The Beggar's Opera (15 page)

O’Malley saw Mike’s arrest as a kind of hostage-taking by the Cuban government, she realized. That’s why he’d sent her instead of someone else. Even though she’d given all that up years before, after she’d failed to protect either hostage or hostage-taker. When the man on the icy ledge jumped and nearly took her with him.

The pilot announced that the flight had begun its descent into Havana. Jones closed the files she had downloaded and shut off her laptop. She looked out over the ocean, still acutely uncomfortable looking down, despite all the years that had passed.

It was late and only parts of the city were lit up. Whole blocks had no lights at all. Power shortages and brownouts. Alex had warned her the power supply could be iffy.

The Havana International Airport was a pleasant surprise. It was clean and spacious. A sign said it was built in 1998 in cooperation with the Canadian government.

Jones showed her passport. A friendly beagle, escorted by a uniformed policeman, sniffed her baggage and her pant legs. She saw the sign for a currency exchange counter and walked over, but it was closed.
Shit.

She checked her billfold, worried she had so little money.

Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t
. She had her Visa card and just enough cash to pay for her meals, not enough for a bribe, if one was expected. Alex told her there were still a few honest officials in Cuba, ones who wouldn’t ask for money, but poverty had corrupted most of the others.

She had hoped she could change her money at the Havana airport. Canadian banks were closed on Boxing Day. She had managed to find some U.S. dollars tucked away from a recent trip to New York. But Alex thought American money might be illegal again, the currency as on-and-off-again as the power. She didn’t want to be arrested for offering someone U.S. funds. O’Malley wouldn’t send someone else to get her out, she thought ruefully He considered lawyers interchangeable. And easily replaced.

She wished Alex could be with her. Impossible, of course. She’d take lots of pictures, call him every day, keep her eyes open for gifts he might like. Later on, when she got home, she’d find a way to make up for lost time.

Jones waved down a taxi. She told the driver she wanted to go to the Parque Ciudad Hotel. She hoped he accepted Visa.

It was pitch black and there was only the occasional working street light. The road was lit mostly by headlights from the few cars and buses still in transit. She was surprised at how many
people lined the streets this late at night; at how many more stood patiently in the centre of the road.

“There are two bus systems here,” her driver explained. “One for tourists and one for Cubans. It is illegal for Cubans to take tourist buses or taxis. They can accept rides from cars that stop for them and pay the drivers a small amount without breaking any rules. Or wait all day for a
camello
.” They drove past one of the awkward-looking buses, jammed full of passengers.

Her taxi pulled in front of the Parque Ciudad. A small group of
jineteras
was gathered in the park across from the hotel, calling out to the foreign men who passed by.

A
jinetera
, Alex had explained, was a prostitute, usually a member of the highly educated elite, forced by economic circumstances to have sex with foreigners. The word itself meant “jockey,” but translated into something like “gold digger.” Slang for a woman who rode a wallet.

Cuba had no pimps, he said, but the women weren’t wholly independent either. They were forbidden by law from entering tourist hotels or restaurants. The concierges, doormen, security guards, even police, made sure the women got access to prospective clients by turning a blind eye for a fee.

Jones was surprised they trolled for customers so obviously. A blue-uniformed policeman stood at the corner, his semiautomatic gun hanging loosely from his belt along with a black radio. Doing nothing, at least not yet.

She wondered what would happen if any of the men responded to the women’s calls. Alex had said a
jinetera
could be ordered into “re-education,” sent off to the country to pluck chickens and clean barns, to dissuade her from prostitution. More often, however, the police confiscated her money and sent her packing.

A woman peered into Jones’s taxi and was evidently disappointed to find another woman inside. Jones tried to pay the
driver, who looked equally downcast when he saw her U.S. dollars. The currency, he explained, was illegal. But it was all she had; he wouldn’t take Visa.

She offered to leave money for him at the hotel reception desk once she got some from her credit card, plus more for his inconvenience. He had little choice, so agreed. He opened the trunk of his car and reluctantly put her bags on the sidewalk. She made a mental note to leave him enough extra pesos to make up for his uncertainty about being paid at all.

