Читать интересную книгу Hostage in Havana - Noel Hynd

“Probably,” she said. “What else would I do?”

“Don’t even go there,” he said.

In Mexico City, phones were ringing and back-channel connections were falling into place. Manuel Perez had no sooner settled into his home than he received yet another request for his services. He would need to travel again.

Well, all right, he thought to himself. At least this was one assignment he could parlay into a family getaway. Yet a mood of caution was growing within him. He thought of himself as a player at a roulette wheel, a player who was riding a long winning streak. He knew there would be a time when it would be wise to take his chips and walk away from the table. The problem was, walking away when one was winning was no easy matter.

NINE

A few minutes before eight, Alex arrived at Hastings’, a small Manhattan pub down one flight of stairs, in a basement, from the sidewalk on West 64th Street. It was midway between Central Park to the east and Lincoln Center to the west.

She gave Jack Hastings, the owner, a wave as she entered. She selected her own table after Jack waved back and indicated that she might sit anywhere she liked. The eatery was a neighborhood hangout and popular among visitors to Lincoln Center in the early evening. It was small, dimly lit, and comfortable. Red tablecloths anchored the room with a small candle on each table. There were usually only two waitresses from a roster of nine, all of whom worked part-time, grad students at Columbia, NYU, or Juilliard nearby. The waitresses patrolled in red T-shirts and black skirts. Jack worked the bar six nights a week. Harp and Guinness were on tap. Legend had it that throughout Prohibition, Jack’s grandfather Michael hadn’t missed a shift or a sip. The plasma TVs high up at each end of the bar were usually tuned to sports. Since taking up residence on West 61st Street, Alex had become a regular.

One of the Columbia girls, Martha, appeared quickly and took Alex’s drink order. Martha had no sooner disappeared than Ben appeared in the doorway, holding a shopping bag. Alex waved. Ben smiled broadly and came to her table. She stood for a tight embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

Ben was a strapping guy from North Carolina. He had been a Marine gunnery sergeant in Iraq before a roadside bomb in Anwar Province had taken off his leg below the knee. He now wore a prosthesis. In Washington, Alex and Ben had been gym rats together in a co-ed basketball league.

Ben was the slowest guy on the court, but at six four he was also the tallest. Prosthesis and occasional jerky movements and all, he had played center for Alex’s team. From their comradeship on the court, a deep friendship had emerged. They’d been there for each other during some of their darkest personal moments, most notably when Alex had plunged into a nearly fatal depression following the death of her fiance, and another time, in Paris, when she had been hospitalized after a shooting.

When Martha returned, they ordered drinks and then they ordered food. They exchanged small talk about recent events, Ben mostly talking about his search for an internship in Manhattan, and Alex telling him about her successful start at the new branch at Fin Cen.

Ben reached into his shopping bag and presented Alex with a small bouquet of roses. They caught her off guard. No one had given her flowers since Robert, and she still didn’t know whether to associate flowers with love or funerals. But she thanked him. They finished eating, ordered coffee, and he asked what else was new.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she said.

“Try me.”

“Do you remember that Russian? Yuri Federov.”

“Of course,” he said. “I used to be jealous of him, you chasing him down all over the world, going dancing with him or night-clubbing or whatever.”

“It was all work related,” Alex answered with a smile.

“Still,” Ben said. “It happened …” For a moment, Alex reassessed Ben – flowers, an admission of jealousy. Then, she said, “You know Federov died a few weeks back … His will was read in Switzerland two weeks ago. I didn’t attend the reading – but he left me something.” She produced the envelope that she had carried all day. She handed it to Ben. “Open it,” she said. “Take a look.”

He pulled out the check. The front of it was facing away from him when it first left the envelope. He flipped it over. His eyes widened as they settled upon it.

“Holy cow!” he muttered softly. “This is real? Two million dollars!”

“Two million dollars,” Alex said, “and the taxes have already been paid.”

He shook his head. “Don’t know about you,” he said, “but that’s the most money I’ve ever held in my hands. When I got discharged from the Marines, I had nineteen thousand dollars in the bank plus a VA card – and I thought I was rich.” He stared at it for several more seconds and handed it back. “Wow,” he said. “Incredible.”

