by Noel Hynd
A beat, then, “Recently?” she asked.
“My father was shot to death as he walked to his car in South Philadelphia,” Guarneri said. “Easter morning, 1973.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“So am I,” Guarneri said, “but it was a long time ago.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, was anyone ever convicted of killing him?” Alex inquired. She felt Federov’s squinty gaze bouncing back and forth.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Of course not. Look, he was connected to organized crime; he did what he did, and he took his risks. I loved him as a father, he was good to me, but I’m not going to sit here and say he was a good man. I’m not so sure he was. But I was provided for and so was my mother.”
A waiter in a traditional white jacket brought a bottle of wine to the table and showed it to Guarneri-he must have ordered it before his guests had arrived. From what Alex could see, it was a hearty red Tuscan. Guarneri gave a nod. The waiter uncorked it and poured a glass for Guarneri, who gave another nod. Then the waiter poured wine into the other two glasses and departed.
“My father left behind the ownership to several buildings in the New York and Long Island area. So I never had to get involved in the type of business that he did. All I had to do was manage buildings. Be a landlord. Push the right papers around. I picked up an MBA at St. John’s University so I’d know how to do it. But I learned more in the first month of managing buildings than I did with two years of real estate law at St. John’s.”
“I’m sure you did,” Alex said, sipping the wine, which was excellent.
A short time later, the waiter reappeared and took their orders. A cordial conversation continued among the three diners until, after they had finished their meals and knocked back a second bottle of the Tuscan wine, Guarneri finally angled around to something he wished to discuss.
“So listen, I want to ask your opinion,” Guarneri said, turning to Alex. “May I ask you how you see certain things in relation to the United States and a certain country in Central America?”
“You can ask, Paul,” she said. “What country?”
“Cuba,” he said.
The mention of Cuba, of all places, took her by surprise. “I’m not an expert and I’ve never been there. So my free advice will be worth exactly what you’re paying for it.”
“I was born there,” he said. “In Cuba. Mi madre fue cubana. ”
“Verdad?” she asked. “Y habla bien el espanol?”
He laughed. “Claro que si!” he answered.
A small exchange followed. He spoke Spanish as well as she did, which was with complete fluency. After a moment, they switched back to English for Federov’s sake.
“What do you think will happen to property that was left behind fifty years ago?” Guarneri asked. “Or seized by the revolutionary government?”
“What sort of property?” she asked. “Land? Bank accounts? Real estate?”
“Any of those,” Guarneri said easily. “Make it a hypothetical. All of them.”
“Wouldn’t a lawyer be able to tell you better than I?”
“Paul is only asking for your opinion,” Federov said. “I’ve told him how intelligent you are. You know how your government works, and you know how the world works. And you can convey in almost any language.”
“Okay, look,” she said, “we’ll talk as friends, how’s that? Completely off the record.”
“I’d like that,” said Guarneri.
“Regarding property in Cuba that once was owned by Americans?” she said. “To clarify ownership there would have to be a new treaty tied in to diplomatic recognition of a new regime,” she said. “Realistically, that will take several years beyond the passing of Fidel Castro and possibly Raoul Castro as well.”
“I’d prefer not to wait that long,” he said.
“What you’d prefer and what’s going to happen are two different things,” Alex said.
“Could you get legal entry into Cuba?” he asked. “Through your contacts in law enforcement?”
“Me?” she asked in surprise.
“You,” he nodded.
“I’ve never thought much about it,” she said. “And for the very reasons the United States might want me to go, the Cuban government might not want me to arrive. So that doesn’t sound too promising.”
“Would you ever be available to accompany me to Cuba?” he asked.
Again she looked at him in surprise. “What?” she asked.
He repeated. Then, “I’m trying to recover property that was abandoned by my father a half century ago,” Guarneri said.
“Whose property was it?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute.”
“Whose property is it right now?” Alex asked.
“No one’s,” Guarneri said, “because no one can find it.”
After a few seconds, Alex asked. “It’s hidden?”
“I believe it still is, yes,” he answered.
She pondered for a moment. The waiter intruded. They ordered coffee. Alex asked for an espresso to counteract the rocket fuel served at the Waldorf and the glasses of wine here.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m guessing you’re talking about property that you feel would have been rightfully yours if Castro’s revolution hadn’t happened.”
“Correct,” Guarneri said
“Well,” she said, “I deal with international financial complications all the time. People cheating governments, governments cheating people. So I’ll tell you what I know, even though you might not like it. In post-Castro Cuba the restitution of property will be the most contentious issue the new Cuban government will face. Assuming the Cuba of the future is democratic or even mildly socialist, everyone will have to take into account the hostility that many Cubans would feel toward having their national assets transferred to people such as yourself.”
“What would they have against me?”
“You know the answer to that as well as I do.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You and other former Cubans have been living comfortably in Miami, New York, or Los Angeles for decades. The Cuban people endured Castro and the idiotic American embargo that helped impoverish the island and kept food and pharmaceuticals in short supply.”
“I thought you worked for the US government,” he said.
