[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  If only she knew where her grandfather had been stationed in Angola. Her mother didn’t know, and she doubted Gran did, either. She Googled “Cuban soldiers in Angola” and was surprised at the number of hits that came back. She started reading. Apparently, Cubans had been posted all over Angola in virtually every province. She remembered her mother telling her half a million Cubans had been there over the years. Which didn’t help. Why couldn’t the Cubans have been squeezed into a smaller, more enclosed area? South Vietnam, for example? Or a place so desolate there were only a few options, like Afghanistan?

  She went back to Google and searched maps of Angola, drilling down on the images. She scanned dozens of maps, some topographical, like the ones she’d found the night before, some political. But she didn’t find any places that looked like her grandfather’s map.

  Twenty minutes later, Jed stirred. “What are you doing?” He stifled a yawn.

  “I told you.”

  “Yeah. I know. A map of Angola. But why?”

  She turned in the chair. “My grandmother gave me a map that her—my grandfather—drew in Angola. He was stationed there when he was in the Cuban Army. But we don’t know where. I’ve been trying to find out. Without much success.”

  “Nothing in the library?”

  “Not in Mudd. I thought there might be engineering maps but I didn’t find any. There could be more at the main library, which is where I was headed before I got—waylaid.”

  “You know, I might be able to create a computer program that would let you scan in the drawing and compare it to existing maps.”

  Jed was a graduate student in computer science. For a moment Luisa’s hope flared. “That would be way cool. How long would it take?”

  “I don’t know. A week or two.”

  She screwed up her mouth. “I was hoping it’d be more like an hour. I’d like to figure this out.”

  He leaned over his bedside table, grabbed his glasses, and put them on. He brushed his hair back, a habit he’d adopted when he was pondering something. Then he rolled back and stretched out his arms. “You know, Lu, for a smart girl, you’re not using your head.”

  “What do you mean?” she said in an irritated tone.

  “Think about it. What’s in Angola? And the Congo? And all over that part of the world?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.” He paused. “And I’ll bet your grandmother does, too.” He held up his fingers and wiggled them.

  She stared at Jed for a moment. Then her mouth opened. “Diamonds!”

  “Bloody and otherwise.”

  She smacked herself on her forehead. “Of course! I am so stupid. Mining maps!”

  “Now you’re thinking.”

  Luisa swiveled back to Jed’s laptop and entered “mining,” “maps,” and “Angola.” Several websites popped up. They weren’t in color and they weren’t much more than pen and ink drawings. Which was exactly what she needed. A few moments later Luisa whistled.

  “Jed. Look at this!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “You found it?” Gran stopped chewing mid-bite.

  “I think so.” Luisa and her mother were having dinner at Gran’s in the dining room. Her grandmother had redecorated the entire first floor of the Barrington home after her husband, Carmine, died in a sudden car accident not long after Gran’s father passed. Luisa was a baby during the renovation—they had just arrived from Miami—but her mother told her about the heavy dark furniture, thick rugs, and air that reeked of cigarette smoke. Now the house was light and airy, with shiny hardwood floors, rich oriental rugs, and lots of crystal that made the light sparkle. Gran was a wonderful cook, and although she had help—so many secretaries, bodyguards, and assistants that they usually tripped over each other—she still enjoyed cooking. Tonight was lasagna with a salsa twist.

  Her mother looked up from her plate. “Found what?”

  Luisa and Gran exchanged glances.

  “Luisa has been on a treasure hunt,” Gran finally said.

  Carla looked puzzled. “For school?”

  Luisa looked at Gran, who gave her a brief nod. “Um, not exactly, Ma.”

  Carla stiffened almost imperceptibly, but Luisa caught it. Her mother only did that when she was disturbed. And no one disturbed her more than Gran. Especially when Gran managed to make her mother feel excluded. Luisa didn’t know if it was intentional on Gran’s part, but her mother clearly thought so.

  Gran cut in, apparently oblivious to Carla’s discomfort. “What did you find?”

