Hostage in Havana

by Noel Hynd

  Alex smiled. If only she knew what to do with it.

  ELEVEN

  Friday evening arrived. At Carnegie Hall, Alex and Ben sat in the fifteenth row of the orchestra and watched in awe as violinist Itzhak Perlman played seemingly two concerts. The first half was remorselessly formal, as Perlman delivered the music, nodding but otherwise not saying a word to the audience between pieces.

  The concert opened with one of Handel’s violin sonatas. In this work, Perlman’s tight musicianship came across to Alex as a lovely, chaste melancholy. Already fatigued, she felt her spirits dimmed from the sadness of the music.

  But after intermission, the formal virtuoso was transformed into the casual, accessible violin player, a man who, in his fifty years of performing, had not only performed in every great concert hall but had also easily joked with the Muppets on Sesame Street.

  “The good news is that the piece is not very long,” Perlman quipped from the stage about Messiaen’s modernist Theme and Variations. “Just pretend you’ve heard it ten times before and maybe you’ll like it.”

  Ben and Alex laughed. Ben gave Alex’s hand a squeeze and then pulled it away, awkwardly and self-consciously. After that, Perlman played six short pieces. At the end, he was rewarded with a roar of acclamation from the audience.

  Alex and Ben emerged from Carnegie Hall into a balmy June night. They walked up Seventh Avenue to 61st Street where Alex lived. They chatted amiably, enjoying the evening. She felt relaxed with him in a way different than any man she knew. His body felt strong, his gait smooth, even with the prosthesis.

  “Hungry?” he asked as they maneuvered the crowds. The New York Philharmonic and the theater where a revival of South

  Pacific was playing had let out from nearby Lincoln Center. The sidewalks were busy.

  “Yes. A bit,” she said. “What are you in the mood for? Italian? Greek? Pub grub? Coffee and pastry?”

  “You choose.”

  They looked at various store fronts. Then the answer presented itself to her. “Know what would be good?” she said.

  “You tell me.”

  She motioned to her neighborhood pizzeria, Raimondo’s, a bright place that sold pies whole or by the slice. “Let’s just get some slices and take them home,” she said. “I’ve got drinks in the fridge.”

  “Works for me,” he said, “if it works for you.”

  “Works perfectly for me,” she said. “The place is owned by an Athenian named Chris who grew up in Calabria and is staffed by people who barely speak English,” Alex said. “That’s always a good sign for pizza in New York.”

  Ben laughed. “You always break me up with stuff like that,” he said. “How do you know all that? You just moved here.”

  “I’ve been here five months. This is my neighborhood. Raimondo’s is open late. I stop by sometimes when I don’t get home till midnight. I talk to the owner in Italian. He grew up in Sicily. He likes me because I speak Italian.”

  “Does he know you’re a Fed?”

  “Of course not,” she grinned. “If he did, he probably wouldn’t like me anymore.”

  They stepped into the crowded pizzeria. They bought half a pie to take out, four generous slices with various toppings. Ben paid.

  They were back at Alex’s apartment in ten minutes. They entered. Alex dropped the blinds in the living room. At night she could see hundreds of windows, and they could see her. Ben loved the nighttime view of Manhattan and spent a few minutes peaking around the blinds, looking downward onto Seventh Avenue where traffic moved southbound toward Times Square and the theater district. She loved her view, but one never knew when one was the target of a voyeur with a telescope. It was New York, after all: plenty of weirdoes out there.

  Alex went to the kitchen. She put the pizza slices on a cookie sheet and warmed them in the oven. She grabbed two bottles of pop from the refrigerator and set them on her small kitchen table. Ben wandered back to the kitchen a few moments later and sat down.

  “Want a glass?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither.”

  They clicked their bottles and talked about times they had shared in Washington. Ben told her again how much she was missed by the gang at the gym and how no one before or since could sink a three pointer from that particular spot, two feet beyond the three-point line, like Alex could.

  She laughed. It was a good memory. She got up, retrieved the pizza, and put it onto plates. “Knife? Fork?” she asked.

  “For pizza? You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m kidding,” she said.

  They ate and laughed some more over old times.

  As they sat in the cozy kitchen a seditious thought came to Alex’s mind. It occurred to her that she and Ben were acting like a couple, a man and a woman who might already be lovers or who might be lovers in the future — or even husband and wife someday. She didn’t know whether to embrace the idea or reject it. She felt she was ready to move on romantically — except for the fact that she wasn’t. In some ways, she was as confused as she had ever been. Eventually, Alex looked at the wall clock; it was nearly 1:00 a.m.

  “Hey,” she said, “I have to put in time at the office tomorrow.”

  “Saturday?” he asked.

  “And Sunday too,” she said. “More of a pain than anything, if you want to know the truth.” She stood. “Anyway, I need some sleep.”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking at her.

  “Well, look,” she said. “You know where everything is. Towels. Bathroom. Let’s just leave the dishes in the sink. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” he said again. There was an awkward moment and he stood.

  “Did you enjoy being together tonight?” he asked. “The concert?”

  “Of course.”

