Never Die In Havana

By Donovan York

A retired American businessman, who is clearly not a tourist, arrives in Havana in an unconventional manner. This piques the interest of the authorities. He is eventually called in for questioning by Havana Police Lieutenant Arturo Rocher, a perfect cop but an imperfect person. Rocher finally extracts the American’s reason for being in Havana and dismisses him as being a fool – until the next day when a murder brings renewed focus on the cagey American. Now Rocher must find the killer or killers, especially because he knows he must be a suspect himself. He was one of two people who knew why the American came to Havana. At several points the story reverts to 1895, to detail a related mystery, and how events then transpired to lead to murder and intrigue today. The story takes Rocher at high speed through the streets of Havana, and through his own tangled life. Juxtaposed against the murder case is the involvement of the Cuban government, and their surprising bedfellows, in keeping the murder on Cuban soil a secret. Rocher fuses police work with espionage to solve the case, and in so doing discovers deceit within his own inner circle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donovan York
• Release date: Mar 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311263346

Donovan York

Donovan York is the pen name of an author living near Washington, DC. His pseudonym allows him to write freely, unnoticed by colleagues and clients. His first book, Never Die in Havana, builds on a deep interest in Cuba. The book should be irritating to the Cuban regime, but may be well received by mystery buffs who wish to follow a detective operating in a culture seldom explored in detective novels.

Book preview

Author’s Note

The research for this book has been on line, or in library. The story mixes real people and events, with the product of imagination, in creating what I hope is an intriguing mystery. There is little known about the internal workings of the Havana police department and some of this fictional work must be completely fiction. I take full credit, or blame, for any inaccuracies.

Although the fire scene itself is a very small part of the book, it is a significant part of the story. Damon Campagna, Executive Director of the New York City Fire Museum, was both helpful and encouraging when approached about the book. His input makes this scene from the actual fire in 1895 convey a realism that only he could have provided.

Every human being has within him an ideal man, just as every piece of marble contains in a rough state a statue as beautiful as the one that Praxiteles the Greek made of the god Apollo.

Jose Marti

PRELUDE

Gunshots had been heard by someone just before flames blew out the windows of the building, and this caught the interest of the first two policemen on the scene. As they walked about the growing crowd, the two policemen walked past the team of horses that had brought the fire equipment in tow.

The horses’ nostrils flared, as they inhaled the acrid smell of burning paper. Still, the three huge animals remained calm. They had been at scenes like this many times before. It was New York City on December 30, 1895, and the horses appreciated the heat, which made the late evening cold less biting.

The two dogs were less calm. They, too, were veterans of many fire scenes, but it was the nature of the Dalmatians to be nervous as they heard the shouting, and observed the furtive movements of their pack, the men of Engine Company Number 7.

Engine 7 and Ladder Company Number 1 were quickly on the scene, being housed just two blocks away, on Chambers Street. They quickly hooked up to the modern fire hydrants in front of 79-81 Duane Street, just off Broad.

The building was in what was known as the Paper District, where many firms of that industry were clustered. There had been several fires in the district of late - not uncommon in the winter - and this was just another.

The Captain of Engine 7, a huge, old bull of a man, was the scene commander. As the Old Bull looked up, he noticed that the intensity of the fire was equal on the third and fourth floors, as if the fire had started on the two floors simultaneously.

His attention was diverted before he could look further. Five people had still been working on the second floor. Three had escaped down the smoke filled stairs, and now, two men were negotiating the ledge to get to the adjoining building. He focused on them, as they inched their way to safety.

The fire soldiers of Engine 7 and Ladder 1 were accurate, and the blaze was out within an hour.

The Old Bull thought no more about the equal intensity of the flames as he surveyed the small crowd that had assembled. Aside from one well-dressed couple, they were working people, heading home late, or heading to night work in the district.

More policemen had arrived and were taking statements. The police finally decided that gunshots would not start such a blaze, and must be unrelated. This was just another winter fire in Manhattan’s Paper District.