A doorman pushed the revolving glass door for her. He was tall, slim, and smiling, his uniform crisp. His grey hat sat perfectly level on his head.

“
Gracias
,” she said, guessing. “
¿Es usted Miguel?
”

“
Si
,” he said. Then, in English, “How do you know my name?”

“I was told you could be helpful,” she smiled.

“Of course, it would be my pleasure,” he responded. “Whatever you need, Señora. Here, let me take your bags.”

THIRTY

Late at night, two guards came to get Mike Ellis.

“What is it?” he asked. “Where are you taking me?” But they said nothing. They shackled him and walked him silently upstairs to another small damp room that smelled of urine. An interrogation room, Ellis guessed. Stains ran down one wall. A dark grey ceiling added to the feeling of oppression. A light bulb dangled overhead from an exposed wire.

A beefy man with greying hair sat at a small table, writing in a coiled notebook. He looked to be in his late fifties. He wore a loose embroidered Cuban shirt over dress pants. He stood as the larger guard pushed Ellis inside and closed the door. He reached out his hand to shake Ellis’s, but hesitated when he saw the handcuffs.

“Please, Mr. Ellis, sit down.” He motioned to a plastic chair. “I’m sorry. They usually remove those for a consular visit. My name is Kevin Dunton. I’m with the Canadian embassy. Miles O’Malley got hold of me about an hour ago and told me about your situation. He must be very persuasive. Foreign Affairs isn’t supposed to give out our home numbers. Almost everyone’s on
holidays until the New Year, including me.” Dunton smiled but looked unhappy.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”

“You may not be in a few minutes, Mr. Ellis. But we can talk about the merits of your situation in a moment. My first priority is to make sure you’re physically alright. Have you been beaten?”

Dunton turned his notebook towards Ellis. He had written in a neat schoolboy script:
Assume the guards are listening. Don’t tell anyone what you’re charged with. Or that you’re a cop.
He turned the notebook around again and waited expectantly, his eyebrows raised, his pen at the ready.

Ellis nodded slowly. “I guess it depends on what you mean by alright.” He held up his wrists, showing the swollen red marks from the too-tight cuffs. “You should see my ankles.”

“I expected worse. Do you want me to contact anyone? Notify any family members that you’re here?”

“No.” Ellis shook his head, thinking how Hillary would react. And how her divorce lawyer would salivate.

“Alright, then. I’m obliged to tell you what we can and cannot do as Canadian consular officers.” He tossed a copy of a brochure on the table.
A Guide for Canadians Imprisoned Abroad
. “It’s not much. We can’t try to get you preferential treatment. Or secure your release from jail. We won’t loan you money for a lawyer or for bail, under any circumstances.”

“Then what the hell
can
you people do?” Ellis demanded, pushing himself away from the table.

“We’ll see to it that you’re treated the same way as any Cuban national in the same circumstances.”

Ellis snorted. “You’re kidding me. That’s it? Have you seen the way that prisoners are treated here? We don’t even have proper beds.”

Dunton shrugged. “That’s all you’re entitled to, Mr. Ellis. We
can’t interfere in the Cuban criminal justice system. Someone will make prison visits from time to time to check on your welfare. And the embassy will try to ensure that the people dealing with you keep in mind that, as a Canadian, you have certain rights. But you have to understand that Cuba never signed the Vienna Convention. Your rights in this country are extremely limited.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Ellis, frustrated.

Dunton leaned back, narrowing his eyes.

“Do you understand what the situation is here in Cuba right now, Mr. Ellis? Or just how much trouble you’re in? Fidel Castro doesn’t want Havana to be a sex tourism destination, the way it was when President Batista was in power. Even if our embassy had more power to intervene, we wouldn’t get too far trying to exercise it on charges like these, believe me. Frankly, from my discussions with the Ministry of the Interior, I’m afraid the Cuban government may want to set an example. They haven’t executed anyone in the last two or three years, but that doesn’t mean they won’t make an exception.”

Ellis let out a deep breath. “Isn’t Raúl Castro supposed to be more moderate?”

