• • •
After extracting a promise that she and Nick would talk the next morning, Frankie got ready for bed. She’d never told Nicky how Luis died. Everyone knew Michael was shot by border guards while trying to escape, but she and Carla had kept the details about Luis’s death quiet. Not even Luisa had known the entire truth until tonight.
She understood Carla’s concerns. But the map had once been important to Luis. And if it was important to him, it was important to her. Luis was the love of her life, the only man she had given herself to without reservation. If the revolution hadn’t intervened, she would still be in Cuba, a contented wife and mother, cooking for Luis, scolding the children, keeping each other warm at night. This map was the only link to her past, a past where the possibility of happiness was still alive.
She went into the bathroom to remove her make-up. She washed her face, thinking how Luis had died because of the map, and her son, the product of their passion, had too. It was time to settle accounts. Anyone with her resources would. Her father had taught her that. She was in a position to make it happen. After decades of his guidance, she was no longer a naïf. Anything she might salvage from the mine, moreover, would be an unexpected, but not unwelcome, windfall. She would have completed Luis’s and Michael’s mission. Reclaimed a little piece of both of them. She was sure they would approve.
She came out of the bathroom, threw back the down quilt on her bed, and burrowed underneath. She was doing this for all the right reasons. By the time she turned out the light, she’d convinced herself.
• • •
Nick called promptly at ten the next morning. “Good morning, Frankie. I’ve put us on speaker-phone. There are two associates I want to introduce to you. They’re two of my best people.”
“Are you sure this is a secure line?”
“Absolutely. We made sure of it. And the door to my office is tightly closed.”
“Thank you, Nicky. I’m forever in your debt.” Francesca never went out if she could conduct business by phone. That, or have people come to her. It was safer that way. Her people swept the phones and electronic equipment daily.
“The first person I want you to know is Hamilton Snower. He’s my grandson, my daughter’s son. He’s twenty-three and came to work as a research analyst here at NF. His specialty is natural resources, as it happens.”
“Good morning, Hamilton.”
“Call me Ham. Everyone else does. Just don’t add Swiss on rye.”
Frankie made an appropriate chuckle.
“And Ham’s boss, George Trevor, is here too. He was a director over at Bear Stearns, but it was our good fortune to snag him when they fell apart.”
“Good morning, Mrs. DeLuca,” Trevor said.
“We’ve done a bit of preliminary research,” Nick said, “and your granddaughter may be right. The area of Angola that the map corresponds to is heavily mined. But exactly what is being mined has changed over the years. Do you have any idea when the map was drawn?”
“It was during the Cuban intervention in Angola.”
She heard a few soft clicks. Someone had a laptop. Ham’s voice piped up. “Cubans were in Angola from 1975 through 1989.”
“If you say so,” Frankie said.
“Frankie, do you have any more specific dates?” Nick asked.
“No,” she said. “But we think it was toward the end of the conflict.”
“Well,” the third voice, George Trevor, spoke up. “Those years were the thick of the blood diamond era. Or, as they are also called, conflict diamonds.” His voice was nasal and reedy. She imagined him with glasses and a pocket protector.
“Refresh my memory,” she said.
“Of course. Everyone was mining for diamonds then. Mostly to fund the rebel insurgency forces in Angola and neighboring countries. Unfortunately, legal or ethical means were not a priority. You’ve heard of ‘blood’ diamonds?”
“Wasn’t there a movie about that?” Frankie said.
“Yes. About ten years ago. It was fiction, of course, but it did explore the horrific human rights abuses that took place. The rebels in the Congo exploited children and women as a matter of course, forced them into the mines, and tortured—and slaughtered them—if they didn’t come out with stones. Cutting off a young boy’s hands or one of his legs was a daily event. And if they couldn’t get diamonds that way, they’d simply steal them from legitimate mining companies. They attacked and raped villagers and accused them of stealing diamonds, to deflect attention from what they were doing. If your son was—”
“No,” Francesca cut in. “Michael would never have been involved in that.”
