Escape to Havana

by Nick Wilkshire

  Charlie watched him leave and considered his situation. He felt bad about keeping information from Connors, but he was too afraid to come clean just yet. More unsettling was that shifty Detective Viernes. Did he know something? Could he know about the girls showing up at Charlie’s door? There was nothing incriminating about strangers ringing your doorbell, but when you start lying to the cops…. He realized that he was actively interfering with an official investigation, and wondered what the penalty for that was in Cuba.

  “Hey, there you are.”

  Charlie’s thoughts of being tossed into Havana Bay with concrete shoes from the heights of El Morro vanished at the sight of Landon approaching.

  “I called over to set up that meeting for next week. It turns out Gustavo Ruiz is leaving for a two-week visit to Chile on Monday.”

  “Shit!” Charlie could see the week falling apart. “Stewart’s not going to like that.”

  “They said we could meet on Thursday and Friday to hammer out the main commercial and legal terms, and the rest he could leave to his juniors the following week.”

  “But that’s … the day after tomorrow. There’s no way the property team can make it down that fast, not without—” Charlie stopped, remembering Jillian Gray’s message that they had already received their visas. He looked at his watch. It was quarter to twelve.

  “Come on,” he said, as he got up and started off toward the admin building. “Let’s see if we can reach Redden.”

  Despite Charlie’s best efforts at an early exit, Gustavo Ruiz’s last-minute scheduling change had required some frantic planning between Havana and Ottawa, with the result being that Redden and Gray were to fly in the next afternoon, in time for meetings on Thursday and Friday. The rest of the team would follow on Sunday. It would be a hectic ten-day visit, but as he sat at his desk and shut down his computer for the day, Charlie was glad to have something to distract him. Since his and Landon’s call to Ottawa at noon, he hadn’t had an opportunity to think about the break-in, its possible connection to his discovery of the illicit stash under his bedroom floor, or even the unsettling interview with the Cuban cops that morning. And with Redden and Gray’s imminent arrival, his plan to sleep in tomorrow was out as well. He realized that he had promised Connors that he would inventory his things, and he wondered where he would find the energy.

  Still, even with the added workload and the stress that the visit would bring, it would move the file forward. As he sat there, gathering up the energy to leave, it occurred to him that in spite of all of the current turmoil in his life, he was smiling. He tried to convince himself that it was due to the possibility of closing the embassy deal and not the imminent return of Jillian Gray.

  Chapter 21

  Charlie sat in the interview room, stewing in the infernal heat and dabbing at a trickle of sweat running down the side of his face, despite having mopped his forehead with a handkerchief thirty seconds before. It was a hot day outside, but nothing could have prepared him for the wall of heat that had assailed him on entering this place twenty minutes ago. It had been like walking into a blast furnace, the steaming air rank with the stench of sweat. He had decided to pay Tate Martin a visit just to check in, and been surprised to find that he had been moved from the Santa Ana minimum security facility in Pinar del Rio where he and Landon had first met the hotelier to the Villa Marista prison just outside Havana.

  In preparation for the visit, he had made some inquiries as to the reason for the move and was still waiting for a response. But in the process, he had learned that while Santa Ana was pretty laid back, as Cuban prisons go, Villa Marista was quite the opposite, and was nicknamed the Cuban Lubyanka for its inhospitable conditions. From his grim surroundings, and the shouts and screams he had heard on the way to the interview room, Charlie was beginning to think the name was well-earned.

  He was checking his watch and wondering how long they were going to keep him stewing here when the door opened with an earsplitting creak and Martin appeared, followed by two guards who hustled him over, sat him down roughly, and chained his hands to the table before disappearing through the door without a word, slamming it behind them.

  “Tell me you’re here to get me out of this place,” Martin said before the echo of the door slamming faded completely. Charlie was shaken by the change in the hotelier’s appearance since he had last seen him. Martin’s features were gaunt and his filthy clothes little better than rags. Seeing the desperation in his eyes, Charlie wished he had better news.

  “I’m afraid I’m just checking in,” he said, unable to maintain eye contact. “I wasn’t told that you’d been transferred here, otherwise I would have come sooner.”

  Martin gave a grim laugh. “I guess they figured Santa Ana was too much like Varadero for a gringo like me. They decided to give me some hard time instead.”

  Charlie considered asking whether he was being treated appropriately, then stopped himself. He was talking to a man, quite possibly an innocent man, who spent every day shoulder to shoulder with some of the most dangerous criminals in Cuba. He tried another tack. “I’ve been trying to find out why you’ve been transferred to a maximum security facility. And whatever the answer,” he added, trying to sound encouraging, “I’ll be making a formal request to get you transferred back to Santa Ana.”

  Martin snorted. “Don’t waste your time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, they put me in this shithole for a reason, and I don’t think I’m ever getting out.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Martin sighed. “I told you, man. They want me and my hotel out of the way.”

  Charlie nodded, remembering Martin’s claim that all of his troubles were a result of him being in competition with a new hotel being built across the square from his.

