Hostage in Havana

by Noel Hynd

  Also, Alex learned, New York City Police and the FBI were scouring the city for Manuel Perez. So far, they’d come up cold. The man knew how to disappear when he had to.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Paul Guarneri’s home was a Federal-style red-brick townhouse on Cranberry Street in Brooklyn Heights, a mini-estate behind an unobtrusive façade. MacPhail and Ramirez delivered her there by 7:30.

  Guarneri, wearing a blue button-down shirt and khakis, emerged to welcome his guests personally. He and Alex’s guards sized each other up, and Guarneri offered a handshake, which the Feds accepted.

  “Normally when you guys are out in front of my place it’s for a wedding. You show up to write down license-plate numbers and take pictures. I have to send my brother Sonny out to smash cameras.”

  The Feds looked at Guarneri, then at each other. Then they all laughed.

  “Why don’t you guys come on in for some dinner?” Guarneri asked. “You’re supposed to keep watch on Alex. You can sit at the table and watch her that way.”

  It violated no rules, so they accepted.

  The building was from the 1920s but had been renovated recently. The entrance area was a great rotunda with twelve-over-twelve windows. On the right, it led to a pine galley with original paintings. Beyond that, Alex could see a den. On the left, the rotunda led to a living room and a formal dining room.

  Dinner was at a long table. There were introductions all around. The oldest of Guarneri’s children, Lisa, was away at boarding school in Massachusetts. “The same place one of our nitwit presidents went,” as Guarneri explained it. The other two children were at home, however; daughter Lauren, twelve, sat next to her brother, Joey, who was eight.

  Guarneri’s housekeeper, a Guatemalan woman named Florence, cooked and served the dinner. Guarneri conversed with her in Spanish, as did Alex and Lauren. Rounding out the attendees was Guarneri’s sister, Diana, who lived in Glen Cove, farther out on Long Island. She often served as a parent-in-absentia for the children, Paul explained, while he was away on trips. Diana was mid-forties, childless, and divorced.

  “Diana will be here when I’m in Cuba,” Guarneri said, “however long my absence may be.” Guarneri had no trouble speaking with the FBI agents present. After dinner he offered them cigars from his collection. They went outside to smoke a couple of San Cristobols while Guarneri led Alex into a den so they could talk privately.

  “So,” he said, sitting in a leather arm chair, “someone took a shot, huh?”

  “Right when you phoned,” she said. She settled into a plush chair across from him and distantly wondered what it would be like to live in such a lavish home. The home where she had grown up in California would fit into a quarter of this space. Yet it had been honest, warm, and happy. Her thoughts bounced back to the present. “I turned to pick up the cell phone and the bullet missed. It was your call.”

  “That’s why the bullet missed you?”

  “That’s the way I see it. Thanks for the call. Sorry I couldn’t take it,” she said.

  “Great timing, huh?” he said.

  “Providential,” she said. “I’d like to think there’s something I have left to do here on earth and so God kept me in the game.”

  “You religious?” he asked.

  “More than most people,” she answered. “Less than some others.”

  “I’m a lapsed Catholic myself,” he replied. “I have more questions than answers. Isn’t that often the case with thinking people?”

  “Often it is,” Alex said.

  “Anyone know who fired the shot?” he asked.

  “There are some credible leads,” she said, “but nothing I can discuss.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  The room was dominated by a large-screen television on one side, some New York Yankees memorabilia on the other. Two large leather chairs and a matching sofa over plush wall-to-wall carpeting. A man’s lair. In one corner was a bag of golf clubs thrown up against some fencing equipment, including an assortment of epées and sabers.

  “Can Florence get you coffee?” he asked. “An after-dinner drink maybe?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Then Paul was on his feet. “I’d like you to see something,” he said. He went to a drawer and found a passport. He opened it, then walked to Alex and handed it to her.

  “My ID while I’m traveling to Cuba,” he said. “I hope this isn’t a deal breaker.”

