Noel Hynd - Hostage in Havana

“And you’re going to ask her out?” Alex said, suppressing a tinge of jealousy.

“I wanted to ask you first,” he said, almost shyly. “Before I get to know her any better, I wanted to see if there was anything that could happen between you and me. Because if I start falling for her and then realized I could have fallen for you, well, what a mess, huh?”

“Really,” Alex said. “What a mess. What about your plans to get a job in New York?”

“Carol’s moving here too,” he said. “It’s like, you know, you go on for years. You never meet anyone you’re interested in. Then suddenly, wham.”

“I can relate,” she said.

“Sometimes it’s hard to know God’s will.”

“Not sometimes. All the time,” she said.

“Well,” he said with a long exhalation, “that’s my spiel. I’m done. It’s out. Hope you don’t hate me for it.”

She shook her head and embraced him. “I never could hate you.”

They embraced again and said good night, disappearing to their separate rooms.

Manuel Perez sat on the shaded veranda of the Sorentino, an expensive resort in Belize. He nursed a tall glass of tropical iced tea. He was clad in a light linen suit he had bought in Italy. It was of a weight that breathed easily with both the sun and the breezes that rolled in from the western Caribbean.

He was deep in thought. The woman at his table, a guest, had just presented a business proposal. She waited patiently for his reaction.

Perez looked across the off-white sands of the beach to where his beloved wife, Nicoleta, and their daughters, all equipped with snorkeling gear, romped in the water. With them was Maria, their bilingual mother’s helper and housekeeper and the children’s tutor. Maria had, as always, accompanied them on this one-week vacation.

At the door leading to the veranda stood the man the children knew as Tio Antonio, Uncle Tony. Uncle Tony always watched Perez’s back when Perez took his family on vacation. After all, a wealthy Central American entrepreneur needed personal security in these troubled times, even a conventional importer and exporter of fresh and dried fruit. So the Chilean bodyguard seemed to be a wise precaution.

The Sorentino was located on Ambergris Caye, the largest island along the Belize Barrier Reef. Perez had chosen it for this meeting for more than one reason. Before Perez and beyond his family was the most spectacular scuba-diving paradise in the world, including the Blue Hole. Once the meeting was over with this businesswoman, Perez and his wife could dive.

Yet as much as the diving and the meeting were important, so was security. Ambergris Caye was an island accessible only to private transportation. Representatives of the Sorentino had picked up the Perez family at the airport in San Pedro and whisked them away by private car and then brought them here by private boat.

Perez turned to the woman at his table, having mulled over her proposal for almost a full two minutes without speaking. “You have to understand,” he said in English, with almost no trace of an accent, “the job you are asking me to do is difficult. I would have to enter the United States and make many preparations. While I have some excellent contacts there, the target you suggest would not be easy. The Americans have greatly tightened their borders over the last decade, as well as their ability to pursue people on their wanted lists.”

“I would think a man of your ingenuity would have no trouble getting into the United States,” the woman said.

“Getting out would be the challenge. I have many friends in the underworld in the U.S. Russian, Latino, Mafia, Irish. Political underworld as well as criminal enterprises. Word travels quickly. Presumably a massive ‘unofficial’ reward would be posted for me if my work were successful. I would be hunted worldwide.”

The woman opened her mouth, but Perez raised a polite hand to silence her.

“I also have,” he resumed pleasantly, “many ethical issues about striking targets in the U.S. I have some affinity for the Americans and do not dislike them. I have worked for Americans, as you know. I have many friends there, some who do not even know the nature of my second business, some who do. Though it may surprise you, I do have a conscience. I’m not sure that I would want to bring the attention of American authorities upon me. Right now, they may have a vague notion of who I am. I’m not so certain I would want the extra attention.” He paused again. “Worse, the job would have to be undertaken in New York City,” he said. “That would draw even more attention.” He shook his head. “None of this is good.”

“Then you’re not interested?” she asked patiently.

As they did so often when he was deeply contemplative, Perez’s eyes returned to the sea. Then they returned to his family, three little girls who continued to splash in the surf, a beautiful wife whom he doted on, flanked by the pretty young Maria in a two-piece suit, which sometimes made him think thoughts he shouldn’t.

Another minute passed. Perez sipped more tea. Idly, he rubbed his right kneecap. There was some swelling today with the heat. Nothing incapacitating; the discomfort never was. He had some prescription painkillers with him. He would chew one later in the day. But certainly not in front of his guest. A weakness, a tiny flaw of any sort, was never to be revealed. Even Nicoleta didn’t know how much the knee sometimes vexed him. But then there was much that Nicoleta didn’t know.

