Ghosts of Havana

by Todd Moss

“It’s time for a better way,” he said, sitting up straight in his chair. “That’s why Parker has sent you here. That’s why Parker sent you . . . to me.”

  “How do you know the Secretary’s chief of staff?”

  “That’s not the question you want to ask me,” Oswaldo said as he took a long swig and then slammed down his empty bottle. “You want to ask me about the future of my country.”

  “Are you saying that the Cuban government . . . is ready to change?”

  Oswaldo opened two more bottles of Bucanero Fuerte. “The Cuban people are ready for something new. I am ready for something new.”

  “Democracy?” Judd ventured.

  Oswaldo snorted and handed Judd a beer.

  “A new leader of Cuba? Is that what you’re proposing?”

  “I’m not proposing anything. We are just two new friends talking, no?”

  Judd took another drink. “You? Are you next in line after ECP?”

  Oswaldo looked puzzled.

  “ECP,” Judd said. “That’s government-speak for your president. So are you next after El Comrade Presidente?”

  “No, no, no!” Oswaldo laughed. “I am a man of the shadows. I am like you.”

  “If not you, then who?”

  “Answering that question can get a man killed.”

  “Killed?”

  “Asking that question can get you killed, too,” he said, his smile suddenly disappearing.

  “What do you mean by that, Oswaldo?”

  “Have another beer, Dr. Ryker. We are going to be here for a long time. If today ends well, you will leave here drunk and victorious. If not, then . . .” He trailed off.

  “Then what?”

  “After beer, we will have Cuban rum, Dr. Ryker! I have a bottle of the best in the world. Handmade especially for El Jefe.”

  “What are you talking about, Oswaldo? What, exactly, do you think we are negotiating?”

  “Cuba’s next leader must carry on the revolution.” He raised a bottle of rum triumphantly. “This comes from Santiago. Aged for thirty years.”

  “But our next leader must also be acceptable to the yanquis, too,” he declared, untwisting the cap.

  “Yes . . . I agree,” Judd said. “A political transition is most likely to succeed with a compromise. Someone who can bridge both sides.”

  “Of course!” Oswaldo said, pouring the golden rum into two shot glasses.

  “So . . . who?”

  “We need a president who would be seen as a brother in Havana.” He handed a shot glass to Judd. “And as a brother in Miami.”

  “So who could that be?” Judd asked.

  The two men downed the rum, the sugary liquor burning the back of Judd’s throat. Oswaldo stared into Judd’s eyes and then shook his head. He grinned and held up his empty glass.

  “No one knows.”

  62.

  LUANDA, ANGOLA

  FRIDAY, 5:48 P.M. WEST AFRICA TIME

  Dr. Ernesto Sandoval stood on the runway, staring over his reading glasses at the private jet in disbelief. The shiny-white Dassault Falcon 7X vibrated like a chained tiger ready to pounce.

  “Is that for me?” Ernesto asked the pilot, a stocky Ukrainian with a flattop buzz cut and thick neck.

  “Yes, Dr. Che,” the pilot said in stilted English. “Where are your bags?”

  Ernesto shook his head.

  “Yah,” the pilot grunted. “We go.”

  Ernesto climbed up the small staircase and into the jet’s cabin. Instead of the usual rows of seats, this plane had been outfitted with just six leather captain’s chairs. The walls were paneled with polished cherrywood, with multiple television screens. Along one side was a fully stocked bar and a tray of seafood canapés.

  “What’s this?” Ernesto asked.

  “Yours, Dr. Che,” the pilot responded. “Sit. We complete preflight checks and then we go.”

  “Who paid for all this?”

  The pilot shrugged and winked, then marched away.

  Ernesto settled into the first seat, the soft leather caressing his skin. He buckled the strap and looked out the window. Beyond the lights of the airstrip was pure darkness. Nothing. He was excited and nauseated at the same time. This was the moment he had been waiting for all those years but also, at his core, the moment he dreaded most.

