then take a connecting bus in San Herlito, two stops down the road, which would connect to Havana.
Guillermo stayed with her. A dozen people assembled to wait for the 9:00 bus. Then a blue vehicle appeared at a bend down the road, and Guillermo explained that this was the bus Alex wanted.
“Thank you for everything,” Alex said. “And thank your family again for me.”
Guillermo nodded. But Alex could tell that the boy had something more to say.
He made sure no one else could hear. “At Dona Ramona’s dress shop yesterday,” he said, “my mother saw your gun. She told my father.”
Alex tried to take it without missing a beat.
“That will be our secret won’t it, I hope?” she said.
“Yes, it will,” the teenager nodded. “My parents won’t tell anyone.”
He then reached into his pocket. He pulled out two envelopes. They were letters, sealed, unstamped, and addressed.
“My mother has a brother who lives in Florida,” he said. “And she has a grandfather who lives in New York. Maybe you can mail these letters to them when you get back to America.”
Alex took the two envelopes. “One way or another, Guillermo,” Alex said, “I’ll see that these get to the proper destination.”
Guillermo nodded. He smiled. “Good-bye,” he said in English.
The bus was a Toyota, made in Japan, battered but not as old as some of the automobiles on the street. Alex mounted, found a seat, and waved to her host. Guillermo raised a hand and waved back, seeming sorry to see her go. Then he turned and walked away. Moments later the bus accelerated and was gone. Alex settled in for the three-hour journey to Havana. She leaned back in her seat with a smile. She knew that at about that moment, back at the Valdez home, Maria, straightening the kitchen, would find the hundred-dollar bill that Alex had left beneath her breakfast plate.
FORTY-SIX
When Alex arrived in Havana late that morning, it was obvious that early summer had arrived. She stepped off of the bus at the Plaza de Armas, the administrative center of the capital. The Plaza de Armas was also the city’s oldest square, a beautifully landscaped park where booksellers bartered with tourists and residents. The trees had flowered and the old square was open and alive with people. She drew a breath and took in the new part of the world that was before her, a city that was vibrant but had the feel of being frozen in another era.
In her new cotton dress and with her tote bag slung over her shoulder, she blended in. On her head, she wore her blue Monterrey Sultans baseball cap. She moved along a street that was populated by people and bicycles and a few moving cars. Many of those that moved were pre-1959 American models.
Alex sighed. More than anything, she felt as if she wanted to call a time-out, to step outside of herself and her assignment for a few weeks, a few days, or even a few hours. The horror of what had happened on the bay two mornings before was still with her.
She crossed the square and walked down two streets before finding a bar that was open. It was on another square, filled with pedestrians and small stores that catered to tourists. Postcards, camera equipment, and snacks to go. Alex sat down at a small wooden table outside on the sidewalk. She ordered a coffee with some pastries. Her morning was slowly transformed into something modestly more pleasant than it had been. She watched the street. Out of nervous habit, her hand checked in her tote bag for her gun.
Now. What to do?
She formed a plan. She would not go to the hotel that had been her and Paul’s designated meeting place – but rather to one nearby. She would register. Mexican passport, Mexican credit card, but no one would be the wiser as to who she was as long as her IDs hadn’t been blown. She thought back again to Paul’s “catastrophe plan” involving the Hotel Ambos Mundos, and Fajardie’s “disaster” advice involving Elke at the Swiss Consulate. She hoped that Paul was still alive and she would attempt to make that rendezvous later in the afternoon. Between 3:00 and 5:00 he had said.
As for Violette and Figaro – they were who she was here for. She would still try to snag Violette, coax him onto the airplane leaving the country. And she would stay alert to any attempt by the phantom-like Figaro to contact her and accompany her to the U.S. as well.
But a further thought occurred to her. What if Paul had escaped but had been wounded? What if he were in a hospital somewhere? She thought this over carefully. To attempt to find him might result in her giving herself away. Yet Paul would need her help to get out of the country. Then again, if he had been captured as well as injured, then there would be no way she could be expected to bring him back to the U.S. And he wasn’t even alive as far as she knew. Well, she would wait and play her hand cautiously, she decided, keeping her eyes wide open.
Patience, she reminded herself. Patience could save her life in such a situation. Today, she calculated, was June 12. She had been on the island for two and a half days. Now she would rendezvous at the Ambos Mundos today and tomorrow. Then she would have to play it by ear.
She knew from the smell of the salty air that she was not far from the harbor. She paid her bill at the cafe and departed.
A sign pointed her to the seafront. She followed the path out to the rocky shore, where she felt the warmth of the sun on her arms and face, combined with the salty spray of the surf crashing on the stones at water level beneath a promenade. Across the water, on the other side of the canal, was the ancient fort of San Carlos, built as a defense by the Spaniards at the end of the eighteenth century and later used as a prison by the dictators Machedo and Batista – and then by Che after the Revolution. The area reeked with history. With the exception of a few modern boats, the scene before her probably hadn’t changed much in a century and a half.
She turned. She recalled from memory the address of the Hotel Ambos Mundos. Trying to look as much like a tourist as possible, she consulted her map and began the short walk through Old Havana. Her path led her through a warren of narrow cobblestone avenues lined with baroque buildings that had changed little since the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The street life was vibrant, the surroundings impressive.
Then, eventually, she stood across the street from the hotel. A pink facade fronted a rambling old building. Ambos Mundos: both worlds, appropriately named. Alex walked toward it and entered.
The lobby was a scramble of architectures, faded yellow with appealing dark woodwork. A rickety old Otis elevator cranked and creaked at the far end. Once again, Alex felt as if she had stepped into a time warp.
The lobby was cooler than the outdoors. She looked each way and saw what had to be the piano bar to her left. Purposefully, she walked toward it. It was only moderately busy. Several large plants softened the look of the room. Large chairs were scattered around, comfortable big old leather and wicker chairs. A pair of ceiling fans turned slowly. The carpet was reddish and threadbare, and a piano player softly weaved a muted samba into the air.
As she entered, several men, seated alone at the bar, turned their eyes toward her. She scanned them quickly. No Paul Guarneri.
Who were the men? Tourists? Undercover police keeping an eye on the place? There were a couple of dozen people in the room and she tried to take them all in.
She had hoped to see Paul there. She masked her disappointment.
Well, wrong time, she reminded herself. Not wrong time for prayer but wrong time for Paul. She turned and left the hotel.
Then, working from memory and with only one glance at the map, she found her way down a maze of side streets to the old Iglesia de San Lazaro, a faded edifice in blue stucco. It was her primary drop site, but she wasn’t sure what she would find. The front door was ajar. There was a lovely pair of antique stained-glass windows on each side of the front portal, but one had been cracked. A plywood board protected it.
