Hostage in Havana ct-1 Page 3

He handed her a small envelope. Her name was written on it in handwriting that she recognized as Federov’s. She glanced at Silverman as she put a finger into the envelope and pulled it open.

  Within was a letter from the law firm in Switzerland. It was in French and addressed to her. She scanned it. There was another piece of paper, folded in half. A check. She unfolded it.

  Silverman said, “I’m sure you will handle it wisely.”

  She barely heard him. The check was made out to her, drawn on Credit Suisse’s offices in New York. She saw a line of zeroes. Then her eyes froze on the second line, the one that conveyed the amount.

  Two million dollars.

  “Your life just changed, I know,” Silverman said. “It must feel strange.”

  “What’s this about?” she asked. “I don’t get it.”

  Silverman shrugged. “What’s it about?” he mused. “Who knows? That’s not my department. The funds come with no strings attached and no further message from Mr. Federov. Apparently he had great affection for you and wished to leave you a gift, something that would impact your life in a positive way. That’s all I know. Other than that, all federal, state, and city taxes have already been deducted. It was apparently the intent of Mr. Federov to leave you a flat two million dollars. I also need a final signature from you on a letter, confirming that you’ve met with me and received the check. I have the letter prepared. It will need to be notarized. I have a notary on call.” He paused. “I assume you’re willing to sign and accept.”

  She was hearing all this but had trouble believing it.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Then let’s proceed.”

  Twenty minutes later, back down on Park Avenue, Alex was still stunned. She stopped outside the office building, trying to put things in perspective. Yes, this had really happened. The check was in an envelope in her purse, along with a business card from a banker named Christophe Chatton at Credit Suisse in New York. Chatton would be at Alex’s disposal if he could assist in any way with the management of the money.

  As she took a few steps away from Silverman’s building, her purse had never seemed so heavy. Was this Federov’s strange final way of corrupting her, she wondered? Or was he expecting her to use it to buy his redemption?

  She had two million dollars about to go into the bank. And now, it seemed, she had two million new things to think about.

  SIX

  Manuel Perez rested, never leaving the small compound where he lodged. Respectfully, with even a small touch of sympathy, he watched the televised state funerals for the men he had killed. A day and a half later, confident that no one was looking for him, he was ready to travel.

  His escorts were part of a network of cocaine traffickers loyal to one of the big cartels from Medellin. They didn’t know what Perez had done or for whom, but they treated him with courtesy. They showed him to a van. The driver was a muscular young punk, about twenty, with black hair, a silk shirt, and a cocky attitude. His name was Mauricio. He was Mexican, Perez noted. Perez didn’t like the looks of him, his surliness, or his singsong Mexican working-class accent.

  The plan was to ferry Perez by highway to Cali, and from there he would fly out of the country. They began their trip by the roads that went through the farm areas south of Bogota. Half an hour later, Perez began to talk to Mauricio. The two men discovered they shared a common background: fatherless and dirt poor in the state of Guerrero in Mexico. The driver’s eyes kept shifting between the road ahead, the road behind, and the ominous single passenger in the backseat. A backup team of bodyguards followed in case there was trouble with police or army roadblocks, but no trouble ensued. Perez started to warm up to his chauffeur and wondered if the kid knew who he was and what had been his business in Colombia. Eventually, Perez asked.

  “I know you’re important. I’m supposed to get you to the airport,” Mauricio said.

  “Do you have a gun?” Perez asked.

  “Not with me. Not allowed while I drive you.” Mauricio tipped his head toward the car behind them. “If there’s trouble,” he said, “they’re the shooters, not me.”

  “You like guns?” Perez asked.

  “Love them.”

  Perez nodded. “A man needs his guns in this world,” he said philosophically.

  At the airport, before Perez stepped out of the van, the bodyguards went into the airport lobby to trawl for potential trouble. They saw none. Returning, they gave Perez the all-clear signal.

  Perez drew a breath. This was the tricky part. Getting home.