“I do, but that doesn’t mean I personally agree with all policy. A lot of it is just plain stupid. Or political. Or ill-conceived. The Cuban embargo is a great example of all three.”
“Not afraid to tell me what you think, huh? I like that,” he said.
“You might like it now, but you won’t always,” she said. “Let’s get back to you. I’m guessing you have family links to the previous regime, Batista’s, which was even worse than Castro.”
“Why do you guess that?”
“No offence intended,” Alex said, “but it’s written all over you. Look where we’re having dinner, for example. I feel like I’m on the set for The Sopranos.”
Guarneri stared at her coldly for a moment, then shook his head and laughed.
“See?” Federov said to his friend. “I warned you.”
But by now, Alex was intrigued.
“Okay, I’ll give you some of the rest of it, Alex,” Guarneri said, opening up. “My father was a part owner of a racetrack and a gambling casino near Havana. He also owned a couple of strip clubs,” he said. “When Fidel Castro took over the country, my dad had to get out of Cuba fast. He was holding a lot of money at the time. Half a million dollars in US currency. But it was all in small denominations. Fifties. Twenties. Tens. Fives. There was no way that he could take it with him to the airport. The police or the army or Castro’s soldiers would have taken it from him.” Guarneri paused. “So he buried it.”
“He buried it?”
Guarneri nodded.
“And that’s the ‘property’?”
“Yes.”
“Hidden?”
“Yes.”
“And you know where?”
“I think I know where,” he said. “If I could get back into Cuba, I think I could find the money.”
“You said, ‘back,’ ” Alex said. “You’ve been there?”
“I was born in Havana in 1955,” Guarneri said. “My mother was my father’s mistress in Cuba. She was a dancer at one of his clubs.”
Guarneri thought for a moment. He then reached to his wallet and opened it. He produced a pair of pictures, one of his mother as a leggy casino-style showgirl from a chorus line in what he said was 1957. The second was a grainy picture of himself with his mother, a faded color shot, from Long Island in 1966.
“So your mother got out of the country too?” Alex said.
“She was able to leave in 1961,” Paul Guarneri said. “My father had a wife and family here, but he did the decent thing for me and my mother. He smuggled us out. I remember it happening. My mother came and got me in the middle of the night. She wrapped me in a blanket, and we were taken to a car. She told me it was time to leave, and we couldn’t bring anything. We drove without headlights and went to a boat. The boat went to a seaplane, and we flew to Florida. I’m told we flew eighty miles at three hundred feet. I slept through it. When I woke up the next morning we were in an apartment in Key West. Then came the Bay of Pigs, the American invasion at Playa Giron. It was harder to get anyone out of Cuba after that. Years went by. My father always fretted over the thought of those greenbacks slowly rotting in the Cuban earth. But he was shot to death first and never got back to Cuba.”
“I assume previous attempts have been made to recover this ‘lost property,’ ” Alex said.
“Yes, but not by me,” Guarneri said.
“Then by whom?” she asked. Guarneri glanced at Federov.
“I traveled to the island twice,” Federov said. “I have a Ukrainian passport. I can go in and out whenever I want. But I was of no help.”
Alex turned to Guarneri. “Taking into account the fact that much of the wealth before Castro was accumulated by friends of a repressive government with links to American gangsters,” Alex said, looking him squarely in the eye, “I wouldn’t think your position in Cuba would be a very popular one.”
“So you’re not encouraged that I’d be able to recover anything? Cash or any other assets.”
The coffee arrived and so did a small tray of sweets for dessert. The espresso was scalding hot. She sipped carefully. As the caffeine hit, it was a punch in the nose. So much for easy sleep tonight.
Alex waited till the waiter had departed until she spoke again. “Generally no,” she said. “And the bottom line is that restitution of property will be the sovereign decision of the new Cuban government, which can set any rules it likes.”
Federov grinned to the side.
Guarneri blinked. “Is there any sort of historical precedent,” he asked, “for recovery of property?”
“I remember that with East Germany and its reunification with West Germany, restitution of property led to a multitude of competing claims in the German courts as well as some Swiss, Czech, and Austrian courts. Look, Paul. Suppose a sugarcane farm was nationalized in the early sixties and the owners fled to Miami. By now, there are probably a half-dozen potential heirs who may well not agree on how the pie should be divided. You will have relatives coming out of the woodwork, second and third cousins whom you didn’t even know existed, claiming that they own part of the money. And that’s even if Cuban courts will award a claim to a foreigner. More likely, they will award it to people who have been on the island for most of their lives, for the reasons I already mentioned.”
The discussion took a break as the bill for dinner arrived. Guarneri was treating. He peeled off some cash and laid it on the table. Over the course of the evening, Alex had now watched her acquaintance enrich the city’s restaurant economy by close to five hundred dollars.
“So what you’re saying, Alex,” Guarneri said in closing, “is that it would be more effective for me to go directly into Cuba, grab what’s mine, and get out again?”
“If it’s a pile of money, yes, sure. That might work,” Alex said simply. “And it might not. You might get your head blown off by local police. And you might find that the stash disappeared fifty years ago. Equally, a Cuban prison would be a pretty horrible place to spend ten years if your visit hit any snags. So be forewarned.”