The woman at the table understood enough to remain silent. Out of habit, Perez looked over his shoulder and saw Antonio standing exactly where he should be, by the door, arms folded, watching everything, and even keeping an eye on a couple of American blondes on the beach. Everyone who knew Tony knew that blondes could distract him for a moment or two. Everyone joked about it. Fortunately, Nicoleta was a brunette and Antonio kept his priorities in order. If only, Manuel Perez thought to himself, everyone were as dependable as Antonio.

Perez’s eyes drifted back to his children. Images of his own childhood came into focus. He could remember the squalor of a cement-block home, the blazing summer heat of Mexico, running barefoot in the streets as a young child, and the horrible car accident that had injured him. Rich people speeding through his neighborhood. The driver who had hit him never stopped. Why would anyone stop after hitting a slum kid? Who cared? The knee injury had prevented him from joining the Mexican Army, but it had never had any bearing on his ability to use a rifle. So it never cost him the chance to join a foreign army as an expert marksman. And the ability to use a weapon had acquired for him what a normal body and an education never could have: wealth, enough to start his own company. Wealth, enough to marry a woman of the caliber that he could only dream of as a teenager. And power. Now he had power, the type that comes from an impressive bank account, and ancillary respect that flowed from the shooting end of a rifle.

Now he had what he had always longed for. And he was close to making that final big play that would cement it all and make it secure for him. He looked at the resort as the memories of an impoverished boyhood faded. One needed to have an unspeakable amount of money to afford to live like this. He turned back to her.

“May I add some details?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said.

“We already have people in place in New York. Through our various corporations and shipping interests, we own an impressive portfolio of real estate, including one building that would afford you an excellent shot at the target. We would give you secure access to a rooftop, and we already have a construction project on the roof, which would provide the proper cover to shoot from. We can give you keys to everything. All you would need is to secure your own weapon and take your shot. Or shots.”

“One is usually enough,” he said. “But two or three could be a pleasant luxury.”

“As you would have it,” she said.

Perez thought further. “Sadly,” he said, playing his hand carefully, “I don’t think anyone will pay what I would want to make a hit like that in New York City. So for this reason, I might never accept a job such as the one you describe.”

“Name a figure,” she said. “If I can pay it, we’ll speak further. If it’s unconscionable, I’ll get up and leave and not waste any more of your time.”

He named an astronomical figure.

The woman settled back into her chair.

“I think we can do business,” she said.

Saturday arrived. Alex spent six hours in the office. She and Ben had dinner together that evening, Hastings again. At first there was tension between them, but then it dissipated. The subject of a romantic relationship never came up.

On Sunday, Ben prepared a brunch for Alex at home, and then he stayed in and watched the Yankees, while Alex, dutifully, put in more hours at the office. Ben used the afternoon to pack, since he was heading back to Washington that evening. His interviews had gone well, and he was convinced that he would be hired for an internship starting in June.

Ben was set to depart at 6:30 p.m. on yet another pleasant spring evening. Alex went down to the street with him. He carried a large valise slung over a strong right shoulder and looked for a taxi to take him to the Amtrak Station on 33 rdStreet.

As he stepped off the curb to hail a taxi, Alex was sorry to see him go. Part of her wanted to reach out to him and ask him not to go. She had an urge to do something to reverse the direction in which she had sent things.

Okay, she suddenly thought. I don’t want to let him go. He’s too good a man and there aren’t enough good men around. I saw him first and I want to keep him. She wondered whether she was rejecting romance simply because she was scared of being in love – and possibly losing love – again. A wonderful man had presented himself to her, hers for the asking, and she had driven him away.

Wake up! a voice inside screamed to her. She was sending him away to another woman who would presumably be smarter, wiser, and do everything in her physical and mental capacity to make him happy and keep him.

He found a cab. It pulled to the curb, and before she could say anything, he tossed his bag into the backseat. Alex stepped up to him. “Ben, listen, I – “

“It’s okay,” he said, interrupting. “Don’t worry. Really, it’s okay. We’re friends and I value that a lot.”

Before she could protest, he embraced her and kissed her. It was a sexy kiss, right on the lips, and it stunned her, although it shouldn’t have.

He stepped back and gave her an affectionate wave. Then he slid into the backseat of the cab and closed the door. Her final image was how handsome and strong he was. Then the taxi pulled away from the curb. She watched until it disappeared among the other vehicles moving down Seventh Avenue.

American Airlines 777 from San Juan, Costa Rica, eased downward, ten miles east of the Statue of Liberty. Manuel Perez glanced around the cabin. He hated to fly. Killing didn’t make him nervous, but the sound of landing gear being extended sometimes did. As it descended toward New York, the plane hit a pocket of bumpy air. The turbulence rattled him. Then the aircraft moved through a layer of clouds, and suddenly a crisp view of New York City appeared: Manhattan, the majestic skyline above the rivers, fronting on the harbor, and the five boroughs connected by bridges. For a moment, in the brilliance of the early June day, everything looked clear and clean, like in a movie.