by Jose Latour
“Well … we do business with a Panamanian company thus named, but it’s not a subsidiary of IMLATINEX, as far as I can tell,” Steil said.
“Well, it is, Mr. Steil. Take my word for it,” Pardo said, a bit smarmily. “I understand your cautiousness; we are not here to make you admit that or any other thing. All we want is that you hear what we have to say, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Go on, Berta.”
Victoria cleared her throat. “These are some 1995 and 1996 Trans-Caribbean documents,” she said, handing over to Elliot a batch of papers. “They prove we’ve been doing business with your trading company for many years. We have a filing cabinet containing four drawers of correspondence, invoices, banking documents, bills of lading, packing lists, faxes, and e-mails to and from Trans-Caribbean dating back to the late seventies.”
For a little over a minute Steil flipped pages, pretending to inspect the printed material. They were genuine, all right. Thinking it prudent to keep his mouth shut, he handed her the batch back.
Pardo rubbed his hands and slid his backside to the edge of the armchair. “Now, Mr. Steil, there are certain business practices in the world that we, as a matter of principle, strongly condemn. One of them is the concession of bribes or payoffs to government officials. They are standard practice all over the world. Everywhere—well, not everywhere, but almost everywhere in Latin America—sellers pay under-the-table money to government buyers. When we began dealing with Mr. Scheindlin, he offered us a kickback. We refused the money yet signed our first deal with him. Perhaps that made an impression. To make a long story short, Mr. Scheindlin developed sort of a … certain respect for us, began seeing things our way, and eventually volunteered to do us a favor. A very special favor, I should say. He offered to purchase American pharmaceuticals for us.
“In the beginning we were distrustful; the first order was for only five thousand dollars,” Pardo continued. “But he supplied what we needed at good prices. In the past fourteen years, serving as intermediary, he purchased almost 3.7 million dollars’ worth of medicine for us, mostly hemostatic drugs to treat cancer patients. We advanced him the cash and a list of what was needed. Then he tapped his sources, did whatever he did, we don’t know what, and after a couple of months, shipped from a third country, we would get the cargo. It’ll never be known how many Cuban lives Mr. Scheindlin saved by fronting for us. Blockading the sale of pharmaceuticals is repugnant.”
Steil became increasingly suspicious that he was being spun a line. Advanced the cash? Nobody did that, least of all Cuban officials. Had Scheindlin been buying medicine for Cuba, he would have known; his late boss had confided much more sensitive issues to him. He battened down the hatches.
“I agree,” he said.
“We anticipated you would, sir,” Victoria said with a solemn expression. “You were born and raised here; you emigrated merely eight years ago. Your presence here means that you still love your relatives and friends, your people.”
“I must admit I do.” Steil let it hang there.
“We will always remember Ruben Scheindlin,” Pardo continued. “Maybe someday it will be possible to tell the world what Mr. Scheindlin did for Cuba. Not anytime soon, though. Not as long as the embargo remains in place.”
“Of course.”
“The extremely serious problem that we confront now is that when Mr. Scheindlin passed away, he had in his possession one hundred thousand dollars we had given him to buy medicine.”
“What?”
“You heard right. A hundred thousand in cash. And we need to find a way to recover that money.”
Elliot rubbed his face to suppress a smile, felt that he needed a shave. These two were elevating implausibility to new heights. Next, they would coax him into helping them out. Hart had been right. The FBI man would be delighted to learn about this blatant attempt to pull off a swindle. However, pretending to be a half-wit may be grist for his mill.
“I can see that. Your wanting to recover the money, I mean. What I fail to see is how you can do it.”
“We need help for that,” Victoria admitted. “Would you be willing to lend us a hand, Mr. Steil?”
Hart’s instructions blinked in Elliot’s mind. He should not give his straightaway consent to anything, nor to anyone. He had to make them persuade him. “I … I don’t know,” he said, trying to look fraught with uncertainty. “I might be willing to, provided you don’t ask me to do something that’s against American laws … or that … compromises my future … or that … costs me money.”
