It was even more of a stretch if Lindsey was dialing for dead people on her cell phone.
“Gum?” said Sofia.
“Thanks,” said Jack.
At three P.M., they were still waiting at the gate in Havana. Jack had brought a few books and magazines from Miami for the flight, but with the detour through Havana, he’d purposely left them in the path of a janitor and his broom. The guy probably couldn’t read English, and he looked too proud for handouts, but he had a wedding ring on his finger and dirt under his nails, so Jack figured he could probably use the Treasury Department-issued Andrew Jackson bookmarks that Jack had left inside.
Nothing to read. No CNN on the tube. No cell phones or laptop computer to check e-mails. The chewing gum lost its flavor in thirty seconds, and Jack kept himself busy folding the empty foil back into its original rectangular shape and trying to reinsert it into the paper sleeve. The flight to Cancun was already more than an hour late in boarding. Once in Mexico, they’d catch another flight for the final leg to Miami. Jack was sitting close enough to the check-in counter to notice dozens of other Americans with the same itinerary, all with great suntans, all without travel licenses-and all in defiance of the U.S. government’s trade embargo against Cuba.
“Lots of yanquis here,” said Jack.
Sofia had her nose in her magazine. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t understand it. How do they not get into trouble when they pass through U.S. customs with ‘ Cuba ’ stamped in their passport?”
“Simple. You fly to Cancun, then you hop another flight to Havana. The Cuban immigration guys know enough not to stamp your passport, but just make sure you put a ten-dollar bill inside when you hand it to them. You fly back to Cancun when you’re done, then back to the States. The U.S. government has no way of knowing that you were partying till dawn every night at the Copacabana. They think you were in Cancun. Honest to God, it’s that easy.”
“Sounds like the only idiots who get caught are the ones who come back with one of those goofy souvenirs that says, ‘My parents went to Cuba and all I got was this stupid T-shirt.’ ”
“Pretty much. Why do you think this trade embargo is such a joke?”
“Just bugs me,” said Jack. “People like those two slobs over there.”
“What about them?”
“I was listening to them when I bought my coffee. They were practically tripping over their own tongues, talking about how cheap and beautiful the girls are in Havana. Of course they’re cheap, you morons. Their own government is starving them to death.”
“You surprise me, Swyteck. It’s refreshing to know somebody who actually gives a rat’s ass about the girls with no choice but to come to the big city and sell their bodies to tourists.”
“I surprise a lot of people. My mother was Cuban.”
“Really? Tú hablas español?” Do you speak Spanish?
“Sí. Lo aprendí cuando yo era un escurridero.” Yes, I learned it when I was a drainpipe.
She chuckled and said, “I think you meant, when you were a schoolboy.”
“What did I say?”
She was still smiling. “You said it exactly right. I wouldn’t change a word of it.”
He knew she was lying, and he felt the urge to redeem himself by telling her that he understood the language better than he spoke it. But he let it go.
Sofia said, “Funny, I voted against your old man in two gubernatorial elections. I don’t recall hearing anything about his being married to a Latina.”
“My mother passed away when I was young. Just a few hours old, actually.”
“Oh, how awful. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Obviously it was a long time ago.”
“Was she born in Cuba?”
“Yes. A little town called Bejucal.”
“I’ve heard of it. That’s actually not far from here.”
“I know. I checked the map before coming over.”
“You ever consider going there?”
“Every now and then. Only lately have I gotten serious about it.” Jack opened his carry-on bag and removed a photograph from inside a zipped pouch. “This is her,” he said as he offered it to Sofia.
“You brought a photograph?”
“I have a few keepsakes that my father and grandmother gave me. Not sure why I brought it. Coming to Cuba for the first time, it just seemed right to have her with me.”
“She’s beautiful. Just a teenager here, I would guess.”
“Yes. Seventeen. It was the last picture taken of her in Cuba.”
“Who’s that with her?”