  He tapped his driver on the shoulder in a friendly gesture of thanks. He gave his pistol to Mauricio as a souvenir and gift. Then Perez walked into the lobby as routinely as any other passenger. He used his escape passport, an American one under the name of Martin Lopez, to check in for a flight to Tegucigalpa, Honduras.

  The flight was announced. Perez departed. In Tegucigalpa, he connected to Mexico City. When the aircraft touched down in the Mexican capital, Perez heaved a sigh of relief. He couldn’t wait to embrace his family. Sometimes these business jaunts were pure torture, and he agonized about the day he might never return from one.

  Here in the capital, Perez had a luxurious and spacious home. He was anxious to return to it. His wife, Nicoleta, worked for an American pharmaceutical company. Their three daughters were twelve, nine, and five. They were dark haired and very pretty, like their mother.

  He lived quietly in the wealthy suburbs. All who knew him, even his family, thought of him as a business graduate from the huge university in Mexico City, who now ran a successful and highly visible shipping and import-export business. His company, as everyone knew, dealt in dried fruits and processed foods from Colombia, Venezuela, and Argentina. They knew he traveled a lot, and of course, judging by his wealth, he was successful. But no one knew what else he did for a living.

  After breezing through customs and emerging into the terminal where friends and families waited for arriving passengers, he spotted a strikingly pretty Latina sitting beyond the edge of the crowd. She had light brown skin, with a delicate face behind large round sunglasses. She was wearing a short blue summer dress and matching espadrilles.

  Immediately Perez noticed that her legs were spectacular, beautifully tanned from toe to mid-thigh. Exactly what he loved. A private security man flanked her. In her lap she held an expensive leather purse, one of those beautiful designer bags from Italy or Spain. She sat with her legs crossed, clutching a pack of Marlboros and nervously fidgeting with it.

  Perez smiled, stopped, and studied her. She was the sexiest, most beautiful woman he had ever seen. On the woman’s hand, there was a ring with an expensive sparkle. The stone must have been five carats. She was obviously waiting for a lucky someone.

  Then she looked at him. She smiled and came quickly to her feet.

  “?Nicoleta!” he proclaimed.

  His wife opened her arms and rushed toward him.

  He opened his arms in return and embraced her. It always felt so good to return safely from a dangerous mission, like a warrior back from battle. The bodyguard, a Chilean named Antonio, protectively stood by, then guided the couple to a waiting Cadillac Escalade.

  It was wonderful to be home.

  SEVEN

  Two evenings later, Alex and Paul Guarneri met for dinner at Peter Lugar’s Steakhouse in midtown Manhattan. Guarneri had offered to send a car and driver, but Alex preferred to travel by subway and then on foot.

  Guarneri was already at the restaurant at 7:30 when Alex arrived. The maitre d’ obviously knew Guarneri and escorted Alex quickly to his table, which was one of the better ones – in the back, spacious but private, and out of the view of most of the other diners.

  Guarneri was fifty-something, dark and handsome, with gray at the temples. He had a strong face. He was reading the menu when she saw him and had put on a pair of reading glasses, which gave him an almost scholarly look.

  He looked up, smiled broadly, and put the glasses away. Alex alw
ays knew when a man had some personal interest in her. There was something about the focus of the eyes, the body language, and the tone of voice. She had sensed it from the start. She felt nothing in return.

  “Well, well,” he said, on his feet and giving an appreciative nod to the maitre d’. “My favorite federal employee. Welcome. Nice to see you.”

  “Hello, Paul,” she said.

  He gave her an embrace, which she returned. The maitre d’ held the chair for her and disappeared. They sat.

  “If I’m your favorite Fed, chances are you don’t know many,” Alex said.

  “I’ve met a few, for better or worse,” he said with a dismissive laugh. “You’ve earned your special status.”

  A waiter arrived and asked if they desired drinks. Guarneri ordered a vodka martini. Alex went with a Pellegrino. She needed to stay sharp.

  After a few minutes of small talk, Guarneri asked, “So you’re in New York now? You’ve relocated?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “New job?” he asked.

  “Same old same old,” she said, “but more responsibility and more challenge.”

  “Like it?”

  “It’s a living.”

