by Jose Latour
“No, you should keep visiting the warehouse as frequently as always. If you stop going, everybody, and I mean everybody, from Sam to the night watchman, will wonder what the hell’s the matter with you, why you aren’t visiting.”
“Right.”
Tony took a gulp, wiped his mustache. “This McLellan guy,” he said, “nobody knows him. Hart’s on the level; folks say he’s been around for a while. McLellan is new in town.”
“He showed me his ID. He’s from Treasury.”
Tony Soto slapped his forehead and rolled his eyes in desperation. “Teacher, for God’s sake, stop being so naive, will you? FBI, NSA, and CIA officers have a desk drawer full of authentic IDs with their photos on them. They can be Treasury, State, ATF, whatever they need to be. They have a closet full of uniforms: army, navy, air force, police, you name it.”
“You watch The X Files?”
Tony Soto inhaled deeply, then blew the air out with puffed cheeks. “Okay, I’m paranoid; you’re sane. You know best.”
“Don’t get all worked up, Tony. I appreciate your advice. So, McLellan is not from Treasury. Where’s he from?”
“Be damned if I know. But these guys with the bureau, the company, the way they look at you gives them away. It’s like, you know, like they suspect every human being over five years old is a criminal, or a spy. That morning? At the airport? McLellan was looking at you like that.”
Steil took another sip. “Well, I’m not. I’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Just watch out.”
“Okay, I will. How’re Lidia and the kids?”
“She’s okay. Esther has a cold, Jenny and Tony Jr. are fine,” said Tony before guzzling the rest of the beer.
“Fidelia is all right, too.”
“Ooops, sorry.” The cop belched.
“It’s okay.”
“Listen, I’m worried, okay?”
“I said it’s okay,” wondering how many times they had babbled the most popular exclamation in history.
“Okay. Now I got to go, okay?” Soto said, lumbering off his stool.
“Okay.”
“You coming?”
“I’ll finish this first.”
“Okay. See you, Teacher.”
“Take care, Tony.”
“You, too.”
…
General Lastra pressed the eject button, recovered the black plastic container, turned on his heel, with a few steps reached the minister’s desk, and placed the videocassette on top of the confidential news bulletin for April 27. Then he approached his armchair, facing the lieutenant general, and eased himself in alongside Victoria.
The minister was impressed, with reason. First, he had just watched a textbook example of what the counterintelligence community terms “provocative approach.” Second, the video proved that, generally speaking, opposite-sex manipulators obtain better results; that female psychologists possess the basic understanding of the mind to excel at it; and that a brilliant female psychologist trained in the black arts of deception, acting, and blackmail was simply invincible. Third, for the umpteenth time he had irrefutable proof that besotted men act like fools, something he knew by his own experience. The results were very revealing and, even so, disappointing. Despite the fact that Victoria’s interrogation of her husband had been masterful, although Pardo admitted he single-handedly had committed the biggest heist in Cuban history, even though they could try the sonofabitch and sentence him to the death penalty, the money was out of reach. The bastard had it in an offshore bank, under a false identity. The documents proving that Pardo was the bank’s client, the only one who could make a withdrawal, were also abroad. Recovery seemed impossible. Should Cuba request devolution, the bank would demand proof, beginning a lengthy legal process. The media would turn the whole thing into an international circus. And if in the end the improbable happened and a court of law ruled in favor of the Cuban State, scores of creditors to whom the country owed billions would be suing, asking to be paid from such an asset.
Not wanting his two subordinates to realize he was at a loss concerning the next step, knowing that they were waiting for his reaction and that he had been silent for too long, the minister got to his feet and started pacing his office, hands behind his back, pretending to be deep in thought. He was frustrated that most of the time he was doing one of two things: taking orders from the Chief or prompting his subordinates for suggestions. He yearned for the simplicity of the battlefield: attack, defend, or retreat; fire or hold your fire; live or die; victory or defeat.
“Well, comrades, what do you think we should do next?”