  “I don’t even give a shit about the hotel anymore,” Martin said, with a plaintive expression on his stubbly face as he wiped sweat from his eye. “They can have it. I just want to get the hell out of here … forever. You tell them that, Charlie,” he added, leaning forward over the table. “You tell ’em they can have my hotel — all the blood, sweat, and tears I put into that place over the years — they can have it all if they just put me on a plane. I swear I’ll never come back.”

  Charlie watched as Martin’s expression became more desperate before his eyes. It was clear that his perspective had changed since the first visit, and while it might have something to do with his new surroundings, Charlie had a hunch there was more to it than that. He leaned forward himself, meeting him halfway across the metal table.

  “Have you been threatened since you got here?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  Martin shook his head. “It’s worse than that.”

  Charlie waited for an explanation, but Martin offered nothing more, other than to hang his head.

  “I don’t understand, Tate, and I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

  “I told you about the hotel across the square from mine, right?”

  Charlie nodded. “In José Martí Square. Yes. What about it?”

  “I found out who the main investors are.” Martin paused, the only sound in the room a faint mechanical whirring in the ceiling and the splatter of a droplet of sweat falling from Charlie’s eyebrow onto the table.

  “Who are they?”

  “Colombians,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

  Charlie was surprised at first. Though he knew there were strong historical connections between Cuba and South America, he had thought it was mostly between Cuba and Venezuela. When he thought about it, though, he supposed it made sense, given that Colombia was right next door. “I’m still not sure I—”

  “You don’t fuck with the Colombians,” Martin said, shaking his head.

  “You think they’re behind you being detained in the first place, or being transferred here?” C
harlie asked, wondering if Martin’s imagination wasn’t working overtime in this oppressive heat. The days of Pablo Escobar were long gone.

  “You have no idea. Just forget it.” Martin threw up his hands and slouched back in his chair.

  “Let me—”

  “Don’t do anything,” Martin said, shaking his head again. “You’ll only make it worse, believe me.”

  “Listen, I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” Charlie said. “There’s definitely something odd going on here. But let me start with the request to have you transferred first. They can’t possibly justify keeping you in here,” he added, looking to Martin for confirmation. The other man shook his head wearily, then shrugged.

  “Okay, whatever. You put in your request, but don’t be surprised if it goes nowhere.”

  Chapter 22

  Charlie sat in the spacious lobby of the Meliá Habana Hotel, watching the tourists and businesspeople come and go against the backdrop of a grand central water fountain, and all he could think of was Tate Martin, trying to survive another night in Villa Marista. He hadn’t bothered to wait for a response to his inquiry about the reason for Martin’s transfer to maximum security. Instead, he had drafted a letter demanding Martin be sent back to a minimum se­­curity facility immediately. Landon had suggested he ask for a move to La Lima, which was still in Havana but had a good reputation. If Charlie didn’t get a timely response, he would get Stewart involved.

  His attention was drawn to a woman wearing a white eye patch — the second person Charlie had seen wearing a similar bandage in the past five minutes. As the woman crossed the lobby, he looked out through the main entrance at the last of a beautiful sunset, giving way to another warm Cuban evening. He checked his watch for the third time. He had missed Redden and Gray’s arrival at the embassy because of a consular emergency, but had left word that he would pick them up at the hotel for dinner. Considering he hadn’t slept that well the night before — after a hurried meal and a quick review of the inventory that confirmed nothing had been taken in the break-in — he didn’t feel too bad. Between worrying about the break-in, the dissolved dope, and that Cuban detective, Charlie hadn’t exactly spent a restful night. He was still thinking about Detective Viernes and politely waving the lobby bar waiter away when he caught sight of Jillian Gray making her way over from the elevators. He got up to meet her, and saw her smile as she spotted him.

  “Welcome back,” he said, unsure whether to extend his hand or go for the hug. She decided for him by leaning in for the two-cheek peck.

  “Hi, Charlie.”

  “Where’s Bruce?”

  “Oh, he’s not coming,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “He called to say he’s bagged and he’s just going to get room service and crash.”

  Charlie hadn’t planned for a one-on-one dinner with Gray, and was trying to decide whether he should be nervous or glad. Then again, he thought, he had enough real problems to worry about that dinner with a beautiful woman shouldn’t count as one of them.

  “I didn’t make any reservations. I just thought we’d go somewhere nearby, or we could go into town, if you want.”

  “Nearby’s fine.”

  “You like Italian? There’s a little paladar just a few blocks from here.”

  “Sure.”

  Charlie led the way out through the entrance doors, into the warm evening air and to his car.

  “So,” he said as they got in, “how was the flight down?”

  “Fine. It was pretty relaxing, actually, after twenty-four hours of madness trying to get out of the office.”

  “I’m sorry it was such short notice. We only found out on Tuesday about Ruiz leaving the country for a couple of weeks.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “I guess you’re pretty busy.” Charlie’s eyes lingered in the rear-view mirror as she replied, and he was still preoccupied with the mirror when he realized the intersection with Fifth Avenue was coming up fast. He applied the brakes and they came to a stop at the red light with a little squeak of the tires.