  Luisa rose from the table, went to her backpack, and pulled out what she’d printed. Her mother followed her with her eyes. Luisa came back and handed it to Gran.

  Gran studied the paper. Then she looked up. “I’m sorry. What am I looking at?”

  “It’s a map of a small area in Angola.”

  “Angola?” Both Gran and her mother said the word at the same time. Gran’s eyes widened. Her mother’s narrowed.

  “The northeast part of the country, near the Congo border,” Luisa said.

  Gran’s eyebrows arched.

  Luisa pointed over her grandmother’s shoulder. “These three squiggly lines are rivers. Two of them begin with the letter ‘C.’” She pointed to the two ‘C’s at the bottom of the page. “Look at their names. ‘Chiumbe’ and ‘Chicapa.’ And the one in the middle is ‘Luachimo.’ That’s the ‘L.’”

  Gran’s mouth opened. “Unbelievable!”

  “Jed helped me figure it out. And these…” She gestured to two dots on the page. “Those are cities. One is Lucapa, which is one of the bigger cities in that part of Angola. The other is Dundo, which is in the northeast corner, practically in the Congo.” Luisa went back to her seat at the table. “I researched it, and it turns out Cuban forces were posted in both places. Most were in Lucapa, but there was an outpost in Dundo.”

  “So Luis could have been there?” Gran murmured.

  “It’s possible. The only thing I don’t know is what the third dot at the top of the page represents.” She hesitated. “But the area is known for diamonds and other minerals. It could be a mine. Maybe Granpa Luis found a diamond mine. And I’m not sure what the circle of dots around the larger circle is on the bottom of the page. It might be an inset—you know, a close-up of a portion of the area.”

  Gran opened her mouth, about to say something, when a sharp voice cut in. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Both Luisa and Gran looked up. Her mother’s features had gone rigid, and her face was crimson.

  Oh no, Luisa thought. Ma’s pissed. Aloud, she said, “Gran asked me to take a look.”

  “And this map. Where did you get it?”

  Gran spoke up. “I gave it to her. Well, a copy.” Luisa heard a trace of defiance in her voice.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s time we knew the truth.”

  Now Luisa was confused. “Truth? What truth?”

  “I don’t believe it, Francesca. How could you?” her mother cried.

  “It’s long overdue, Carla.”

  Her mother’s face darkened.

  “What’s overdue?” Luisa asked. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Carla sniffed. “Your father—and your grandfather—were killed because of this map. Both of them murdered. On the same day. All because of…” She waved her hand, unable, apparently, to finish her thought.

  Luisa whipped around to face Gran. “Is that true, Gran?”

  Gran didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to.

  “It’s the truth,” her mother said. “But your grandmother can’t leave it alone. I should have burned the damn thing when I got to the States.” She looked at Gran. “I almost did, you know. But I thought you’d want something tangible. A memento that belonged to the man you loved.” She sniffed again. “The more fool I.”

  Gran extended her palm. “Carla. I am grateful for what you did. As I am for the photo.” She gestured to a small glass-covered table on th
e end of a black leather sofa where a photo of herself and Luis in a sterling silver frame sat in the place of honor. “But we have to discover the truth.”

  “Francesca, this happened over twenty years ago. It was another lifetime. A dangerous one at that.”

  Gran straightened. “No one gets away with killing the people I loved.” Her tone was harsh, imperious. “No matter when it happened.”

  Carla pushed away from the table and stood. The cords on her neck stuck out. Her eyes turned steely, and her voice was cold fury. “You have no right to expose my daughter to danger because of your need for revenge.”

  Luisa gazed at her mother, then her grandmother. Two alpha women, both protecting their turf. She hardly dared to breathe.

  Then Gran relaxed, smiled sweetly, and softened her voice. “Carla. Be reasonable. Do you think I would put Luisa in any jeopardy? She did a little research. That’s all. Nothing dangerous.”

