Havana Best Friends

by Jose Latour

  But the ultimate reason for the enormous value of diamonds, what made them a judicious purchase for investors, tax evaders, and money launderers, was their scarcity. Wasn’t the longing to possess what very few had one more manifestation of human folly? Well, thanks to that nonsense, suddenly she was a rich woman. To think she had lived all her life an arm’s reach from an immense fortune; that she had showered daily inches away from it; that a few years earlier, in the darkest days of the so-called Special Period, she had gone to bed on an empty stomach as millions of dollars lay behind the damn soap dish.

  Elena lowered her arm and stared at the ceiling. Could she consider herself a rich woman? Now that she had definitely decided to stay in Cuba (deaf and dumb indeed!), she needed to find a way to sell the stones. Maybe she should try to sell the smallest of all first. But to whom? And how should she go about it? She didn’t have the slightest idea about prices. She might get five hundred dollars for what was worth five thousand. Elena clucked her tongue and shook her head in dismay. Rich and all, she might still be facing several years of standing in line for the second turn of the dog.

  A huge yawn surprised her. She rubbed the heel of her hand into her eye, then massaged her forehead. Realizing that she was utterly exhausted, she turned on her side and deposited the diamond on top of her bedside table, along with the other thirty-seven gems. She switched the light off, sighed deeply, embraced her pillow, and glided down a well of unconsciousness.

  In room 321 of the Copacabana hotel, sitting in an armchair by the TV set, Sean gave the handle of his aluminium cane a final turn and glanced at Marina. The one-and-a-half-inch-diameter tube with a black rubber tip at its end now stored seventy-four diamonds, which had been slid one at a time into a lead receptacle that fit exactly into the aluminium tube. Outwardly, the cane looked identical to the cheap ones sold all over the world to people who break a leg, and to the old, ill, and blind who can’t afford something fancier. No one would guess that Sean had paid two thousand dollars for the made-to-order gadget.

  Sitting on her bed, Marina was peering at three brilliants, one small, one medium-sized, and one large, which she held in the palm of her hand. The biggest stone in particular fascinated her. It was the most beautiful gem she had ever seen; it seemed to radiate the mysterious internal light that so many uninformed people attribute to diamonds. She raised her head when she heard Sean stand and watched him approach the table between the beds, pick up the phone, tap in 415.

  “My dear friend,” Sean said into the mouthpiece after a few moments. “We were having a nightcap, reading a wonderful book of poems, and my wife thought you might like to join us.”

  “Now?” the voice at the other end asked.

  “My wife always says, ‘The night is young; the night is a woman.’ ”

  “Delighted to join you. But I don’t remember your room number.”

  “321.”

  “All right. I’ll be there in … fifteen minutes.”

  “Bye.”

  Sean returned the receiver to its cradle and sat on his bed. Marina put the diamonds down by the phone and walked over to the small refrigerator. She opened it and turned to Sean.

  “Would you like something?”

  “A Coke.”

  She popped the tabs off cans of Diet Pepsi and Classic Coke, handed Sean his, sucked down part of her soda, then strode to the bathroom to pee and wash her hands and face. Afterwards she eased herself into a plastic armchair by the balcony’s sliding glass door to finish her Pepsi. She was completely drained, but suspense kept her alert. What would the expert’s verdict be? Sean entered the bathroom.

  Marina reckoned that, should the expert pronounce the gems genuine, she could sleep non-stop for twelve hours. But she wouldn’t. Sean said they ought to check out around 10:00 a.m., say goodbye to Elena, then get themselves to the airport as soon as possible. She glanced at her watch. Ten to two. How long would a verdict take? Say, half an hour. They would go to bed around two-thirty, get up no later than 9:00 a.m. Six and a half hours’ sleep, not bad.

  Why were men so ill mannered? Marina wondered. Sean had never left the bathroom door open before they had sex. After becoming intimate with a guy, a woman was compelled to hear him fart and pee and belch and cough and spit and shower and brush his teeth. There were some who left the bathroom door open when they took a crap as well. Twenty-first century cavemen. Not Carlos, though. The blind man always locked himself in, even when they stayed at her place and he had to carefully grope his way to the john. He closed the door to shave, for Christ’s sake! She smiled briefly. What a guy. She drank some more Pepsi.

