Eduardo interjected, “The collapse of the Batista government was very sudden. Havana celebrated New Year’s Eve as Castro’s forces began marching on the city and Batista’s soldiers began to flee. The upper classes, government officials, and senior military who couldn’t escape were arrested. We know that some of these people were bank depositors who may have revealed under torture what they knew about Sara’s grandfather hiding his bank’s assets.”
It wasn’t looking good for Sara’s grandfather, but she had a happy ending. “My grandfather, with the help of his bank in America, was able to board one of the last commercial flights out of Havana. He arrived in Miami with nothing, except my grandmother and their three sons, one of whom was to become my father.”
“Your grandparents were lucky.”
“Yes, and my grandfather continued his career in Miami. He called it a temporary corporate transfer. He died in Miami ten years ago. My grandmother is still alive, as are my parents, waiting to return to their home in Havana.” She added, “We’ll see this house when we go there.”
Or send me a picture.
She continued, “Before the revolutionaries closed the American bank, my grandfather was able to wire transfer all the records of these assets to the bank headquarters in America. The families who escaped to America were located and given receipts—or still had their original receipts. Those who remained in Cuba and who survived may also have their original receipts. In any case, there’s a record of everything in the American bank headquarters, and the money will be returned to its rightful owners or heirs.”
Minus some expenses, like my fee. “Okay, so the paperwork’s in order, and all you need now is the money.”
“It’s waiting for us.” She looked at me. “My grandfather was a very brave man. He risked his life to protect his clients’ property and his bank’s property from falling into the hands of the Communists. So you can see why this is personal for me. I want to finish my grandfather’s work.”
I nodded. If I was my father, which I’m not, I’d ask Sara how these wealthy Cubans got their money. Batista’s government, as I understood it, was an extension of the American Mafia. Gambling, drugs, prostitution, and pornography. Also the factory owners and the landowners like Eduardo’s father were often not enlightened employers, which was why so many of them were arrested after the revolution. I also wondered if the American Mafia used Grandpa’s bank and had some money in that cave. Behind every great fortune is a crime, but probably some of this money was earned honestly. And all of it had been kept out of Castro’s hands. I don’t make moral judgements—well, I do, but in this case, I’d withhold judgement. At least until I decided if I wanted to take a three-million-dollar cut of the cash.
Sara asked, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking, why now? Why not leave the money where it is until relations improve? The bank and the depositors should be able to make a legal claim on the money. That’s my advice. No charge.”
Sara replied, “The problem is actually the improved relations. From what we are told, the contemplated treaty between the U.S. and Cuba will address the question of compensation for American assets that were seized when Castro took over. These are now worth billions. But in exchange, the regime insists that the U.S. legitimize their appropriation of all private property and money that was seized from Cuban citizens. So for the Americans, they’ll have a legal means to recover what they lost. For the Cubans who lost everything, there will be nothing.”
Well, I thought, someone has to get screwed. That’s the art of the deal.
Sara continued, “It could happen that this American bank, when dealing with these issues of compensation, may inadvertently reveal to the Cuban government that their former depositors in Havana—Cuban and American—have receipted assets still in Cuba. We’ve discussed this and spoken to lawyers, and we feel we need to move on this and recover the money before it becomes an issue in the negotiations.”
I guess I could see that happening. No one knew what lay ahead as the two governments began talking after a half century of silence. I was sure that it would take another half century to unravel the questions of who owned what, who was going to get compensated, and who was going to get screwed. If it was my money—and three million of it might be—I’d go get it now.
Eduardo added, “With improved relations comes tourism. Already thousands of Canadians, Europeans, and others who have no travel restrictions to Cuba are exploring the country. Hiking and camping are becoming popular. And when tens of thousands of Americans start to arrive . . . well, one of them may accidentally discover the hidden entrance to this cave.”
That should pay for their trip. And I guess that could happen, even with twenty thousand caves. I asked, “Did anyone ever try to recover this money before now?”
Eduardo replied, “No one but Sara knows the location of this cave.”
I looked at her and she said, “I will explain later.”
“Okay . . . but do you have anyone in Cuba who can help you when you get there?”
“We do.”
I wasn’t sure if “we” meant me, but Sara said, “Let’s move on.”
That seemed to be a signal for Eduardo to stand and say, “I will leave you to discuss your trip to Havana.”
Eduardo seemed to assume I was going, and I assumed he wasn’t—he didn’t want to wind up against that wall. Actually, neither did I.
He snagged the unopened bottle of Ron Caney and went below where Carlos was still watching TV.
I glanced into the cabin and saw Jack in the captain’s seat, reading a magazine and eating from a bag of snacks. Hopefully he was watching the radar. For sure he was wondering if he’d be a half million dollars richer in a few weeks, or dead.
I looked at Sara, who was looking at me. Pretty woman. And smart. And brave. That was my evaluation.
“You look pensive, Mac. Can I call you Mac?”
“Of course.”
“I know this is a lot to take in, and a lot to consider.”
“Right.”
“When you and I finish here, you’ll be able to make an informed decision.”
“Or justify a stupid one.”
She smiled, stood, and poured us both some Coke. “Rum?”
“No, thanks, I’m driving.”
She handed me my glass and touched hers to mine. “Thank you for listening.”
“It’s your boat tonight.”
She sat in Eduardo’s vacated fighting chair and swiveled it toward me, took a drag on her cigar, and tossed it overboard. She crossed her legs and said, “We will now go to Havana. Or do you want to go home?”
I wanted another drink, but I said, “I’m still listening. But I reserve the right to stop you at any time.”
“Fair enough.”
Jimmy Buffett was singing, “Wasted away again in Margaritaville.” Which might not be my worst option.
CHAPTER 9