[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Clearly, something or someone had tipped them off to the re-emergence of the map—probably the moron in Toronto. But he was dead, which meant they would have to show themselves. And when they did, she would regain the upper hand. She would regroup, bide her time, retaliate. They would get what was coming to them.

  Buoyed by her thoughts, she pulled herself together and emerged from her office. Carla was curled up on the leather couch, this side of catatonic. Frankie’s soldati, unsure where to go or what to do, milled around. Gino, her sotto capo, was on his cell. She sat down on the other end of the sofa. In a quiet voice, she said, “We’re going to have to get the map. The original. Not a copy. It’s at the bank.”

  Carla roused herself, and for the first time since the kidnapping, looked alert. She nodded.

  “Well then,” Frankie said. “Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Frankie and Carla returned to the Barrington estate with the map around three. The kidnappers were due to call at six. En route Frankie asked Carla about Luis and Michael’s death: exactly what happened and how they were murdered in Cuba. After hearing the story, Frankie was more convinced that the people who kidnapped Luisa were the same people. She was about to tell her crew, so she could prime them for tonight, when one of the guards called from the front gate.

  Gino picked up the phone, then called across the room. “Mrs. DeLuca, there’s a man at the gate who says he needs to see you.”

  Frankie arched her eyebrows. She wasn’t expecting contact from the other side for two more hours. She crossed the room and took the phone. “Who is it?”

  The guard said, “He says his name is Ramon Suarez.”

  Frankie scowled. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  She heard a murmured conversation in the background.

  “He says you knew him in Havana.”

  Frankie thought. Then she sucked in air. Ramon. The waiter who informed on her. Who tore her away from Luis. She felt her eyes narrow. “What does he want?”

  “He says he has important information.”

  She snorted. “What information could he have?”

  Another murmured conversation. Then, “He says he knows about the map. And who is looking for it.”

  She thought about it. After a pause, she said, “You searched him?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s clean.”

  • • •

  The man who entered the house had skin as brown and withered as a dead leaf, Carla thought. He was using crutches, and his right thigh was heavily bandaged. He’d had an accident, and it was still causing him pain; she saw it in his eyes. Francesca, on the other hand, appraised him coolly.

  “Hallo, Miss Pacelli.” He spoke English with a thick accent. It was an accent Carla recognized. He was Cuban.

  “What are you doing here?” Francesca said.

  “I come to warn you.”

  “About what?”

  He inclined his head. “The map.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  He looked around as if he was afraid to go on with so many people—and guns—in the room.

  But Francesca had no patience. “I didn’t think so.” She spun around. “Gino, I need—”

  “Wait!” Carla threw her hand up in the air. “Don’t.” She started to talk rapidly in Spanish. His face lit when he realized she was talking a language he understood. “What happened to you? Why are you here?”

  He answered in equally rapid Spanish.

  Carla nodded and asked more questions. He answered, but in the middle of one of his responses, Francesca cut in. “My Spanish is rusty. What is he saying?”

  Carla turned to her. “He says he knows you hate him. That you blame him for everything.”

  More words poured out from him, as if they’d been bottled up for years. Maybe they had, Carla thought. “He says he could not stand up to the torture your father inflicted. That he was—he is—not a strong man.”

  Francesca stared at Ramon as if he was a creature who’d crawled out of the sewer.

  “He says the same man who killed Luis came after him in Florida a few days ago. They shot him in the leg when he tried to escape.”

  “What man? Why were they after you?” Francesca said in English.

  Ramon switched back to English. “Because I was the one who tell Luis to draw map.”

  Francesca’s mouth dropped open. “You were with Luis? In Angola?”

  “He forgive me when he hear what your father do during the revolution,” he said. “But there was—another problem.”

  Francesca threw up her hands. “I’m in the middle of a crisis. I have no time for this.” She started to turn away. Gino and another soldati closed in.

  But Ramon stood his ground. He clearly wanted to tell the story. “In Angola, I believe Luis—how you say—leave me to die in the jungle. The rebels get me, and…” His voice trailed off.

  Carla broke in. “They tortured you… again?”

  Ramon nodded. “But CIA rescue me. Bring me to U.S., give me money. In return I give information. I tell my contact about the map. He leave agency.” He hesitated. “Then I feel bad about what I do. It—how do you say?”

  “It haunted you? You felt guilty?” Carla asked.

  “Sì. Yes. When I hear you come to Miami, and that Michael is dead,” he tapped an index finger against his temple, “I know who kill him and why. I find out where you work and go there. To warn you.”

  Carla reeled back. “You were the one who came to the pharmacy?”

  He nodded again.

  Blood rushed to her head. Carla felt light-headed. Ramon’s visit was what prompted her escape from Miami. She’d thought he was the enemy. But if they had met, and she had listened to his story, perhaps she would never have left. Would never have come to Chicago. Or met Francesca. And Luisa would never have been kidnapped. Carla felt like screaming and crying at the same time.

  Francesca stepped forward. “You are wasting my time, Suarez. You have exactly ten seconds to tell me who wants the map.”

  “You do not know?”

  Francesca threw a glance towards Gino and the other soldati. They started to approach.

