Hostage in Havana

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.”

“Name a figure,” she said. “If I can pay it, we’ll speak further. If it’s unconscionable, I’ll get up and leave and not waste any more of your time.”

He named an astronomical figure.

The woman settled back into her chair.

“I think we can do business,” she said.

THIRTEEN

Saturday arrived. Alex spent six hours in the office. She and Ben had dinner together that evening, Hastings again. At first there was tension between them, but then it dissipated. The subject of a romantic relationship never came up.

On Sunday, Ben prepared a brunch for Alex at home, and then he stayed in and watched the Yankees, while Alex, dutifully, put in more hours at the office. Ben used the afternoon to pack, since he was heading back to Washington that evening. His interviews had gone well, and he was convinced that he would be hired for an internship starting in June.

Ben was set to depart at 6:30 p.m. on yet another pleasant spring evening. Alex went down to the street with him. He carried a large valise slung over a strong right shoulder and looked for a taxi to take him to the Amtrak Station on 33^rd Street.

As he stepped off the curb to hail a taxi, Alex was sorry to see him go. Part of her wanted to reach out to him and ask him not to go. She had an urge to do something to reverse the direction in which she had sent things.

Okay, she suddenly thought. I don’t want to let him go. He’s too good a man and there aren’t enough good men around. I saw him first and I want to keep him. She wondered whether she was rejecting romance simply because she was scared of being in love – and possibly losing love – again. A wonderful man had presented himself to her, hers for the asking, and she had driven him away.

Wake up! a voice inside screamed to her. She was sending him away to another woman who would presumably be smarter, wiser, and do everything in her physical and mental capacity to make him happy and keep him.

He found a cab. It pulled to the curb, and before she could say anything, he tossed his bag into the backseat. Alex stepped up to him. “Ben, listen, I – “

“It’s okay,” he said, interrupting. “Don’t worry. Really, it’s okay. We’re friends and I value that a lot.”

Before she could protest, he embraced her and kissed her. It was a sexy kiss, right on the lips, and it stunned her, although it shouldn’t have.

He stepped back and gave her an affectionate wave. Then he slid into the backseat of the cab and closed the door. Her final image was how handsome and strong he was. Then the taxi pulled away from the curb. She watched until it disappeared among the other vehicles moving down Seventh Avenue.

FOURTEEN

American Airlines 777 from San Juan, Costa Rica, eased downward, ten miles east of the Statue of Liberty. Manuel Perez glanced around the cabin. He hated to fly. Killing didn’t make him nervous, but the sound of landing gear being extended sometimes did. As it descended toward New York, the plane hit a pocket of bumpy air. The turbulence rattled him. Then the aircraft moved through a layer of clouds, and suddenly a crisp view of New York City appeared: Manhattan, the majestic skyline above the rivers, fronting on the harbor, and the five boroughs connected by bridges. For a moment, in the brilliance of the early June day, everything looked clear and clean, like in a movie.

They flew above Central Park. Perez loved this city. He hoped to come back with his wife soon, take the kids to the big zoo up in the Bronx, maybe even to the new Yankee Stadium. His little girls loved beisbol, and his wife was fluent in English, just as he was. Nicoleta had worked in New York when she was in her twenties and still loved the place.

Maybe they’d even buy an apartment here a few years down the road. Still, he hated this current job. Hitting a target in the United States was definitely not something he would have wished to do.

To Perez’s right, in the distance, he could see the Statue of Liberty presiding over the harbor. The aircraft shifted into its final descent over Queens.

In another twenty minutes, he had picked up his single bag and proceeded to immigration, where he now stood quietly as the American immigration officer scanned his passport. The officer read the name on his Costa Rican passport. Orestes Pinero. The agent switched into Spanish. “Buenos dias.”

“Buenos dias.”