Hostage in Havana

“It’s hard to figure you out sometimes, Paul,” she said.

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. I get in here in your home. Books. Fencing. Library. Kids. Not what I expected.”

“What did you expect? A blend of DeNiro and Joe Pesci?”

“Maybe,” she said.

“Well, that’s me in a nutshell, isn’t it?” he said. “Half in one place, half in another. I’m Cuban, but I’m Italian. I’m Italian, but I’m American. I’m a thug and a mobbed-up guy, but I’d be happy at home reading a history book. I hate violence, but I own guns. I’m divorced, but I’m a family man.” He shrugged. “Go figure.”

“I’m trying to,” she said, “but don’t change the subject.”

“Did I?”

“You did.”

“Then ask me whatever you want,” he said.

“What do you know about the Bay of Pigs from your dad?” she asked.

“From my dad? Not a thing. He never talked about Cuba. Oh, he acknowledged what his business was there, who he had known. And I knew he was in the invasion and was captured because he disappeared those years, then came back, fuming about Kennedy, the CIA, and everyone involved. He probably hated the people who were on our side as much as he hated Castro.”

“But he talked about it enough to tell you that there was some money stashed.”

“Sure.” He paused. “Joseph Guarneri was an old-fashioned guy. What you’d call a ‘sexist pig.’ I was his only son. He had two daughters with his American wife. He always said he would let me know later, we’d ‘have a talk.’ I believe he was thinking that I, as his son, should be the one to know more, to go back, to settle things. Follow?”

“I follow.”

“He said he would tell me everything when I was twenty-one. When he was whacked, I was eighteen.”

“Ever talk to your half-sisters about him?”

“A couple of times. They know nothing. And they married non-Italians. They want nothing to do with this. Your parents still alive?” he asked.

“No. Neither,” she said.

“So we have that in common too,” he noted.

Alex agreed that they did. “Your mother became a U.S. citizen?” Alex asked.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Very quickly. That way she wouldn’t be deported if things went the wrong way.” Paul went to the bookcase. He picked up an eight-by-ten portrait in a silver frame. It was a black-and-white of his mother, a pretty Latina in a gown and a mink coat. Behind her was the finish line and pari-mutuel board of a racetrack.

“This was taken at Oriental Park Racetrack in 1958,” he said. “My mother liked the horses, same as my dad. She liked to put a few dollars down here and there. See, the horses ran during the day. Both my parents were busy working at night with the clubs and the shows. So the daytime was when they could be together.” He laughed. “I wouldn’t be here without certain lazy afternoons in Havana,” he said.

“I understand,” Alex said with a smirk.

Guarneri gave the photo a final glance, then walked it back to the shelf and carefully returned it to its place.

Alex glanced at her watch. It was past eleven. She said, “The other day, you said you could leave quickly if you had to. Is that still the case?”

“Yes.”

“I’m willing to go with you to Cuba,” she said. “I need time to accomplish my own assignment, but we can go together. If you’ll do it, I’ll do it.”

“What’s your assignment? May I ask?”

“The return of a CIA defector. He wants to come home. The Cubans won’t let him. So I’m supposed to rendezvous and bring him back.”

“Does he have a name?”

“I can share information only after we land,” she said. “Sorry, that’s the deal.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “I don’t really care anyway. I’ll help you as much as I can if you’ll help me.”

“Hopefully, we’ll come out at the same time.”

“Hopefully, but one never knows,” Guarneri said.

“What does that mean?”

“Men make plans; God laughs,” he said. “With a trip like this, who knows what’s going to happen? Everything goes according to plans until the first shot is fired.”

“You expect shots to be fired?”

“I hope not. It was a metaphor.”

“Could you be ready to leave in four days?” she asked.

He thought for a second, then nodded slowly. “I can set it up,” he said.

“Then do it,” she said. “Set it up. We have an agreement.”

“Not quite yet,” he said. “There’s one other thing I need to tell you.”

“Go ahead,” she said. Then she waited.

“I’m not exactly a virgin going into Havana. Yuri Federov used to go in for me and make some contacts, do some business. And twice I went with him.”

She was stunned, then suddenly angry. “Then you have been there before! Not just when you were a kid but more recently!”

“That’s right.”

“So you lied to me?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Unfortunately, I did. I’m sorry. Once in 2006 and then again in 2008. Okay? So I know the island a little better than I let on. There was a security issue surrounding those trips, both mine and for those who helped me go in and out. So I honestly couldn’t tell you until now. And now I’m telling you point blank in case you want to bail. Then again, you’ve got your own business to attend to also. And I know you’re not telling me every aspect of that either. I know because those CIA people always put you up to something. Even when you’re not working for them you are. Right?”

“That’s correct,” she said.

“So we understand each other? We find ourselves in a similar situation?”

After several seconds she said, “We do.” “I think we finally understand each other. But don’t ever lie to me again.”

“Are we still going to travel?” he asked.

“We’re going,” she said.

He smiled, came to her, and clasped her hand with both of his. “Excellent,” he said. “Excellent!”

Half an hour later, Alex sat in silence as the SUV crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and reentered Manhattan. With the midnight skyline stretched out in front of her, she rode in silence, knowing two things. The first was that the voyage to Cuba was going to happen. And the second was that Paul Guarneri had come within a hair’s breadth of sharing with her his real reason for going to the island but had stopped short. Why, she wondered. Something she had said? Or was he just not trusting her enough? Or was there a strain of dishonesty in him that she hadn’t picked up on yet?

The SUV eased into the traffic on the East Side Drive and then headed uptown. Several minutes later, it pulled to a stop in front of the safe house on East 38^th Street. MacPhail and Ramirez jumped out first. They scanned windows and the street, then allowed Alex to step out.

“What did you think of that guy, Paul Guarneri?” she asked.

They both shrugged. MacPhail spoke. “He is what he is,” he said.

“You have access to FBI records, don’t you?” Alex asked.

“How many years?”

“Thirty-six,” she said.

“Sure. We got those.”

“See what you have on Paul’s father,” she asked. “Who killed him, how he was hit. Anything. Can you do