“We wouldn’t dream of—” Pardo began.
“Excuse me, sir,” Steil, cutting the man short, as if all of a sudden he had visualized the many risks ahead. “Let me make myself clear. Mr. Scheindlin was a multimillionaire, he had adopted American citizenship many years ago, he had dozens of acquaintances among judges, politicians, and government officials. If he had a brush with the law, he could retain the best lawyers, make a few calls to pretty influential people, wriggle free of any tight spot he found himself in. I’m nothing. I’m just a resident. I haven’t applied for U.S. citizenship—”
“Something that speaks volumes,” Victoria, inspired.
“I don’t have influential friends or money, so I won’t do anything illegal and, unfortunately, regarding Cuba, practically anything you do in the United States is considered so. I’ve been saving money for several years to make this trip. I have a job to protect. So, Mr. Capdevila, Ms. … excuse me, I forgot your name.”
“It’s Arosamena. But, please, call me Berta.”
“Thank you. So, Mr. Capdevila, Ms. Berta, if you don’t jeopardize my future, I’m willing to help you out, even though I can’t see how.”
The visitors smiled. Pardo jumped to his feet and proffered his hand. A confused Steil shook it. Victoria remained seated, pretending to be pleased.
“Thank you, Mr. Steil. We assure you that we won’t ask you to do anything that would jeopardize your freedom or your job,” Pardo said, then snuggled down in his seat. “We just want you to answer a few questions we have, then explain our problem to someone.”
“Seems feasible. Ask away,” Steil said.
…
Victoria snapped shut the attaché case, lay it on the floor, crossed her legs, and reclined against her seat. Pardo fixed his gaze on the carpet to formulate the list of questions that he and his wife had prepared, then rehearsed for a week, in the agreed-upon order.
“Is it correct to presume that heirs to Mr. Scheindlin have assumed control of IMLATINEX?” minding his choice of words lest he make a mistake.
“Yes. Mrs. Maria Scheindlin, his widow, and Jenny Scheindlin, his daughter, own most of the company’s stock.”
“Are they involved in the day-to-day operation of the firm?”
“No. Sam Plotzher, the minority shareholder, and I take care of that.”
“Are you the manager?” Victoria asked.
For a second Steil wondered how much these people knew. Ruben Scheindlin had been a very private man; he would not have revealed the inner workings of his company to strangers. Just in case, he decided to be truthful.
“I guess I am. Not officially, though. I was Mr. Scheindlin’s secretary, or personal assistant, take your pick. Since his death, Sam and I have shared managerial duties, sort of: I take care of the office, he takes care of everything else.”
“So, you tell the office staff what to do, make deposits, place orders, negotiate contracts, sign checks, supply the raw data to your accountant, that kind of thing?”
“Both Sam and I sign checks and contracts. But yes, I do the other things you say.”
Victoria concentrated on gauging the subject’s reactions. They were dancing around him, asking meaningless questions. However, those feints were laying the groundwork for what would come later. Steil’s body language showed that he harbored suspicions, was leery; that was natural. Had he been relaxed and comfortable, all her alarms would have gone off.
�
��Do you have any idea what Mr. Scheindlin may have done with our money?” Pardo asked.
“None whatsoever.”
“Do you think he may have deposited it in one of your firm’s bank accounts?”
Steil shook his head emphatically.
“Perhaps stashed it in a safe-deposit box?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Or in a safe at home?”
“Maybe.”
“Mr. Steil, we can’t fly to Miami to search for the money, nor can we file a petition in court to be reimbursed by Mr. Scheindlin’s heirs.”
“I know that.”
“So, if someone close to the Scheindlins could find out where our money is and help us recover it, our gratitude—and in this case I’ve been authorized to say that ‘our’ applies to the corporation’s president, too—would find proper expression. Such an individual would be granted authorization to travel to Cuba whenever they wish, invest here, buy real estate, anything that is not in violation of Cuban law.”
