Hostage in Havana

“How much do you know about this place?” Guarneri asked. “I mean, really know?”

“What place? The hotel? Havana?”

“Cuba.”

“I’m learning fast,” she said. “And I’m getting the idea that an hour of hanging with you is worth two weeks of study back in New York.”

“That’s probably true. Look, bribery is a way of life here, just like anywhere else in Central America,” he said, rambling. “There’s no legal way to get ahead so everyone jockeys for an illegal way, or at least those who are still trying to get ahead. Most of the population here has been beaten into the ground. The clever people have left, the wealthy people have left. The only people of any import who are still here are the people who can’t beat the system. Most work for the government. You know how that operates. The people pretend to work and the government pretends to pay them. You know what would work best?” he asked. “You know what would get this place moving again? If the Castro Brothers drop dead at the same time, the embargo gets lifted, American companies pour in, and the economy gets jump-started …”

While Paul talked, Alex sipped her drink. Then she watched as the two undercover policemen ditched their beers onto the bar. They snapped to attention. They were more in her line of vision than Paul’s. A wiry little man had come into the room, white shorts, badge, and a hefty sidearm. He seemed to be a commander of some sort. The cops at the bar were afraid of him, and a team of uniformed people followed. Everyone in the area gave way.

Horribly, the realization was upon her. Her heart kicked in her chest. “Paul, put down your drink and shut up,” she said.

He stopped in midsentence. “What?” he asked.

Alex nodded toward the bar as a tense scene unfolded. The wiry little man was vehemently chewing out his undercover guys, who looked scared to death. Other drinkers moved away. The other uniformed officers lurked behind their commander who was making the guys in the plantation shirts sweat.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

He looked, took a second to focus, then looked away.

“Uh-oh. We’ve overstayed our welcome,” he said with rising urgency. “That’s a political division of the police department. That sawed-off little stump with the ‘stache is a commander. He’s ticked because his guys were goofing off. He’s only going to be on the street checking if something big is afoot. The shotguns tell us they’re ready for serious trouble.”

“It’s worse than that, Paul,” she said.

“Why’s that?”

“Take a good look,” she said. “And try to get the booze out of your system. Don’t you recognize him? That’s the commander from the beach.”

He looked again and turned away fast when he recognized the man. Paul cursed long and low. “Okay. We need to get out of here,” he said. From a mood of boozy reverie, he was suddenly sharp as a tack again.

“Fast. But not together,” Paul said, leaning back and turning away. One of the men with a shotgun was scanning the room.

“They’re blocking the door,” Alex said. “We have to walk right past them to get out.”

“Yup,” Paul said. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

“Me? Alone?”

“In thirty seconds,” he said, “before they start giving this room a thorough toss.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Leave through the men’s room window,” he said. “It’s got a grate that lifts off.”

“How do you know?”

“I checked it earlier,” he said.

“What if they have that exit covered?”

“Then I’m sunk,” he said.

“How about I go through the window and you try to waltz past them?” she suggested.

He shook his head. “Won’t work, Alex. They’re more likely to recognize me than you. I get the window, you get to flirt past the toros like a good Latin chica.”

“You’re a pig.”

“I know. We’ll discuss that later.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a set of keys. He opened the ring and separated one key from the rest.

“Listen carefully. Five blocks from here, south on the Calle 43, there’s an old Toyota Land Cruiser. Dark green, beat up, looks like a Jeep, and a license plate ending in four-three-one. It’s a family jalopy. So I’d appreciate being able to return it without bullet holes.”

“You’re cautioning me about bullet holes after the landing we had?” she demanded.

“Yes, I am,” he went on. “I want to return the Jeep without a problem at the end of our visit. Anyway, it’s just past the La Sultanado intersection. This is an extra ignition key in case I don’t get there.”

“What about the door key?”

“There are no doors. This is Cuba.”

He handed her the key. “Are you checked into a hotel?” he asked, as the cops were starting to wander through the crowded room.

“Posada Cubana. Across the block down a side street.”

“Good. I’ll find it and meet you there tomorrow between noon and three if we get separated,” he said. “If I don’t turn up, assume I was arrested. Now. Go to the car. Right now. I’ll try to meet you there. If I don’t show up, leave in ten minutes.”

“Where should I go?”

“Anywhere for a couple of hours. Just lie low. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“What if you don’t show up tomorrow?”

“My problem, not yours, so have a nice life. Now you get out of here first,” Paul said. “And do it now. Flash a smile, a leg, whatever you have to do. Anything to get past these guys. You won’t have a second chance.”

“Okay,” Alex said. She knew the drill.

He gripped her hand quickly to give her courage, then released.

She hooked her bag over her shoulder, brushed back her hair, and turned. She moved quickly through the crowd without looking back. She passed one uniformed man, then another. She smiled and winked. They pretended not to notice her but obviously did.

Success so far. Then, twenty feet from the door, she felt a rough hand on her arm. She turned and gazed into the censorious brown eyes of a uniformed policemen.

“?Cubana? Turista, Senora?” he asked. Tourist?

She stopped but didn’t answer. She only glared.

“?Habla espanol?” he asked. Do you speak Spanish?

“Si, hablo espanol. Pero soy turista,” she answered. Yes, but I’m a tourist.

It occurred to her in a heartbeat that Cuban women weren’t supposed to be in places like this, and if they were, they were probably catering to the sex travelers. They might have thought she was a hooker. Here was an incident that could get out of control.

“?Tiene pasaporte?” he demanded again. Passport?

Another uniformed man sidled over. The captain started to turn away from the undercover men he was berating and took an interest in Alex as well.

“?Nacionalidad?” the second one asked. What country?

They were good at bullying women. She could tell. “Mexicana,” she answered.

“?Pasaporte?” the first man said again.

With evident annoyance, she reached into her bag and pulled out her Mexican passport. No better way to test a CIA product than to run it past foreign police. This was, however, not an anxiety that she needed at the moment.