t want to get her in trouble.”

  “Nah,” Landon said with a shake of his head. “This guy’s not gonna give her any trouble. Unless you don’t want me to….”

  “Give it a couple of days.” Charlie gave a friendly wave of his hand. “If I haven’t bumped into her again, maybe you could call.”

  “Sure,” Landon said. “You let me know.”

  Charlie wasn’t sure why, but he wasn’t surprised to find that Maria’s name was not in the directory. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more perturbed he felt. What were the odds of an encounter like that happening out of the blue? Still, if she had been out to roll him, she hadn’t done a very good job. He had done a quick inventory around the house the morning after, but apart from finding the basement door ajar, nothing seemed out of place. And there had been nothing missing. He had found his wallet, which was full of cash, sitting on the dresser in plain view. No, he was being paranoid, he decided. Maybe she wasn’t a one-night stand kind of girl and had felt embarrassed by their evening together. Anyway, Charlie wasn’t really interested in following up.

  “Yo, Charlie!”

  “Hmm?” he said, realizing that Landon was speaking, but oblivious to the topic his young colleague had moved on to.

  “I was just saying it
looks like the property team’ll be back in three weeks.”

  “Oh yeah? I haven’t checked my emails yet this morning.”

  “Redden sent a trip report. Must’ve done it on the plane. Says he expects to get approval this week to proceed with negotiations to buy the site, and they’re going to pre-screen a shortlist of developers at the same time,” Landon said, getting up. “I’ll let you read it. He’s asking for us to follow up on those details the Cubans were supposed to give us about the site.”

  “Oh, I meant to ask you,” Charlie said, as Landon paused again at the door, “Are you going to this thing at the Venezuelan embassy tonight?” He pointed to the invitation he had received the previous Friday from Société Immobilière. It was no surprise that Daniel Leblanc had made sure they were on the guest list, and Charlie fully expected to be harassed all night long for details on Canada’s construction plans.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t miss it,” Landon said. “Hey, maybe Maria will be there.”

  Charlie shrugged. He doubted a clerk from the Ministry of Culture would be invited to the grand opening of the new Venezuelan embassy. “I’ve got my car if you want a ride.”

  Charlie was in a rotten mood as he drove home along Fifth. The reception had been the predictable schmooze-fest and, as expected, Daniel Leblanc had been all over him for details about when they might be going to tender on the new embassy project. The fact that they hadn’t even bought the site yet didn’t seem to matter to Leblanc, who was acting as though he already had the construction contract in hand; transparency and best value in government contracting apparently being foreign concepts.

  And though Charlie knew it was unrealistic to expect to have seen her there, he had caught himself glancing around the room on several occasions looking for Maria Aguirre. But with no sign of her, and after suffering through some bad canapés and downing a couple of Cristals, Charlie had been anxious to leave. Landon had met up with his Aussie friend and was planning to hit a bar or two after the reception — Charlie wondered where he got his energy — so he had made a solo exit.

  All the way back along the Malecón, Charlie’s mind was whirring. There was still no news about who might have abducted and killed Amirjit Saini, which in itself was unsettling, but ever since Landon’s impromptu search through the Cuban government directory, Charlie found himself increasingly preoccupied with his strange encounter with Maria Aguirre. Was there any reasonable explanation for his suddenly passing out after a couple of sips of a beer? If she didn’t work for the Ministry of Culture, who did she work for? And why had she given him a false name? The possibility that she had slipped something in the beer had been playing on his mind all day, and he was pretty sure he didn’t see her take a drink from the bottle after she had appeared in the bedroom. He had admittedly been focused on other matters at the time, which, it occurred to him now, only reinforced his suspicions.

  Reaching Jaimanitas, he turned off Fifth onto a side street, then onto another as he made his way home. As he drove along the dimly lit street, darkened even further by the tall hedges, he noticed the lights of a car behind him and was surprised when a red light flashed in his rear-view a few seconds later. As he pulled over, his first instinct was to wonder whether he had been driving erratically, and the second was to count how many drinks he had consumed at the reception: precisely two. Satisfied that he had done nothing seriously wrong, Charlie rolled down his window and watched in his side mirror as a Cuban in uniform approached the car. “Buenas tardes,” he said in his best Spanish.

  “Good evening,” the young man answered. Whether it was because of Charlie’s pronunciation, his skin colour, or the diplomatic licence plates, the officer seemed well aware that he was dealing with an English speaker.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Your light is out.” The man looked past Charlie into the interior of the car.

  “My brake light?”

  The cop shook his head. “No, the …” he seemed to be searching for the right word.

