Cuba blue

30

Sergio had done precisely as Quiana had suggested, getting his family to safety, and lying low, but he was increasingly curious about Dr. Estaban Montoya’s hidden papers and his part in all of this intrigue. How was Montoya connected to the murders? If he could unlock this single door, pull this single thread, perhaps it would help Quiana unravel the whole case.

Now, accompanied by Yuri, Sergio drove through the dark streets of Havana toward Montoya’s apartment located atop his clinic. To mask their movements, Sergio had left his police car at the B amp;B, and they traveled in Yuri’s ancient Jeep, lovingly held together with bailing wire and chewing gum.

At Montoya’s, they were careful to break in without leaving a trace. Ex-Soviet security, Yuri, an expert with locks, had a complete set of burglary tools. Once inside, using flashlights, they searched for anything odd, anything out of place that might help lead to his killer or killers.

So far, all they knew was that Montoya had access to a great deal more money than his government salary afforded. But where did his “extra” funds come from? Was he involved in the drug trafficking that the SP announced as the cause of death of the foreigners? Was he taking money from the Canadian pharmaceutical company? Why? More likely, Montoya was the front man for someone higher up-maybe someone with connections in the Department of Health in Castro’s government, someone who saw ready money in dealing with the Canadian company desperate for new drugs, new profits. Underneath his cheerfulness and joie de view, Sergio had a cynic’s view of government that extended to foreign businesses. The Cuban government’s control of the media, its not so subtle bias in reporting international news made him suspicious of capitalism. If this Canadian doctor was some sort of go-between for her company, did that make her the mysterious donor in Montoya’s coded records? If so, did this somehow get her killed? But why kill her two colleagues? Montoya had told Qui that he’d met with Denise at his clinic, or so Tomaso and Yuri reported. Could this company, through Dr. Beisiegel have pushed too hard, too far, too fast? These were the thoughts wafting through Detective Sergio Latoya’s mind as he entered the clinic.

Upstairs the apartment had been treated as a crime scene, but Sergio hoped they hadn’t as yet cleaned out the clinic’s files. It took only minutes to learn they were too late. Every filing cabinet, every desk drawer had been gutted and left empty, lip balm, loose keys, paperclips rattling around at the bottom of the drawers.

“Damn it, Yuri, we’re too late.”

Yuri dropped into a chair, the cushion sighing with his weight. “We should’ve gotten here much sooner.”

“It wouldn’t’ve done any good.” Sergio sat on the end of a desk. “Pena was in charge of the investigation. If he took the files, we might have a chance to find something. But this looks like the heavy hand of the SP.”

“Forget about finding anything from that source. Face it, someone’s desperate to cover all this up.”

“Desperate and dangerous.”

“And clumsy.”

“Agreed,” said Sergio. “Who’s gonna believe Montoya manages to accidentally kill himself, and then my friend, Tino, swallows his gun? All within twenty four hours?”

“It was my fault Montoya was killed,” said a woman emerging from the darkness.

Startled, both men leapt at the unexpected sound. They whirled around to face her.

“Where’d you come from?” asked Yuri staring at the woman in obvious distress.

“More importantly, who the hell’re you? And what’re you doing here? This is a crime scene.”

“Upstairs. I was upstairs when I heard noises.”

“You’re one of Montoya’s nurses?” Sergio demanded.

“Yes, his only nurse, Alana Suaro. I got him killed. I did it.”

She burst into tears and crumpled onto a nearby office settee. Sergio went to her and asked, “Explain yourself, what’re you saying?”

“I saw him give the Canadian doctor a file. He…he was giving her information, secret information. I am a good citizen. I…I had to turn him in, but I…I didn’t know they…that they would…that he would die. He was killed…his reputation destroyed.” With that, she burst anew into tears.

Yuri placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is not your doing, Alana is it? You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

She nodded looking from one to the other. “You’re PNR?”

“We are,” Yuri lied thinking she’d tell them more if she thought them police and not the SP. “You can trust us. We need your help to solve his death.”

Sergio showed her his badge.

She sighed heavily. “He was a good doctor. Estaban tried hard even when we had no drugs. He researched herbs. I knew he got drugs somewhere for the patients. I didn’t question, maybe I should have?”

Yuri gently patted her hand to encourage her and said, “But the patients got better, yes?”

“Many times, yes. We had to work hard to hide the drugs, so no one would know. We were a good team.” Tears welled up again.

“You loved him,” Yuri stated quietly.

Tears flowed down her face as she stared at Yuri. She dabbed at her eyes, looked down, and softly said, “Yes, I did. But he didn’t know. I never told him. I never meant for him to die. But what he did was wrong, very wrong.”

Yuri gently asked, “Alana, Denise brought him these drugs he needed, didn’t she? From her company? Smuggled in from Canada?”

“She’d bring a package each visit, yes.”

“What did he give her in exchange for the drugs?”

“I don’t know. It was all hush-hush is all I can tell you, but Estaban, he was just a neighborhood doctor. What could he offer her and her big company?”

Sensing opportunity, seeing her face go from despondency to hope as she and Yuri talked, Sergio’s respect for Yuri’s people skills rose. “We know his death has something to do with Cuba’s HIV-AIDS research,” Sergio began, adding, “and we know that international conference here last week was no accident. Cuba is on the cutting edge of better, more effective, more humane treatments-that’s what this is all about. That much we do know, but what we don’t know is who the players are.”

“Alana, do you know who gave Montoya the information? Who was behind this intrigue?” Yuri smiled at her, a warm inviting smile. It was obvious to him that she didn’t want them to think badly of Estaban.