Lastra raised his eyebrows and pulled down the corners of his mouth to indicate that what he would be saying had a preliminary and exploratory nature. “Well, Comrade Lieutenant General, the money is irrecoverable, so, in my opinion, we ought to arrest Pardo, try him, and ask that he be given life.”
The minister energetically nodded in agreement before addressing Victoria. “You share the General’s view, Comrade Colonel?”
“With all due respect, Comrade Lieutenant General, Comrade Brigadier General, I beg to differ.”
“Oh?” the minister uttered, bushy eyebrows raised in admiration. He could not remember the last time a subordinate had dared to differ with something he had given a nod to. But this was his resident genius. “Would you please tell us what do you propose?”
“I respectfully suggest we offer my husband a deal, comrades.”
“A deal?” both said in unison, balking at the prospect.
“Permission to elaborate.”
“Granted,” the minister, burning with curiosity.
“I couldn’t sleep last night. I spent the whole night thinking. At the start I was seething with rage, but at a certain point I remembered Felix Dzherzinsky’s definition of a Cheka operative: a burning heart and a cool head. So, I tried to think with a cool head. And I came to the conclusion that we should offer Pardo a deal.
“Had my husband passed State secrets to the enemy, had he conspired with others to assassinate the Commander in Chief, the minister of the revolutionary armed forces, or any other Politburo member, I would propose executing him by firing squad. Had he spent the money he stole, I would be in agreement with you, Comrade Brigadier General: Give him a life sentence. Were it possible to recover the money without his participation, I would be of the same mind: life sentence. But as you saw in that video, without his active and willing participation, I’m afraid the money will be lost forever.”
Victoria took a moment, as if to collect her thoughts. What she wanted was to let it sink in.
“Now, what is more important and beneficial for the Revolution in these historical days we live? To punish a thief or to recover the money? In my humble opinion, to recover the money. Can you imagine how many tons of medicine 2.6 million dollars buys? We’ve learned some very important things. Pardo acted alone, there were no accomplices, no split, he has it all. Well, not all. As you heard him explain, he spent around a hundred thousand buying forged documents, traveling, and opening standard bank accounts so he could later open offshore bank accounts and deposit the stolen money without raising suspicions of money laundering. But 2.6 million dollars, exactly 96.3 percent of what he stole, could be recovered if he cooperates.
“Next let’s try to imagine how Pardo will react if someone presses our buzzer, I fling the main door open, three or four comrades from Operations barge in and, without giving any explanation, arrest the two of us. We ask what the matter is, why we are being taken into custody, they don’t say a word.
“After ten or twenty hours incommunicado in a cell, you take Pardo to a room and show him that video,” Victoria went on, pointing to the cassette on the minister’s desk. “He’ll panic. He’ll realize he’ll soon face a firing squad or, with the best will in the world, shall spend the rest of his life in prison. Pardo is a retired officer, he knows our prisons are no tourist resorts. He’ll think of me, too, I’m sure. In that video I admit t
hat I hate you, communism, and the Chief; so, he’ll assume I’ll be tried and sentenced as well. After the tape ends, the comrades take him back to his cell without asking him a single question. You let him think it over for a day or two. Then you offer him a deal.”
“What deal, Comrade Colonel?” asked the mesmerized minister, marveling at Victoria’s cunning plot.
“You say to him: ‘You will be tried and sentenced; to death by firing squad probably. Your wife has been stripped of all her decorations; she’ll be tried and sentenced, too. However, due to the financial situation that the country faces, the High Command has decided to offer you a deal. Give us back the money you stole and we’ll let you stay in the country where you have it, once you’ve given it back. Then your wife will join you.’
“I know this man: He’ll jump at it. He has no choice. Maybe he’ll try to obtain some concession for me, possibly demand that I am to be released from jail. You agree to it. Maybe he starts figuring how he could get away once he’s abroad. Maybe not, if he wants me to join him after he gives it back. He may consider it a stroke of luck that the two of us remain alive and free abroad. He’ll figure that as a computer expert he can make a living anywhere. Then, what we have to do is make sure he keeps his word on his end of the deal.”