ONE

It was rather inauspicious transportation for a man on such an important mission. The freight ferry from the Bahamas to Havana departs every Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 8 AM for the day long trip of nearly 300 nautical miles. The return trip from Havana leaves every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday at 9. The large, old, grey boat, and its old grey captain, had been plying these waters for years, and they sometimes carried more than freight.

This man had done his research. He knew that the freight boat is the best way to get to Cuba without catching the attention of the US authorities. He could have gone to Canada, and from there directly to Cuba, but the airline would require a credit card, and with it, both a paper and an electronic record. The freight boat provided a different proposition. He could fly to the Bahamas, all very openly. Then it was on to the freight boat for the final leg to Havana.

This man felt he had a lot at stake in making it to Cuba without questions. He reasoned he would pay for nights in a Bahamian hotel, on his credit card, to enforce the legend, lest some computer program at Homeland Security ponder where the airline passenger had stayed.

He had booked two weeks at Sandals - a resort that includes all meals as part of a package. He paid for two weeks on a credit card. He had left his cell phone in the room at Sandals, plugged in so the GPS signal from the Bahamas would not die. He told the housekeeper that he did not want to be disturbed in any way, and to leave the room alone.

The freight boat was, of course, paid for in cash.

All of this, he thought, should be enough to convince any Homeland Security computer he was simply a middle aged, divorced man looking for some temporary love at Sandals.

He stood on the bow of the boat, leaning into the mild June wind, in anticipation. He was in his late fifties. Plump, perhaps, but still, somehow, athletic looking. His face was smooth rather than that of one accustomed to being out in the sun. His thinning hair was salt and pepper.

He was not the typical American passenger. The American men were typically clad in shorts and a golf shirt, complete with new tennis shoes. They were cheerful, talking in excitement about cigars. This one was different.

The man at the bow did not talk to the two other Americans, a man and his wife from some place in the middle of nowhere, he thought.

Instead of the typical causal clothing of tourists in the Caribbean, he was clad in dress slacks and starched striped shirt. His wrist prominently displayed a Rolex Oyster Perpetual. At his feet Bow Man had an expensive dark green rolling duffle, trimmed in leather. Draped over the duffle was a blue blazer with a Brooks Brothers label. The only thing he shared with the other Americans was gold framed aviator style sunglasses, which he would nervously push up as they sagged down his nose in the wind.

Here was a man on a mission. As he stood at the bow, he pressed his right foot onto the old wooden deck as if it were an accelerator pedal, hoping to help speed the boat ahead.

Thank God, he thought, as the boat slowed for the final approach to the dock as twilight was settling in on Havana. Despite the warm temperature, he put on his blazer.

The captain piloted the large boat to its usual berth at Havana’s Ferry Dock, on the east side of the city. He and the crew eased it into its space and tied up to the large metal eyelets projecting out from the concrete of the dock. As the crew prepared for unloading freight, the few passengers were allowed off into the waiting arms of Cuban authorities.

Now Blazer Man, he had arrived, and somehow felt safer in Cuba then at any time on his journey. He knew Americans are welcome to visit Cuba, and especially welcome to bring hard currency. U.S. law forbids spending American currency in Cuba, and Blazer Man had brought plenty of Canadian dollars with him. He had bought the dollars over time, for cash, across the border from his home in Detroit, at various banks across Ontario.

While the couple from nowhere passed through the fence with just a few questions, the well-tailored man on the freight boat drew some attention from the welcoming committee. This seemed like a strange way for a business man, even an American, to travel to Cuba. Someone on legitimate business - a doctor or engineer - could get waivers from the U.S. Government, and arrive with more dignity than aboard the freight boat.

His name was noted for the daily Incident Report, but he was allowed to pass freely. The guards reasoned that if capitalist spies were arriving, they would masquerade like typical tourists, from nowhere, and not seek to stand out.

