Noel Hynd - Hostage in Havana

“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 all the Mafia families are going to be looking for recovery of lost property. It’s going to be a mess. How much?”

“Half a million dollars … so he says.”

“I got to say, times must be tough if a connected guy has to go out and scrounge for half a million. Didn’t he get any TARP funds?”

Alex smiled. “Guess not.”

“So it’s just been sitting somewhere for fifty years? A bank?”

“Stashed. Hidden. Buried. Literally.”

De Salvo folded his arms, then ran a hand through his hair. “If it’s cash, it’s still legal tender,” he said. He shook his head. “Obviously, Operation Parajo isn’t keeping you busy enough. Has anyone arrested the Dosis yet, by the way?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

De Salvo cursed quietly. “The longer they’re out there, the better the chance that they land somewhere beyond extradition. Can you turn up the pressure?”

“I can try,” she said.

“Okay, look. This Guarneri-Cuban thing. What do you want to do with it? You feel you want to make this trip? Scope things out? Think there’s something in it?”

“I’d prefer to avoid it,” Alex said. “As long as Parajo is in progress, I don’t have time for Cuba.”

“Well, then, tell that to your Mafia guy.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll try. Maybe he’ll lose interest.”

“Half a million bucks and fifty years,” De Salvo said, thinking it further. “Your guy’s not going to lose interest. Play him along as an asset. You never know.”

Alex gave him half a grin and half a nod. “Good advice.”

She sat tight. De Salvo looked as if he expected her to stand and leave. She didn’t.

“There’s more?” he asked.

“I need your input on something. Professional and personal. Confidential.”

“Okay.”

“Federov’s will was read in Switzerland two weeks ago. I was named in it.”

“The dear boy left you some rubles? Is that it?”

“Yes. Dollars, actually. A significant amount.”

“Oh. Lucky you. Throw us all a party. Classy hookers for the guys, Chippendale dancers for the ladies. What’s not to like?”

She grinned. “I’m inquiring about the ethics. Will it make any waves here if I keep the money?”

De Salvo’s gaze ran out the window, across the concrete canyon of Wall Street, and to the harbor beyond. He glanced back to her. “No strings attached?” he asked again.

“None.”

De Salvo shrugged. “The Federov case is closed; the man is dead and likely to remain so. And you’re not in a position to help his estate or heirs. Right?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“So bank it,” he said.

“Can you give me a memo saying we discussed it and you advised me?”

“Sure. You draw it up; I’ll initial it. How’s that?”

“Perfect,” she said.

She got up and headed toward the door. “Alex, if you’re looking for something to blow it on, the Ferrari Testa Rosa comes in at about a quarter of a million dollars now. Would you be in the market?”

“Sure. But I don’t think I need eight of them.”

“Oh, my,” he said. “Eight times two-fifty. Significant, indeed. Congratulations.” He paused. “You coming in to work tomorrow?”

“Probably,” she said. “What else would I do?”

“Don’t even go there,” he said.

In Mexico City, phones were ringing and back-channel connections were falling into place. Manuel Perez had no sooner settled into his home than he received yet another request for his services. He would need to travel again.

Well, all right, he thought to himself. At least this was one assignment he could parlay into a family getaway. Yet a mood of caution was growing within him. He thought of himself as a player at a roulette wheel, a player who was riding a long winning streak. He knew there would be a time when it would be wise to take his chips and walk away from the table. The problem was, walking away when one was winning was no easy matter.

A few minutes before eight, Alex arrived at Hastings’, a small Manhattan pub down one flight of stairs, in a basement, from the sidewalk on West 64 thStreet. It was midway between Central Park to the east and Lincoln Center to the west.

She gave Jack Hastings, the owner, a wave as she entered. She selected her own table after Jack waved back and indicated that she might sit anywhere she liked. The eatery was a neighborhood hangout and popular among visitors to Lincoln Center in the early evening. It was small, dimly lit, and comfortable. Red tablecloths anchored the room with a small candle on each table. There were usually only two waitresses from a roster of nine, all of whom worked part-time, grad students at Columbia, NYU, or Juilliard nearby. The waitresses patrolled in red T-shirts and black skirts. Jack worked the bar six nights a week. Harp and Guinness were on tap. Legend had it that throughout Prohibition, Jack’s grandfather Michael hadn’t missed a shift or a sip. The plasma TVs high up at each end of the bar were usually tuned to sports. Since taking up residence on West 61 stStreet, Alex had become a regular.

One of the Columbia girls, Martha, appeared quickly and took Alex’s drink order. Martha had no sooner disappeared than Ben appeared in the doorway, holding a shopping bag. Alex waved. Ben smiled broadly and came to her table. She stood for a tight embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

Ben was a strapping guy from North Carolina. He had been a Marine gunnery sergeant in Iraq before a roadside bomb in Anwar Province had taken off his leg below the knee. He now wore a prosthesis. In Washington, Alex and Ben had been gym rats together in a co-ed basketball league.

Ben was the slowest guy on the court, but at six four he was also the tallest. Prosthesis and occasional jerky movements and all, he had played center for Alex’s team. From their comradeship on the court, a deep friendship had emerged. They’d been there for each other during some of their darkest personal moments, most notably when Alex had plunged into a nearly fatal depression following the death of her fiance, and another time, in Paris, when she had been hospitalized after a shooting.