by A. C. Fuller
Just then, I heard a man shout. "¡La policía de La Habana! ¡Deja caer tu arma!"
Dex spun around, and I followed his gaze to a group of six officers, all dressed in dark grey police uniforms with light grey berets.
Before he or TJ could make a move, there was another shout. "¡Deja caer tu arma!"
Four more officers stood to our left, and one was gesturing to Dex to drop his gun.
"I don't speak Spanish," I said. "But I think he wants you to drop the gun."
"Goddamit," TJ said, crouching to put the gun on the ground, then slowly raising his hands. "What the hell?"
Dex put up his hands as well.
"Suelo, suelo, suelo!" an officer shouted, gesturing for us to get on the ground.
We all lay on the ground, and the next voice I heard was Greta's. "That's him. That's Alex."
The officers didn't seem to care because, before I knew what was happening, I found myself in the cabin of a police van with TJ and Dex. A pair of officers strapped the three of us into benches, then handcuffed us to them tightly enough that I felt safer than I had ten minutes earlier. At least TJ and Dex couldn't get to me.
As the van pulled out, I caught a glimpse of Greta through a greasy window pane, but she didn't see me.
TJ said, "Dex, don't say anything. The van could be bugged. And Alex, when we get to the station, do not say anything. Do. Not. Say. Anything. We have others out there. You know that. And you know what our friend has on you."
15
According to our guide book, crime rates were exceptionally low in Cuba. Murders and rapes were rare, and treated harshly. Tourists generally reported feeling relatively safe in Havana, as Greta and I had since our arrival. Even theft was lower than you'd think, given the level of poverty. I guess when everyone is equally poor, there's no point in stealing from your neighbor.
Reading about the crime rates made me expect harsh treatment from the police, but what actually happened defied all my expectations.
When the back door of the van creaked open, four officers were standing there. The oldest one, a worn-looking man of about sixty, stepped in and uncuffed me, leaving TJ and Dex behind. "Come," he said in English through a thick accent.
I followed him into a small, one-story police station, wondering what they were going to do with TJ and Dex, but mostly relieved to be free of them. Inside the station, the officer led me to a small room and cuffed me to a cracked linoleum table. "Wait here," he said, and I smiled inwardly at the fact that he'd told me to wait after cuffing me. As if I had a choice.
The fact that he said it did make me think, though. If I'd been a suspected criminal, if I'd whipped out a gun in the middle of Havana, would he have bothered to say "Wait here" in English? I assumed that Greta had been pleading my case, but was there any chance she'd been successful?
Half an hour later, I had my answer.
The same officer returned to the room, this time flanked by two younger officers. I couldn't read their expressions, and for a moment I was worried that an interrogation was about to begin.
Then I saw Greta behind them. She wore the same white shorts and floral print shirt she'd been wearing all day, and she'd never looked more beautiful. She wasn't smiling, but she didn't look as concerned as I felt.
She'd given the older officer my passport and other documents, and he began thumbing through them as he sat across from me. One by one, the officer went through the papers, confirming my visa and holding up my passport to make sure the photo looked like me.
Finally, he set the documents on the desk and slid them across to me, smiling. "La Virgen María de la Concepción Inmaculada?"
I was pretty sure he'd said the name of the cathedral, but he'd spoken so quickly, I wasn't sure. I had no idea how to respond, and luckily Greta jumped in. "Él no habla español."
The man laughed. "No español?"
"Zero," I said, chuckling nervously.
"You go to La Virgen María de la Concepción Inmaculada?"
"Ahhh," I said. "Sí, sí. Yes."
"Así que hablas un poco español," he said, more to Greta than to me.
I looked at Greta, half smiling.
"He said you do speak a little Spanish," Greta said to me.
"Ahh," I said. "Sí."
The man laughed, then said something in Spanish to the two younger guards, who both laughed while looking from me to Greta. With that, the officer stood, uncuffed me, and gestured for me to go with Greta. He watched closely as I pecked her on the cheek, then he followed us out.