Victoria finished her presentation. General Lastra and the minister exchanged swift glances. Both men were taken aback by her presence of mind, the strength of her reasoning powers, and the boldness of her plan. Not since the eighties had something so daring and convoluted been attempted. Lastra tried to remember the Yiddish term for imaginative and risky behaviors. It did not come to mind.
“Now, just a minute, Comrade Colonel,” the minister said as he returned to his chair. “I have several questions.”
“So do I,” Lastra made known.
“Go ahead, Lastra.”
“After you, Lieutenant General.”
“No, you go ahead.”
“Okay. Victoria, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You are assuming that after Pardo agrees to this … offer we make him, we put him on a plane to wherever he says he has the documents and the money, and he will go to the bank, fill a suitcase with cash, and meekly hand it over to our people?”
“That’s not necessary. He can transfer the balance to a Banco Financiero account.”
“Why won’t he run away?”
“Because two of our men will be with him and because he loves me. We tell Pardo that as part of the deal, two comrades will pretend to be his bodyguards abroad. He’ll realize it’s an elementary precaution we have to take; he’s not stupid and he knows we aren’t either. He needs a passport and a plane ticket, so we’ll know where he is going beforehand. One or two days before he leaves Cuba, we send a comrade there. The other will fly with Pardo. From then on, they’ll eat with him, sleep with him, go with him everywhere.”
“Fine,” admitted Lastra rubbing his hands and staring at the floor. “But tell me, what will keep Pardo from hollering: ‘Help! Police! These two are Cuban agents! They are kidnapping me!’ in the middle of the street.”
“You warn him that, should he do that, I will be convicted of treason and spend the rest of my life in prison.”
Lastra and the minister exchanged looks. Watching the video had persuaded them that Pardo adored his wife, kissed the ground on which she walked. He had admitted he could not live without her, asserted he had stolen the money to provide for both of them after the Commander died and Cuban communism collapsed. He had conceded that she was the only reason he had not defected the last time he was abroad. It baffled her superiors. In a free country, with enough money to buy all a man could dream of, from a nice home to the most beautiful women, why had Pardo returned to Cuba? Both generals wondered whether Victoria exerted some mysterious control over her husband’s mind that made him fully dependent on her to continue existing, or if she was the only one he could get it up with. Neither officer could think of any other reason for an intelligent, mature man to act so nonsensically after eleven years married to such a physically plain woman. Now she had betrayed him. Witch!
“I don’t know, Victoria. This idea of yours is too … complicated and risky,” the minister, to deemphasize his interest.
“Complication is a relative concept, Comrade Lieutenant General. To judge it, we must contrast it with the goal we hope to achieve. I wouldn’t propose this for fifty or one hundred thousand dollars. But for a 2.6-million-dollar payoff, I don’t think my plan is overly complicated. As to risky … I don’t know. I’ve always been a desk-bound officer. I’ve never been to war, never run risks; you are much better judges on that than I’ll ever be. But I’m sure you two have run risks a thousand times bigger.
“On the other hand, what have we got to lose? In our first meeting, Comrade General Lastra said we couldn’t see the whole picture then. I respectfully opine that neither can we see it now. Let’s take the next step, the false arrest, see how Pardo reacts—I assume the comrades will videotape what he does and says. Afterward we meet again, watch the video, reevaluate the whole thing, then you make your decision. The homeland needs that money.”
“What do you think, Lastra?”
The chief of intelligence scratched his head. “I don’t like it, either, Comrade Lieutenant General. But on the other hand, we lose nothing if we go ahead with the first part of Colonel Victoria’s plan: storming the apartment, arresting them, offering Pardo the deal. Then we meet again and you decide what we should do.”
“What will happen after Pardo gives the money back and you don’t reunite with him?” asked the minister. “He may go to the press, denounce that we’ve kidnapped you. Blow the whole deal sky-high.”
