by Matt Lincoln
The listing for a similar car showed a 1953 Maserati A6C54, maraschino-cherry red with curves hotter than a pinup girl. The price tag was a mere $1.25 million. Whoever shipped those cars stood to make a hell of a payday. Whoever sunk that boat had a hell of a vendetta.
“How did they have this car on the island?” I blurted out. “I mean, they have Chevies out the wazoo, but a Maserati?”
Clyde dropped his gaze to stare into the box. “I don’t know. The car guys suggested some Hollywood type stashed it there for vacations just before the Revolution. It probably wasn’t found until recently. It’s strange because the military took over everything after the Revolution. These cars had to have been hidden really well.”
I shook my head. “Wow. The Cuban government won’t like this.”
Car ownership was tightly regulated in the socialist state. Not socialist in the modern democratic-socialist sense, but in the old, Marxist-Lenin, iron-fisted style. Possessing a vintage Maserati, let alone selling one internationally, was more risk than most citizens would take. Someone in Cuba had major balls.
“Ethan, Robbie, and Clyde, you three will fly to Havana tomorrow with Mike if he’s clear to fly,” Diane announced.
I waved off the concern. “He’s sore, but fine.”
Diane nodded and continued. “Both governments moved faster since learning the numbers involved. We have no idea of the scope of this thing. Your job is to find out ASAP. They want us in, clean it up, and out. To that end, they’ve assigned a liaison to help facilitate the investigation.”
“I have to think some of the action will be Stateside,” Holm suggested. “Those cars weren’t going nowhere, and there are plenty of potential buyers who can fake the papers for models they’ve been jonesing to get their hands on.”
I tapped my forefinger on the table and frowned. Why would Cuban citizens, even wealthy ones, take the risks involved in smuggling vintage cars off the island? Why would American buyers take similar risks in receiving them? Sure, collectors were out to get their hands on the unicorns of chrome, but there were plenty of legal sources. Those collectors had the persistence to look far and wide… and the money to make it happen. I stopped tapping my finger.
“They’re getting these cars cheap and selling at a profit.” I stood and paced. “Think about it. We don’t know how many cars were lost or hidden over the years. Collectors are always finding vintage cars in abandoned barns and old garages in the States. Why not in Cuba?”
Holm raised a brow. “They find a car in fair to good condition, restore it, and sell it to the highest bidder.”
“If they have someone good at forging papers, they could sell some of these babies for quite the profit.” I stared at the Maserati ad that still glowed on the wall screen. “Say they bought it cheap from some old guy who hasn’t driven it in sixty years. They bring it up to par, ship it, and they get quite the payday, even if they only get half of what’s being asked in this ad.”
“The question is whether the buyers are going to Havana or if they’re going through a third party,” Diane pointed out. “Since Sylvia and Lamarr are on another investigation, there might be some back and forth between here and Havana.”
“The Cuban officials won’t like that,” I said.
Diane grimaced. “They’ll have to deal with it. We’re doing the best we can.”
Our best at the time wasn’t what it could’ve been. We had an unknown person or persons in the Senate interfering with MBLIS funding. While we still had some pull in getting our needs met, it was getting thinner each month.
“We’ll work with their liaison and respect their rules.” I wanted to make it a promise, but when had I ever gone strictly by the book? “Will they extradite?”
Diane narrowed her eyes. “First off, Ethan, I know you. When I say to follow the rules, I mean it. If I thought for one second that I had a better choice than to send you two, I’d do it.”
Holm shifted in his chair. “Ouch.”
“Secondly, extradition depends upon who is involved.” She glared at me. “If you take down Cubans, they go to prison there. Americans go home with you. Other nationalities will be subject to negotiation.”
I pressed my lips together. We all knew what it meant for people to go to prison in Cuba. I held no love for criminals, but even they deserved better treatment than what they’d find on the island. Political prisoners in Cuba got treated even worse, but there was nothing we’d be able to do.