"¿Necesitas algo más de nosotros?" Greta asked him as we came to the lobby.
"Eres libre de irte," he said. Then, for my benefit, he waved toward the door, as if to say, "Go, go!"
I was eager to get out of there, mostly because I hated police stations, but also because I was famished. Maybe it was my way of coping with a dangerous situation, but I'd been wondering what happened to that pork with orange mojo that Greta had dropped in the hall.
I stopped at the door when Greta fell behind to talk to the officer. "Una pregunta más. ¿Qué pasará con los otros hombres?"
The officer stared at her and said nothing.
"¿Quiénes eran?" Greta asked.
I wasn't sure until later, but I got the sense that she was asking about Dex and TJ. The officer looked side to side, like he was making sure that no one else was within earshot. Then he leaned in and said something even I could understand. "Mafia. Muy malo."
Back at Casa Remedios, Greta flopped down on the bed, sighing deeply. Maria had cleaned up the hallway, throwing out the pork, but she'd arranged the fruit in a bowl.
"What happened?" I asked Greta as I peeled one of the bananas.
"When I ran out, the police were already there, like they'd been waiting or something. Or maybe they just happened to all be there, but there were many of them. It was like they knew we were here."
"Or maybe knew that Dex and TJ were here."
"Were those the guys' names?"
"Probably not, but that's what they said."
"That big white dude did look like a Dex. Reminded me of a cornfed, meathead version of you. Like your life story was sold to Hollywood and they changed the script around so that you were more of a rugged hero type. Vin Diesel stars as Alex Vane."
I'd devoured the banana in three bites, so I went to the bowl for an orange. "I'm not sure whether to be flattered or offended, but I'm glad you can make jokes. Plus, I'd prefer Clooney."
"Is that how you see yourself?" Greta asked, laughing. "Anyway, I ran out and there they were, about a block away. I yelled that two men had taken my husband, which got their attention, but then they didn't run in after you. I pointed at the door to our place and the officer who seemed to be in charge said, 'I know.' Like he knew they'd taken you. Or knew…something."
I handed Greta half of the orange, and she ate it quickly. "After I understood that they weren't going to run in after you, they pulled me into the alley and told me to be quiet. I had no clue what was going on, so I stood with them. Maybe a minute later, one of them gave a signal and they all jumped out, including another group of officers. I hadn't even seen them at first. But they were waiting."
"And what was it the older officer said at the police station? Right before we left."
"You mean to the two younger ones? That was a sex joke."
"Oh, okay...odd. But no, I meant right before we left. What did he say then?"
"That was even weirder. After they threw you all in the police van, I explained what happened in Spanish as best I could. Gave him our whole cover story. Even filled it in with details of the cathedral, where we had dinner. Everything. He drove me to the station himself, let me ride in the front seat. It seemed like he believed my story right away. At the station, he asked for my documents. I told him I had papers in my purse, and I gave him everything. Little while later, they brought me into the room where they were holding you."
"But this is what I don't get," I said, pacing the room.
"If they believed our story, that we're two regular tourists here to see the Virgin Mary de la whatever, and that we'd been grabbed by men with guns, why'd they let us go? Why didn't they take a statement, or ask us to testify? Did they even take down our names or contact info or anything?"
I sat down on the bed next to Greta, who said, "He took a few notes while looking at the papers. It was weird, though. It was like they were after those guys for something else. The officer said 'Mafia' at the end, but I don't know if he meant that literally or if it was just what they call criminals here."
I thought for a moment. "I'll bet he meant that literally. The Cuban government and, by extension, the police, hates the mafia. The American mob were the ones who kept the Batista regime in power. They basically owned Havana. That was a big part of the Castro revolution, to get the mob out of Cuba." I stopped myself before I started recapping the entire Havana sequence from The Godfather Part II. But only barely.