“On the back it says ‘Celia Méndez.’ One look at the picture tells you they were best friends, but I don’t know anything more than that. My grandmother doesn’t seem to want to talk about Celia very much. I get the impression that she didn’t approve of the friendship.”
“Abuelas,” she said, smiling and shaking her head. “They all have their quirks, don’t they?”
“Some more than others,” said Jack.
A voice over the loudspeaker announced that their plane was finally boarding. Jack and Sofia rose and walked toward the gate with the other ticketed passengers. Twenty minutes later they were inside the plane and in their seats. A few passengers were trying to stuff luggage into the overhead compartments, but nearly everyone had settled in for the flight. Jack was just getting comfortable when he heard his name over the speaker. The message was in Spanish.
“Passengers Sofia Suarez and John Lawrence Swyteck, please identify yourselves by pushing the flight attendant call button.”
They looked at each other, not sure what to think. Then Jack reached up and pushed the button. The flight attendant came to them. “Please come with me,” she said in Spanish.
“Both of us?”
“Yes.”
They rose, but as they started up the aisle the flight attendant stopped and said, “Please, bring your carry-on luggage with you.”
“What’s this about?” asked Sofia.
“Please, gather your things and come with me.”
She was pleasant enough, but the vibes weren’t good. Heads turned with suspicion as they proceeded up the long, narrow aisle. The flight attendant led them completely off the plane, and they continued walking toward the gate.
“I told you not to hand out money to janitors,” Sofia muttered.
“Something tells me that’s not what this is about,” said Jack.
Three men dressed in military uniforms were waiting at the gate. Each was carrying an impressive large-caliber pistol in a black leather holster. The two younger men also bore automatic rifles. The flight attendant handed over the passengers to the leader, a more mature-looking man who appeared to be of some higher rank that Jack was unable to pinpoint. He asked to see their passports, which they presented. As he inspected their documents, the airplane backed out of the gate and started toward the runway. The soldier kept their passports and said, “This way, please.”
Evidently, they weren’t leaving Cuba anytime soon.
Jack and Sofia followed directly behind the older man, and the two younger soldiers flanked them on either side. They walked for several minutes through the busy airport, three pairs of military boot heels clicking on the tile floors. They exited the main terminal through a long and hot hallway, passing through several sets of doors along the way, the last of which bore a sign that read in Spanish, RESTRICTED AREA-AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The lead officer opened it with a key, and the group continued its journey with hardly a break in stride. There was another long hallway, and they walked straight to the door at the other end. The man knocked once and said, “Excuse me, Colonel. I have the Americans.”
The voice on the other side replied, “Enter.”
He opened the door and then immediately assumed the rigid pose of a military salute. A simple command from the man inside put him at ease, and he nudged the Americans forward.
Sofia shot Jack a look as if to say that “lad
ies first” was for lifeboats and cocktail parties. Jack entered, and she followed.
Jack’s eyes had to adjust to the lights, which were shining straight at his face. The room was windowless, but there was a large mirror built into the wall, undoubtedly a one-way gizmo that concealed the observers on the other side. The floors were unfinished concrete. The walls were cinder blocks that had been painted a bright white. Two uncomfortable wooden chairs were situated in the middle of the room, side by side, facing the lights. Even if he hadn’t been nervous, Jack would have been sweating. It was one of those interrogation rooms that could just as easily serve as a torture chamber, the kind of place from which you’d expect both screams and confessions to flow freely.
A man dressed in simple green combat fatigues stepped forward. His uniform was wholly unimpressive, yet he seemed to exude confidence as he spoke to the Americans in near-perfect English.
“Please, sit,” he said in a voice that sounded way too friendly to be sincere. “The people of Cuba are eager to speak to you about your case.”
18
Are those lights really necessary?” said Jack, shielding his eyes.