Victoria shook her head and rearranged herself in the armchair. “I doubt very much that he’ll go to the press. I mean, journalists will ask questions: Who are you? When did you arrive? What are you doing here? Why did the Cuban government allow you to travel here if you and your wife were in jail? Eventually he would have to admit that he’s a thief. On top of that, I propose an active measure. The minute he gives the money back, the comrades play for him a videotape in which I tell the truth, that I discovered the money and denounced him, that I put forward the ideas of videotaping his confession at our home and my false arrest, that I hate thieves and traitors, that I don’t love him anymore and will divorce him. That should keep him quiet.”
Again, the generals exchanged sharp looks. The sleazy bitch! the minister thought. He’ll blow his brains out, thought Lastra. Both looked unfazed but were not.
“You’ve thought of everything,” the minister said suavely.
“I tried to, Comrade Lieutenant General. But plans are one thing, reality another. We’ll have to see how things turn out.”
“So true. Well, let’s proceed with the false arrest then.”
“Give me a week, Comrade Lieutenant General. My approval of what he did, my willingness to flee Cuba with him, has made the traitor so happy and overconfident that I want to reinforce such appropriate psychological well-being one more week, make plans for our future abroad, fill him with anticipation, which is such an enjoyable feeling. Then the shock of the arrest will be even more intense.”
You lowly cunt, thought the minister as he nodded approvingly.
Whore, thought Lastra, who failed to infuse his cheerless smile with kindness.
“Do you agree with delaying this for a week, Lastra?”
“If Victoria thinks it will make things easier for us …”
“Then we’ll operate on …” the minister glanced at his desk calendar, “May 3 around 11:00 P.M. That okay with you, Victoria?”
“Perfect, Comrade Lieutenant General.”
“What about you, Lastra?”
“No objection, comrade.”
“Then you’ll have to excuse me. I have a rather long report to read before a meeting at the Council of State this afternoon.”
Chutzpah flashed in Lastra’s mind. Yes, that was the Jewish term for this kind of
thing. Well, Mossad was not doing so badly.
…
At 4:48 P.M. on Friday, April 26, Elliot was on the phone with Buenos Aires, checking technical details in a contract for copper-chromium and copper-chromium-magnesium rotor bars, when Maria Scheindlin entered the warehouse’s glassed-in cubicle. She greeted the data enterer first, then approached Elliot’s desk. He mouthed “Long distance. Give me a minute,” then returned his gaze to the fax in which he was checking off quantities and specifications.
She moved behind her late husband’s desk, sat on his swivel chair, crossed her legs. In addition to the ever-present watch, gold studs, and silver strips, she wore white slacks, a crimson silk blouse, and sandals. As Elliot wrapped up the conversation, she cast glances around the office, noticing things for the first time or looking for changes. Sam Plotzher was nowhere to be seen. The data enterer slipped into his jacket, getting ready to leave.
“Good evening, Mrs. Scheindlin,” the man said before departing.
“Good evening, Chris. Say hello to the wife for me.”
“I sure will. Thanks. Bye,” he said, waving to Elliot, who returned the good-bye.
It was 5:03 when Elliot rested the handset in its cradle. “Hi, Maria. Glad to see you.”
“Glad to see you, too. Be advised that now you are Jenny’s ‘favorite Cuban,’ her exact words. David Sadow was less enthusiastic: He said you were okay. Coming from him, that’s quite a compliment.”
Steil smiled and placed his ballpoint in the pocket of his blue polo shirt. “The deliveryman gets the credit? Didn’t you tell them you paid for it?”
“I thought it best to heighten your standing with the heiress and the family lawyer.”
“So self-effacing of you, Maria.”
“Well, maybe some of your self-effacement has rubbed off on me. I dropped by to see if you’d have time now to give me some background on our business in Brazil. I’m thinking of spending a week in São Paulo and I would like to go to the office, meet the guys face-to-face, you know.”