  After washing his face and combing his hair, Sean was more alert. He finished his Coke sitting in his armchair by the TV set. At two minutes past two, there were three soft knocks on the door. Sean got up and opened the door.

  Marc Scherjon entered with a circumspect smile. He wore the same white dress shirt, baggy trousers, and black loafers he had worn on the plane. He held the same strange briefcase.

  “Welcome, dear friend,” Sean said, but the instant he closed the door he gave the expert a meaningful look as he pressed his forefinger to his lips.

  “How are you doing?” Marina asked as she stood up and extended her hand.

  “I’m doing fine, thank you,” Scherjon responded nonchalantly. “Pining to read good poetry.”

  “We thought you were. Please, sit down.” Sean pulled a chair out from the black plastic table by the balcony door. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “A beer will be fine.”

  Marina went to get it. Sean reached for the three diamonds from the bedside table and placed them in front of the Dutchman, who stole a glimpse at them before opening his briefcase. After forty-two years appraising gems, Scherjon had developed a sixth sense. Gut instinct told him that these rocks were the real thing, but he needed scientific confirmation.

  The first gadget he produced was a thermal-conductivity meter. Next an ultraviolet lamp was placed on the table, then a binocular microscope, an extension, tweezers, a small flashlight, and finally a folded piece of deep-blue velvet. Marina deposited a glass and a bottle of Heineken close to the expert’s right arm. Scherjon thanked her, poured half the liquid into the glass, and drank it all. With a wave of his hand he asked for the bottle and the glass to be removed. Sean handed them to Marina.

  The expert unfolded and laid out the velvet, then placed the diamonds on it. Tilting his head to indicate that Marina should return to her armchair, Sean did the same. Scherjon stood to plug the extension into an outlet. The electronic display of the thermal-conductivity meter proved the three stones were superbly conductive. With a sign, the appraiser ordered the lights turned off. The absence of yellow fluorescence to ultraviolet light confirmed that the diamonds were not synthetic. With the lights back on, under the binocular microscope and using the flashlight, he scrutinized them one by one. No fracture fillings were apparent, although he couldn’t be 100 per cent sure; in the 1980s a glasslike material was developed that could be injected into open fractures, and gems so treated are difficult to detect, especially under such poor illumination. Scherjon was done, he could now pronounce the diamonds genuine, which was what he had been asked to do. He hadn’t brought the equipment to go any further, but he was a curious and conscientious man.

  By their size, he judged the stones to have been bought in New York. De Beers gave Big Apple dealers the largest roughs and the best colours, taking into account that the United States was the prime market and had fine cutters. This impression was reinforced by the cutting style.

  Sitting, their eyes glued to the appraiser, Sean and Marina were trying to discern the verdict from the man’s facial expressions. But the Dutchman had handled many thousands of gems in his life and his countenance was as bored as that of a baker making bread or a bartender pouring beer into a glass.

  Again he lifted the biggest diamond and examined it under the microscope, table facet down, viewing it through the pavilion facets. H
ad he brought his viewing box, by comparing it with the masterstones he could have determined the stone’s colour precisely; lacking that, he supposed it was F or G in colour. He judged its clarity as of very, very slight inclusions. He couldn’t determine the exact proportions of depth, table, girdle, and culet, and he had not been asked to, but they seemed very good to his eye, between the best and ideal. The polish looked very good, as did the symmetry.

  Scherjon also examined the clarity, colour, proportions, and polish of the mid-sized and the small gems before laying down the microscope and turning in his chair to face the couple. He consulted his watch. Fifty-five minutes had elapsed since he had entered the room.

  “These are excellent poems,” he said simply.

  Beaming, Sean and Marina locked eyes and stood up. The appraiser grinned. Sean slid open the balcony’s door, stepped outside, then gestured for Marina and Scherjon to join him. Once they were all outside, he pushed the door shut. A waning half-moon shone in a star-sprinkled sky, the sea was calm, the breeze gentle, the temperature still warm.