The colonel walked around the table and flipped a wall switch. The spotlights went out, and the sudden contrast from bright light to normal made the room seem much darker than it actually was. The colonel pulled a ten-inch cigar from his shirt pocket, and another man immediately stepped forward to light it. The man was so quick and obsequious that he could only have been the colonel’s personal aide. The colonel puffed hard on one end, rolling the other across a six-inch flame. Jack and Sofia were soon shrouded in a cloud of cigar smoke.
“My name is Colonel Raúl Jiménez,” he said as the thick smoke poured from his nostrils. “The people of Cuba thank you for coming.”
Jack glanced left, then right. “Funny, I don’t see them here.”
The colonel smiled, but it faded quickly. “You’re looking at them.”
With the wave of his hand, the armed soldiers left the room. The colonel’s aide remained at attention, standing off to the side.
“Gracias,” said Sofia.
At first Jack wasn’t sure why she was thanking him, but he too felt more comfortable with the automatic weapons out of the room.
“My purpose here is not to frighten you,” said the colonel. “I wish only to do you a favor.”
“Why do I doubt that?” said Jack.
“You are such a skeptic, Señor Swyteck.”
“I can’t help it. I’m a lawyer.”
“True, very true. Tell me. How did your interview with Lieutenant Johnson go this morning?”
Jack and Sofia looked at each other, not sure how he knew.
The colonel said, “You don’t think anything happens on that base that we don’t know about, do you?”
“I haven’t given it much thought,” said Jack.
“We’re sitting right on the other side of the razor wire. We watch them; they watch us. It’s the way the game is played in Guantánamo. Has been for forty years. So tell me: How did your little talk with the lieutenant go?”
“You don’t really expect me to discuss that with you, do you?”
He laughed heartily. “Just as I thought. He told you nada.”
“Colonel, what is it that you want from us?”
“Just a few minutes of your time.” He rose and started to pace, waving his cigar as he spoke. “Let me make a few educated assumptions here. One, the U.S. government didn’t let you talk to anyone but Lieutenant Johnson, did they?”
Jack didn’t answer.
“Two,” said the colonel, “anyone who might know anything about the murder of Captain Pintado has been reassigned, no? Persian Gulf, maybe? Or perhaps Guam?”
He glanced at Sofia and then at Jack. It was clear he didn’t expect an answer, but he didn’t seem to need one. “Seems to me that you are getting the brick house here.”
“Stonewall,” said his aide.
“Stonewall, yes. Brick house is something else entirely, no?” He was looking at Sofia with that last remark. Women served extensively in the Cuban military, but machismo was still alive and kicking.
Jack said, “Colonel, unless you’re going to put bamboo shoots under our fingernails, we’re not going to tell you what was said at the naval base. Even then, I’d just make it all up.”
“There’s nothing you need to tell me, Señor Swyteck. All you have to do is listen.”
“Okay. My ears are open.”
“Like I said, we know you met with Lieutenant Johnson, because we are watching that base constantly. Twenty-four/seven.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Then it should come as no surprise that we saw-how shall I put this? We saw things of interest at your client’s home on the night the captain left this world.”
Jack’s interest was suddenly piqued. “I’d like to hear about it.”
The colonel flashed a sly smile, the smoldering cigar clenched between his teeth. “I bet you would.”
“Come on, Colonel. I hope you didn’t invite us in here just to play the ‘I know a secret’ game. What do you have?”
“A vigilant Cuban soldier. Watching from a guard tower through night-vision binoculars.”
“What did he see?”
“Something that can prove that your client did not murder her husband.”
Jack’s pulse quickened. Could this be true? “I need specifics,” said Jack.
“Not so fast. Before I offer up one of my own soldiers on a silver platter, I need to know: What are you offering in exchange?”
“Colonel, I’m in no position to deal with the Cuban military for the testimony of one of its soldiers.”
“I’m confident that the son of Florida ’s former governor will find something to please us.”