Steil locked eyes with Pardo, moved his gaze to Victoria, returned it to Pardo. “That’s very generous, but how can I help you? I’m sure that your money wasn’t deposited in one of IMLATINEX’s checking accounts; all deposits are related to legal business transactions. Mr. Scheindlin never told me that he was doing philanthropic work for Cuba. If he rented safe-deposit boxes for his private use, I wasn’t informed. I don’t know whether or not he had a safe at home, and even if he had, I can’t go there and open it.”
“Maybe his wife could,” Victoria said, thus ending the long yet indispensable preamble.
Steil considered the suggestion. “I guess she could,” he admitted. Then the entailment made him frown. “Are you implying I should tell her what you’ve told me here tonight, then ask her whether she knows where the money is?”
“It’s so rewarding to deal with intelligent people,” Pardo asserted.
Victoria registered that Steil had been flattered by her husband’s accolade and smiled a Cheshire Cat grin. Humans were so easy to manipulate; especially men. She uncrossed her legs.
“Well …” Steil said, busy examining the possibilities. “What if she doesn’t know anything?”
“End of story, Mr. Steil,” Pardo said. “I mean, what else could we ask you to do? If you don’t know where the money is, if she opens her home safe—supposing Scheindlin had a safe at home—and it’s not there, if she has no knowledge that her husband kept a safe-deposit box somewhere, or if she finds the cash and refuses to give it back, Cuba lost one hundred thousand dollars. Simple as that.”
Once again Steil wasted a few seconds considering things. Pardo and Victoria held their breath, feeling they were getting close to clinching it.
“And if she finds it and is willing to give it back to you?”
Victoria and Pardo exhaled. They were home.
“Then,” Pardo said, “we would go wherever you want us to. Not Stateside, though. You know how difficult it is to get a visa.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard,” Steil said. “But … nobody can leave the United States carrying a hundred thousand in a briefcase. It’s a serious crime and now, after September 11, airport security is …”
Pardo smiled. “Let’s not put the cart before the horse, Elliot. Can I call you Elliot?”
“Sure.”
“First things first. If the money is found and the widow is willing to give it back, we’ll find a way. Mr. Scheindlin had no problem moving cash around. Unfortunately, he never told us how he did it. We would have to see first how things play out. Maybe a sympathizer of the Revolution …”
“Tell us about Mrs. Scheindlin,” Victoria interrupted her husband.
Steil shifted his gaze from Pardo to Victoria to Pardo to Victoria again. Office etiquette prohibits underlings from cutting off their bosses in the presence of strangers. Maybe these two were lovers; sex tears down hierarchical barriers, he thought. Pardo realized that his wife’s intrusion was his fault; they had agreed to discuss how to recover the cash and bring it back to Cuba at the second meeting. Victoria perceived that Steil knew something was amiss.
“Well, I can’t say much,” Steil began, “because I never met her until Mr. Scheindlin’s funeral. She seems a very nice lady, intelligent, well educated, polite.”
“Do you know if she has an opinion regarding Cuba?” Victoria asked.
“No, I don’t. We’ve only discussed business matters.”
“Well, you must be pretty tired, Mr. Steil,” said Pardo, retaking the initiative with a wide smile. “Everybody in Havana knows how many hours visitors to Cuba put in at Miami’s airport, and I’m sure you feel like going to bed. However, we need to meet again before you fly back to agree on how to stay in touch. Are you flying back next Sunday?”
“Yes, I am.”
“What do you say if we meet next Friday?”
“That’s okay with me,” Steil said. “My schedule is pretty open. In your office?”
Pardo tilted his head and squinted, pretending to ponder how to broach what he and Victoria, after extensive debate, had agreed was the greatest weakness of their plan. “It would be best to meet here or at some other public place, and there are two reasons for it,” he began, trying to conceal that his answer had been carefully prepared. “State Security has instructed that Cubans living in the United States are not to be allowed into ministries, party offices, and military units. XEMIC is included in the list. We think that unfair and discriminatory, but what can we do? Maybe they know things we don’t know, and if something happens, if there’s an electrical fire and a Cuban residing in the United States visited the building three or four days earlier, they’ll term it sabotage and say we are to blame for disregarding their instructions.”
