Hostage in Havana

There was no way he could take it with him to the airport. The police or Castro’s soldiers would have taken it.” Guarneri paused. “So he buried it.”

“I remember,” she said.

Guarneri reached for his wallet and produced a pair of photos. One showed his mother as a casino showgirl in a chorus line in 1957. The other was a grainy picture of himself with his mother, a faded color shot, from Long Island in 1966. “My mother and I got out of the country in 1961, February.”

The coffee arrived. The espresso was scalding. Alex sipped carefully.

“My father had another wife and family here, but he smuggled us out, anyway,” Guarneri said. “My dad could have left us there, but he didn’t. God bless him for that. I grew up in the U.S. instead of Communist Cuba. What a difference, huh?”

“Absolutely,” she said.

“I remember when we left. My mother got me in the middle of the night, wrapped me in a blanket, and put me in a car. She told me it was time to leave and we couldn’t bring anything. We drove without headlights and went to a boat. The boat went to a seaplane, and we flew to Florida. I’m told we flew eighty miles at three hundred feet. There was a storm, but I slept through it. When I woke up the next morning we were in a nice apartment in Key West. Everything was new and clean. My father had set up everything. Then came the Bay of Pigs, the American invasion at Playa Giron, a month later. It was harder to get anyone out of Cuba after that. Years went by. My father always fretted over the thought of those greenbacks rotting in the Cuban earth, but he also always said he was glad that he got us out when he did. But he died first and never got back to Cuba. Remember me telling you all this?”

“I do,” Alex said. “The hidden money, do you now know where it is?”

“If I could get back to Cuba, I know I could find it.”

“Then what?” she asked. “The rightful owners, if you could call them that, were the pre-revolution gangsters who ran the casinos and strip clubs. Are you planning to get in touch with the original cast of The Godfather and reimburse everyone?”

Paul glanced away, then shot back, “Look, I have my reasons. When you came to me and asked me to protect Janet, I just did it for you. Friend of a friend. No questions, no moral agonizing.”

“So you expect me to trust you?” she said.

“Let’s just say I’m not planning to grab the money just to enrich myself. I’ll be frank: I’ve been successful in business. Half a million is a nice sum, but not enough for me to risk everything to grab it. But the money will go to a good purpose. One you would approve of, something my father always wanted done.”

“So you’re obeying the commandment, ‘honor thy father and mother’?” she asked.

“If you called it that, I’d be flattered.”

“Are you planning to tell me what that purpose is?”

“No,” he said. “Not yet. You don’t need to know until we actually get to Cuba.”

“That’s not very convincing, Paul,” she said.

“Maybe not. But it was you who came to me and asked the favor. I bent a few laws, took some risks, and did that favor for you. And you did tell me that you’d return the favor someday,” he said. “You said you’d get us into Cuba. Or at least make the effort. That’s what you promised.”

She sighed.

He sighed, mimicking her in good humor, and smiled.

“All right. Let me do this,” she said. “I’m slammed at the office right now with an investigation in Central America. I can’t see how I’d be able to do anything away from the office for several weeks. But I’ll run your request past my boss, explaining the past history and the favor you did for us in protecting Janet. And in a morbid sort of way, I’m intrigued. But my boss makes the final call. We’ll see what he says.”

“Fair enough,” Paul said. “Thank you.”

“Keep in mind, if it were up to me, common sense would prevail, and you’d have to think of another favor to ask … and I think it’s time for me to get home.”

The waiter reappeared with a handsomely wrapped takeout bag, which he presented to Alex. Guarneri settled the bill, tipped generously, and they were out the door into a balmy New York evening.

“How are you getting home?” Guarneri asked.

“Taxi.”

“Nonsense,” said Guarneri. “My car and driver are here somewhere. We can give you a lift.” He turned to the restaurant doorman, who obviously knew him, and asked, “Have you seen Michael?”

A moment later, Guarneri’s black limousine appeared and eased to the curb. The driver popped out and greeted Alex by name. He came around the vehicle to open the back door on the curb side.

“I live on the Upper West Side,” Alex said to Guarneri. “That’s out of your way if you’re going to Long Island.”

“What a coincidence. We’re going to the Upper West Side as well,” Paul said.

Alex hesitated, assessing Paul and the situation. “No, thank you. I’ll take a taxi. Good night, Paul,” she said. “I’ll phone you after I discuss this with my boss. Thank you for dinner.” She looked to his driver. “Thanks anyway, Michael. I’ll be fine.”

She allowed Paul to embrace her and give her a social kiss on the cheek. Then started walking away. There was a taxi at the curb and she grabbed it.

EIGHT

At Andrew De Salvo’s office the next afternoon, De Salvo’s secretary, Elsa Nussman, greeted Alex. Elsa was mid-fifties, stout and prim, with round glasses that gave her an owlish look. “Go on in,” Elsa said. “He’s waiting.”

Alex opened the door and stepped in. De Salvo sat behind his wide mahogany desk. At Alex’s feet lay a wide Persian rug. On the walls hung De Salvo’s many awards and diplomas, plus photographs of him with the last four American presidents.

Her boss looked up in his distinguished, if slightly stooped, way. Alex liked him. He was a Midwesterner from Indiana, just past sixty. He smiled. His blue eyes showed indictment-fatigue. He looked up from his desk.

“Got a couple of minutes?” Alex asked. “I need to run a few things past you.”

“Sure,” he said. A trio of hardcopy classified folders sat on his desk. Alex could tell by the bold red binders. He flipped all three shut as she pushed the door shut and sat down. “What’s on your mind?”

“Last night I had dinner with a man named Paul Guarneri,” Alex said. “I know him from last year’s operation out of Washington. Guarneri was a fringe player in the Federov operation,” she said. “Guarneri did Fin Cen a favor by babysitting a witness while we cleaned up some business. So I owe him one.”

“We have IOUs all over the place,” De Salvo said. “Big deal. But keep talking.”

“Guarneri was tight with Federov’s business associates,” Alex said, “but it was the legit end of Federov’s businesses. I’ve run him through the files. No arrests. His father was an accomplice with the crime families in Cuba pre-Castro: the Trafficantes, Gambinos, Frank Costello, Lucky Luciano.”

“Interesting. Where does it go?”

“I know that Guarneri’s dad was the victim of a gangland hit in the 1970s,” she said. “I don’t know what it was about, but the case is still open. So he’s from a connected family, seems to be clean himself, and makes his money in real estate.”

“So? ‘Dinner’ as in ‘dating,’ or just ‘dinner’?”

“‘Dinner’ as in he called me and wants to call in the favor,” Alex said. “He wants me to go to Cuba with him on some piece of old business relating to his father.”

“Cuba?!” De Salvo laughed. “You sure can pick your spots. It can’t be Bermuda or Hawaii or Bonaire; it’s got to be to a place where you can’t legally travel?”

“Guarneri has ideas about trying to get back some money that was hidden years ago. That’s the link.”

De Salvo laughed again. “Well, sure. The Castro hermanos start to fade away, and