  Ernesto didn’t remember much about his father or his brother from his life back in Cuba. He had heard all about his big brother, Ruben, from his mami, about his heroic flight to America, his big success in the big country. Then his mother passed away and he was, not for the last time, all alone.

  But the stories of his family were more legends than anything real. Like the fictional adventures from his boyhood love of King Solomon’s Mines, Robinson Crusoe, Treasure Island, and, of course, his favorite: Peter Pan.

  The rest of his life had been a virtual flash: grade school, the army, a failed marriage, medical school, deployment to Angola. He was ecstatic to be sent to Africa, hoping that his life would become meaningful. That his own voyage would rival that of Allan Quatermain into the darkest bush. That he would earn his nickname Che, just like Ernesto Guevara, another doctor who traveled to the deepest jungles to fight poverty and injustice.

  Yet Angola hadn’t turned out to be anything like he expected. It wasn’t exotic or daring. In fact, it was a lot like back home in Cuba, only a bit poorer. Ernesto made the best of his duty and embraced a simple life that was worth living. But the African chapter of his life had passed quickly. And now it, too, was nearly over.

  Suddenly, before Ernesto knew what had happened, what his life had become, nearly six decades had elapsed and he had grown from orphan to old man. It was all honorable, a life of small victories in the slums of Luanda, but was it meaningful? Was it genuine? He didn’t know yet.

  The call, so many years ago, had been a jolt.

  —

  Hermanito, it’s me. Ernesto, it’s your big brother, Ruben.”

  The tears had flowed. That contact had come, out of the blue, just as Ernesto’s marriage was crumbling, he was embracing the rigors of medical school, and he was trying desperately to put his life together again for the second time.

  “I have a business in America. I have money,” Ruben had told him.

  “I don’t need money,” Ernesto had replied.

  “Soon, I will have power.” Ruben told him to be patient. “I have a plan.”

  Ernesto’s role in the plan was to finish medical school, to become a doctor. To build a reputation. To complete his duty. And, most of all, to lay low until Ruben called again. Until it was time.

  That time was now. The second call had finally come.

  —

  As the Falcon rumbled down the airstrip and zoomed westward over the Atlantic Ocean, Ernesto sensed this was the beginning of his third life. A life that would bring him back to Cuba, back together with his brother Ruben, back to a life of true meaning, of a true patriot. Of greatness.

  “Flight time to Santiago will be eleven hours and forty-six minutes,” the intercom announced.

  Ernesto anticipated a glorious return. Heaving throngs at the airstrip as he descended the steps, waving and shouting his name—Che! Che! Che! Housewives, working men, pretty girls, the real Cubans. His people. Ernesto wasn’t used to the limelight, but the idea was beginning to electrify him.

  Just one question nagged at Ernesto as he watched the lights of Luanda disappear forever, despite assurances from Ruben that everything had been taken care of, that all the pieces were in place, that he would be welcomed home as a hero. Dr. Ernesto “Che” Sandoval, sitting comfortably in a luxury seat on a private airplane, was flying home to Cuba still wondering, deep down, whether his big brother’s plan would actually work.

  63.

  EVERGLADES NATIONAL PARK, FLORIDA

  FR
IDAY, 12:05 P.M.

  The sun was beating down fiercely on Ricky, but the wind kept him cool. He pulled on the brim of his Marlins baseball cap with his left hand since his right hand was firmly on the fanboat’s steering stick. Lashed to the seats of the boat were five identical black hard-shell suitcases. All empty.

  Ricky expertly piloted the fanboat through the infinite swamp, past reeds and sawgrass that looked identical in all directions, to a place that didn’t appear on any map outside of Ricky’s own memory.

  Out here, in the middle of the Florida Everglades, static maps were mostly useless. The swamp ebbed and flowed, changing with every storm, the landmarks always shifting, always evolving. This is what made the Everglades the perfect place to hide. Or to get lost.

  Ricky turned sharply at a stand of cypress trees and then killed the motor. The bow of the boat grounded softly in the grass. Ricky grabbed one of the suitcases and hopped onto a small wooden platform that led to a tiny enclosed structure.