  “Sorry,” he said, as Gray removed her hand from the dash. “I thought I recognized someone from work behind us,” he added with a nervous smile. “I need to keep my eyes on the road ahead. You were saying things are busy back in Ottawa?”

  “Yes, I’m involved in a half-dozen projects,” she said, as the light changed and they crossed Fifth and took a right onto a little side street. “But this one’s got priority right now.”

  “Well, that’s good news for us.” Charlie pulled the car over to the curb.

  “Here already?” Gray was looking around. There was no obvious sign of a restaurant nearby.

  “Just over there.” Charlie pointed at a green house down the street with a barely noticeable sign out front in the shape of a pizza slice. Gray got out and followed him to the house, where Charlie opened the metal gate for her. As she walked through into the front yard, he shot a glance back down the street.

  “Here?” Gray said, pointing to a little path leading around the side of the house.

  “That’s right,” he said, opening the wooden gate by the side of what looked like an average residence. On the other side of the gate, the path led them to a large room with an enormous brick oven at the back and half a dozen tables, most of which were occupied. Charlie exchanged greetings with the proprietor, an enormous Cuban woman whose good nature was obvious, despite the barely comprehensible mix of Spanish and broken English. Charlie smiled as she rattled on for a few minutes before seating them at a table for two in a little alcove across from the oven.

  “This is very cozy,” Gray said as they sat.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty basic Italian food, but it’s good.”

  After they had ordered and been served a complimentary mojito, they began to chat about the work plan for the next couple of days, beginning with the morning meeting with Gustavo Ruiz and his staff.

  “The main problem is getting a meaningful appraisal to justify the price,” Gray said, sipping her drink. Given the Cubans’ well-known expertise in electronic surveillance — a legacy of the Russian presence here during the cold war — they had agreed not to discuss figures or strategy outside the secure spaces in the embassy.

  “That’s true,” Charlie agreed. “Difficult to determine fair market value when there’s no market.”

  “But as long as the price is fair,” Gray said with a wink, “I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”

  “Cheers to that,” Charlie said, raising his glass to hers.

  “And what about the short-listed developers? Are they all lined up for next week?”

  “We’re actually meeting with Société Immobilière on Friday. The rest are next week.” Charlie was about to add something else when he noticed a face at one of the tables across the room that looked vaguely familiar. He was trying to settle the internal debate as to where he had seen it before, if he had at all, when he realized Gray was talking to him.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Is everything all right, Charlie? You seem … preoccupied.”

  “No, it’s nothing. I’m a little tired,” he said with a smile. “I’ve been working late,” he said, changing the subject. “So when’s your return flight?” he asked, as the waitress arrived with several little plates of assorted appetizers.

  “I left it open. I’m assuming we’ll be working until next Friday, and I was thinking about staying for the weekend. You know, add a little pleasure to the business.”

  “Good idea. As for this weekend, you’re all invited to my place for dinner,” he added, remembering the promise he’d made on their last trip down.

  The waitress interrupted to describe the contents of the various plates, then disappeared. Charlie had forgotten all about the man across the room, focused as he was on trying to figure out whether he should be picking up on subtle little clues Gr
ay was implanting into her every word, or whether he was imagining the whole thing.

  They had a leisurely meal together, with the conversation staying general and neither of them venturing anywhere near what had happened on the Malecón the last night of Gray’s previous visit. In fact, by the time the cheque arrived, Charlie was no closer to knowing what Gray was thinking, but he had enjoyed her company anyway. It was about nine-thirty when he drove her back to the hotel and wished her a good night’s sleep.

  “So the meeting’s at eleven?” she asked, leaning into the open car window.

  “The driver will be here around eight-fifteen to bring you to the embassy. We’ll go to the meeting from there.”

  “Good night then, Charlie.”

  As he drove back out toward Jaimanitas, Charlie’s mind was buzzing, torn between worrying about whether he was being followed and whether there seemed at least a reasonable chance that whatever he was feeling about Jillian Gray was mutual.

  Chapter 23

  The Canadian team, composed of Charlie, Gray, Redden, and a translator, sat in the meeting room on the top floor of the building that housed the Cuban state property program. Charlie had been there twice already since arriving in Cuba, and he had never felt comfortable. And whether his discomfort was by design or not, there was no denying that the four loveseats around a large glass coffee table wasn’t your typical layout for a meeting room. Then again, as Charlie was beginning to realize, everything in Cuba was different.

  They waited in silence, apart from their noisy positioning as they alternated between sitting back in the deep leather sofas — which seemed too informal, as though they were gathered around to watch a hockey game — or balancing on the edge, which was just plain uncomfortable. The exercise was cut short by the arrival of the Cuban delegation, led by Gustavo Ruiz, who greeted them with a broad grin, making his way around the room as Charlie introduced the members of the team. Though he knew Ruiz spoke excellent English, Charlie let the translator do his work for the benefit of Ruiz’s three associates, who were introduced in turn. When they had all taken their seats — the Cubans reclining comfortably, the Canadians mostly perched — Charlie led off.