  The document was Canadian, or appeared to be. She opened it. It bore the name of Richard Valenteri of Toronto, an identity as fictitious as the passport itself.

  She glanced up at him, partly in dismay, partly in admiration as she turned the pages. “This is rather good,” she said. “It has a nice well-used feel, neither too full nor too empty. Ever used it before?”

  “No.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I suppose officially I don’t know about this,” she said. She closed it and examined the binding. “I can’t find a flaw in it,” she said. “Very professional. I won’t even ask where you bought it. Expensive?”

  “These things are,” he said, taking it back. “It won’t stand scrutiny at a port of entry to the U.S.,” he said, “but it’ll protect me in Cuba.” He put it away in the same drawer and remained on his feet. “I’ll be back in a second,” he said. “I want to see if the kids are doing their homework.” Then he was out the door.

  She surveyed the room. The bookshelves on the wall were bulging, mostly with histories and biographies. A few empty spaces were marked by bookends and small statuettes, frequently those of New York Yankees players: Mantle, Reggie, Guidry, Mat-tingly, Jeter, Posada, A-Rod. One set of bookends was marked with the coat of arms of Cornell University, while another set was a reproduction of the New York City Library Lions, and there was an impressive statuette of Rodin’s The Kiss.

  After a minute Guarneri reappeared, looking cross, carrying a bottle of water. “My girls are my students and my son is my terrorist,” he said. “Lauren’s studying. Her sister’s at prep school, so now she wants to go away to school too. Joey’s into World of Warcraft. Can’t get him to open a book.”

  “Sounds like a typical American family,” she offered.

  His expression changed. He smiled. “Maybe,” he said. He closed the door. “Can’t say I blame Joey for wanting to have his fun,” he said under his breath. “Kids should be able to enjoy childhood. I never had many games when I was a kid. We lived a Spartan existence: a two-bedroom in Hempstead. My mother got money from my dad but was always afraid it would end, which it did one day in 1973.”

  “The day he was murdered.”

  “Correct,” he said.

  “Joey’s named after your father then?” Alex said.

  “No, Joe DiMaggio,” he said. Then he grinned. “Yeah. He’s named after my dad,” he said. He sipped the bottled water. “Sure I can’t get you a drink?”

  She declined again and he sat.

  “How did you land at Cornell?” she asked.

  “My father had a funny attitude toward formal education,” Guarneri said. “He didn’t have one himself. He was an illegal immigrant from Naples in the 1930s. Jumped ship in Miami, eventually got mobbed up. His education was the waterfronts, the bars, the brothels, and eventually the casinos and racetracks. So he figured I should have a real education — the best he could find. He was street smart and wanted culture; I got culture and wanted street smarts. But the old man named the tune. So I got sent to tough parochial schools on Long Island. My dad always said, ‘You get an education; no one can ever take that away from you.’ So he was on my case all the time about studies. Bless him. I was his only son, at least that I know of. He steered me away from his sordid world. He did a lot of things wrong, but he did some things right as well.”

  “And yet, in a way, you’re steering back,” she suggested.

  “What do you mean?”

  Alex wondered if she had touched a nerve. “Well, Cuba. That’s a trip into your father’s past.
On one hand you say you’re glad you moved away from that, and yet you want to reach out and touch it again.”

  “You have a point.”

  “Unless it’s just the money,” she said.

  He laughed. “It’s never just the money, Alex,” he said. “Not for any reasonable man or woman.”

  “Then what is it? In your case?”

  He leaned back in his chair, his hands folded behind his head. “Family. Destiny. Promises once made. Timing.” She thought he was ready to say more, but didn’t. “May I let it go at that for tonight?” he asked.

  “You may.”

  A thoughtful pause, and he added, “No one’s completely bad, are they?”

  “I’m not following the question.”