  Ramon raised his hand. “Ees okay. His name is David Schaffer. He make electronica.”

  “A businessman kidnapped my daughter? A goddammed businessman?” Carla sputtered.

  Francesca’s cheeks flamed red, and she fisted her hands. Clearly she hadn’t wanted Carla to reveal the kidnapping.

  Ramon looked shocked. “The little girl?” He gestured to Carla. “Your daughter? They take her?”

  Carla nodded, but Francesca answered, apparently deciding to admit the truth. “They shot her boyfriend and kidnapped her. They will kill her unless we give them the map.”

  “I will help,” Ramon said.

  Francesca went rigid. “I will never let you get close to my family. Not after the way you made me suffer.”

  “We have all suffered.”

  “You turned on us.” Francesca drew herself up. “You were a traitor.”

  But Ramon didn’t move. “If I not ‘turn’ as you say, you would not be same person you are now.”

  Francesca was speechless, the cords in her neck stretched tight. No one talked to her that way, Carla thought.

  “You would still be in Cuba,” Ramon went on. “La esposa of honored revolutionary. You would have big family. Lots of children y grandchildren. Love and happy.”

  Francesca went still. So did the people around her. The air, too. It seemed to Carla as if time had stopped. And in that instant, Carla realized exactly who Francesca DeLuca was: a pathetic old woman who’d been forbidden to love, and then lost her son, the only tangible product of that forbidden love.

  Suddenly Carla pitied her mother-in-law. At least she had had Michael, albeit briefly. And Luisa was still alive. For now. She stole a glance at Francesca. Her mother-in-law’s face had gone haggard. As if she finally understood how far she had strayed from her youthful plans. For the fi
rst time she looked her age.

  Ramon broke the silence. “I want to make right, Miss Pacelli. I want to give them map. Get girl back.”

  Carla interrupted. “No. They tried to kill you in Florida. They will finish the job here.”

  Ramon spread his hands. “I do not want the map. Or what comes with it. This is my way to—clean the past.”

  Francesca didn’t reply.

  But Carla did. She desperately wanted Luisa back, but there had to be limits. She couldn’t send anyone to a certain death. “What if they don’t release Luisa? After you give them the map?”

  “I have lived my life.” Ramon gave her a weak smile, one that reflected an awareness, even a slight embarrassment, at the smallness of his life and how little it mattered. “And if that happens, Miss Pacelli come after them.” He turned to Francesca. “Sì?”

  Francesca stood there.

  Carla was uncertain. Her longing to have Luisa back warred with her conviction that Ramon would die. She looked at her mother-in-law.

  “Look.” Ramon faced Francesca. “They probably already think we partners. They know you have map. Let me do this.” He paused. “This is my way to pay back.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  The call came in on Frankie’s private line promptly at six, but Frankie moved into action before then, dispatching her people to gather every scrap of intel they could on David Schaffer. She waited in her office, adrenaline fueling her. She was doing something. Engaged. Back in control.

  Her consigliere reported back first with a D&B on the company, a rundown of Schaffer’s personal finances, and a criminal background check, which turned up nothing on the man, not even a speeding ticket. Her lawyers followed with a detailed C.V. Nick’s people filled in the blanks with a list of Schaffer’s clients as well as an analysis of his relationship with Macedonian Metals. Slowly the pieces began to fit together: how Schaffer had built his company from the ground up; how he nearly lost it when the price of coltan skyrocketed; how he downsized to survive.

  Frankie’s people even ferreted out the name of the man who had come to work for him from the Agency—the friend of Walters who dealt with Ramon in Angola. The clincher came when one of Frankie’s men called Schaffer’s house on Beacon Hill, claiming he had to contact him ASAP. His wife told them he was on a quick business trip to Chicago. After the call, Frankie told Gino to call his counterpart in one of the Boston Families and ask him to pay a visit to David Schaffer’s wife. Ten minutes later Gino reported that two men were on their way.

  So Frankie was prepared when the call came. They’d discussed tracing it, but they knew it would be futile. He would cloak the call through some impenetrable internet labyrinth. He’d also make sure to keep it under a minute so they couldn’t triangulate his location.

  The voice, probably one of his goons, sounded metallic, altered in some way. Frankie was told to meet them at O’Hare’s long-term Parking Lot E at midnight opposite the entrance. She or her deputy should arrive in one car, and only two people inside. It went without saying, the voice added, that no weapons were permitted. Any deviation would scuttle the deal.

  The location made Frankie think Schaffer and his people were holed up at one of the hotels near the airport. While she was still on the phone, she motioned Gino into her office.

  “What’s my guarantee you will give back Luisa?” she asked into the phone.

  “She’ll be in the car. A clean exchange. The map for the girl.” A pause. “But there is one other condition.” The voice continued as if reading a script. “After you hand over the map, if we find out you’re going after the mine in any way, shape, or form, we will come after you again. And next time we won’t be as reasonable.”

  The call was disconnected.

  Frankie looked at the clock. They still had several hours. Gino stood at attention. She hung up and repeated what the voice said.

  “O’Hare Long Term Parking? Are you shitting me?” When Frankie didn’t answer, Gino blew out a scornful breath. “Fucking amateurs!”