“We’ll stick to the mission,” I said, and I meant it. Holm nodded.
Over the next two hours, we hashed together a plan and made a list of necessary contacts. The hairiest part of the plan was the undercover scheme we concocted. Holm and I were to go as potential buyers while Mike stayed back with Clyde. We wouldn’t know until we were there whether we’d be posing as end buyers or middlemen. One step out of line could blow us wide open. We’d normally work through informants who worked with our local contacts. In this case, we didn’t have that. Our best bet for intel lay with a liaison we knew nothing about.
I just hoped my first trip to Cuba outside of Guantanamo wouldn’t be my last.
CHAPTER 6
Yoani hated waiting. Rafael Sanchez knew that, so he made her wait before most of their meetings. She didn’t dare speak against her boss, though, as she was fortunate to be in her position. Not many people, let alone women, got the opportunities she’d had in Havana.
“Nuñez.”
Sanchez’s secretary, a rosy-cheeked doll of a recent graduate, waved Yoani into the office. The girl smirked as though she knew what awaited, which did nothing for Yoani’s mood.
Yoani entered Sanchez’s spartan office. Pale walls and blinds did nothing for the squat man’s surroundings, nor did the stale cigar smell. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Sanchez didn’t puff on the cheapest tobacco he could find.
“You have an assignment,” Sanchez informed her. “A group of Americans is arriving tomorrow morning to investigate a case involving car smuggling. You’re going to be our liaison, and your job is to keep them in line.”
She hid a sneer. Americans thought they were better than Cubanos, and she’d just as soon never deal with them. The last assignment with Americans involved drunken businessmen who used their ties to turn their business trip into a glorified vacation. She shuddered at the memories of unwanted hands on her ass and arms. Americans.
“I understand, Señor Sanchez.” She kept her voice flat and gaze forward. “How long do we expect them to be in the country?”
Sanchez clicked a chrome pen several times before answering.
“We don’t have a clear projection at this time.” He clicked the pen a few more times before setting it down. “Two men died. One was an American, and they think the other was Cubano. Both administrations want this resolved as quickly as possible.”
“And quietly,” Yoani added.
“Exactly. That’s why I’m assigning you.” His face darkened. “You speak the best English, and you’re one of the best at handling situations of a delicate nature. Do not disappoint me.”
In other words, don’t make Sanchez look bad. She swallowed. More importantly, don’t make Cuba look bad. In her experience, Americans arrived with preconceived notions about her home and did little to change their minds. They took in the sights, saw the deteriorating cars, and whispered about the government.
“I’ll represent Cuba in the best possible light,” she promised.
“Do what you can to move their activities along.” Sanchez leaned back and crossed his arms. “Use this afternoon to get ready. You’ll be with their team around the clock until they leave.”
Yoani gaped but snapped back to what she hoped would be a mild expression.
“Even overnight?”
“Around the clock,” Sanchez repeated. “Befriend them. Learn what you can while you spend time with them.”
Ah. He wanted her to report on their activities and anything they might say against Cuba. In other words, he wante
d her to spy on the Americans.
“I want a guard at all times,” she said. “You know what happened the last time I had to stay with a group of foreigners during their entire visit.”
Sanchez nodded. “We have three men to take shifts.” His eyes softened, which surprised Yoani. The man wasn’t known for his emotions. “Nobody messes with my people. Not anymore.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s standard procedure now.” He cleared his throat. “Get out of here and be at the airport at eleven tomorrow morning. I’ll get you the flight information as soon as I have it.”
Yoani returned to her desk and dug through a few files. The Americans worked for an agency called MBLIS. It stood for Military Border Liaison Investigative Services. After reading the summation, her greatest takeaway was that they had a long name for an intercoastal investigations team. She chuckled. IIT, or “Eet,” didn’t have the same ring to it as “Embliss.”
Americans.
Yoani grabbed her purse and hired a taxi to take her home, a second-floor one-bedroom apartment in a seven-story building. Most of the apartments were crowded with others’ extended families, but Yoani’s father had inherited their tiny space when he married her mother.