  “My father,” he said. “Giuseppe Cristoforo Guarneri, though he was Joe to those who knew him. Nineteen twenty-eight to 1973, somehow by the grace of God. Joe from Napoli. Joe the gangster, who was on the payroll of Lucky Luciano of Murder Incorporated. Was Joe a bad man?” he asked. “That’s my question.”

  “It might be your question, but I can’t answer it,” Alex said.

  “If he was, am I a bad man for honoring a bad man’s wishes?”

  “Depends on the purpose.”

  “Evil fascinates me. Maybe more than good does. Name an evil man,” he said. “Completely evil.”

  “Hitler? Stalin?” she tried.

  “Point taken,” he said. “Want to add Castro and Fulgencio Batista to your list?”

  “I’ll let you do that,” she said.

  “I just did. Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, musing. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? That was part of it. It took many years for my father’s execution to wear off. I was in denial for a decade and a half. Then I wanted to know more. About him. About the events of the time. Hell, it’s where I came from. If dad hadn’t had an eye for the chorus girls, I wouldn’t have been born.”

  Alex laughed out loud. “That’s an odd way of looking at it.”

  “It’s a realistic way of looking at it,” Guarneri countered.

  “So you want to sneak into Cuba, and yet you’re an expert on Cuba?” she said.

  “An amateur expert,” he corrected. “A lay expert.”

  “What can you tell me about the Bay of Pigs?” Alex asked.

  He laughed slightly. “Quite a lot. I can tell you two things,” he said: “the invasion was a disaster, and my old man was there.”

  “Your father was part of the force that invaded Cuba?” she asked.

  “Yup. He went to Miami and trained with the invading force. Then he went in. He was captured on the beach. Lucky he wasn’t killed. Spent time in a Cuban prison camp before the U.S. made a deal to get the men back. It was the only time my father ever spent time in jail.”

  “So he had CIA contacts?” she said.

  “Sure,” Guarneri said, “but don’t make too much of that. The CIA was going crazy back then trying to get rid of Castro. They’d play ball with anyone. My dad’s contacts probably were not any better than five thousand other people’s.”

  She looked at him to ferret out the truth. “Or at least that’s what you’re telling me,” she said.

  He snorted slightly. “Why would I lie to you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Why would you?”

  “I have no reason to,” he said. “None. The CIA, they’ll lie to anyone. Me, you. The press. The president. Santa Claus. Anyone.” He paused. “I hate them,” he said.

  “It’s hard to figure you out sometimes, Paul,” she said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know. I get in here in your home. Books. Fencing. Library. Kids. Not what I expected.”

  “What did you expect? A blend of DeNiro and Joe Pesci?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “Well, that’s me in a nutshell, isn’t it?” he said. “Half in one place, half in another. I’m Cuban, but I’m Italian. I’m Italian, but I’m American. I’m a thug and a mobbed-up guy, but I’d be happy at home reading a history book. I hate violence, but I own guns. I’m divorced, but I’m a family man.” He shrugged. “Go figure.”

  “I’m trying to,” she said, “but don’t change the subject.”

  “Did I?”

  “You did.”

  “Then ask me whatever you want,” he said.

  “What do you know about the Bay of Pigs from your dad?” she asked.

  “From my dad? Not a thing. He never talked about Cuba. Oh, he acknowledged what his business was there, who he had known. And I knew he was in the invasion and was captured because he disappeared those years, then came back, fuming about Kennedy, the CIA, and everyone involved. He probably hated the people who were on our side as much as he hated Castro.”

  “But he talked about it enough to tell you that there was some money stashed.”

  “Sure.” He paused. “Joseph Guarneri was an old-fashioned guy. What you’d call a ‘sexist pig.’ I was his only son. He had two daughters with his American wife. He always said he would let me know later, we’d ‘have a talk.’ I believe he was thinking that I, as his son, should be the one to know more, to go back, to settle things. Follow?”

  “I follow.”