“Really,” she said. “Incredible. Seriously. But I have some hang-ups about it. I know the type of man Federov was. I know that at the end of his life, facing death, he was looking for salvation and forgiveness.” She paused. “Think I should keep it?”

“Don’t even think twice. Think of the good you could do. Really!”

“That’s what you’d do?”

“Listen, Alex,” he said. “Maybe Federov was looking for salvation. Maybe he thought you would know exactly where his money could do the most good.”

“Maybe,” Alex said. Then, seeing the look he gave her, she said, “So what?”

“So what does it matter if it can’t buy him forgiveness? It could do a lot of good, anyway. Good in your life. Good in the lives of others. You could give it away, or you could use it to sustain you while you give your time and effort away to others. How’s that?”

“Good.” She nodded.

“Think about Itzhak Perlman,” he said, “the violinist.”

“What about him?”

“He contracted polio when he was four and lost the use of his legs. Instead of cursing his fate, he saw it as a gift from God. As he tells it, no one would have put a violin in his hands if he hadn’t been in a wheelchair. And from the hands in that chair came some of the most beautiful music of the twentieth century. So from a quirk of fate, or divine intervention, or whatever you call it, lives get changed. That’s happened to you, so just go with it.”

She pondered. Ben sipped his drink and continued, “I’m happy for you. You know the old joke: ‘Money isn’t everything, but it’s way ahead of second place.’ “

She smiled. “Funny, but not necessarily true.”

“Of course not,” he said, “because money can bring misery too.” He paused. “When I was growing up in North Carolina, my mother used to tell me about this nasty woman she knew named Darlene. Mom and Darlene had gone to high school together. When Darlene was about thirty, she inherited a pile of dough from her family, and it changed her. She spent her life safeguarding it, being suspicious of other people, never having fun. She became churlish, hostile, lost all her friends. My mother was a Christian, a woman of faith. She used to say, if that’s what money does to you, she prayed to God she would never be rich, because that’s not the person she wanted to be.”

“Point taken,” Alex said.

“Now, let’s get back to Itzhak Perlman. Did you know he’s playing at Carnegie Hall on Friday?”

“I did know that,” she said. “I tried to get tickets but it’s sold out.”

“So who’s your pal?” he asked. “I am, that’s who. I have my own magical envelope this evening.”

Ben reached into a jacket pocket and flipped a small envelope onto the table. “Two tickets for Perlman. Bought them as a gift for letting me stay with you. Hope you can go.”

She picked up the tickets and looked at them. Orchestra, fifteenth row. In terms of grad-student dollars, Ben had taken a plunge for these.

“Wow!” she said. She stood, leaned over the table, and kissed him.

“It’s already worth it,” he said. “You’ll go?”

“I’d love to.”

He took them back. “I’ll hold them for now.”

“Ben?” she asked, a trace of anxiety. “Is this a ‘date’ date?”

“What if it were?” he asked.

“If it were,” she said, “we should talk first. I think you’re wonderful. But last year was so traumatizing. I’m not sure that I’m ready for – “

“Look. It’s you and me as friends going to a recital where we happen to be close up to one of the great violinists of our lifetime. We have a great evening and hear some great music. Does it have to be any more than that?”

She shook her head, mildly relieved. “No. That’s already splendid enough.”

TEN

Before work on Friday morning, Alex went to the office of Credit Suisse at 11 Madison Avenue. By appointment, she met Christophe Chatton, whose card Joshua Silverman had given her at his office. Chatton was a thin young man with dark hair, about thirty. He wore a three-piece suit and spoke with a mildly irritating accent that suggested a year or two in British public schools. He met her in the bank’s vast lobby and ushered her to his private office.

The banker was up-to-date on why she was there. “I do congratulate you,” he said, “on your good fortune. An inheritance from a late gentleman friend.” He presented her with another business card and a brochure about the bank.

Late gentleman friend. His phrasing made it sound like she was an ex-mistress who’d struck gold. She let it go.

“I’m hoping that you’re here to open an account,” he said.

“That’s correct,” Alex said, “I am. So let’s get it done.” All in all, she thought, she should be happier about this than she actually felt.

“Excellent,” he said.

Alex placed the check on his desk.