  “Tail light?” Charlie offered helpfully.

  “Yes. You need to get a bulb.”

  Charlie noticed that the young cop seemed very interested in the back seat, which was empty, and he was beginning to wonder whether the guy was planning on writing him a ticket or just standing there staring all night when he spoke again. “You from Canada?”

  “Yes, I’m the MCO at the Canadian embassy.”

  “I have a cousin in Montreal.”

  “Great city,” Charlie said, thinking some friendly banter might get him on his way again sooner. But the young cop’s smile evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.

  “Your name?”

  “Charlie Hillier.”

  “You wait,” the cop said, suddenly turning and heading back toward his car. Charlie noticed the flashing light had been removed from its roof, and he could see the outline of another person in the passenger seat. It occurred to him that he hadn’t even been asked for his driver’s licence.

  “Um … what am I waiting for?” Charlie asked, leaning out the window.

  The cop returned and gave him a thin smile. “You stay in the car, Señor. I check the plates,” he said, as if that settled everything. Charlie was about to inquire further when he thought better of it. He was entitled to certain immunities as a result of his diplomatic status, but if the guy was just going to run his name against his plate number, he supposed he could wait.

  He had been sitting there a good ten minutes, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, before the cop finally got out of his car and returned to Charlie’s driver’s door.

  “You should get the light fixed. Is dangerous in the dark,” he said with a nod, and then he was gone.

  “Right,” Charlie said, turning the key in his ignition and pulling back onto the road as the other car did a U-turn and headed off in the opposite direction. He realized, as he pulled up to the gate outside his house a few minutes later and the guard emerged from the little hut to open up, that he hadn’t bothered to check the light himself the whole time he had been sitting there on the side of the road. Parking the car in the driveway, Charlie left the engine running and the lights on and hopped out. A quick inspection of the tail lights revealed that they both seemed in perfect working order. Having closed the gate behind him, the guard was looking at Charlie as he stood there, behind the running car. Charlie waved him over and asked him to put his foot on the brake, then activate the turn signals. Everything worked fine.

  “Gracias,” Charlie said as the guard got out of the car, looking even more puzzled than before.

  “De nada, Señor,” he said, before heading back to the hut, shaking his head.

  Charlie shut off the car and made his way to the front door, his mind working through the possible explanations, starting with a loose connection. That was reasonable, he thought, as he opened the front door and stepped inside. He didn’t get a chance to consider any other options.

  Charlie was frozen in place as he caught sight of the living-room couch cushions on the floor, their stuffing spewing out of the torn covers. His first instinct was that Teddy had blown a gasket. But he had taken the dog back more than a week ago. As he looked more closely at the straight slash across each of the cushion covers, he recognized the work of a very sharp knife. He felt a shiver run down the back of his spine as he looked around the rest of the room and saw the cabinet doors open, books removed from shelves, and the few knick-knacks with which he had decorated the room tipped over. Someone had torn the place apart as though they were looking for something….

  Charlie turned and ran out to the guard hut, located a good fifty feet from the house, near the fenceline. The guard seemed put out by Charlie’s request to follow him, no doubt expecting to be asked to operate the gringo’s car lights again for some unknown reason, but his shocked expression upon setting foot in the front hall said it all.

 
“¡Madre del amor!” he said, reaching for the pistol in his holster before advancing toward the kitchen, where the cupboards and drawers were all open, half of their contents lying in untidy piles on the floor. Charlie pointed to the patio door, still ajar, and it was immediately clear how they had gotten in.

  After the guard had switched on the floodlights over the backyard and taken a quick look around, they went upstairs. Whoever had broken in had done a fairly thorough job of scouring every drawer, closet, and piece of furniture. The pictures were askew on the walls and Charlie’s clothes were scattered all over the floor.

  “Jesus!” Charlie muttered.

  “Policia,” the guard countered, indicating his intention to return to the hut and call for reinforcements.

  “Si,” Charlie said, pulling out his BlackBerry and punching in the number for the head of security for the embassy. As he sat on the bed, waiting for the phone to be answered and staring at the disarray all around him, he glanced at the floor beneath the bed and was overcome by a feeling of dread.

  Charlie sat at his kitchen table while the embassy’s head of security saw the last of the Cuban police officers out. It was almost midnight, and Charlie’s mind was still reeling at the events of the evening.

  “You okay?” Connors asked, returning to the kitchen.

  “I need a drink.” Charlie got up to retrieve a bottle of Scotch. “You want one?”

  “Why not.”

  Charlie poured a couple of fingers into each glass and returned to the table. “Cheers,” he said, taking a sip. “So, what do they think?”