  “He said he would tell me everything when I was twenty-one. When he was whacked, I was eighteen.”

  “Ever talk to your half-sisters about him?”

  “A couple of times. They know nothing. And they married non-Italians. They want nothing to do with this. Your parents still alive?” he asked.

  “No. Neither,” she said.

  “So we have that in common too,” he noted.

  Alex agreed that they did. “Your mother became a U.S. citizen?” Alex asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Very quickly. That way she wouldn’t be deported if things went the wrong way.” Paul went to the bookcase. He picked up an eight-by-ten portrait in a silver frame. It was a black-and-white of his mother, a pretty Latina in a gown and a mink coat. Behind her was the finish line and pari-mutuel board of a racetrack.

  “This was taken at Oriental Park Racetrack in 1958,” he said. “My mother liked the horses, same as my dad. She liked to put a few dollars down here and there. See, the horses ran during the day. Both my parents were busy working at night with the clubs and the shows. So the daytime was when they could be together.” He laughed. “I wouldn’t be here without certain lazy afternoons in Havana,” he said.

  “I understand,” Alex said with a smirk.

  Guarneri gave the photo a final glance, then walked it back to the shelf and carefully returned it to its place.

  Alex glanced at her watch. It was past eleven. She said, “The other day, you said you could leave quickly if you had to. Is that still the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m willing to go with you to Cuba,” she said. “I need time to accomplish my own assignment, but we can go together. If you’ll do it, I’ll do it.”

  “What’s your assignment? May I ask?”

  “The return of a CIA defector. He wants to come home. The Cubans won’t let him. So I’m supposed to rendezvous and bring him back.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “I can share information only after we land,” she said. “Sorry, that’s the deal.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I don’t really care anyway. I’ll help you as much as I can if you’ll help me.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll come out at the same time.”

  “Hopefully, but one never knows,” Guarneri said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Men make plans; God laughs,” he said. “With a trip like this, who knows what’s going to happen? Everything goes according to plans until the first shot is fired.”

  “You expect shots to be fired?”

  “I hope not. It was a metaphor.”

  “Could you be ready to leave in four days?” she asked.

  He thought for a second, then nodded slowly. “I can set it up,” he said.
/>   “Then do it,” she said. “Set it up. We have an agreement.”

  “Not quite yet,” he said. “There’s one other thing I need to tell you.”

  “Go ahead,” she said. Then she waited.

  “I’m not exactly a virgin going into Havana. Yuri Federov used to go in for me and make some contacts, do some business. And twice I went with him.”

  She was stunned, then suddenly angry. “Then you have been there before! Not just when you were a kid but more recently!”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you lied to me?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Unfortunately, I did. I’m sorry. Once in 2006 and then again in 2008. Okay? So I know the island a little better than I let on. There was a security issue surrounding those trips, both mine and for those who helped me go in and out. So I honestly couldn’t tell you until now. And now I’m telling you point blank in case you want to bail. Then again, you’ve got your own business to attend to also. And I know you’re not telling me every aspect of that either. I know because those CIA people always put you up to something. Even when you’re not working for them you are. Right?”

  “That’s correct,” she said.

  “So we understand each other? We find ourselves in a similar situation?”

  After several seconds she said, “We do.” “I think we finally understand each other. But don’t ever lie to me again.”

  “Are we still going to travel?” he asked.

  “We’re going,” she said.

  He smiled, came to her, and clasped her hand with both of his. “Excellent,” he said. “Excellent!”

  Half an hour later, Alex sat in silence as the SUV crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and reentered Manhattan. With the midnight skyline stretched out in front of her, she rode in silence, knowing two things. The first was that the voyage to Cuba was going to happen. And the second was that Paul Guarneri had come within a hair’s breadth of sharing with her his real reason for going to the island but had stopped short. Why, she wondered. Something she had said? Or was he just not trusting her enough? Or was there a strain of dishonesty in him that she hadn’t picked up on yet?