"But why would they think those two guys were part of the mafia?" Greta asked. "Obviously, they were sent by Amand, right?"
"No doubt about that. One of them mentioned him. Said he wanted to talk to me."
"He's here? In Havana?"
"I think they meant a call."
Now Greta stood and paced. "So why would they think those guys were mafia?"
I didn't know, and I was about to say so when there was a knock at the door. Greta jumped slightly and I stood up.
Then we heard Maria's voice from the other side of it. "¿Hola? Tienen una carta."
"We have a letter," Greta repeated in English.
16
As Greta opened the door, the words went off like a siren in my mind. "We have a letter."
"Perdón por el lío," Greta said, gesturing to the hallway where she'd dropped the food.
"No hay problema," Maria said, stepping past Greta and handing me the letter.
I offered a polite smile, waiting for her to leave as she did a little circle around the room, touching the bed and desk, then straightening the cross, which already looked straight to me. I figured that she was waiting for me to open the letter, but there was no way I was going to open it in front of her.
Greta looked miffed that Maria hadn't handed the letter to her. "¿De dónde viene la carta?"
I knew that 'carta' meant letter, so I figured that Greta had asked her where it came from. Maria started in on a long rambling answer, the only word of which I understood was "niño," which she said three or four times.
"¿Un niño?" Greta asked.
"Sí. Un niño."
They stared at each other in an awkward silence, until finally Greta cleared her throat loudly and sat on the bed next to me. "Estamos muy cansados," she said to Maria, making the universal gesture of bedtime by putting her palms together and leaning on them like a pillow against her cheek.
Maria took the hint and left.
I tore open the letter, scanning immediately to the signature line at the bottom. "It's from Innerva."
"Is it, though?"
On the walk back from the police station, I'd told Greta what I'd figured out about my meeting with Amand and the tickets. She'd already come to the same conclusion, but hearing exactly how he'd manipulated me added details.
"Well, it's signed by her," I said.
"But we both know that means nothing."
I set the letter on Greta's lap and we read at the same time.
Alex and Greta,
I have no idea why you're in Cuba, but I'm glad you are. Alex, I told you I'd never contact you except on the Collude app, but I know that you don't have Internet access here.
Most likely, someone from one of the companies I hacked either forced or tricked you into coming to Cuba to try to lure me out of hiding. If that's the case, it was stupid of you to come, but, as I said, I'm glad you're here.
So why would you trust that this letter is really from me?
I'll tell you three things only you and I know. Things James knew before they killed him.
1. The last time I saw you, when I gave you the old hard drive at The Wynn in Las Vegas, at first you didn't believe me when I told you James was dead. I pointed up at the TV screen in the bar and we watched reports of the shooting pass by. That's when you believed me.
2. The day I first met you, on Bainbridge Island with James and Camila, we ate pizza, and that's where James started falling in love with me. You knew James better than me then, and I think you noticed it before he did. Maybe before I did.
3. On James's first day at The New York Standard, you bought him a soda at the coffee cart in midtown. He said that you were the only person who spoke to him with anything more than a demand for online research. He said you never got annoyed by his stuttering. That even though you were an arrogant bastard half the time, the other half of the time you were the best person he knew.
I hope I've convinced you that it's me. If I have, I hope you'll help me.
At the east end of the Bosque de la Habana, there's a small bridge over the Rio Almendares.
If you believe me, be there at midnight tonight.
If you don't believe me, I can understand that, and I'd recommend getting out of Cuba as soon as you can.
I.S.
I'd been convinced halfway through the letter that it was truly from Innerva. She had a way of getting straight to the point, and the detail that James had started falling in love with her over pizza on Bainbridge Island was enough to make me sure she'd written the letter.
James had never had a girlfriend before Innerva, despite his many good qualities. He'd had a pretty serious stuttering issue until his mid-twenties, and speaking with women made it worse. The first time I saw him with Innerva, I knew he was crazy about her. And Innerva was right. I knew it before James did.