  “The bigger diamond, how many carats?” Sean asked.

  Scherjon shook his head. “To measure that I need an electronic balance. You said all you wanted was to know was whether the gems were genuine.”

  “I know, I know,” Sean muttered impatiently. “Could you make an estimate?”

  The expert lifted his eyes to the moon and stroked his chin. He enjoyed having people anxiously hanging on his every word at moments like this.

  “I would say five carats.”

  Sean slid the tip of his tongue over his lips. “And the medium-sized?”

  “Around three and a half carats. The smaller might be between one and seven-eighths and two carats.”

  Marina couldn’t help herself. “What would you say is their value? The three of them, I mean.”

  Sean doubted that Scherjon would answer the question, it was not part of the agreement, but he didn’t interfere.

  “My dear madam,” the expert pompously began. “Mr. Abercorn said all he wanted from me was to determine if these gems were genuine or not. I don’t want to lecture you on the complexities of estimating the price of a stone. Rest assured it’s not as simple as you may think.”

  “Just a rough estimate, please?” Marina turned on her considerable charm.

  “Madam, please,” the Dutchman objected feebly, having already decided to yield. These amateurs might want to sell, and his firm in Amsterdam would be interested in buying if the price was right and a nice profit could be made. That would mean he could add a hefty commission to his consultation fee.

  “A very, very rough estimate?” Marina pleaded.

  Scherjon fastened his eyes on the path of moonlight that shone on the surface of the sea. They were excellent gems. The biggest might fetch $50,000 or $55,000 per carat retail. That would amount to a minimum of $250,000 and a maximum of $275,000. “With great reservation I would say that the bigger stone might be sold for something between $150,000 and $180,000.”

  Sean and Elena exchanged a glance that tried to be neutral. Simultaneously, their brains made an identical calculation: they had twenty diamonds of approximately the same size: more than three and a half million dollars. There are more stones like that one, Scherjon inferred, attentively watching the two pairs of eyes. They may have them here or somewhere else, but there are more stones. Sean recovered first.

  “And the other two?” he asked as nonchalantly as he could.

  Again the expert lost himself in estimations. “The three-and-a-half-carat stone might move between $85,000 and $90,000; the smaller one I would say something like $32,000 to $35,000.”

  Scherjon waited patiently for his clients’ mental wheels to stop turning, a knowing smile on his lips. Contemplating the dark sea without seeing it, making an effort to seem poised, Marina and Sean were frantically multiplying figures. There were twenty-nine medium-sized stones, roughly two million and a half, plus twenty-eight small gems, a million more. According to the Dutchman, the loot was worth a little more than six and a half million; split three ways and discounting expenses, each would get two point two or two point three million dollars. Sean felt certain that the appraiser had underpriced the diamonds to make the lowest bid should he and Marina want to sell to the firm he worked for. Just by virtue of the depreciation of the dollar since 1958, what back then cost one million, might now be worth ten million or more. The whole lot, including Elena Miranda’s share, might be worth nine, ten, maybe eleven million. The Cuban teacher’s cut might amount to three or three-and-a-half million.

  “The owner is asking $300,000 for all three,” Sean improvised.

  Suspecting that his client was trying to outfox him, Scherjon raised his left eyebrow skeptically. In a nation this impoverished, he was certain the owner would be prepared to sell his diamonds for a tiny fraction of their worth – if he hadn’t done so already. What Mr. Abercorn was really trying to figure was how much he could sell the stones for abroad. But it was a good guess. “Well, I wouldn’t pay one cent over $250,000,” he said.

  Sean nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Mr. Scherjon. I suggest we go back inside now and I will pay you. Have you made an estimate of your expenses?”

  “I have. Airfare was $956. Hotel and meals shouldn’t exceed $500.”