  “So is riding elephants in the circus.”

  “It’s a bit different than that,” she said.

  “I’m sure it is,” he said. “How’s that cute young lady my people were protecting last year? Janet? Was that her name?”

  “She’s fine. Your people did a great job keeping her out of trouble.”

  “It was easy,” he said. “I knew some off-duty NYPD people, and they took care of things. All I did was set it up.”

  “Nonetheless, she stayed safe. I’m appreciative.”

  “Appreciation has its price,” he warned with a smile.

  “Of course. This dinner,” she said. “And some more free advice.”

  He laughed again. “I’m afraid I’d like to call in a heavier IOU than that,” he said. “Cuba. That’s what we discussed last time, wasn’t it?”

  “You might have mentioned something,” she answered. “I’d forgotten.”

  On that occasion Paul had, in fact, elaborated a long family history, both professional and family, and their connections to Cuba.

  “I doubt that,” he answered. He winked at her. “You’re good, Alex. ‘The smartest beautiful woman I’ve ever met.’ That’s what the dear departed Comrade Yuri Federov used to say. I must say, I miss him. Life was never dull.”

  “It wasn’t, no,” she said. “I was at the funeral in Geneva.”

  “That was good of you. I didn’t know he had died till afterward. I might have attended myself. Sad, in its way.”

  “Sad,” she agreed.

  More banter. The waiter reappeared and they each ordered steaks, even though Alex knew the portions were enormous. Guarneri ordered a bottle of California burgundy. They enjoyed the meal and conversation drifted. Then toward the conclusion of dinner, Guarneri snaked around to the subject he wanted to discuss.

  “Okay. Cuba,” he said. “Let’s backtrack. First things first. You promised to go there with me, to Cuba, in exchange for my having protected Janet. Surely, you recall.”

  “Refresh my memory,” Alex said. “Let’s see if you tell it the same way twice.”

  She had left half her meal and asked the waiter to pack it to go. They ordered coffee, and the waiter cleared the table.

  “I was born there in 1955,” Guarneri said. “Mi madre fue cubana,” he said. “My father was a part owner of a racetrack and a casino near Havana. He also owned some strip clubs. When Castro took over, my dad had to get out – fast. At the time, he was holding a half million dollars in American currency. There was no way he could take it with him to the airport. The police or Castro’s soldiers would have taken it.” Guarneri paused. “So he buried it.”

  “I remember,” she said.

  Guarneri reached for his wallet and produced a pair of photos. One showed his mother as a casino showgirl in a chorus line in 1957. The other was a grainy picture of himself with his mother, a faded color shot, from Long Island in 1966. “My mother and I got out of the country in 1961, February.”

  The coffee arrived. The espresso was scalding. Alex sipped carefully.

  “My father had another wife and family here, but he smuggled us out, anyway,” Guarneri said. “My dad could have left us there, but he didn’t. God bless him for that. I grew up in the U.S. instead of Communist Cuba. What a difference, huh?”

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  “I remember when we left. My mother got me in the middle of the night, wrapped me in a blanket, and put me in a car. She told me it was time to leave and we couldn’t bring anything. We drove without headlights and went to a boat. The boat went to a seaplane, and we flew to Florida. I’m told we flew eighty miles at three hundred feet. There was a storm, but I slept through it. When I woke up the next morning we were in a nice apartment in Key West. Everything was new and clean. My father had set up everything. Then came the Bay of Pigs, the American invasion at Playa Giron, a month later. It was harder to get anyone out of Cuba after that. Years went by. My father always fretted over the thought of those greenbacks rotting in the Cuban earth, but he also always said he was glad that he got us out when he did. But he died first and never got back to Cuba. Remember me telling you all this?”

  “I do,” Alex said. “The hidden money, do you now know where it is?”

  “If I could get back to Cuba, I know I could find it.”

  “Then what?” she asked. “The rightful owners, if you could call them that, were the pre-revolution gangsters who ran the casinos and strip clubs. Are you planning to get in touch with the original cast of The Godfather and reimburse everyone?”