  When he first came here, Ricky had been told the site was an abandoned blind for hunting wild boar. Then he was later told no, it was originally a secret outpost of the Seminole Indians for one of their three wars against the U.S. Army. Ricky didn’t bother to ask more questions. He didn’t care about the location’s history. All that mattered was that it was hidden among the trees deep in the swamp and no one could ever find it. It was undetectable to the naked eye at water level from every direction. And, most important, invisible from the air.

  Ricky scanned the horizon through binoculars for any signs that someone had followed him. He listened for any sounds of an engine. All clear. But he couldn’t relax.

  Ricky knew from experience that all clear could change. Without warning.

  —

  That day, way back in 1983, was like a zombie movie. One moment, all was quiet; the next, they were coming at him from everywhere. The beasts, black head to toe, snarling faces hidden behind black shields and black helmets, swarmed like it was the Apocalypse. They came by land, they rose out of the water, they dropped from the sky. There were so many, he couldn’t count.

  Ricky’s mind was dizzy and time slowed to a crawl. A cocktail of narcotics and adrenaline churned through his bloodstream. The flashbang, the shouting, the swarm, the pain—it was all a blurry haze.

  The next thing Ricky knew, he was in a room, collapsed in a metal chair at a metal table. He was cold but could taste warm salty blood from his busted lip. A beefy man in some kind of police uniform was glaring at him.

  “Who are you working for, Ricardo? Who’s the big boss, Ricardo? We already know everything. We just want to hear it from you.”

  Ricky had looked around the room, confused and scared. It was bare except for the table and chairs, a single lightbulb in the ceiling. And a long mirror along one wall.

  “Where am I?” Ricky slurred. “Who . . . is ‘we’?”

  “Fuck you, Ricardo. We ask the questions.”

  “Who’s behind the mirror? Who am I really talking to?”

  “Your worst fucking nightmare, Ricardo. Who are you working for?”

  “I . . . don’t know anything.”

  “You don’t know? You don’t fucking know? You’re carrying all those drugs and you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know anything. I . . . I . . . I’m just a kid.”

  “You’re eighteen, Ricardo. You’re in deep shit. You’re gonna be charged as an adult. Narcotics trafficking, racketeering, conspiracy, assault on a federal officer. This is some heavy shit.”

  “No . . .” Ricky muttered.

  “You’re gonna do some serious time in a serious place. They’re gonna love you in the hole at Pensacola. You know what a skinny eighteen-year-old Cuban boy looks like to a monster serving life in federal prison?” The interrogator licked his lips and chortled.

  “No . . .” Ricky whimpered.

  “Then you better answer my goddamn questions. Have you ever met Escobar?”

  “I don’t know him. I mean . . . I’ve never seen him.”

  “We know you were carrying for him. You know what Escobar’s going to do to you in prison when he figures out how much money you’ve cost him?”

  “No . . .”

  “You know what happened to the last kid?”

  “No . . .”

  “You want me to help you, Ricardo?”

  “Huh?”

  “You stupid fucking shit-eating punk. If you want me to help you, then you have to help me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Give me something. What do you know?”

  “Are you DEA? FBI?” Ricardo wheezed. “I want witness protection!”

  “You think you’re gonna get witness protection? For what? What can you give me, dipshit?”

  “I know where the money is.”

  “What money?” asked the man, stealing a glance at the mirror.

  “The big money. More than you can imagine. I know where it is. I know where—”

  Before Ricky could finish his sentence, the lights went out.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” he squealed.

  “That’s enough,” said a new, deep voice. “We’ll take it from here. He’s the one.”

  Ricky was blindfolded and taken away.

  “Hey! Hey!” he shouted into the dark, but no one replied.

  He was then thrown into the back of a car and driven for what could have been five minutes or five hours. The next thing he remembered was his feet being bound and the sudden rush of blood to his head as he was hung upside down. A few seconds later, the blindfold was removed and Ricky found himself staring straight down into the yawning jaws of an alligator.