“I’m not looking to please you. And even if I were, the testimony of a Cuban soldier in a Miami courtroom will have huge repercussions. Need I remind you, Colonel, that this community nearly exploded over the return of a seven-year-old boy named Elián to his Cuban father?”
“Claro,” he said. “You simply have to ask yourself up front: Is the woman accused of killing the son of a powerful Cuban exile willing to stake her defense on the sworn testimony of Fidel Castro’s loyal soldier?”
The question nearly knocked Jack off his chair. The colonel had framed it perfectly. “I need some time to think this through,” said Jack.
“Bueno. You have twenty-four hours.”
“I’d like more than that.”
“I’m not offering more than that. Take it or leave it.”
Jack glanced at Sofia, and they quickly came to a silent understanding. Jack said, “All right, Colonel. Let’s talk again at tomorrow’s end.”
“Good. You’ve already missed your flight, so enjoy your little overnight visit in beautiful Havana. You are the honored guests of the people of Cuba.”
“Meaning you?” said Jack.
He smiled broadly, sucking on his cigar. “Sí. Meaning me.”
19
Four decades of communism had not robbed Havana of its heart. But it was badly in need of angioplasty.
Everywhere Jack looked, he could find things old, things broken, things that seemed straight out of a world that had existed before he was even born. They rode in a taxi that had the hood of a 1956 Chevrolet, the back end of a 1959 Ford, and the interior of something just a cut above an ox cart. Their driver was a surgeon who earned more in tips than practicing medicine. He gave Jack and Sofia a driving tour of La Habana Vieja (Old Havana), a historic section of a magnificent city that could be either charming or appalling, depending on how closely you looked. Jack tried to envision it as his mother might have seen it as a teenager, an architectural marvel that boasted some of the most impressive cathedrals, plazas, and colonial mansions in the Caribbean. Over eight hundred of its historically significant structures were built before the twentieth century, some dating back to the 1500s. But after decades of neglect,
many of these irreplaceable structures had suffered irreversible damage, and recent restoration efforts aimed at bolstering tourism were simply too little, too late. Despite some convincing paint jobs and face-lifts, it was impossible to ignore the many sagging roofs and crumbling walls. Some parts of south La Habana Vieja resembled Berlin in late 1944, whole sections of walls missing, buildings on the verge of collapse but for the tenuous support of wood scaffolding, entire neighborhoods seemingly held together by crisscrossing ropes and wires from which residents hung the morning laundry.
An old woman on a third-floor balcony was hauling up a bucket on a rope.
“No plumbing?” Jack asked the the cabdriver.
“Not here, señor. If you go for walking, is muy importante that you look over you head. Is not so bad if you get spill from buckets going up. But the ones coming down…”
“Yo comprendo,” said Jack. I understand.
They continued west along the waterfront on the broad and busy Avenida Maceo, stopping at the Hotel Nacional. The driver would have been more than happy to continue the city tour, but Jack tipped him extra to cut it short.
“Gracias,” Jack said as he handed him a couple of twenties. It was about a month’s worth of wages for a physician.
Hotel Nacional was the vintage 1930 grand dame of Havana hotels, perched on a bluff with postcard views of Havana Harbor. Its architect had also designed the famous Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, and it was built in a similar Spanish style, entered via a long driveway that was lined with slender Royal Palms. The lobby screamed of opulence if not ostentatiousness, with mosaic floors, Moorish arches, and lofty, beamed ceilings. Jack looked around, saw the tourists at the bar sipping lime daiquiris and rum mojitos. He spotted another group of businessmen feasting on shrimp as big as their fists and lobster with drawn butter. He heard salsa music from the nightclub, the laughter of people dancing, the chatter of wealthy Europeans on holiday.
And then he heard the desk clerk’s reminder: “One last thing, señor. Locals are not permitted in the hotel. It’s the law, and I’m required to tell you that. So please don’t bring them here.”
Hear No Evil Page 9