Hostage in Havana - Noel Hynd

“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.”

“Nonsense,” 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.”

“We have IOUs all over the place,” De Salvo said. “Big deal. But keep talking.”

“Guarneri was tight with Federov’s business associates,” Alex said, “but it was the legit end of Federov’s businesses. I’ve run him through the files. No arrests. His father was an accomplice with the crime families in Cuba pre-Castro: the Trafficantes, Gambinos, Frank Costello, Lucky Luciano.”

“Interesting. Where does it go?”

“I know that Guarneri’s dad was the victim of a gangland hit in the 1970s,” she said. “I don’t know what it was about, but the case is still open. So he’s from a connected family, seems to be clean himself, and makes his money in real estate.”

“So? ‘Dinner’ as in ‘dating,’ or just ‘dinner’?”

“‘Dinner’ as in he called me and wants to call in the favor,” Alex said. “He wants me to go to Cuba with him on some piece of old business relating to his father.”

“Cuba?!” De Salvo laughed. “You sure can pick your spots. It can’t be Bermuda or Hawaii or Bonaire; it’s got to be to a place where you can’t legally travel?”

“Guarneri has ideas about trying to get back some money that was hidden years ago. That’s the link.”

De Salvo laughed again. “Well, sure. The Castro hermanos start to fade away, and all the Mafia families are going to be looking for recovery of lost property. It’s going to be a mess. How much?”

“Half a million dollars … so he says.”

“I got to say, times must be tough if a connected guy has to go out and scrounge for half a million. Didn’t he get any TARP funds?”

Alex smiled. “Guess not.”

“So it’s just been sitting somewhere for fifty years? A bank?”

“Stashed. Hidden. Buried. Literally.”

De Salvo folded his arms, then ran a hand through his hair. “If it’s cash, it’s still legal tender,” he said. He shook his head. “Obviously, Operation Parajo isn’t keeping you busy enough. Has anyone arrested the Dosis yet, by the way?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

De Salvo cursed quietly. “The longer they’re out there, the better the chance that they land somewhere beyond extradition. Can you turn up the pressure?”

“I can try,” she said.

“Okay, look. This Guarneri-Cuban thing. What do you want to do with it? You feel you want to make this trip? Scope things out? Think there’s something in it?”

“I’d prefer to avoid it,” Alex said. “As long as Parajo is in progress, I don’t have time for Cuba.”

“Well, then, tell that to your Mafia guy.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll try. Maybe he’ll lose interest.”

“Half a million bucks and fifty years,” De Salvo said, thinking it further. “Your guy’s not going to lose interest. Play him along as an asset. You never know.”

Alex gave him half a grin and half a nod. “Good advice.”

She sat tight. De Salvo looked as if he expected her to stand and leave. She didn’t.

“There’s more?” he asked.

“I need your input on something. Professional and personal. Confidential.”

“Okay.”

“Federov’s will was read in Switzerland two weeks ago. I was named in it.”

“The dear boy left you some rubles? Is that it?”

“Yes. Dollars, actually. A significant amount.”

“Oh. Lucky you. Throw us all a party. Classy hookers for the guys, Chippendale dancers for the ladies. What’s not to like?”

She grinned. “I’m inquiring about the ethics. Will it make any waves here if I keep the money?”

De Salvo’s gaze ran out the window, across the concrete canyon of Wall Street, and to the harbor beyond. He glanced back to her. “No strings attached?” he asked again.

“None.”

De Salvo shrugged. “The Federov case is closed; the man is dead and likely to remain so. And you’re not in a position to help his estate or heirs. Right?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“So bank it,” he said.

“Can you give me a memo saying we discussed it and you advised me?”

“Sure. You draw it up; I’ll initial it. How’s that?”

“Perfect,” she said.

She got up and headed toward the door. “Alex, if you’re looking for something to blow it on, the Ferrari Testa Rosa comes in at about a quarter of a million dollars now. Would you be in the market?”

“Sure. But I don’t think I need eight of them.”

“Oh, my,” he said. “Eight times two-fifty. Significant, indeed. Congratulations.” He paused. “You coming in to work tomorrow?”

“Probably,” she said. “What else would I do?”

“Don’t even go there,” he said.

In Mexico City, phones were ringing and back-channel connections were falling into place. Manuel Perez had no sooner settled into his home than he received yet another request for his services. He would need to travel again.