  “Ahhh!” he screamed and wriggled, his pants suddenly soaked with the warmth of his own urine. “I’ll tell you whatever you want!”

  The gator hissed and snapped.

  “I know you will,” said the deep voice, attached to a man he’d never seen before.

  “I’ll take the deal! I want witness protection!”

  “You’ve got the wrong guys, Ricardo,” said the man. “We don’t do witness protection. You’re going to take us to the money.”

  —

  Ricky winced at the memory of the gator and that day that everything changed.

  He pushed open the door and darted inside the empty wooden hut. The air was humid and thick. Mosquitos buzzed his ears. He waved them away and then began tapping on the floorboards until he heard a comforting change in pitch. Bingo! Ricky lifted up a panel to reveal a black metal hatch with a small plexiglass screen. The old combination lock had long ago been replaced by a modern electronic keypad. Ricky tapped in the code and pulled opened the heavy metal door with a hollow thud.

  The sight of all that money still gave Ricky a rush. He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat off his face, and checked over his shoulder through the door one more time. Then he carefully counted out two million dollars and stacked the bills in the suitcase. Satisfied, he shut the case and spun the lock. One down, four to go, he thought.

  Ricky checked his watch. Right on time.

  64.

  OFFSHORE EASTERN CUBA

  FRIDAY, 4:18 P.M.

  Judd Ryker and Oswaldo Guerrero had each finished their plates. The table was covered with empty beer bottles and spilled rum. The two men had talked around in circles, probing each other, trying to find common ground, never quite trusting the other. The alcohol was helping, a convenient diplomatic lubricant.

  “What happened to your tooth, amigo?” Judd asked his host.

  Oswaldo tapped his golden front incisor. “The same way I broke my nose.” He rubbed the end of his nose. “Boxing.” He held up two meaty fists. “I was a champion of the Rebel Youth Association.”

  “We don’t box much back in Vermont,” Judd said.

  “You don’t fight, asere? More o
f a lover, no?” He smiled and winked.

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “You were wise to give up trying to beat me,” Oswaldo bellowed, slapping Judd forcefully on the back. “You yanquis are just playing cowboy games. We Cubans are fighting for survival.” He held up his fists again and shadowboxed. “If you lose to me, you just go back to your shopping malls and your hamburgers. We have no choice. We cannot afford to lose.”

  “We should finish,” Judd suggested, directing Oswaldo’s attention to a scrap of paper in front of him. Judd had scrawled the outlines of their agreement so far.

  hostage release → wheat

  private enterprise → travel & trade

  free elections → recovery package

  “Okay, Oswaldo, this is what we’ve agreed. Three phases, three steps.”

  Judd was feeling confident that he was close to a breakthrough. He’d bonded with Oswaldo Guerrero over beer and baseball while they negotiated their countries’ futures for hours on a ship floating off the coast of Cuba. The events of today were also deniable. If it all went wrong, Judd wasn’t even officially here. No one would even know . . . And now Judd was sealing the deal with a simple package of incentives. Cuba does this, America does that. Everyone was out for themselves, all in the service of the common good. Whatever Landon Parker and Melanie Eisenberg would have thought, Adam Smith would have been proud.

  “Once you release the prisoners, we’ll deliver enough wheat to refill your stocks,” Judd stated. “Once you allow—”

  “Yes, yes, Dr. Ryker. We’ll let businesses open and you’ll end what remains of the blockade. We’ve agreed to all of that.” Oswaldo poked Judd’s paper with his finger. “We haven’t dealt with the toughest problem at all. The big thing that will stop us all from success.”

  “The return of seized private property.” Judd nodded to himself. “I was hoping that we could leave that tricky issue for the very end. The exiles in Miami are going to insist on something. My thinking is that Cuba would commit to full restitution in exchange for new credit—”

  “No, no, no. Not the exiles. Not the traitors. They’re not the issue.”