  “Very well. I’ll give you $3,500 then.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sean slid the door open and they all re-entered the room. A minute later, after returning his instruments to his briefcase, Scherjon tucked thirty-five one-hundred-dollar bills into his pocket, thanked Sean, bowed to Marina, and left. His job done, the flight attendant came to life on his mental screen.

  Across the room, Sean and Marina stared at each other.

  “We’re rich,” Marina said.

  “Not yet. But there is a high probability we will be soon.”

  Smiling and nodding in agreement, Marina approached her bed and pulled back the bedspread. “I need to lie down,” she said, kicking her shoes off. “I’m worn out, drained. I can’t function any more,” she added as she flopped onto her bed, hugged the pillow, and lay on her right side.

  “Take off your clothes,” Sean suggested.

  “In a little while,” she mumbled.

  She promptly fell asleep. Sean watched her curiously for a few moments, then approached the table and collected the three diamonds. He reached for the cane, sat on his bed, and laid the stones by his side. He gave the cane handle three full turns to the right, slid out the lead container, pulled the plastic stopper, and dropped the appraised gems into it. From Marina’s duffel bag he took the roll of cotton wool and used it to fill the container’s empty space almost to the top, packing it down tightly with his little finger. Then he pressed in the plastic stopper and screwed the handle back in place before shaking the cane by his ear to make sure the gems didn’t rattle. At last, Sean undressed, turned the lights off, and crawled into his bed.

  He turned his head and stared at the sleeping woman. Elena Miranda was not coming, so he could take off. Marina was a big girl, capable of wiggling herself out of tight spots. And in a week or so, when they met again and he explained, she would understand.

  6

  On August 6, a Sunday, at 3:52 a.m., the officer sent to relieve the patrolman standing guard by the front gate of the North Korean embassy found his colleague sprawled on the sidewalk. It seemed his neck had been broken and his handgun, a 9mm Russian automatic, was nowhere to be seen. Two extra clips had also disappeared.

  Six months earlier, having just graduated from police academy, Evelio Díaz had been assigned to the detail that provides around-the-clock protection to embassies and consulates. That night at 11:50 he had relieved another cop at his post, a round metallic sunshade on the corner of Paseo Avenue and 17th Street. Officer Díaz was twenty-six years old, married, and a member of the Communist Youth.

  Like their counterparts all over the world, nothing upsets the Cuban police more than the murder of one of their own. A
nd so, a little after 4:00 a.m. all hell broke loose at the national headquarters, located on the corner of Rancho Boyeros Avenue and Lombillo Street.

  The officer on duty at the residence of the British ambassador to Cuba, a block north from where the body was found, was immediately whisked off to headquarters and questioned at length. He had neither seen nor heard anything peculiar. There had been a number of the lonely pedestrians, couples, drunks, and speeding vehicles typical of weekends, but he didn’t recall any arguments, scuffles, or screams in the vicinity. No suspicious-looking individuals had attracted his attention. Occasionally he had glanced in the direction where his comrade was supposed to be, but hadn’t seen him. This was no cause for alarm because the block’s tall laurel trees shaded the dim lighting from streetlamps and, besides, as a basic security measure officers were told to stand in dark spots at night.

  The body was lifted at 6:15 and taken to the Institute of Legal Medicine. The final result of the postmortem would be known around noon, the pathologist on duty promised, but the initial examination revealed nothing aside from a broken neck.

  An all-points bulletin was radioed and Havana police were placed on full alert. From their new Peugeot squad cars, frowning cops scanned all pedestrians, bikers, and private cars. Hundreds of suspicious-looking men were intercepted, frisked, and briefly questioned; those who didn’t have their identity cards on them were taken to police stations; thousands of informers were asked to keep on the lookout. But lacking a description of the murderer or witnesses it all seemed in vain; many of those in the know thought of the proverbial needle in a haystack.

  A few minutes before 6:00 a.m., the clerk at the Copacabana’s reception desk watched a guest approach him dragging a carry-on. The clerk knew no tour group was boarding a bus before dawn and that tourists on their own usually checked out later in the day. Leaning on a cane, the man approached him with a confident smile. He wore a maroon sports coat over a white shirt and khakis.