Hostage in Havana

handed it to Ben. “Open it,” she said. “Take a look.”

He pulled out the check. The front of it was facing away from him when it first left the envelope. He flipped it over. His eyes widened as they settled upon it.

“Holy cow!” he muttered softly. “This is real? Two million dollars!”

“Two million dollars,” Alex said, “and the taxes have already been paid.”

He shook his head. “Don’t know about you,” he said, “but that’s the most money I’ve ever held in my hands. When I got discharged from the Marines, I had nineteen thousand dollars in the bank plus a VA card – and I thought I was rich.” He stared at it for several more seconds and handed it back. “Wow,” he said. “Incredible.”

“Really,” she said. “Incredible. Seriously. But I have some hang-ups about it. I know the type of man Federov was. I know that at the end of his life, facing death, he was looking for salvation and forgiveness.” She paused. “Think I should keep it?”

“Don’t even think twice. Think of the good you could do. Really!”

“That’s what you’d do?”

“Listen, Alex,” he said. “Maybe Federov was looking for salvation. Maybe he thought you would know exactly where his money could do the most good.”

“Maybe,” Alex said. Then, seeing the look he gave her, she said, “So what?”

“So what does it matter if it can’t buy him forgiveness? It could do a lot of good, anyway. Good in your life. Good in the lives of others. You could give it away, or you could use it to sustain you while you give your time and effort away to others. How’s that?”

“Good.” She nodded.

“Think about Itzhak Perlman,” he said, “the violinist.”

“What about him?”

“He contracted polio when he was four and lost the use of his legs. Instead of cursing his fate, he saw it as a gift from God. As he tells it, no one would have put a violin in his hands if he hadn’t been in a wheelchair. And from the hands in that chair came some of the most beautiful music of the twentieth century. So from a quirk of fate, or divine intervention, or whatever you call it, lives get changed. That’s happened to you, so just go with it.”

She pondered. Ben sipped his drink and continued, “I’m happy for you. You know the old joke: ‘Money isn’t everything, but it’s way ahead of second place.’ “

She smiled. “Funny, but not necessarily true.”

“Of course not,” he said, “because money can bring misery too.” He paused. “When I was growing up in North Carolina, my mother used to tell me about this nasty woman she knew named Darlene. Mom and Darlene had gone to high school together. When Darlene was about thirty, she inherited a pile of dough from her family, and it changed her. She spent her life safeguarding it, being suspicious of other people, never having fun. She became churlish, hostile, lost all her friends. My mother was a Christian, a woman of faith. She used to say, if that’s what money does to you, she prayed to God she would never be rich, because that’s not the person she wanted to be.”

“Point taken,” Alex said.

“Now, let’s get back to Itzhak Perlman. Did you know he’s playing at Carnegie Hall on Friday?”

“I did know that,” she said. “I tried to get tickets but it’s sold out.”

“So who’s your pal?” he asked. “I am, that’s who. I have my own magical envelope this evening.”

Ben reached into a jacket pocket and flipped a small envelope onto the table. “Two tickets for Perlman. Bought them as a gift for letting me stay with you. Hope you can go.”

She picked up the tickets and looked at them. Orchestra, fifteenth row. In terms of grad-student dollars, Ben had taken a plunge for these.

“Wow!” she said. She stood, leaned over the table, and kissed him.

“It’s already worth it,” he said. “You’ll go?”

“I’d love to.”

He took them back. “I’ll hold them for now.”

“Ben?” she asked, a trace of anxiety. “Is this a ‘date’ date?”

“What if it were?” he asked.

“If it were,” she said, “we should talk first. I think you’re wonderful. But last year was so traumatizing. I’m not sure that I’m ready for – “

“Look. It’s you and me as friends going to a recital where we happen to be close up to one of the great violinists of our lifetime. We have a great evening and hear some great music. Does it have to be any more than that?”

She shook her head, mildly relieved. “No. That’s already splendid enough.”

TEN

Before work on Friday morning, Alex went to the office of Credit Suisse at 11 Madison Avenue. By appointment, she met Christophe Chatton, whose card Joshua Silverman had given her at his office. Chatton was a thin young man with dark hair, about thirty. He wore a three-piece suit and spoke with a mildly irritating accent that suggested a year or two in British public schools. He met her in the bank’s vast lobby and ushered her to his private office.

The banker was up-to-date on why she was there. “I do congratulate you,” he said, “on your good fortune. An inheritance from a late gentleman friend.” He presented her with another business card and a brochure about the bank.

Late gentleman friend. His phrasing made it sound like she was an ex-mistress who’d struck gold. She let it go.

“I’m hoping that you’re here to open an account,” he said.

“That’s correct,” Alex said, “I am. So let’s get it done.” All in all, she thought, she should be happier about this than she actually felt.

“Excellent,” he said.

Alex placed the check on his desk.

“I have some forms for you to fill out,” he said silkily. “Applications for an account. Please be assured that we can handle all aspects of private banking for you. We like to build long relationships with our customers and tailor our various investment services to your needs.”

“Forgive me,” she said, “but I’m going to go slowly on this. I’ve only been wealthy for less than a week.”

Chatton laughed. “I fear that Swiss banks have long been thought of as exclusive and only catering to the very rich,” he said. “That is not a fact. Swiss bank accounts and private banking are available to those with less than one million dollars.”

“Paupers,” she said.

“You’re familiar with Credit Suisse, I’m sure,” he said. “Foremost, we have protected the wealth of our clients for nearly a hundred and fifty years. During the American Civil War, our headquarters in Geneva stood on the same spot where it stands now. Before the Suez Canal was completed, before man flew the first airplane, we were doing business. Continuity and security, Madame LaDuca. That’s what we stand for.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the bank,” she said, bemused.

“You know much about us?”

“I know that like most Swiss banks, ninety-nine percent of your private clients are wealthy law-abiding citizens. Another three quarters of one percent are tax evaders, bribe takers, and arms dealers. The rest are drug traffickers.”

“You have a delicious sense of humor,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. “And don’t worry. I’ll leave the money here for a while.”

“Let me explain the possibilities for investment,” he said. “Do gold bars interest you? Certificates of deposit?”

“I just want it in one insured account right now, earning interest. Nothing exotic.”

“Very well.” His tone conveyed a sigh of exasperation. He looked down and put his own signature on the