  Frankie shrugged, as if to say ‘what are you going to do?’ Then, “You need to get the word out to the hotels around O’Hare. There aren’t that many, and we have connections at almost all of them. Use as many men as you need. We’re looking for a man named David Schaffer. He’s probably registered under an alias, and he will have paid cash. And he probably has more than one room. He flew here from Boston, if that helps.”

  Gino scowled. “We can’t canvass them all by midnight. There are too many. If we could have narrowed it down, traced the call, it might have been easier.”

  Frankie’s eyes flashed. She and Gino were getting along. Barely. She knew he was still measuring, wondering if a woman was up to the job. But she had promised her father to keep him on. At least for a while. She ignored his objections.

  “Like I said, use as many people as you need. Including the other Families, if you have to. We’ll settle up later.” She paused. “Now, about tonight. He’ll be well protected. Probably by paramilitary types. Mercenaries. Maybe ex-Agency men. You need to be prepared.”

  “Do they know who we are?”

  “If they didn’t before, they do now. They called me.”

  The man’s eyebrows arched. “How did they find you?”

  Frankie thought about it. “That’s none of your concern,” she said icily. But she was curious how they discovered who she was and how she had the map. Later.

  “Guy’s got to have steel balls to think he can take us on,” Gino said.

  “That’s why you’re going to put together a second team. Choose your best men. Position both teams at the hotel by ten.” She explained that Schaffer probably would still be at the hotel, and there was an excellent chance they could grab him—and Luisa—before midnight. One team would take Luisa, the other would deal with Schaffer.

  “What if they’re not there?” Gino said.

  “Then you’ll find out where they are. Or, if necessary, you’ll meet them at O’Hare. I’m not worried, Gino. I have faith in you,” she said. She didn’t have to spell out the consequences if he failed.

  “When do we let him know we have his wife?”

  Frankie considered it. “Up to you. But make sure she calls and tells him she’s got ‘company.’”

  Gino nodded.

  “Oh,” Frankie said, “there’s one more thing.”

  When she finished explaining, her capo looked at her with something close to admiration. She even thought she caught the glimmer of a smile. Steel balls indeed.

  • • •

  Two hours later, a bellhop at the Intercontinental in Rosemont confirmed to one of Frankie’s men that two rooms in the hotel were occupied by a John Smith and a Davy Jones. When asked if a woman was with either man, the bellhop admitted he hadn’t seen anyone; then again, it was always possible to sneak in from the parking lot or side door. He also told Frankie’s men they hadn’t put a credit card on file, but when he described the men and reported how much the front desk man had been tipped, Frankie’s guy called it in.

  Frankie smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours. She hung up the phone and went into the living room where Carla, Ramon, and a few men waited, including Gino.

  “We’re in business,” she said. “It’s time to move.” She explained what they’d learned, then looked around. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to take a long bath, and then have dinner. You are all welcome to eat.”

  Ramon, who had been seated next to Carla on the leather sofa, stood. “I want go with team.”

  Carla blocked him with her arm. “No.”

  A twinge of anger twisted Frankie’s lips. How dare Carla insinuate herself into Frankie’s business again? The first time—well, she was prepared to let it go. She wasn’t a monster. She understood how everyone, including Carla, was on edge. But now? Frankie felt her eyes narrow. She was about to reassert her dominance, then remembered Carla wanted Luisa back as desperately as Frankie. She made a mental note to deal with her later
. She turned to Ramon. “There’s no need.”

  “Why?” Ramon asked.

  “Because there will be no exchange.”

  Carla’s face reflected astonishment. “Why? What are you saying, Francesca?”

  Frankie explained she would send two teams to the hotel. “If we have to surrender the map temporarily, for Luisa’s sake, once she’s safe and on her way home, we will get it back. There will be no one of any rank on the other side to accept it anyway.”

  Carla’s mouth tightened into a grim line.

  “All the more reason I go,” Ramon said. “I want to make sure.”

  Carla looked like she might argue, but Frankie studied Ramon. The truth was that he had no importance in her life now. He was merely an annoying gnat she could swat away. Or not. She looked back at Carla, whose expression was both anxious and determined. Finally she waved her hand. “If it is that important to you, go.” She glanced around. “The rest of us will regroup in forty-five minutes for supper.”

  • • •

  While the men and Ramon prepared for their mission, Carla peered out the front window. It was dark, and a light, silent snow began to fall. It was barely more than a mist, but spring in Chicago was like that. Tiny bits of white, caught in the lights from the house, swirled and twisted as they covered the grime, the dirt, and the evil.

  Carla remembered how Francesca had taken them in so many years ago. At the time Carla thought she’d done it for all the right reasons. Over the years, though, Carla had come to realize that Frankie’s behavior stemmed from her need to control, manage, and manipulate. Frankie’s father had crushed her dreams; rather than fight, she had followed in his footsteps. Whatever Luis and Michael once meant to Frankie was now tainted with her need for conquest and revenge. Everything she’d learned in Cuba: the power of love and beauty and equality, had evaporated as surely as the snowflakes dissolved on the hoods of the cars outside.