Steil thought this was probably true. The understandable psychosis of the early years, driven by terrorist attacks, an invasion, guerrillas, and the October 1962 missile crisis had evolved over time into an irrational and groundless paranoia stoked up by the State Security through all available means. It is a tenet of communism that people must always have an enemy to blame for the system’s shortcomings.
“So, the president of the corporation instructed us to hold this conversation here,” Pardo continued, “explain this … prohibition to you, should I deem it necessary, and request your understanding. That’s reason number one.”
Pardo took a deep breath and pretended to be worried. Victoria was discovering that, although he occasionally missed a cue, she had married a fairly good actor. He was upstaging her!
“Reason number two is more … how can I put this … personal. I’ve been authorized to explain it to you, though. The top echelon of our government hasn’t been informed about the … unorthodox way we’ve been buying U.S. pharmaceuticals. They never asked and we never said. I can understand that. Sometimes statesmen don’t want to know how a certain thing is done. I think it’s called deniability. Therefore, we haven’t told them about the missing money. Eventually we’ll have to if we don’t recover it, but we dread that the comrade president, Berta, and I will most probably be fired. And, as you may realize, we want to do everything possible to keep this under wraps until we’ve done all we can to recover the money. Including meeting you in private and off the record.”
As he nodded in feigned understanding, Steil thought he had to hand it to them. These two had planned the con very carefully, for weeks, maybe months. Just to make them sweat a little more he asked, “And how did you learn that I work for IMLATINEX and that I was coming to Cuba?”
“That’s my turf,” said Victoria, keeping to the script. “We had your name from correspondence between your firm and Trans-Caribbean. Then, in 1998 I had a meeting with Mr. Scheindlin in Panama. I hadn’t seen him in two years and found that he had aged considerably. This worried me and I mentioned it to comrade … I mean, Mr. Capdevila.”
Pardo nodded in approval. “I remember,” he said glancing at her. Then his eyes went to Steil: “Berta brought to my attention the fact that Mr
. Scheindlin was an old man. She said: ‘If he passes away anytime soon, we would lose an important business partner and collaborator.’ She also suggested we do something about it.”
This time Victoria respectfully waited an instant, making sure her boss had finished speaking.
“In that same meeting, for some reason I can’t remember, Mr. Scheindlin mentioned your name, said you were Cuban,” she continued. “I was curious. ‘Cuban you say? With such a name?’ He smiled, nodded, and said you had emigrated in the early nineties. Your name stuck, got me wondering. I thought that maybe you would come to visit relatives and it might be interesting to meet you, see if you would agree to speak on our behalf to the new owners after Mr. Scheindlin passed away, maybe even ask them to keep doing for us what Mr. Scheindlin did. So, I gave your name to Foreign Affairs and asked them to let me know if you ever applied for a visa. Nothing happened for four years. Then, about two months ago …”
Victoria paused because nothing else needed to be said. Steil nodded again and concentrated on keeping a straight face. They were good. State Security officers probably. “I see,” he said. “Well, then how about Friday evening, right here?”
“Sounds perfect to me,” Pardo said.
“Excellent,” Victoria added.
“At eight,” Steil specified.
Victoria and Pardo got to their feet and Steil stood up as well. They shook hands.
“I don’t think you can appreciate how much we value your collaboration, Mr. Steil,” Pardo said by the door.
“Oh, yes. I can,” Steil said, permitting himself a wide smile. “I lived here until 1994. I know how the system works. And I’m afraid you might spend time in jail if that money doesn’t turn up.”
“We know,” Pardo concurred, “we just didn’t want to be dramatic.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Good night, Mr. Steil,” Pardo said.
“Good night, Mr. Capdevila.”
“Pleasant dreams, Mr. Steil.”