But it was Innerva's third point that brought me to tears. I could still see James, awkward and sweaty, slouched in his chair in a dark corner at The Standard. He always had two or three computer monitors on his desk, along with empty soda bottles. Before he'd been hired, I was the youngest person at The Standard, but James was four years younger than me. To grizzled journalism veterans like Lance, he seemed like a baby.
He was the only person at The Standard who had grown up with computers and the Internet as a daily part of his life, and the only one there who understood the full potential of the Internet from its inception. More than that, he was simply a good guy.
"You miss him," Greta said, wiping my cheek with her hand.
"Yeah."
"This is from Innerva? For real this time?"
"Yeah."
"What or where is Bosque de la Habana? I know that bosque means 'forest' but…"
I was already reaching for the guide book. After thumbing through the index, I found it on its own fold-out page. "Says it's Havana's equivalent of New York's Central Park." I switched to my news anchor voice—deeper, crisply enunciated, and deliberately cheesy, probably to distract myself from my memories of James, but also because it annoyed Greta in a way she liked. "Bosque de la Habana is the only urban forest in the city, a recreational area for local residents that includes boating, a playground, pony rides, mini-golf, and an open-air snack bar."
"Alex, the voice."
"Also located there is Anfiteatro Almendares," I continued, dropping my voice further. "The only amphitheater in Cuba, originally designed for string-operated puppets but now used for magic acts and concerts."
"Cut it out, Alex." She was smiling, and my vocal chords were tiring.
In my regular voice, I said. "It says some sections are also used by santería practitioners, though it doesn't say how."
"Before Maria knocked on the door, I was going to say that we should go straight to the airport. Get the hell out of Cuba. But, if you're sure it's from her…"
She trailed off, and I finished her thought. "You think we should go."
"I do."
"I agree, but…"
Greta saw the look on my face. "What?" she asked.
&nb
sp; "I'm thinking, if Innerva somehow knew we were here, then she probably also knew about Dex and TJ and whoever else is here."
"You're thinking that she tipped the police off to Dex and TJ?"
"Probably before we even got here. Innerva is smart. Would have been easy for her to forge documents or tip off the right person. I don't know how she did it, but I'd bet anything that she was tracking those guys before we got here. I bet she's been in Cuba a while, and is pretty well connected."
"But if they were here before us—"
"Then Amand tricked you into coming here, tricked us into coming here, as bait."
I looked at the floor. If our assumptions were right, it meant that Amand had known she was in Cuba, had a team of people looking for her and, when they lost her, he tricked me into coming as a way to lure Innerva out.
Greta could tell I felt stupid. "Don't be too hard on yourself," she said.
"I'm an idiot is what I am," I said. "That's not being hard on myself. That's fact."
"You're not an idiot. Not usually anyway. But in the spirit of renewed openness and honesty on which we're building our relationship, I'd say that you may have a bit of a savior complex, which occasionally makes you act like an idiot."
I scanned the letter again, hoping I'd missed some detail, something about the meeting, or why Innerva was glad we were here. I didn't find anything new, so I paced the room.
Greta was staring at me. "You okay?"
"Not sure, but, in your honest opinion, is it my savior complex that's making me want to go to that meeting?"
"Probably, but—lucky for you—I don't have a savior complex."
"So why do you want to go?"
"When you told me about your meeting with Amand, you said that he told you he'd lost track of Innerva, right?"
"Yeah, but I have no reason to believe anything that bastard says."
"The best lies contain some truth, though, so hear me out. Maybe that part of his story was true. When you refused to help him, he already knew he was going to try to get you to go to Cuba. He knew that if he could get you here, somehow you'd connect with Innerva and lead him, or his men, straight to her. Maybe they had tracked her to Cuba, then lost her. You said that Amand told you that Innerva—assuming she is the hacker behind The Freedom Collective—gave a deadline of four and a half days. And, from what I know of Innerva, she's not the kind of person to ask for help."