“Excuse me?” George Trevor’s tone was that of a man not used to being interrupted. Maybe he didn’t have a pocket protector.
“My son would never have taken a job that involved brutal tactics. He had principles. He wasn’t materialistic. He knew the difference between—”
Someone coughed, cutting her off. Frankie didn’t know who it was. But in the uneasy silence that followed, she realized she was wasting her breath trying to defend her dead son. No one, including a friendly consultant, would believe anyone connected to the Outfit had a shred of social conscience.
In Michael’s case, though, it was true. Frankie had always wondered why Michael didn’t care about accumulating power and wealth. In her more narcissistic moments, she thought perhaps her own rebellion, albeit short-lived, had something to do with it. But when she was honest with herself, she knew it was his nature, a nature he’d inherited from Luis. And while being in the army, as Michael was, could—and often did—lead to a yen for power, Frankie didn’t want to spoil her fantasy that Michael wasn’t pursuing it. She hadn’t been either. Back then.
Nick’s voice, gentle but firm, cut in. “Didn’t you tell me last night that Michael wasn’t in charge of the mission? That he was simply carrying out instructions? Perhaps he didn’t know what the map represented.”
Francesca had to admit Nicky could be right. But it had been Luis who’d drawn the map. And if Michael was disinterested in power and wealth, Luis had actively resisted both. The acquisition of assets went against everything Luis Perez stood for. Or did in his youth. Frankie remembered their discussions about Marxism and the social equality Fidel would bring to Cuba. Luis believed it wholeheartedly. For a moment, her heart cracked and she thought she might tear up.
As if he knew what was going through her head, Nick said softly, “If Luis sketched the map, he did that thirty years after you knew him, Frankie. People change.”
Francesca was quiet for a moment. “So you think the mine could be diamonds?”
“It fits,” Trevor said.
“Is there a way to confirm that?”
“Short of going there and taking a look? I doubt it,” Trevor said.
“But you must have international contacts. People who scout those kinds of things.”
“It’s outside our line of business, Frankie,” Nick said. “I don’t doubt we could come up with the right contacts, but you need to ask yourself whether it’s worth it. It will be quite expensive. And what do you expect to find?”
Frankie couldn’t tell Nicky the truth. Let him think she was greedy rather than vengeful. It was easier. “A fortune, of course.”
There was silence on the other end of the speaker-phone. Then someone cleared his throat again.
“I guess we could put out some feelers. But it’s entirely possible it’s already been developed.”
“Well, that would be my misfortune, wouldn’t it?”
“Francesca, may I make a suggestion?” Nick asked.
She ignored him. “I want to know what’s there. I want to know if anyone else has developed it, who they are, and…” she hesitated. “…whether it would make a difference knowing we had this map.”
Nick went on. “I can’t recommend this, Frankie. You could come into contact with all sorts of people and groups you might not want to know. People who—” He stopped.
More silence.
Finally, Nick said, “Okay. George, why don’t we get the map, take a look, and have Ham make inquiries? Discreetly, of course.”
“There is a possibility it’s not diamonds, you know,” Trevor said. “Angola has other resources and minerals. Gold, metals, that sort of thing.”
“Are they as profitable as diamonds?” Francesca asked.
“Possibly.”
“All right, Frankie,” Nicky said tiredly. “Let us look into it for you. You’ll fax over the map?”
“Um… I’d rather messenger it. The fewer eyes the better. Actually, I’ll make a copy and have it personally delivered. My granddaughter can bring it down.”
“That’s fine. Have her ask for Ham. He’ll be your contact person. Okay?”
“Bless you, Nicky.”
He was slow to answer. “I certainly hope so.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the vertical blinds in Ham Snower’s office. His window faced west, and now that daylight savings time was back, he usually closed the blinds to keep out the glare. Despite that, stray bands of light seeped through, splashing strips of butterscotch across his desk.