  “I really enjoy it when we’re together, Alex,” he said.

  “Ben …”

  He stood before her. Their eyes locked. “What?” he said.

  “I thought we decided … I thought we agreed,” she said. “There were some places we just weren’t going to go. Not now.”

  “We decided, we discussed, we agreed,” he said. “But I want to know something, Alex. I need to ask.” He paused, then asked, “Do you have feelings for me?”

  Her heart banged and felt as if it had gotten stuck somewhere between her throat and the pit of her stomach.

  “Tell me if you do or if you don’t,” he said, “because I think it’s obvious by now that I have feelings for you.”

  It was not a conversation she was ready for. Ben was a decent, kind man, a pillar of strength who, with his tough love, had pulled her back from the abyss of suicide less than a year before. Deeply, she did not want to let him go. And yet she didn’t even know how to phrase her answer, or, for that matter, what her answer was.

  “Yes,” she admitted, “I have feelings. And they’re strong feelings. But maybe they’re not the right ones just yet. Or maybe the time just isn’t right yet.”

  “When will the time be right?” he asked.

  She looked into his eyes, set as they were in a rugged, strong, kind face. Her instincts told her not to say anything, but to take him by the hand and kiss him.

  She did not know what to say, didn’t even know what was right to feel. She could keep her feelings inside her, bury them, suppress them, but sometimes her physical desires had the pull of a runaway horse. Bubbling beneath the surface, she realized, were feelings that she was struggling to keep inside; she was afraid to fall in love because the last time she did, she had fallen hard and then everything had been taken from her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. She felt as if she had muffed her response. “I mean, I do know. But I don’t know if I’m ready for another relationship yet.”

  “It’s been a year,” he said. “More than a year. I understand your loss. I can’t replace Robert. We both know no one ever can, but — “

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s not something that I can put a clock on. I hope
you understand, Ben, because the last thing I’d want to do is lead you on or hurt you.”

  She sensed his disappointment. Meanwhile, her mouth had gone dry, her heart hammered, and her knees felt weak. She was shocked but not surprised. Everything was turned on its end because a friend was suggesting that he might now become more. A couple of uneasy seconds went by and she couldn’t figure out how she could be so on top of things at work and so adrift in her personal life.

  He released her hand. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I asked. It’s been driving me crazy, this attraction I have for you, unable to do anything, afraid to even say anything. At least I asked.” He paused. “I hope I didn’t wreck our friendship.”

  “Of course not,” she said. She drew another breath. “I’m just not ready to pour out my emotions again. It doesn’t feel right yet.”

  He nodded. “It’s okay. I understand. But then there’s something else I want to tell you about if you and I aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “One reason I came to New York was not just to do those interviews but to see if, you know, maybe we could start going out. I wanted to know because, honestly, you’re the most terrific woman I’ve ever met. And I wanted to see if something would spark between us.”

  “Where are you going with this, Ben?” she asked.

  “I was at an interview the other day in D.C. One of the big firms. Very politically connected. And I met this woman,” he said. “Her name’s Carol. She’s smart. Like you. I guess that’s my type. She went to one of those prestigious colleges up in Boston; you know, one of those places that bankrupt you if you’re not rich.”

  They shared a smile. Hers was nervous. So was his.

  “She’s blonde, about five-seven. Beautiful figure. Working on her master’s degree in public affairs at Georgetown.”

  “And you’re going to ask her out?” Alex said, suppressing a tinge of jealousy.

  “I wanted to ask you first,” he said, almost shyly. “Before I get to know her any better, I wanted to see if there was anything that could happen between you and me. Because if I start falling for her and then realized I could have fallen for you, well, what a mess, huh?”

  “Really,” Alex said. “What a mess. What about your plans to get a job in New York?”

  “Carol’s moving here too,” he said. “It’s like, you know, you go on for years. You never meet anyone you’re interested in. Then suddenly, wham.”

  “I can relate,” she said.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to know God’s will.”

  “Not sometimes. All the time,” she said.

  “Well,” he said with a long exhalation, “that’s my spiel. I’m done. It’s out. Hope you don’t hate me for it.”

  She shook her head and embraced him. “I never could hate you.”

  They embraced again and said good night, disappearing to their separate rooms.

  TWELVE

  Manuel Perez sat on the shaded veranda of the Sorentino, an expensive resort in Belize. He nursed a tall glass of tropical iced tea. He was clad in a light linen suit he had bought in Italy. It was of a weight that breathed easily with both the sun and the breezes that rolled in from the western Caribbean.

  He was deep in thought. The woman at his table, a guest, had just presented a business proposal. She waited patiently for his reaction.

  Perez looked across the off-white sands of the beach to where his beloved wife, Nicoleta, and their daughters, all equipped with snorkeling gear, romped in the water. With them was Maria, their bilingual mother’s helper and housekeeper and the children’s tutor. Maria had, as always, accompanied them on this one-week vacation.

