Hostage in Havana

“Paul!” she said too loudly. “Holy …!”

He held a finger to his lips. For a moment, she stared. Then, his lies and his anguishing casualness notwithstanding, some pent-up emotion in her broke. She was thrilled to see a familiar face, and just as thrilled to know that he was alive.

“Paul!” she repeated. “Thank God!”

His long legs unfolded, he stood, and his arms opened in a broad welcoming gesture. She rushed to him. She didn’t know whether to kiss him or throttle him, so instead she let him call the tune. He held her in a long powerful embrace and finally planted a kiss on her cheek. With that one gesture, their joint mission seemed to be back on track. And to Alex, the world seemed much less of a lonely, foreboding, frightening place.

Across the square from the Hotel Ambos Mundos, Major Ivar Mejias stepped from an unmarked police car, which had just cruised to an abrupt halt at the curb. His shirt was crisp and white, he proudly displayed his sidearm as well as his badge, and displeasure and impatience were written all over his face.

Two other police cars jounced to the curb behind him. The drivers stayed with the cars as a small phalanx of uniformed city policemen assembled near their commander. Mejias signaled with a nod of his head toward the hotel’s side of the street. Half a dozen other police officers fell in stride behind him.

All of Mejias’s officers wore bulky sidearms. Two carried shotguns. It might have been a routine midday patrol, one that made the tourists feel safer and kept the jineteras, the street hustlers, on the defensive. Mejias and his small detachment would normally go from bar to bar, shop to shop, eyeballing people and places, running with whatever they saw against anyone for whom they might be on special alert.

The shotguns, however, indicated that something out of the ordinary was afoot. Mejias was a very angry man today, and nothing about this patrol was ordinary. In fact, nothing, he felt, could ever be ordinary again until he located the two people – a man and a woman – who had slipped away from the skiff on the beach.

FORTY-SEVEN

Paul was, Alex was reminded quickly, a big man and a strong one. His arms were tight around her, and he hugged her dearly, as if they were expiating for what had happened at the shoreline. The hug lasted for several long seconds. Then he released her. She looked him in the eye. She had to fight back the wave of anger that was now resurgent.

“What the – ?” she began to sputter. She checked herself, then spoke softly but angrily. “What happened on the beach?”

“Well, I’d say we had a calamitous arrival,” he said in low tones. His breath was boozy. “How would you categorize it?” he asked.

“Sheer hell,” she said.

“That would work as a description,” he answered. “Hey, look. There’s a lot to talk about, but we haven’t been knocked out of the game,” he said. “Not at all.”

He motioned for her to sit down. There was a wicker seat, very welcoming, close by an overhead fan and a huge plant. She settled into the seat. There was a tall mojito on the table, half finished.

“Can we talk here?” she asked.

“There are better places, but I think we’re okay. What the Cuban government can put forth in venality, they surrender in incompetence. I don’t think we’re being recorded, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean,” she said, looking around. The piano player, fortunately, covered their conversation, which is probably why Guarneri had chosen the place. With the music and the din of conversation, motor noise, voices from outside, and the activity in the lobby, it would be impossible to eavesdrop. Then, turning back to Guarneri, she said, “Tell me about our reception committee.”

“I don’t know much more than you do,” he said, “other than we both got away.”

“And the three men on the boat?”

“Didn’t make it, apparently,” Paul said. “I’m sorry about that.”

“They got hit badly,” she said.

“Yes, they did,” said Guarneri, working a sprig of mint from the mojito. “Dead, I’m afraid. There’s going to be some nasty feedback in Miami when word gets back.”

“Who was shooting at us?” she asked again. “Militia? Army? I thought I saw uniforms.”

“You did see uniforms,” Guarneri said, “but I didn’t recognize them. I was trying to keep my head down too. I got to the controls of the boat and reversed the engines, while I got in a few last shots. I hit the water not long after you did and went in the opposite direction. That way at least one of us would have a better chance of making it to shore … or that’s what I hoped.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t see us,” she said.

“Remember that mist on the water,” he said, “like a low cloud? It must have been just enough to hide us. You’re religious – say a prayer of thanks sometime.” He looked for a waiter and signaled. “What are you drinking?” he asked.

“I just had a Coca-Cola,” she said.

“That’s what you just had, but what are you having now?” he asked.

“Paul, I’m not looking to get smashed in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Why? You got something better to do?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I have a certain Mr. Violette to locate.”

“He’s waited twenty-six years,” Paul said. “He’ll wait twenty-four hours more.”

She reached into her tote bag and pulled out the cell phone.

“Ah. You’ve been to the dead drop already,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And that’s the phone?”

“That’s it.”

A waiter arrived, a nice-looking young man in a short white service jacket and black pants. He looked like he could have fit into Perez Prado’s band in 1957. Alex covered the phone. They were still uncommon in Havana, cell phones, though not illegal, which they had been till recently.

“The mojitos are excellent,” Guarneri said. “If I had ten bucks for every mojito that Hemingway knocked back in this place, I could retire. Try one.”

“I don’t like to mix.”

“Don’t be a killjoy,” he said. “We’re not doing anything else for a while. Let some air in your sails. Somos de vacaciones. Mia querida. ?Viva la vida!” he added facetiously. “We’re on vacation. Have some booze. Live a little.”

The waiter smiled patiently.

“Un mojito, por favor,” she said, acquiescing.

“?Un grande, como Senor?” the waiter asked. “?Double?” A double?

“No, no,” she said.

“?Si, si!” Paul insisted, ordering a double for her. He shooed the waiter away.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” she said. “Despite everything.”

“And I’m glad you are, Alex,” he said. “I was worried. I really was.”

He placed a hand on her leg and gave it a squeeze. Then he released it.

The bartender, watching them, made a show of assembling the drink. Mint leaves crushed on ice, lime wedges, rum, rum, and more rum, then a dash, and just a dash, of club soda. He proudly moved his concoction to a serving tray.

“By the way, that’s the law over there,” Guarneri continued in a very low voice. “Cops. Undercover. Clandestino.” He didn’t move his head. He signaled by pointing his eyes toward the far end of the bar.

Alex scanned fast and found two men in a conversation.

They wore plantation shirts, long and not tucked in. She saw just enough of a bulge on their hips to conceal