He was finishing an article on mining operations in the Congo when his phone buzzed. Joanie, the receptionist.
“You have a visitor,” she announced in a voice that managed to be both sultry and articulate, and was the reason she’d been hired. When he asked who it was, her voice held a note of amusement. “She says her name is Luisa DeLuca.”
Ham tried to place the name. He’d been clubbing down on Rush Street with a buddy two nights ago, and they’d had more than a few. He recalled meeting two women, both of whom slipped cards into his pocket.
That happened a lot. Ham was a hottie, or so he’d been told. Women admired his athletic build, sandy hair, and frank blue eyes. He also had a dimple in the cleft of his chin that convinced more than one girl he was related to the swoon-worthy Viggo Mortensen. When he told his mother about that before she died, she’d joked and said the only cleft chin that mattered was Kirk Douglas’s.
Joanie brought him back. “What should I tell her?”
He still couldn’t place the name but it didn’t matter. It was the end of the day; he would meet her, see what she wanted, and if necessary, tell her he was on his way to an appointment. “Tell her I’ll be right out.”
“I certainly will.” Joanie said in a tone that made him think he shouldn’t waste any time.
He realized she was right when he pushed through to the lobby of Nicholas Financial, and a young woman rose from the couch. She couldn’t have been much taller than five three, but in tight jeans, a heavy sweater, and knee high black leather boots, every inch was perfectly accounted for. Lots of dark hair was gathered up on her head, but a few curls had slipped out and framed her face. She was slender but curvy in all the right places, and her face was part cherub, part siren: round cheeks and small nose, but a pointed chin and dark eyes he could dive into if he wasn’t careful. Those eyes were appraising him now.
She extended her hand. It was cool and soft. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry to be so late.”
For a fleeting, uncharacteristically awkward moment, Ham was at a loss for words. The receptionist cleared her throat.
Ham took the hint. “Um, Ms. DeLuca, isn’t it?”
She nodded, seeming pleased he remembered her name. “My grandmother said you’d be expecting me.”
Ham was about to ask what the hell she was talking about when it came to him. His grandfather’s friend. The morning meeting. The Mafia Queen. He blinked in surprise. “Of course,” he said, trying to recover. “I didn’t expect you this soon. You’re fast.”
She smiled. Her lips were soft and full, her teeth blazing white. Ham realized he had lost control of the conversation. It was a new experience.
“When Gran makes a decision, she doesn’t waste any time. She wanted me to come down earlier, but I had classes.”
Classes? Where? In what? Suddenly he wanted to know all about this woman. “Well, in that case, come on back to my office.” He held the door open and ushered her to the hallway where the staff offices were located. Joanie tried hard not to smile, failing miserably. Was it that obvious?
• • •
The exchange of the map took about five seconds, but Luisa was in no hurry to leave. Ham—what a peculiar name for a man, she thought—didn’t seem to be either, so they chatted. Shafts of light marched across the room, eventually hitting her in the face. When she shaded her eyes, Ham jumped up to shutter the blinds.
“No, don’t,” she said. “You have a western exposure. Let’s watch.”
“You sure?”
She nodded and watched him pull back the blinds, moving her chair so the sun wasn’t in her eyes. It had turned fiery orange, spitting out beams of light that bounced off skyscrapers, glinted on windows, and suffused the Chicago air with a rosy glow.
“Sunset is the best time of the day, don’t you think?”
Ham cocked his head in a way that made her think he’d never thought about it. She went on. “I mean, mornings are nice too, especially here in Chicago when the sun rises over the lake. But there’s something special about sunset. It’s almost as if the sun is burning off all the dust and dirt accumulated during the day. You know, preparing the city for a soft, gentle night.”
She regretted the words as soon as she’d spoken them. He probably thought she was pretentious. An aspiring literary snob.