The diplomat smiled slightly. “A lot of Batista’s supporters were executed summarily after the revolution. Is Raúl more moderate? Rumour has it he pulled the trigger himself. Sure, as acting president, he may loosen up some things that annoy people currently. Like letting them have more access to the internet. He may even free a few political prisoners. But don’t kid yourself, Fidel Castro’s still in charge.”

“I can’t believe they would execute a foreigner. There would be an immediate international backlash, wouldn’t there?” Ellis lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m a policeman, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t think so.” Dunton shook his head. “Remember, the death penalty is on the books in Texas and God knows how many
other American states. No one’s boycotting the United States as far as I know. It used to be that a foreigner charged here could pay a hefty bribe and be sent home with a wink and a nudge. Not in the situation you’re facing. The penalties for charges like this have been drastically increased. A few weeks ago, some Cubans were jailed for thirty years for having sex with schoolgirls. Thirty years in conditions you can’t begin to imagine. Some of the prisoners are in extremely poor health. They aren’t likely to live long enough to do their time. Castro’s response, anecdotally, was that they should do their best.”

“But Canada’s a friend to Cuba, isn’t it? Won’t Cuba want to avoid upsetting that relationship?”

“Look, Castro executed one of his own political supporters for drug trafficking. A general. A former hero of the revolution. I don’t honestly think he’d hesitate to execute a Canadian if it served his objectives. But, honestly, that’s not your biggest problem. The guards might decide to handle things themselves. Or the other prisoners, particularly if they find out what you do for a living. You’ll be in jail for a year, maybe two, before you ever get in front of a court.”

Ellis blanched. “So you’re telling me I’m on my own. That you won’t do anything to help me.”

“We have a relatively new minority Conservative government at home. It won’t be anxious to jump to your defence. These charges don’t fit their law-and-order agenda.”

“What about getting me extradited back to Canada?”

“There is no formal extradition treaty between Cuba and Canada. But to be extradited, you’d have to agree to plead guilty to all the charges.” He scribbled in the notebook and slid it across the table.

How long do you think you’d last in a Canadian jail as a convicted child rapist/murderer
and
a cop?

Ellis looked frantically around the small room. It was getting hot, claustrophobic. He ran his finger inside his collar, trying to breathe normally. The muscle at the top of his chest gripped like barbed wire.

“Jesus Christ.”

“It isn’t what you want to hear, I’m sure. But part of my job is giving people a reality check. There’s no point sugar-coating things: Cuba is what it is. If you’d asked me where to go for a Cuban holiday experience, I would have told you to go to Miami and eat a jerked pork sandwich. I wish people would inform themselves a bit more before they come here. It really would make things easier. They see sand beaches and blue skies with fluffy white clouds: I see
cederistas
.”

“So what the hell am I supposed to do?” Ellis demanded, his breath ragged.

Dunton shrugged. “Do what Castro said. Do your best.”

The older man stood up. As he leaned over to pick up his notebook, he lowered his voice to a bare whisper.

“Someone always eavesdrops on these meetings. That’s why I’ve given you the hard, cold, party line. My advice, Mr. Ellis, is to do whatever it takes. Bribe an official or two along the way. Believe me, evidence goes missing here all the time. And for God’s sake, be careful. This building is full of extremely dangerous men. And I’m not talking about the prisoners.”

THIRTY - ONE

The sun was beginning its slow rise above the ocean, but Inspector Ramirez was already at work, looking through the piles of missing-person reports to see if anyone had lost a dead man.

Rodriguez Sanchez usually came in around eight, the rest of the unit at nine. Until then, Ramirez was on his own, his hallucination his only company. The imaginary man sat across from Ramirez’s desk, twirling his hat on his finger idly until it fell to the ground. When he bent over to get it, Ramirez saw him wipe foam from his lips. But no one had reported a drowning.

The phone rang and Ramirez picked it up. It was a woman. She spoke Spanish well, with a slightly foreign accent.

“Oh, Inspector Ramirez. I didn’t expect you to answer your own phone. Sorry. My name is Celia Jones. I’m the lawyer here from Ottawa to advise Mike Ellis. May I see my client this morning?”