“I understand,” he said. But he said this in such a way that it suggested more.
“Was there something else?” she asked.
The two men exchanged a glance.
“Well, there’s my actual offer to you,” Guarneri said.
“And what’s that?”
“I’m going to make a trip into Cuba. I need to be accompanied by a woman who will pose as my wife or an adult daughter. I need a woman who is politically savvy, intelligent, able to think on her feet in dangerous situations, and is fluent in Spanish. I’m under no illusions as to how risky such a trip would be.” He paused. “Yuri suggested you.”
She looked back and forth between the two of them, then laughed.
“The two of you,” she said, “you’re both quite charming and completely out of your minds.”
“Will you go with me?” Guarneri asked.
“No. That’s a flat-out no. I don’t even have to think about it.”
“A woman who can handle a gun would be particularly useful,” Guarneri said.
“Ask around in this room,” she said. “I’m sure someone knows someone and can hook you up with a Lara Croft clone.”
“Again, Yuri suggested you.”
“Yuri’s full of bad ideas, Paul. This would be one of them.”
“Think about it,” Guarneri said. “A day will come when you might want to consider my offer.”
“The answer is no,” she said. “I’m flattered, but find someone else. My answer is not going to change.”
Federov smirked. “Remember what I said,” he reminded her. “Never say never.”
THIRTEEN
Thirty minutes after midnight, sitting again in his car on a quiet Calvert Street, Nagib had a great idea. Taking a sharp screwdriver from the glove compartment and pushing it into his belt, he turned to Rashaad and said, “Wait for me. I’ll be back.”
Nagib stepped out of the car and took a slow walk around the periphery of the building. The Calvert Arms took half the block on its side of the street, and there was an entrance to its garage around the corner.
He walked back and forth for about twenty minutes, keeping a wary eye out for those nosy cops who had given him a cross-eyed look the previous night. He strolled until he saw a car stop in front of the access to the parking garage. Now it was almost 1:00 a.m. The driver used a remote device to open the garage. The big steel door opened and allowed the car to enter.
Nagib drifted to the entrance door. Just when the automatic door was almost shut, he ducked inside, quiet as an eel in shallow water. There! He was in the building and the driver who had unknowingly let him in had already moved down to the lower level to park.
Perfect!
Nagib searched along the high part of the walls for security cameras. He didn’t see any. That was good too. He found a remote area of the garage, ducked down between cars, and waited till he was convinced he was alone. His gun was in his belt in case he encountered serious trouble.
No one came by, no one saw him. Not a single car moved. As he waited, he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and put them on.
Toward 1:45 a.m., he rose. He circulated among some of the more remote cars and found several that were dirty and covered with dust. Obviously, these cars rarely moved. If he took something from one of these cars and did it neatly, no one might notice for a week or two, maybe even longer, judging by some of the dust.
He moved from car to car, keeping low, ever attentive for the sound of anyone intruding. He looked into various cars until he found what he wanted in an old Mercedes-Benz nestled into one of the corners on the lower of t
he garage’s two levels. He knew his Benzes because he had been a mechanic early in his life. He had worked on old Mercedes diesels, the now-vintage 230s, 240s, and 300s, which were common where he grew up. This one appeared to be a 1980 or thereabouts, a 300 D, a dependable old Teutonic workhorse.
So this too was perfect. Judging by the dirt on the Benz’s windshield, judging by the way the tires were slightly “down,” this old silver-blue baby rarely moved. Nagib looked on the dashboard near the VIN number to see if there was an alarm. He saw none. God was smiling on Nagib tonight, he reasoned. This car was like an engraved invitation.
He wedged the sharp screwdriver between the driver’s side doorframe and the door. He pried, parallel to the lower part of the window. He created an opening of about half an inch.
With his other hand, he took a looped strip of hard plastic from his pocket and slid it through the small passageway. He dropped the loop on the peg of the lock.
He pulled it tight. Then he pulled it sideways and upward. It fought him a little and he had to squeeze his fingers between the door and the frame. But the peg of the lock popped up. The car was unlocked.
Nagib released the screwdriver, reached to the door handle, and opened the door.
He slid in. He reached to the sun visor on the right side and removed what he had spotted from the outside: a remote clicker that he assumed operated the garage door. There was also some money between the seats. He took some of that too, but not all of it. All of it would have alerted the owner to the break-in, and he didn’t want that.
He checked the glove compartment, just out of curiosity, and looked at the car registration. The car belonged to a woman who lived in the building. The name meant nothing, but he prowled through the other paperwork, one eye on the rest of the garage in case some busybody intruded.
He found a few letters and some photographs. The woman’s name was Helen Jacobus, and she seemed to be a retired teacher. Good. She was older and apparently widowed. Nagib noted her name in case it might help him sometime. He stole some of the mail, just enough to have a record of the address, in case he ever wanted to steal an identity or break in again. There was also a twenty-dollar bill and two fives. Emergency money. He couldn’t resist. He helped himself to that too.