“I’m home,” she called out when she entered the cramped living room. “How was your day?”
Her mother wasn’t in the living room. Yoani found her in their shared bedroom with the television on. The older woman had fallen asleep in her wheelchair again. Yoani woke her with a gentle shake on the shoulder.
“Is it dinner time already?”
Mami blinked and lifted her arms halfway up. Yoani crouched and gave her mother a hug.
“No.” She stood and looked away. “I have to get ready for an assignment. They say I’ll be gone for a while.”
“It’s your job.” Despite her weak neck, Mami tilted her head back for a better view of Yoani. “Rosita will stay.”
Yoani’s younger cousin was a blessing she couldn’t do without. Rosita checked on Mami three times a day, and whenever work kept Yoani away, Rosita stayed nights. Yoani paid for Rosita’s time, but it wasn’t nearly what her cousin deserved.
“I have to meet some people at the airport in the morning.” Yoani twitched her lips. “I’m going to make a snack. You want me to push you to the kitchen?”
Mami smacked at Yoani’s hand.
“I am not that far gone.” She rolled, if slowly, out of the bedroom. “You keep up with me, daughter.”
Yoani watched Mami as they talked over fried plantains. Since the Lou Gehrig Disease diagnosis a year and a half earlier, Mami had gone from a vibrant fifty-something to struggling to cook for herself and Yoani. Americans called it “ALS,” but Mami loved baseball and only wanted to call it by the famous player’s name. Yoani’s job meant she could afford to spoil her mother with little things, but that couldn’t fix her body.
“How long will you be gone?” Mami asked.
“I don’t know. This is a special, erm, situation. I’ll send you messages.”
The phone line to their apartment hadn’t worked in ages. A lightning strike burnt out half the building’s wiring, and the electricity was tenuous at times. More supplies were coming in from other nations nowadays, but not enough. Yoani tried not to be ungrateful for what she had, but it was difficult to know that poorer people in other countries had far better access to certain resources than she’d ever see. The bright side, though, was that Mami had first-rate medical care.
“Rosita will be here.” Mami patted Yoani’s hand. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
All the comfort in the world wouldn’t stop Yoani from worrying about her mother. By the next morning, resentment had her on edge. Her mother deserved better than to wither away with few people other than Rosita and Yoani to care for her daily needs. They had extended family, but Rosita’s parents worked hard to support and raise their family of eight children, of whom Rosita was the youngest. Yoani was an only child because her mother was left infertile after Yoani’s birth. Extended family helped for a while after Papi died, but their responsibilities pulled them away.
“Make your country proud,” Mami said as Yoani paused on the way out of the door. “Make them see us for who we are. Smart, proud, loyal. This is who we are.”
Yoani kissed the top of her mother’s head and headed out for the airport. The MBLIS team arrived on the first flight that morning. Yoani’s first personal security guard of the day joined her as the plane pulled up to the terminal. She didn’t recognize Arturo Renteria, but the brawny man had the right identification.
“Have my back, but don’t interfere with official business,” she instructed.
Renteria bristled. “I know how to follow orders.”
“Good.” Yoani held back a strong retort. “Here they come.”
She headed over to where a group of five men was led into a side room as soon as they disembarked. Renteria followed Yoani to the room, but she told him to stay outside and watch the door. He frowned and stepped toward the room anyway, but her glare stopped him.
The MBLIS men were all white. One of them was so pale that Yoani imagined him glowing in a dark room. Of the other three, one man was older but not elderly and had the aura of a long-time warrior, which the sling on his left arm only reinforced. The tallest man looked like he belonged on a California beach with a longboard, although he had creases at the corners of his eyes that spoke of more than sun and surf. Of them all, the last man’s blue eyes seemed to stare into her soul, as if he were judging her worthiness of his presence. He stepped forward and offered his hand.