  Paul glanced away, then shot back, “Look, I have my reasons. When you came to me and asked me to protect Janet, I just did it for you. Friend of a friend. No questions, no moral agonizing.”

  “So you expect me to trust you?” she said.

  “Let’s just say I’m not planning to grab the money just to enrich myself. I’ll be frank: I’ve been successful in business. Half a million is a nice sum, but not enough for me to risk everything to grab it. But the money will go to a good purpose. One you would approve of, something my father always wanted done.”

  “So you’re obeying the commandment, ‘honor thy father and mother’?” she asked.

  “If you called it that, I’d be flattered.”

  “Are you planning to tell me what that purpose is?”

  “No,” he said. “Not yet. You don’t need to know until we actually get to Cuba.”

  “That’s not very convincing, Paul,” she said.

  “Maybe not. But it was you who came to me and asked the favor. I bent a few laws, took some risks, and did that favor for you. And you did tell me that you’d return the favor someday,” he said. “You said you’d get us into Cuba. Or at least make the effort. That’s what you promised.”

  She sighed.

  He sighed, mimicking her in good humor, and smiled.

  “All right. Let me do this,” she said. “I’m slammed at the office right now with an investigation in Central America. I can’t see how I’d be able to do anything away from the office for several weeks. But I’ll run your request past my boss, explaining the past history and the favor you did for us in protecting Janet. And in a morbid sort of way, I’m intrigued. But my boss makes the final call. We’ll see what he says.”

  “Fair enough,” Paul said. “Thank you.”

  “Keep in mind, if it were up to me, common sense would prevail, and you’d have to think of another favor to ask … and I think it’s time for me to get home.”

  The waiter reappeared with a handsomely wrapped takeout bag, which he presented to Alex. Guarneri settled the bill, tipped generously, and they were out the door into a balmy New York evening.

  “How are you getting home?” Guarneri asked.

  “Taxi.”

  “Nonse
nse,” said Guarneri. “My car and driver are here somewhere. We can give you a lift.” He turned to the restaurant doorman, who obviously knew him, and asked, “Have you seen Michael?”

  A moment later, Guarneri’s black limousine appeared and eased to the curb. The driver popped out and greeted Alex by name. He came around the vehicle to open the back door on the curb side.

  “I live on the Upper West Side,” Alex said to Guarneri. “That’s out of your way if you’re going to Long Island.”

  “What a coincidence. We’re going to the Upper West Side as well,” Paul said.

  Alex hesitated, assessing Paul and the situation. “No, thank you. I’ll take a taxi. Good night, Paul,” she said. “I’ll phone you after I discuss this with my boss. Thank you for dinner.” She looked to his driver. “Thanks anyway, Michael. I’ll be fine.”

  She allowed Paul to embrace her and give her a social kiss on the cheek. Then started walking away. There was a taxi at the curb and she grabbed it.

  EIGHT

  At Andrew De Salvo’s office the next afternoon, De Salvo’s secretary, Elsa Nussman, greeted Alex. Elsa was mid-fifties, stout and prim, with round glasses that gave her an owlish look. “Go on in,” Elsa said. “He’s waiting.”

  Alex opened the door and stepped in. De Salvo sat behind his wide mahogany desk. At Alex’s feet lay a wide Persian rug. On the walls hung De Salvo’s many awards and diplomas, plus photographs of him with the last four American presidents.

  Her boss looked up in his distinguished, if slightly stooped, way. Alex liked him. He was a Midwesterner from Indiana, just past sixty. He smiled. His blue eyes showed indictment-fatigue. He looked up from his desk.

  “Got a couple of minutes?” Alex asked. “I need to run a few things past you.”

  “Sure,” he said. A trio of hardcopy classified folders sat on his desk. Alex could tell by the bold red binders. He flipped all three shut as she pushed the door shut and sat down. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Last night I had dinner with a man named Paul Guarneri,” Alex said. “I know him from last year’s operation out of Washington. Guarneri was a fringe player in the Federov operation,” she said. “Guarneri did Fin Cen a favor by babysitting a witness while we cleaned up some business. So I owe him one.”