Blazer Man walked at a quick pace into the terminal building, and headed for the authorized Currency Exchange. He exchanged 3,000 Canadian dollars into the local CUC, a Cuban currency valued one for one with the US dollar, and issued only for use by tourists.

He then walked back out through the large doors of the terminal to hail a taxi. It was warm, and he was beginning to feel the heat beneath the lightweight blazer. There were few passengers today, and he did not have to wait long for a taxi. The radio was blasting a traditional Cuban beat, long on brass punctuation. The driver turned down the radio as he approached his next passenger.

The cab was an ancient American behemoth of a car, from the late 1950’s. It looked perfectly preserved, and shined even in the dimming sun. He knew that these old American cars have come to represent a bit of the personality of Havana. He thought that if the U.N, or a Korean car maker eager for publicity, offered to equip Havana with new taxis for free, the Government would no doubt decline. The old cars represent part of the city’s aura for tourists.

As he entered the ancient green and white Chevrolet he thought to himself, at least someone likes Detroit iron.

As he settled into the cab, Blazer Man said, Hotel Habana Libre, por favor. He pronounced the words, with confidence, in a mangled fashion.

Rosetta Stone, thought the driver. Yet, this passenger did not engage the driver in conversation, as did most Americans or Canadians who spoke some Spanish. The driver sensed this was not a friendly passenger, and turned up the volume on the radio.

The taxi pulled out of the Ferry Terminal and headed north. The driver pointed the behemoth towards the Vedado section of Havana, nestled between the Old City and the seaside Miramar section.

Vedado is a bit off the beaten path. It is not remote, but not as popular with tourists as the Old City, or Miramar. Someday, he thought, he would return and stay at the elegant Nacional. For now, being off the beaten path would work well.

Blazer man had studied the map of Havana, and knew the road they were traveling was known as the Malecón, or Seafront, which stretches along the east and north side of the city. As he peered through the open taxi window at the sea splashing against the sea wall, the radio began pouring out another brassy instrumental. The realization was setting in that he really was in Cuba. Then he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. For a moment he wondered if he were crazy to be in Havana.

Rather than follow the scenic Malecón all the way around the city, then south to the hotel, the driver took a left on a broad avenue with the implausible name of Avenue O’Reilly, to head directly west. Then, after a few short jogs through side streets, the behemoth made a right at a weathered street sign bearing the name Calle L, and eased up to the entrance of the huge, gleaming Habana Libre Hotel complex. Perfect, thought the passenger. Modern, well appointed, and just a bit off the beaten path.

Blazer Man paid, emerged, and quickly headed inside, pulling his rolling bag himself before the doorman could act. An English businessman, no doubt on his way to a dinner, nodded to Blazer Man as he replaced him in the back seat of the Chevrolet. The driver smiled as he reached to turn down the volume on the radio, but surmised the tip would not be as good as the quiet American’s.

He walked through the modern lobby to reception, thinking he could be in a hotel anywhere. There was no queue at the reception desk, and he was attended to immediately. Blazer Man could not contact the hotel from the States to make advance reservations, but he was sure a room would be available, and he was right.

The young woman at the desk was not surprised that he paid in Canadian cash, in advance, for three nights, though he had an American passport. He knew that American credit cards are not accepted in Cuba, and would not be required at check in. This was the final piece to ensure that there would be no paper or electronic trail of his visit. Blazer Man was completely under the radar.

The bellman took the electronic key card, and headed toward the bank of six elevators, pulling the light case behind him. Blazer Man followed behind.

He was anxious to get to his room, to work on the next step in his plan. As the elevator ascended to the seventh floor he fidgeted with his blazer buttons, and involuntarily tapped his right foot, all of which made the bellman anxious himself.

He followed the bellman, who turned left out of the elevator and went half way down the wide hallway. The bellman opened the door to a large and well-appointed room. As Blazer Man stepped in, he thought the room looked a bit capitalist. It was modern and no nonsense - the sort of space to appeal to someone there on business, someone with a real purpose.

Gratefully, he slipped out of his jacket