“At first, I thought he was negotiating on his own with Dr. Beisiegel.”

“Montoya and the Canadian were conducting business on the side?” Yuri gently pressed for details.

“I thought so, but he had nothing to trade. So someone else, someone high up had to be involved.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I saw the file he showed Dr Beisiegel before it disappeared. It was not AIDS-HIV research.”

Sergio was shocked, “What then?”

“Stem cell research.”

“Ah, yes,” Yuri muttered. “Foolishly banned in the US.”

Because Fidel had made an enormous commitment to medical research over the years, Cuba was at the vanguard of cancer, HIV-AIDS, and stem cell research. Fidel had recently brokered his own deal with a private California company and the US in order to jump-start the FDA approval for a cure for skin cancer, and approval of several vaccines effective against the entire family of herpes virii.

“Do you have any proof of this?” asked Sergio. “Anything at all.”

“Only my word, and now I fear for my own life.”

Sergio nodded. “We’ll take her back to the B amp;B until things settle.”

Yuri agreed with a grunt, still lost in thought.

The trio stepped out the door where Jorge Pena confronted them. “What’s going on here, Sergio? Ms. Suaro?”

Wednesday afternoon, two and half days after leaving Havana

As the Sanabela neared its final destination, Santiago de Cuba, Estrada had pointed out the Basilica del Cobra nestled in the mountains above the nearby village of El Cobre. The basilica was known worldwide for its full-sized statue of the Black Madonna. What made this particular rendering of Christ’s mother exceptional was her color. “Home of copper mines and our Lady, the Black Madonna,” Estrada said, crossing himself. “Cobre…copper, still a big export.”

Curious, JZ asked, “Just how large is Santiago?”

“Over 400,000 people live here,” replied Qui, “and, it’s the hottest place on the island.”

“Hot in more ways than one,” added Estrada. “The liveliest music, the hottest food, and these people are passionate. Festivals and dancing all the time.”

Soon, the three of them saw in the distance Cuba's second largest city sitting atop a cliff in front of the gorgeous Sierra Maestra mountains and overlooking a breathtaking aqua-blue bay. It appeared a remote, hard to reach area.

“Coming by sea wasn’t such a bad idea after all,” Qui muttered staring at the beauty of this approach. The city still retained its colonial landmarks, notably its cathedral-the largest in all of Cuba-alongside crumbling forts standing sentinel over the harbor.

Estrada, who claimed he had ‘children’ here, pointed out a university building saying, “I have a daughter, Esmerelda, who teaches history there.”

JZ piped in, “I know a bit of the history of this city myself. Founded in the 1500s, fought over by the French and English buccaneers, it became a center for smuggling. A haven for French Haitians during the slave revolt.”

“I’m impressed! I thought Americans only cared about American history.”

“I was just getting to the Spanish-American war and the USS Maine.”

“When we became an occupied country, not unlike Afghanistan and Iraq. Soldiers still on our soil.”

“For which we pay your government.”

“Checks Fidel refuses to cash.”

“True enough. Cashed just the first one.” JZ smiled at her and joked, “I’ve heard he uses ’em now to paper his bathroom.”

“I’ve heard when the check arrives, he uses it to light a cigar.” She smiled back at him.

“I thought he gave up cigars.”

“He doesn’t smoke. He just lights it, and waves it around for the cameras.”

JZ and Estrada laughed at the image.

“Still, I just hope you American’s have learned some diplomacy since 1898.”

“1898. Ancient history, Qui. Ancient history.”

“Ancient history to you Americans maybe. Not to us. Everyone’s invaded us and claimed rights here they were not entitled to. The French, the Spaniards, you Americans.”

JZ nodded. She did not have to go into details about U.S. ships establishing a blockade in Santiago's harbor where they trapped the Spanish fleet in this very bay. The siege here ended abruptly when a desperate and ill-conceived attempt to escape resulted in the annihilation of the fleet, followed by the surrender of the city.

“Isn’t this where Fidel began his revolution?” JZ asked.

“Yes, he attacked Batista’s army garrison here.”

“The army garrison, yes.”

“Now it’s a retreat for high government officials. A place to play away from everyone’s eyes.”

Qui and JZ watched Luis’s crew expertly dock the Sanabela with barely a bump.

“Where to from here?” asked JZ of Qui as they walked into the pilothouse.

Qui grabbed the lock from its hiding place and replied with a shrug. “Like you, I’m a foreigner now. Never been here before. First, let’s buy some clothes. Second, I want a bath, a long relaxing bath. Third, food, no more fish!”

“Perhaps we should draft Estrada as our guide?”

“My cousin, Rita, a widow now, makes and sells clothes for the festivals,” Luis told them. “She’ll have something you can wear, both of you.”

“OK, that takes care of clothes. How about a roof over our heads and some food?”

“Rita will find us places to stay.”

“Can she be trusted?” Qui asked.

“She’s family.” Estrada smiled and added, “Real family, blood ties.”

“Good enough for me. Let’s go.” JZ responded, hungry for anything but fish, and ready to burn his clothes.

Jotting a note, Estrada handed it to Qui, saying, “Here’s Rita’s address. Put yourself in her hands. Tell her we’re family.”

“Are you sure, Uncle?”

“What? That we’re family? Of course we are!” He grinned at her.

Qui wondered if she’d ever learn the truth of their relationship.

“My men, see them?” Estrada said, pointing at his crew leaving the boat, “they go to celebrate Carnival. I need to be with them. Keep them outta trouble. They’re my other children.”

“All right. Go, go. We’ll be fine. We’ll see you in the morning at Rita’s. Tomorrow, the basilica.”