Noel Hynd - Hostage in Havana

“If and when,” he said. “If and when. But of course, it would be ninety miles offshore. So why should you care? It’s not your jurisdiction.”

Alex processed all this. But Paul wasn’t finished. “A good businessman needs to be prepared,” he said. “Fidel Castro will be dead before the American presidential election of 2016, maybe before the one of 2012, if we’re lucky. That’s what everyone on the island was telling me. How’s that for a ‘feel good’ moment, Alex?”

“I need to be getting over to Manhattan, Paul,” she said. “I’ve got to be back at my desk tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“Yes. It’s overdue actually,” she said. “Senora Dosi is still out there somewhere, and I owe her some attention. So I need to find a taxi.”

“The subway’s on Clark Street; it takes you straight to Wall Street. If you live in New York now, you should know that.”

“What else should I know?” she asked.

“You should know about a Tuscan restaurant in Greenwich Village called Vincente’s,” he said. “It’s on Greenwich Avenue near Tenth. I know the owner. He’s a connected guy like most of my friends. How about Saturday night? I can pick you up at seven. Car and driver. Then maybe some dancing afterward at some unlicensed dive in the Bowery with techno stuff, type of place where you can’t hear yourself think.”

“Are you insane?”

“No. I’m goofing around. Dinner’s the real invitation, but I know some jazz clubs in SoHo you might like. What do you think?”

“Paul? May I share a secret with you?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“After our trip to Cuba, and after the many, various, ingenious, and imaginative ways you lied to me, including the fact that a murder was on your agenda …”

“Yeah …?” he laughed.

“I wouldn’t touch you socially with a ten-foot pole.”

Guarneri scoffed. “Garcia was a bad man. He got what he deserved.”

“Everyone does eventually. And you will too. Good-bye, Paul,” she said.

Alex took a step to move away. His hand found her wrist. He held her firmly and stopped her.

“Good-bye?” he asked. “Don’t be too sure.”

She pulled her arm free and walked away. She ignored two taxis and went to the subway instead.

On the veranda of her beachfront property in North Africa, Senora Dosi steepled her fingers and stared at the Mediterranean. She had taken stock. She had assessed her legal problems in various countries and taken inventory of the vast wealth that she had stashed in various banks around the world, in Argentina, the Cayman Islands, Costa Rica, and the Dominican Republic – not to mention Panama and Israel, where she had citizenship.

There was a newspaper next to her, the International Herald Tribune. She picked it up and worked on the English-language crossword puzzle for several minutes. It was the Friday one, more difficult than most. She finished it quickly.

A pleasant breeze swept the porch. Her husband came to the sitting area and slid into a seat next to her.

Senora Dosi set the newspaper aside but kept the pen in her hand. It was a silver pen from a well-known jeweler in New York. She looked at Alex’s name engraved on it and smiled.