“You are Canadian?”
“Yes.”
“You have traveled to a great many places, senor,” said the customs official, flipping through the pages. Holliday had been very specific to Hartog the forger about the stamps he wanted, including five countries with UNESCO Preservation sites, among them India, Japan, Peru and New Zealand.
“So I have,” said Holliday, keeping his tone genial.
“You are here on business or pleasure, senor?”
“A bit of both, mostly business.” He handed over the business card he’d made at the Hyatt in Toronto.
“You pay to fix our great buildings, yes?”
“I just take the pictures for the bosses. All of us have our bosses, right?”
“That is correct, sí.” The customs official smiled. “We all have our bosses. Please, senor, put your suitcases on the counter and open them.”
Holliday did as he was told. Once the cases were on the counter, he unlocked them and pulled them open. The customs official rummaged through the clothes, felt the sides, bottom and back, then indicated that Holliday could close the first up. The customs man checked the second suitcase.
“A lot of camera equipment,” commented the official. At some invisible signal the two men reading newspapers stood up and stood beside the suitcase. As well as the camera case, there were round slots for thirty metal film containers. The taller of the two security men opened a few of the film containers at random while the other watched for a reaction from Holliday. There was none. The tall security man then told Holliday to take out the hard foam insert. Holliday handed it to the man, who checked the bottom before setting it aside; if things could be inserted into the foam from above, it was logical that they could be inserted from below. He turned his attention to the red nylon lining, poking at it with a long finger.
“It is…soft,” said the taller man in the dark glasses. “Why is this?”
“I put a foam pad behind the lining as more protection for the camera equipment.”
“Show me,” said the man.
Holliday did so, pulling aside a four-inch section of the nylon lining that he’d left loose after gluing the section of yoga mat into the suitcase. It was the mark of an experienced traveler who had to explain the same thing to other customs and security people at airports all over the world.
“Why do you not use one of those aluminum suitcases, the square one?”
“That’s the best way I know to get your equipment stolen. The only people who use Halliburton cases do so because they’ve got valuable stuff inside or because they’re trying to look cool. I prefer any old suitcase myself.”
The security man gave Holliday a long look, then nodded to himself. “What hotel are you staying at, senor?”
“The Nacional,” answered Holliday. “Where else?”
“Of course,” said the security man. “You may close the suitcases now, senor. Welcome to Cuba.”
And that was that. He closed the suitcases, found his way to the exit and stepped outside into the blistering heat to wait for Eddie. He spotted half a dozen taxis, including a 1949 Ford Victoria, a ’41 Dodge four-door sedan in powder blue and a Cadillac El Dorado convertible in bright pink. There was even a ’31 Ford Model A in two tones of green with cream-colored wheels, whitewall tires and a steel luggage rack at the back.
“They have friends in Miami who send them the money to fix them up,” said Eddie, his voice quiet. He stared right ahead. “And remember—half the drivers work for secret police.”
Holliday chose the ’49 Dodge—his uncle Henry had driven one all through Holliday’s childhood and his early adolescence. It reminded him of the smell of rubber on a hot day and egg salad sandwiches when he and Henry and his cousin Peggy went on camping trips.
Like many things in Havana, the Hotel Nacional was definitely a blast from the past. It had been built in the ’30s by the famous New York architects McKim, Meade and Wright, and bore a strong resemblance to the Breakers, the Beaux-Arts hotel in Palm Beach. It wasn’t surprising since the Breakers architects, Shultze and Walker, were contemporaries with McKim, building such well-known hotels as the Pierre, the Waldorf-Astoria and the Sherry Netherland.
Stepping into the narrow lobby, its high ceiling done in dark coffered oak, the walls a pale creamy yellow, Holliday was uneasily reminded of the scene in The Shining when Danny Torrance was rumbling down the halls on his Big Wheel, Stanley Kubrick’s camera looking over his shoulder.
They booked the Rita Hayworth two-bedroom suite and settled in. It was no five-star hotel as advertised, but it wasn’t too bad; somewhere above a Best Western but not as good as the Waldorf. The suite had a balcony that looked out over the Malecon seawall to the ocean, and that was certainly something. Eddie did a cursory check for electronic bugs—usually not used in places like the Nacional according to Eddie—unless the Special Brigade had some interest in you, in which case it would have been likely they’d be taken to the dungeons under Morro Castle on the other side of the harbor and fed to the few remaining rats in the city—you don’t have rats where there is nothing for them to eat. When Eddie was satisfied they ordered a bottle of Havana Club Rum, some ice and some Cokes and a Cohiba Behike 52, if they had it. When the rum, the Cokes and the cigar arrived on its own small silver serving platter with a cutter and a small silver receptacle full of matches, Holliday and Eddie sat out on the balcony to watch the sun go down and figure out the next step in the plan to find Eddie’s brother, Domingo.
“You must remember, Doc, this is not the Cuba of my youth,” cautioned Eddie, puffing on the aromatic cigar. He sipped his rum and stared thoughtfully out over the Malecon and the darkening sea beyond. “In my early days, when I was in the Pioneers, they were my best days, you understand? Everything was ahead of us. We went out into the fields each year to gather vegetables and to cut the cane and pick the fruit and it meant something. Fidel would lead us to better times, better days ahead. Everything was about the future, and for a while it was true. Before Fidel a black man could never have gone to university. Most didn’t even go to school at all, but now we were equal, all of us, men, women, black, white, mulatto…none of that mattered…as long as we listened to Fidel and to Che.”
“So, what happened?” Holliday asked, enjoying the faint but cooling onshore breeze coming up from the ocean and riffling the curtains behind them.
“The lies began. Fidel would blame the ‘embargo’ for everything…there was a food shortage because of the ‘embargo,’ a clothing shortage ‘embargo,’ always the same, but we could see it—a ten-ton truck packed with tomatoes rotting in the sun because no one had organized transportation or distribution…. There were rumors that all was not well among El Comandante and his friends. Have you ever heard the name Manuel Piñeiro Losada?”
“I don’t think so.” Holliday shrugged.
“He was Fidel’s head of the Dirección General de Inteligencia, DGI. Cuban intelligence. Between Losada and Fidel they convinced Che that the next step in the socialization of the Americas lay in Bolivia, of all places. Bolivia is more than four thousand kilometers from Cuba—what did it have to do with us? But Fidel and Losada told him the Bolivian Communist Party would rise to his aid. It wasn’t true, just like it wasn’t true for the poor bastardos at the Bay of Pigs. He left Cuba with his little group of less than twenty men in the middle of February, and by April he was dead, his guerrilla force wiped out, betrayed to the CIA by Losada.”
“Interesting piece of history, but what does it have to do with right now?” Holliday asked, cracking an ice cube between his teeth.