  But her mother wasn’t buying. “I know you want to control the universe, but sometimes things happen that you cannot anticipate. You have no idea what could be unleashed. What if it opens—how do you call it in English?” She looked at Luisa.

  “A Pandora’s box,” Luisa said softly.

  “Si. A Pandora’s box,” her mother repeated.

  “That’s simplistic, Carla,” Gran said. “I would expect it from someone whose beliefs are mired in superstition and rigid ideas about destiny.” It was a jab at her mother’s penchant for Santería beliefs, Luisa knew. “But you’re far too intelligent for that. We make our own destiny. And we have. Both of us.”

  “You weren’t there, Francesca. I saw it happen.”

  Luisa pulled on a strand of hair. “Is that true, Gran?”

  “The map was why your father went to Cuba in the first place,” her mother jumped in. “Someone wanted it. His mission was to bring it back. At any cost.”

  Luisa frowned, half in shock, half in anger. “You never told me that.”

  “You were too young, and there was no need. Your father did not know Luis was his father. But whoever sent him did. And knew that Michael would be the only person Luis would give the map to. When your father discovered the truth, he aborted the mission.”

  “But they killed him anyway,” Gran said, as if that explained everything. “It’s time to hold them accountable.”

  “Who?” Luisa asked.

  “Your grandmother doesn’t know,” her mother said. “But if you find them, she will put us all in danger.”

  Luisa looked from one woman to the other. “Gran, Ma has a point. Maybe we should leave it alone.”

  But Gran didn’t answer. An absorbed expression came over her, as if she was making connections, putting things together.

  “Francesca, did you hear me?” her mother said.

  Gran didn’t answer.

  Her mother folded her arms. “You’re trying to figure out who sent Michael, aren’t you?”

  Her grandmother focused, then, and cleared her throat. “Carla, my life has been filled with men taking advantage of me. Using me. Controlling me. They tore me away from Luis. They killed my son.” Her expression grew steely. “No more. I’m done with that.”

  “What men?” Carla snorted. “Strangers like the people Michael was working for? Or your father? You could have gone back to Luis.”

  “My father would have killed him if I tried. Plus, I was pregnant.”

  “You could have escaped. Like you did when you went to Santa Clara. Babies are known to have been born in Cuba.”

  “Like yours?” Gran’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  Her mother’s eyes flashed. “We are not talking about me. It was your father who ruined your life, Francesca. Not the people behind Michael’s mission. If you want revenge, start with him.”

  But Gran’s father, Grampa Tony, was gone, Luisa thought. He’d died before she was born.

  “You’re playing with fire, Francesca,” her mother went on. “You’ll endanger all of us. And for what? Because you can?”

  Francesca’s voice was quiet but held such a firm resolve that Luisa grew unsettled. “Carla, I will not tolerate being talked to this way. We’re done here.”

  Gran left the room and headed to her office. The office used to belong to Carmine, but Gran took it over after he died. When Luisa was a little girl, she would sneak past the bodyguards—or so she thought—into the office. Sometimes her grandmother would be arguing with someone, but they’d stop as soon as she crept into the room, and Gran, all smiles and sweet words, would offer her a lolly-pop. She learned later that the guards had been instructed to allow Luisa free rein in the house.

  Neither her mother nor Gran had been sweet tonight.

  “Let’s go,” her mother said tersely, cutting off her memories. Luisa went to the closet to get their coats.

  • • •

  In her office, Francesca picked up the phone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  It had been over fifty years since Nick Antonetti flew to Havana to propose to Frankie Pacelli. Although she didn’t say yes at the time, he was confident they would end up together. His parents hadn’t been in favor of the union. They knew whose daughter she was, and the Antonettis were already two generations on the right side of the law. But Nick was crazy about Frankie, and they must have realized that putting up a fight would only have fueled their son’s desire.

  Nick had been packing for the University of Pennsylvania when he heard she’d run off with a Cuban revolutionary. It was a knock-out blow to his gut and his dreams. At the time he doubted he’d ever recover. But his parents made him go to Philadelphia anyway. They expected great things from him; he was the first in his family to go to an Ivy League school. They thought he’d be a lawyer, but he surprised them by majoring in finance at the Wharton School and going into investment banking.