“Special Agent Ethan Marston,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
CHAPTER 7
The Cuban liaison clasped my hand in a sturdy, warm grip. We stood eye-to-eye, and her light-brown eyes were killer. Whether they were the kill-me-softly or kill-me-in-my-sleep kind of killer remained to be seen.
“Yoani Nuñez.” She released my hand and took Holm’s. “You must be Special Agent Robert Holm.”
“Call me Robbie,” he offered with a high-wattage smile.
Nuñez brushed him off and shook hands with Clyde and Mike. For his part, Clyde still looked a tad green from what he’d complained was a bumpy landing. I hadn’t had the heart to inform him that compared to some landings I’d lived through, what we’d just experienced was pudding.
“Our governments agree on one thing,” Nuñez told us. “We want this over quickly. The only reason you are allowed to carry your own weapons is that we cannot be seen to arm foreign visitors, particularly American agents.”
She turned her back to me and moved to the head of a rusty fold-out table. Her hair was twisted into a bun, and I imagined how long the hair had to be for the bun to be as large as it was. If it didn’t go all the way down to her perfectly sculpted ass, I didn’t know anything. Her slacks swished as she took her seat.
Holm elbowed me in the upper arm. I looked over, and he shook his head with a smirk. Yeah, my buddy knew me too well. Hey, it couldn’t hurt to look, as long as we kept on task. I joined everyone else in taking a seat.
“You are stuck with me for the duration of your visit,” Nuñez continued. “My role is to keep you in line. Follow our laws, and we’ll stay out of your way. Break our rules, and you’re out. Are we clear?”
“We just want to find who killed my friend.” Mike rested his good arm on the table. “We’ll get off your island as soon as we do.”
“Ms. Nuñez, meet Mike Birch,” I said. “He’s our witness and plays a crucial role in this case.”
Nuñez frowned at Mike. “I don’t know of many witnesses who investigate their own cases, but my superiors assure me your presence is important.”
Yeah, important enough to have him nearby so we could keep an eye on him. Nobody wanted to say it, but there it was. It was better to have him on board than going rogue in Cuba, of all nations. We were lucky he didn’t cause a dust-up when we went to Havana before. To be fair, though, he believed he s
till had at least one or two contacts in town from his old days. Assuming they were alive.
Nuñez went over a list of house rules that left me contemplating the faux wood grain on the table. Lucky for me, she wrapped it up before anyone fell asleep. It wasn’t that we didn’t care. We did, but we’d gone over the fine print before Diane let us out of the office the previous evening.
“One more thing before I take you to the safe house.” Nuñez stood and opened the door. A beefy no-neck entered the room. “This is Arturo, and he is one of our guards. The guards will be with us to ensure everyone’s safety.”
I nodded at Arturo. He made a barely perceptible motion with his head but otherwise stared past me. My bet was that he was there to keep our liaison safe, not to mention serve as the first line of national defense should we break the rules. I would’ve assigned a guard for the same reason, if not two per shift, given the antagonist nature of our countries’ relationship.
We divided up and got into a pair of Hyundais, both of which were fairly new models, driven by suited men with earpieces. As we drove into the city, we passed wide swathes of greenery interspersed with clusters of urbanized areas. As expected, we spied vintage Chevrolets, Plymouths, and Fords. Soviet, Korean, and Chinese cars also made their way into Havana. It’d been a while since I saw a Geely if I didn’t count the Volvos back home. Geely had bought them out a decade earlier. I wondered if Cuba had imported any Volvos lately.
“I’ve never seen this many old cars in a single drive,” Holm said as we trundled into a residential area. He pointed at individual vehicles as we passed through. “It’s hard to believe those things are still running.”
“They do because they have to,” Nuñez told him. “If you want to see nice cars, go on a tour. That’s where you’ll find the originals.”
“Originals?” I asked.
“Original engines and parts. They’re hard to find, so they’re precious. Most of the good cars are used to ferry tourists. The rest run on string and chewing gum, as you might say.”