But Ham’s smile widened, and his Adam’s apple bobbed, making her wonder if he was as nervous as she. She ran a hand down the sleeve of her sweater. He was just another guy. Doing work for the family. She had Jed anyway, and she was happy with her cowboy. Wasn’t she?
They continued to talk. He’d gone to Penn, he told her, like his mother and grandfather before him. And like his grandfather, he’d majored in finance. He played football, joined a fraternity, became part of the Ivy League old boys’ network. He asked about her.
Most times she didn’t divulge much about herself. People either knew who she was, or kept their distance when they learned. It had taken Jed months to crack through her shell. But Ham was the grandson of Gran’s friend. And he was so damn easy to talk to. Dusk had descended by the time she stopped.
She leaned back, surprised that she’d talked so much. He was probably bored out of his mind. Couldn’t wait to get out.
Instead he leaned forward. “Would you like to have dinner?”
• • •
The next morning Ham arrived at the office early. As he passed Joanie, he smiled.
She eyed him. “Now that’s a shit-eating grin if I ever saw one.”
Ham didn’t reply.
“You’re not talking? Uh-oh. Did our young analyst get hit by the thunderbolt?”
He left her with what he thought was an enigmatic smile and went toward his office. Strange what twenty-four hours could do. Yesterday he would have told Joanie she was a romance junkie. Things like that only happened in movies. Today, he wasn’t so sure.
When they’d realized they both lived in Evanston, north of Chicago, dinner turned into dessert, then after-dinner drinks, and then coffee, each at a different place. Empty-nester Boomers had “discovered” Evanston, and a new restaurant seemed to open every week, each one more European and pretentious than the next. Neither Ham nor Luisa was interested in ambiance, though, and it was after midnight when she dropped him at his condo.
He wanted to invite her up, hell, he wanted to take her to bed and never let her leave, but it was way too soon. Plus, her bodyguard had been following them in a second car. The guard was a woman, ex-military Ham thought by her behavior. She kept a low profile, but her presence was enough to intimidate him.
So they sat in Luisa’s Prius and talked. At one point he tentatively slipped his arm around her. She inched closer to him
and tilted her head up. She hitched the strap of her expensive-looking handbag on her shoulder, leaned across, and kissed him on the lips.
“Time for me to get home.”
He nodded and scooted toward the passenger door. “Tomorrow?”
She nodded.
“Would you…” his voice cracked. “… consider coming to my place? I’ll cook .”
“And what can you cook?”
“Um, er, I can broil a mean steak.”
• • •
Now Ham sat down, leaned over, and opened the drawer in which he’d locked the map. He was anxious to get started. Other projects would wait. If he was lucky, maybe he’d have something to tell her tonight.
As a research analyst, Ham was in an entry-level position, but he didn’t mind. He understood that his grandfather would leave the firm to him and wanted him to know it from the ground up. In fact, Ham enjoyed research. The acquisition of knowledge for its own sake was a noble pursuit. And his area, natural resources, was relevant and made for great stories.
He’d about exhausted the links to articles on the web about mining in Angola when his boss, George Trevor, minced into his office. Trevor was unmarried, and on more than one occasion, Ham wondered if he was gay. Not that it mattered. Trevor was tall and slim, with thinning brown hair and glasses that gave him the look of a dead fish. But he was impeccably dressed, and while he’d taken off his jacket, his tie was knotted tight, and the creases in his shirt were crisply ironed. Those creases would stay crisp all day. Ham figured he must sit at his desk without moving like—well, a dead fish.
“What’s up, George?” Ham asked.
“Just wanted to touch base on the project Nick assigned you.” Trevor sat down. “You need any help?”
Ham held up the map. “I got the map from Grandfather’s—er—friend.” Ham tiptoed around the word. He didn’t know the history between his grandfather and Francesca DeLuca, but he wondered if they had once been more than friends. He realized he’d never know.
[2012] Havana Lost Page 27
