Noel Hynd - Hostage in Havana

“Then what stopped them from turning on you once the money was out of the coffin?” she asked. “They could have shot you and split the money.”

Paul laughed slightly and smiled. “Oh, I was keeping an eye on them. They wouldn’t have dared,” he said.

“Why?” she asked. “Because your name is Guarneri and your family is still known here?”

“You could say that. Cubans respect the past. And they look forward to the future.”

“What’s the future? A restoration of old property and old influence?”

He laughed again. “If I knew the future, I’d know what horses to play and what stocks to pick,” he said. “But I don’t. One can only hope.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.

“I thought I did,” he said.

“A restoration of old property and old influence?” she said again. “You’re looking to a personal future as well as attending to the past. Putting things in order, establishing loyal organization at street level as you filter in and out of Cuba. Those men, they know your name, who your father was, and they know you’ll be back. They wouldn’t mess with a Guarneri even after all these years. Is that it?”

“If you want to see it that way, I can’t stop you,” he said. “But as I said, who knows what the future holds?”

She looked out the window and watched as they passed a block with small shops with metal gates drawn across doorways.

She turned back. “You know, against my better judgment, I like you, Paul,” she said. “But you’re a crown prince of evasiveness. Deep down, you have a dark streak. You can be a bit of a rat. I don’t like that part.”

“It’s late,” he said, dismissively. “We can talk in the next couple of days. Eventually everything makes sense … except when it doesn’t.”

Their driver returned them to Old Havana. Paul had secured a small apartment for the occasion. They went to Paul’s address first. It was only a block from Alex’s posada. The driver stopped.

“Come on up,” Paul said to her. “We can have something to drink and celebrate. Then I’ll walk you back to your place.”

“Paul, it’s past 4:00 a.m.”

“You can sleep tomorrow. I need the extra gun right now.” He looked her eye to eye. Then he gave her a flirtatious wink. “Come on,” he said. “Live on the edge for a couple more hours.”

After a moment, maybe due to fatigue, “Okay,” she said.

They stepped out of the car. Paul dismissed the driver. They looked both ways, then walked quickly to Paul’s door. He kept his hand on his Browning.

They went through an outer door for which Paul had a key. No problem. They entered a dark courtyard, and Paul turned on a timed light. No one else was there. He signaled with his head, and they crossed the courtyard quickly, found a staircase, and climbed. Paul unlocked his door with a second key and entered with his gun drawn.

Alex came in behind him and pushed the door shut. He reached past her and threw the bolt. The apartment was small, two rooms and a primitive kitchen, high ceilings, battered furniture, and fading wallpaper. Guarneri checked both closets and under the bed. Then he allowed himself to relax. They were alone. He put his gun away. He flopped down on an old sofa in the living room and shook his head.

“What do you know?” he said. “We did it.”

She flopped down next to him. She leaned back and exhaled a deep breath. For the first time, she realized how thoroughly exhausted she was. She felt her breath was as heavy as her eyelids. She responded to him with silence.

“I know,” he said. “I’m not a complete philistine. That was nasty stuff this evening. Unpleasant and horrible. But we got it done! Let’s do some rum; it will help us wind down.”

“Sure,” she said.

He reached to her, put an arm around her, and gave her an embrace. He kissed her, and out of fatigue and ambivalence and overall relief, she allowed it. Then he rose. “I’ll get something to drink,” he said.

“Sure,” she said again.

He was gone for several minutes. She slid sideways on the old sofa, intending to nap for a few seconds. But she crashed harder than expected and was sleeping soundly before he returned.

On the sofa Alex blinked her eyes open and looked at her watch.

It was barely past 7:00 a.m. She shook herself into consciousness for the new day and sat up.

The events of the previous night tumbled back to her mind. She felt another surge of disgust over what she had seen. She blinked again and took stock of where she was.

The small apartment was quiet. So was the street outside. She got to her feet and looked into the bedroom. Paul was sleeping soundly. Then thoughts of Roland Violette came into her head.

All right, she told herself. Paul had accomplished what he had come to Havana to do. Now it was time for her to complete her mission and get all of them back to the U.S. the day after tomorrow.

She went to the front window and pushed back the shade. The street seemed calm. There were a few parked vehicles and a street cleaner. Nothing suspicious. She gathered her things. She tossed her Walther into her bag and quietly let herself out of Paul’s apartment. She shouldn’t have even fallen asleep there, she reminded herself, but fatigue had won a battle with her common sense. She could go back to her own posada and sleep the rest of the day; then she would meet Violette again the following evening. Then the next day they would all rendezvous at the small plane and get off the island. With luck, the worst was over.

She crossed the courtyard. A caretaker was bagging garbage. She gave him a nod. He smiled back. She went to the front door and stepped out.

As soon as the door closed behind her with a loud click, the sidewalk came alive and her morning exploded. Two men jumped from the car parked to her left, and two women in the light brown uniforms of local police emerged from another. Alex knew she was trapped. The men had cell phones, were barking into them, and rushing forward.

From somewhere, another pair of men started running toward her.

“?Senora!” someone yelled. The men drew guns. The women had batons. There were so many of them that they seemed to be coming up from beneath the pavements and falling out of trees.

She tried to run forward and through them, hoping they wouldn’t shoot out of fear of hitting each other. But it was impossible. There was a rough hand on her arm. She straight-armed the Havana cop who was trying to pull her down. She broke free, but he had slowed her long enough so that her other assailants could converge. She threw a sharp elbow at one of them and must have caught him fully in the jaw, because she felt an impressive impact. The man recoiled.

She screamed and shouted. Loud enough to rouse the dead. She flailed. But now there were hands all over her, trying to pull her to the ground. Someone yoked her from behind; Alex thought it was one of the women. She caught one of them with her leg and wobbled a little, and then they were all falling, the whole scrum of them, onto the filthy pavement and then into the gutter.

Alex was face down. Her clothes were wet. The police were tearing at her arms, trying to pin them behind her and handcuff her. She kicked and screamed until someone held a hand to her mouth to muffle her. Then a pair of cuffs clicked onto one wrist behind her and then onto the other. Her arms felt as if they’d been pulled out of their sockets. She continued to fight, but two of the strongest men now had her pinned.

As she struggled, she looked up and caught a brief glimpse of Paul’s dimly lit third-floor window. He seemed to be standing at the window, the shade slightly to the side, watching. All she could think of was how she had just left him and that he should flee as fast as possible. Or, she wondered, had he set her up?