  In his senior year he met Bonnie Hamilton from Westchester County. They married and moved to Chicago, where Nick worked for Mesirow for two years. Then he started his own firm. It flourished, and they bought a house in Lake Forest where they had their two and a half children—Bonnie always said their beagle, Shiloh, was their half-child.

  But Bonnie had passed away a year earlier after a long battle with cancer. Nick hated the word battle. People didn’t battle cancer, they held it at bay until the poisons in the chemo and radiation made them so fragile that almost any infection or virus could fell them.

  After Bonnie passed, Nick came out of semi-retirement and redoubled his efforts at Nicholas Financial. Part of it was the economy, but part of it was that he had nothing else to do. He wasn’t the type to spend the day on the golf course, and he didn’t gamble, drink, or carouse. Making money was the only thing he knew how to do. And he did it well. Despite the economic climate, Nicholas Financial was surviving nicely, probably because it was small, selective, and fiercely independent.

  Although his life was layered with loss, Nick was not bitter. Over the years he and Francesca had talked occasionally, and in his mind, they’d mended the damage to their relationship. When her son Michael died, he and Bonnie attended the memorial service, and when Bonnie passed, Francesca came to the wake. So when the phone rang at home that evening, as he was finishing his coffee and weighing whether to read a book or watch TV, he wasn’t shocked to hear her voice.

  “Good evening, Frankie,” Nick said. “This is a nice surprise.”

  “I realized we hadn’t talked since—since Bonnie’s wake. It’s been too long.”

  Nick gazed around his giant kitchen with the island in the middle. He’d been thinking he ought to downsize. Move into the City, maybe Lake Shore Drive. Lake Forest, with its acres of landscaped property dividing up what amounted to estates, was possibly the most affluent suburb on the North Shore. He’d been proud to afford to live there. But now, without Bonnie to share it with him, it was too grand, too showy, too exclusive.

  “How are you coping, Nicky?”

  “You know how it goes. I work. I come home. And then I work
more.”

  “I want you to come for dinner.”

  Nick picked up a spoon and twirled it between his fingers. Barrington, where Frankie lived, was the equivalent of Lake Forest in affluence, but situated farther west. “That’s very sweet of you. But you don’t have to.”

  “Nonsense. You and Bonnie were so kind to me after Michael… and then Carmine…”

  “You’ve had your share of sadness too, Frankie.” He didn’t add that given her family business, death and misfortune were inevitable consequences. He’d managed to steer clear of the Outfit, politely refusing the offers they made, and they’d left him alone. Probably because of his ties to Frankie. Which was another reason he was grateful rather than bitter.

  “We all have,” she said.

  To be honest, Nick was happy on his side of the fence. It hadn’t been a bad thing, he’d come to realize, when they broke up. Not marrying Frankie had simplified his life. Kept him from a host of ethically compromising positions.

  Frankie cleared her throat.

  Nick remembered that sound. It usually preceded a request or a suggestion. “So, Mrs. DeLuca. I’m happy to come to dinner, but I have a feeling that’s not the only thing you have on your mind. What can I do for you?”

  Frankie giggled, maybe a little too brightly for ten at night. “I’m not sure I like that you know me so well.” There was a pause. “But I do have a question. And you’re about the only person I trust enough to ask. I need total discretion.”

  He rubbed his fingers across his chin, knowing she was flattering him. “Of course.”

  Frankie told him about the map and that Luisa had traced it to the northeastern part of Angola. “I think this is an important document, Nicky. But I need to know more about the area.”

  “How did you get it?”

  She paused again, as if carefully choosing her words. “My daughter-in-law brought it with her from Cuba. They found it when—after—Michael was killed. We think the map might point to a mining operation or something similar. But we’re not sure. You have experts who handle these things, don’t you?”