Sofia shot Jack a look as if to say that “ladies first” was for lifeboats and cocktail parties. Jack entered, and she followed.
Jack’s eyes had to adjust to the lights, which were shining straight at his face. The room was windowless, but there was a large mirror built into the wall, undoubtedly a one-way gizmo that concealed the observers on the other side. The floors were unfinished concrete. The walls were cinder blocks that had been painted a bright white. Two uncomfortable wooden chairs were situated in the middle of the room, side by side, facing the lights. Even if he hadn’t been nervous, Jack would have been sweating. It was one of those interrogation rooms that could just as easily serve as a torture chamber, the kind of place from which you’d expect both screams and confessions to flow freely.
A man dressed in simple green combat fatigues stepped forward. His uniform was wholly unimpressive, yet he seemed to exude confidence as he spoke to the Americans in near-perfect English.
“Please, sit,” he said in a voice that sounded way too friendly to be sincere. “The people of Cuba are eager to speak to you about your case.”
18
Are those lights really necessary?” said Jack, shielding his eyes.
The colonel walked around the table and flipped a wall switch. The spotlights went out, and the sudden contrast from bright light to normal made the room seem much darker than it actually was. The colonel pulled a ten-inch cigar from his shirt pocket, and another man immediately stepped forward to light it. The man was so quick and obsequious that he could only have been the colonel’s personal aide. The colonel puffed hard on one end, rolling the other across a six-inch flame. Jack and Sofia were soon shrouded in a cloud of cigar smoke.
“My name is Colonel Raúl Jiménez,” he said as the thick smoke poured from his nostrils. “The people of Cuba thank you for coming.”
Jack glanced left, then right. “Funny, I don’t see them here.”
The colonel smiled, but it faded quickly. “You’re looking at them.”
With the wave of his hand, the armed soldiers left the room. The colonel’s aide remained at attention, standing off to the side.
“Gracias,” said Sofia.
At first Jack wasn’t sure why she was thanking him, but he too felt more comfortable with the automatic weapons out of the room.
“My purpose here is not to frighten you,” said the colonel. “I wish only to do you a favor.”
“Why do I doubt that?” said Jack.
“You are such a skeptic, Señor Swyteck.”
“I can’t help it. I’m a lawyer.”
“True, very true. Tell me. How did your interview with Lieutenant Johnson go this morning?”
Jack and Sofia looked at each other, not sure how he knew.
The colonel said, “You don’t think anything happens on that base that we don’t know about, do you?”
“I haven’t given it much thought,” said Jack.
“We’re sitting right on the other side of the razor wire. We watch them; they watch us. It’s the way the game is played in Guantánamo. Has been for forty years. So tell me: How did your little talk with the lieutenant go?”
“You don’t really expect me to discuss that with you, do you?”
He laughed heartily. “Just as I thought. He told you nada.”
“Colonel, what is it that you want from us?”
“Just a few minutes of your time.” He rose and started to pace, waving his cigar as he spoke. “Let me make a few educated assumptions here. One, the U.S. government didn’t let you talk to anyone but Lieutenant Johnson, did they?”
Jack didn’t answer.
“Two,” said the colonel, “anyone who might know anything about the murder of Captain Pintado has been reassigned, no? Persian Gulf, maybe? Or perhaps Guam?”
He glanced at Sofia and then at Jack. It was clear he didn’t expect an answer, but he didn’t seem to need one. “Seems to me that you are getting the brick house here.”
“Stonewall,” said his aide.
“Stonewall, yes. Brick house is something else entirely, no?” He was looking at Sofia with that last remark. Women served extensively in the Cuban military, but machismo was still alive and kicking.
Jack said, “Colonel, unless you’re going to put bamboo shoots under our fingernails, we’re not going to tell you what was said at the naval base. Even then, I’d just make it all up.”
“There’s nothing you need to tell me, Señor Swyteck. All you have to do is listen.”
“Okay. My ears are open.”
“Like I said, we know you met with Lieutenant Johnson, because we are watching that base constantly. Twenty-four/seven.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Then it should come as no surprise that we saw-how shall I put this? We saw things of interest at your client’s home on the night the captain left this world.”
Jack’s interest was suddenly piqued. “I’d like to hear about it.”
The colonel flashed a sly smile, the smoldering cigar clenched between his teeth. “I bet you would.”
“Come on, Colonel. I hope you didn’t invite us in here just to play the ‘I know a secret’ game. What do you have?”
“A vigilant Cuban soldier. Watching from a guard tower through night-vision binoculars.”
“What did he see?”
“Something that can prove that your client did not murder her husband.”
Jack’s pulse quickened. Could this be true? “I need specifics,” said Jack.
“Not so fast. Before I offer up one of my own soldiers on a silver platter, I need to know: What are you offering in exchange?”
“Colonel, I’m in no position to deal with the Cuban military for the testimony of one of its soldiers.”
“I’m confident that the son of Florida ’s former governor will find something to please us.”
“I’m not looking to please you. And even if I were, the testimony of a Cuban soldier in a Miami courtroom will have huge repercussions. Need I remind you, Colonel, that this community nearly exploded over the return of a seven-year-old boy named Elián to his Cuban father?”
“Claro,” he said. “You simply have to ask yourself up front: Is the woman accused of killing the son of a powerful Cuban exile willing to stake her defense on the sworn testimony of Fidel Castro’s loyal soldier?”
The question nearly knocked Jack off his chair. The colonel had framed it perfectly. “I need some time to think this through,” said Jack.
“Bueno. You have twenty-four hours.”
“I’d like more than that.”
“I’m not offering more than that. Take it or leave it.”
Jack glanced at Sofia, and they quickly came to a silent understanding. Jack said, “All right, Colonel. Let’s talk again at tomorrow’s end.”
“Good. You’ve already missed your flight, so enjoy your little overnight visit in beautiful Havana. You are the honored guests of the people of Cuba.”
“Meaning you?” said Jack.
He smiled broadly, sucking on his cigar. “Sí. Meaning me.”
19
Four decades of communism had not robbed Havana of its heart. But it was badly in need of angioplasty.
Everywhere Jack looked, he could find things old, things broken, things that seemed straight out of a world that had existed before he was even born. They rode in a taxi that had the hood of a 1956 Chevrolet, the back end of a 1959 Ford, and the interior of something just a cut above an ox cart. Their driver was a surgeon who earned more in tips than practicing medicine. He gave Jack and Sofia a driving tour of La Habana Vieja (Old Havana), a historic section of a magnificent city that could be either charming or appalling, depending on how closely you looked. Jack tried to envision it as his mother might have seen it as a teenager, an architectural marvel that boasted some of the most impressive cathedrals, plazas, and colonial mansions in the Caribbean. Over eight hundred of its historically significant structures were built before the twentieth century, some dating back to the 1500s. But after decades of neglect, many of these irreplaceable structures had suffered irreversible damage, and recent restoration efforts aimed at bolstering tourism were simply too little, too late. Despite some convincing paint jobs and face-lifts, it was impossible to ignore the many sagging roofs and crumbling walls. Some parts of south La Habana Vieja resembled Berlin in late 1944, whole sections of walls missing, buildings on the verge of collapse but for the tenuous support of wood scaffolding, entire neighborhoods seemingly held together by crisscrossing ropes and wires from which residents hung the morning laundry.