Noel Hynd
Hostage in Havana
Havana traps you. A Cuban woman seems to walk on air, not on the pavement. A Cuban man the same. We are gifted with fleeting happiness. We don’t expect a death or an accident either. That’s why people are so emotional and cry and shout and stamp their feet if something happens that isn’t part of the daily routine.
PART ONE
ONE
Alexandra LaDuca stood in the elevator with Andrew De Salvo.
She used the time to collect her thoughts, prepare her words, and set her shoulders squarely. This wasn’t her first press conference, but it would be her most important.
The trip was thirteen floors down from the fifty-seventh floor to the forty-fourth floor of a Manhattan skyscraper at Duane and Wall Street and its expansive chamber used for press conferences.
She checked her reflection in the mirror above the brass buttons of the elevator’s controls. What she saw was a woman who was fit, strong, and thirty years old. Her makeup was fine, her hair was loose to her shoulders, and she looked good. She wore a navy Chanel suit, a white silk blouse, and sensible pumps.
The elevator continued its descent: fifty … forty-nine … forty-eight.
Thirteen flights. The unlucky number, if one paid any attention to such things. Forty-seven. Forty-six. Almost there. She drew a breath and was ready to go.
“When you face the press, kiddo,” De Salvo said, “don’t smile too much. We don’t want them to think we’re having too much fun.”
De Salvo was Alex’s boss at the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network -”Fin Cen,” for short – a division of the United States Department of Treasury. He was an expert on many things, prominent among them, lawlessness in Central America and the Caribbean. De Salvo often used his sly, dry sense of humor to keep Alex calm.
She appreciated it. “I’ll try to keep my priorities in order.”
De Salvo, silver-haired and silver-tongued, gave her a wink. “About time someone around here does … Go get ‘em,” he said. “Kick some butt, girl.”
She grinned, then suppressed it. The elevator stopped at the forty-fourth floor. The brass door slid open. They stepped off. The hallway was crowded and crackled with excitement. As Alex and her boss moved quickly down the hall, people recognized them and gave way to let them pass.
Moments later, conversation stopped as Alex entered the conference room. Camera lights went on. All heads turned her way.
Operation Parajo was about to enter a new phase. Glancing around, she made a quick estimate. About fifty people, including coworkers, reporters, and camera people, were there. Good. Everyone she expected. Some of them she knew personally; the rest she had worked with via secure phone and internet.
A few approached her and greeted her. Rick Edwards, her CIA contact from Washington, gave her a congratulatory hug, as did Leslie Erin, a New York – based FBI agent who worked in international bank-and-security fraud for the same agency.
Alex’s boss moved to one side of the conference table, pleased with how well Alex, the “new kid” at Fin Cen in Manhattan, related to the press. She glanced at her watch. Almost 9:15. She nodded to those in the room whom she knew from previous contacts.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said as silence fell and cameras started to record the event. “First, a special word to my peers who have worked with me on Operation Parajo. Thank you for being here. I was hoping to see you all here. I wanted to thank you in person and let the media know where we are on Operation Parajo. To the media, I’ll be putting hard-copy documents in front of everyone, and you’ll also find flash drives accompanying them.”
Two young assistants, a woman named Stacey and a man named Alan, had followed Alex into the room. They distributed the documents and software. The sound of large white envelopes being torn open could be heard everywhere. Then Alex called the conference to order as everyone settled into their chairs.
“Over the last forty-eight hours, and continuing this morning,” she began, “a joint strike of American and Panamanian military and law enforcement agencies have dealt a significant blow to the operations of a major international criminal enterprise. At this hour, I can announce the arrests of two hundred and fifty-two individuals and the seizure of an ever-increasing amount of illegal drugs, weapons, and cash. Raids have been coordinated in six countries and five American states. The law enforcement activity has been aimed at the Central and North American operations of the Dosi money-laundering enterprise as well as four of the newest and most violent of this hemisphere’s major drug cartels.”
So far, so good. She paused for a breath and continued.
“While this enterprise may have operated from Panama, its reach extended well within the U.S.,” she said. “On Wednesday, fifty-two people were arrested in Miami. In New York City, forty-four. Beyond these arrests, authorities seized 81 million dollars in U.S. currency, 4,700 pounds of methamphetamine, 5,000 kilograms of cocaine, 26,000 pounds of marijuana, and 56 pounds of heroin. More arrests are expected. The Dosis and their various undertakings finance the bulk of the drugs and weapons that arrive on our streets. That’s why we’re hitting them where it optimally hurts them – their revenue stream. If we upend their supply chains and financial underpinnings, then we disrupt ‘business-as-usual.’”
After a pause, Alex continued. “As you all know, Panama remains particularly vulnerable to money laundering because of its proximity to such major drug-producing countries as Colombia and Mexico. It also maintains a highly sophisticated international banking sector. Its economy is based on the American dollar. Panama City is where globalization meets the black market, and the Panama Canal is the key bottleneck of global trade in the Western Hemisphere. Panama City is also a choke point for blackmarket trade between Colombia and the rest of the world.”
She surveyed the room and felt calmer. No major gaffes so far, so she felt more confident and continued. “Panama is also home to the ‘Colon Free Zone,’ which is located by the city of Colon at the Atlantic gateway to the Panama Canal. The CFZ is the ‘trading showcase’ for Central and South America as well as for the Caribbean region. Think of it as the world’s largest duty-free mall.”
A hand rose in the audience. Alex pointed to a man with a question. “How big is the CFZ, financially?” asked Rick Edwards, a friend of hers at the CIA.
“Massive,” Alex said. “In 2009 the CFZ generated exports and re-exports valued at more than 12 billion U.S. dollars. That figure includes all the services and facilities offered by the Colon Free Zone. In other words, all importing, storing, assembling, repacking, and re-exporting products from all over the world. We’re talking about everything from electric appliances to pharmaceuticals, liquor, cigarettes, furniture, clothing, shoes, jewelry, toys, even packaged food. Name it, they sell it. But naturally those are only the legal products.”
There was a restlessness in the room. Half of those present were reading her documents as they listened. The other half had eyes locked on her.
“So, here in the CFZ,” Alex said, “is where many problems begin for the U.S. Treasury and its enforcement