  At the door leading to the veranda stood the man the children knew as Tío Antonio, Uncle Tony. Uncle Tony always watched Perez’s back when Perez took his family on vacation. After all, a wealthy Central American entrepreneur needed personal security in these troubled times, even a conventional importer and exporter of fresh and dried fruit. So the Chilean bodyguard seemed to be a wise precaution.

  The Sorentino was located on Ambergris Caye, the largest island along the Belize Barrier Reef. Perez had chosen it for this meeting for more than one reason. Before Perez and beyond his family was the most spectacular scuba-diving paradise in the world, including the Blue Hole. Once the meeting was over with this businesswoman, Perez and his wife could dive.

  Yet as much as the diving and the meeting were important, so was security. Ambergris Caye was an island accessible only to private transportation. Representatives of the Sorentino had picked up the Perez family at the airport in San Pedro and whisked them away by private car and then brought them here by private boat.

  Perez turned to the woman at his table, having mulled over her proposal for almost a full two minutes without speaking. “You have to understand,” he said in English, with almost no trace of an accent, “the job you are asking me to do is difficult. I would have to enter the United States and make many preparations. While I have some excellent contacts there, the target you suggest would not be easy. The Americans have greatly tightened their borders over the last decade, as well as their ability to pursue people on their wanted lists.”

  “I would think a man of your ingenuity would have no trouble getting into the United States,” the woman said.

  “Getting out would be the challenge. I have many friends in the underworld in the U.S. Russian, Latino, Mafia, Irish. Political underworld as well as criminal enterprises. Word travels quickly. Presumably a massive ‘unofficial’ reward would be posted for me if my work were successful. I would be hunted worldwide.”

  The woman opened her mouth, but Perez raised a polite hand to silence her.

  “I also have,” he resumed pleasantly, “many ethical issues about striking targets in the U.S. I have some affinity for the Americans and do not dislike them. I have worked for Americans, as you know. I have many friends there, some who do not even know the nature of my second business, some who do. Though it may surprise you, I do have a conscience. I’m not sure that I would want to bring the attention of American authorities upon me. Right now, they may have a vague notion of who I am. I’m not so certain I would want the extra attention.” He paused again. “Worse, the job would have to be undertaken in New York City,” he said. “That would draw even more attention.” He shook his head. “None of this is good.”

  “Then you’re not interested?” she asked patiently.

  As they did so often when he was deeply contemplative, Perez’s eyes returned to the sea. Then they returned to his family, three little girls who continued to splash in the surf, a beautiful wife whom he doted on, flanked by the pretty young Maria in a two-piece suit, which sometimes made him think thoughts he shouldn’t.

  Another minute passed. Perez sipped more tea. Idly, he rubbed his right kneecap. There was some swelling today with the heat. Nothing incapacitating; the discomfort never was. He had some prescription painkillers with him. He would chew one later in the day. But certainly not in front of his guest. A weakness, a tiny flaw of any sort, was never to be revealed. Even Nicoleta didn’t know how much the knee sometimes vexed him. But then there was much that Nicoleta didn’t know.

  The woman at the table understood enough to remain silent. Out of habit, Perez looked over his shoulder and saw Antonio standing exactly where he should be, by the door, arms folded, watching everything, and even keeping an eye on a couple of American blondes on the beach. Everyone who knew Tony knew that blondes could distract him for a moment or two. Everyone joked about it. Fortunately, Nicoleta was a brunette and Antonio kept his priorities in order. If only, Manuel Perez thought to himself, everyone were as dependable as Antonio.

  Perez’s eyes drifted back to his children. Images of his own childhood came into focus. He could remember the squalor of a cement-block home, the blazing summer heat of Mexico, running barefoot in the streets as a young child, and the horrible car accident that had injured him. Rich people speeding through his neighborhood. The
driver who had hit him never stopped. Why would anyone stop after hitting a slum kid? Who cared? The knee injury had prevented him from joining the Mexican Army, but it had never had any bearing on his ability to use a rifle. So it never cost him the chance to join a foreign army as an expert marksman. And the ability to use a weapon had acquired for him what a normal body and an education never could have: wealth, enough to start his own company. Wealth, enough to marry a woman of the caliber that he could only dream of as a teenager. And power. Now he had power, the type that comes from an impressive bank account, and ancillary respect that flowed from the shooting end of a rifle.

  Now he had what he had always longed for. And he was close to making that final big play that would cement it all and make it secure for him. He looked at the resort as the memories of an impoverished boyhood faded. One needed to have an unspeakable amount of money to afford to live like this. He turned back to her.

  “May I add some details?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “We already have people in place in New York. Through our various corporations and shipping interests, we own an impressive portfolio of real estate, including one building that would afford you an excellent shot at the target. We would give you secure access to a rooftop, and we already have a construction project on the roof, which would provide the proper cover to shoot from. We can give you keys to everything. All you would need is to secure your own weapon and take your shot. Or shots.”

  “One is usually enough,” he said. “But two or three could be a pleasant luxury.”

  “As you would have it,” she said.

  Perez thought further. “Sadly,” he said, playing his hand carefully, “I don’t think anyone will pay what I would want to make a hit like that in New York City. So for this reason, I might never accept a job such as the one you describe.”