“I have some forms for you to fill out,” he said silkily. “Applications for an account. Please be assured that we can handle all aspects of private banking for you. We like to build long relationships with our customers and tailor our various investment services to your needs.”

“Forgive me,” she said, “but I’m going to go slowly on this. I’ve only been wealthy for less than a week.”

Chatton laughed. “I fear that Swiss banks have long been thought of as exclusive and only catering to the very rich,” he said. “That is not a fact. Swiss bank accounts and private banking are available to those with less than one million dollars.”

“Paupers,” she said.

“You’re familiar with Credit Suisse, I’m sure,” he said. “Foremost, we have protected the wealth of our clients for nearly a hundred and fifty years. During the American Civil War, our headquarters in Geneva stood on the same spot where it stands now. Before the Suez Canal was completed, before man flew the first airplane, we were doing business. Continuity and security, Madame LaDuca. That’s what we stand for.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the bank,” she said, bemused.

“You know much about us?”

“I know that like most Swiss banks, ninety-nine percent of your private clients are wealthy law-abiding citizens. Another three quarters of one percent are tax evaders, bribe takers, and arms dealers. The rest are drug traffickers.”

“You have a delicious sense of humor,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. “And don’t worry. I’ll leave the money here for a while.”

“Let me explain the possibilities for investment,” he said. “Do gold bars interest you? Certificates of deposit?”

“I just want it in one insured account right now, earning interest. Nothing exotic.”

“Very well.” His tone conveyed a sigh of exasperation. He looked down and put his own signature on the documents. “Please wait for a moment,” he said.

Officiously, he was on his feet and out of his office, leaving the door slightly ajar. For several minutes Alex sat alone, surveying Chatton’s lair, the teak of the desk, the signed Miro print on the wall, the standing plant in the corner. Then Monsieur Chatton was back with all her documents fully executed and a book of temporary checks. “All done,” he said. “Your deposit is complete. Again, my congratulations on your new wealth.”

Alex smiled. If only she knew what to do with it.

ELEVEN

Friday evening arrived. At Carnegie Hall, Alex and Ben sat in the fifteenth row of the orchestra and watched in awe as violinist Itzhak Perlman played seemingly two concerts. The first half was remorselessly formal, as Perlman delivered the music, nodding but otherwise not saying a word to the audience between pieces.

The concert opened with one of Handel’s violin sonatas. In this work, Perlman’s tight musicianship came across to Alex as a lovely, chaste melancholy. Already fatigued, she felt her spirits dimmed from the sadness of the music.

But after intermission, the formal virtuoso was transformed into the casual, accessible violin player, a man who, in his fifty years of performing, had not only performed in every great concert hall but had also easily joked with the Muppets on Sesame Street.

“The good news is that the piece is not very long,” Perlman quipped from the stage about Messiaen’s modernist Theme and Variations. “Just pretend you’ve heard it ten times before and maybe you’ll like it.”

Ben and Alex laughed. Ben gave Alex’s hand a squeeze and then pulled it away, awkwardly and self-consciously. After that, Perlman played six short pieces. At the end, he was rewarded with a roar of acclamation from the audience.

Alex and Ben emerged from Carnegie Hall into a balmy June night. They walked up Seventh Avenue to 61st Street where Alex lived. They chatted amiably, enjoying the evening. She felt relaxed with him in a way different than any man she knew. His body felt strong, his gait smooth, even with the prosthesis.

“Hungry?” he asked as they maneuvered the crowds. The New York Philharmonic and the theater where a revival of South

Pacific was playing had let out from nearby Lincoln Center. The sidewalks were busy.

“Yes. A bit,” she said. “What are you in the mood for? Italian? Greek? Pub grub? Coffee and pastry?”

“You choose.”

They looked at various store fronts. Then the answer presented itself to her. “Know what would be good?” she said.

“You tell me.”

She motioned to her neighborhood pizzeria, Raimondo’s, a bright place that sold pies whole or by the slice. “Let’s just get some slices and take them home,” she said. “I’ve got drinks in the fridge.”

“Works for me,” he said, “if it works for you.”

“Works perfectly for me,” she said. “The place is owned by an Athenian named Chris who grew up in Calabria and is staffed by people who barely speak English,” Alex said. “That’s always a good sign for pizza in New York.”