Escape to Havana. Nick Wilkshire
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The ambassador was seated at his massive desk, poring over a report of some kind when they entered. He looked up and took off his glasses. “Come on in,” he said, coming out from behind the desk and shaking Charlie’s hand first. “I guess you’re our new MCO?”
“Yes, sir. Charlie Hillier.”
“Call me Michael, please. Welcome to Havana,” he said, as they arranged themselves on facing sofas. Charlie knew from reading his bio that Stewart was in his late fifties, but there was something about the man, perhaps an aura of confidence, that defied age. While Charlie straightened his tie and sat ramrod straight, Stewart crossed his long legs and assumed a leisurely pose, his tan linen suit a second skin. “What kind of housing have we got lined up for Charlie?” Stewart was looking at Landon and his top leg began to swing gently up and down, showing off a highly polished brown Oxford.
“We’re putting him into the new one. It should be ready this weekend.” Landon looked at Charlie and added. “We hope.”
“The one around the corner from the residence? Oh, well. You’ll be very comfortable there,” Stewart said. “I wish I could credit that one to your diligent efforts, Drew,” he added, grinning at Landon, “but I think it had more to do with that aid package we announced last month.”
“And here I thought someone at ImCub must really like me,” Landon joked. “ImCub’s the arm of the Cuban government responsible for leasing property to diplomatic tenants,” he added, turning to Charlie.
“Well, let’s hope we have as much luck with a new embassy site,” Stewart said, clapping his hands together.
Charlie had been briefed on the situation before leaving Ottawa. The current embassy was too small, and in need of a major retrofit. The Cubans had floated the possibility of selling land to Canada for a new building, something they generally didn’t do but seemed willing to consider for some of their diplomatic tenants. Charlie had heard that Stewart was keen on the idea, and on making it happen within the two years left on his own posting.
“I’ve been reviewing the property file,” Charlie said, wanting to appear just as keen.
“Then you know we need a new building.” Stewart became more serious. “We’re bursting at the seams here, and if the changes people are talking about come to fruition,” he said, stroking his fingers over an imaginary beard — a gesture that Charlie knew was the universal reference to Castro, “well, you can imagine. I’ve invited the president of ImCub to this weekend’s reception. You can meet him yourself.” Landon had already told Charlie about the reception to be held on Saturday night at the official residence. “I understand you spent some time in property management in Ottawa?”
“Yes,” Charlie replied, momentarily distracted by a five-by-seven portrait of a Labrador retriever in a gilt-edged frame on the side table. He hadn’t noticed it when he had scanned the office from the doorway the day before, and it seemed out of place in the otherwise formal setting. “I was mostly on the finance side,” he said, looking away from the picture and concentrating on embellishing his property credentials. “But I was involved in some major greenfield projects.” He hoped Stewart wouldn’t ask for much in the way of details. Charlie had authorized a lot of payments to contractors, but he hadn’t exactly been close to, let alone in charge of, the actual projects. A critical path to him could just as easily mean a well-worn trail to the building site’s porta-potty as a key project management term.
“Well, that’s excellent news,” Stewart said, leaning forward on the sofa and gesturing with a manicured hand, “because I intend to make this a reality, and I’ll need your help to keep Ottawa on side.”
“Of course.”
Stewart spent ten minutes on other priorities, none of which seemed even remotely as significant to him as securing a new embassy site, before returning to the property file. Charlie kept his reservations about having the whole thing built in two years to himself, and the meeting concluded with a personal invitation to attend the weekend reception at the official residence.
“He seems like a decent guy,” Charlie said, as he and Landon made their way back to the administration building after the meeting.
“I told you.”
“What’s with the picture of the dog?”
“That’s Teddy.” Landon laughed, but only briefly. “The ambassador’s a serious animal lover — so is Mrs. Stewart. The last gardener got the boot because they didn’t like the way he talked to the dog.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for Saturday night.”
As they reached the secure door and Charlie punched in his code, he turned to Landon. “You said you hoped I’d be in my house by the weekend. I thought you tracked down that electrician.”
“I did.” Landon sighed as they went into Charlie’s office and sat down. “And he swore he’d be there on Saturday morning, but you just never know when it comes to local labour.”
“Is it a safety issue?” Charlie asked. “Because I can probably live without basement lights for a while.”
Landon shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think so, but I can double-check the inspection report the guy from Ottawa did up a couple of weeks ago, if you like.”
“Would you mind?”
What little furniture and personal effects Charlie had shipped from Ottawa had arrived ahead of him and were sitting in the garage downstairs, and he was eager to get settled. His new place was fully furnished and Sharon had grabbed most of the furniture in the settlement anyway, but there were a couple of items that she and Jimmy the Leech had let him keep, including an antique desk and chair that he especially liked. He saw no reason to delay his moving into what would be his new home on account of a little electrical problem.
Charlie stood in the expansive backyard of the official residence, a glass of champagne in his hand, listening at the edge of a cluster of guests for the punchline to the Australian political officer’s joke about his first week in Havana. The blue water of the pool shimmered behind him, and the sound of crickets filled the night air, cooled to a comfortable temperature by the gentle breeze that stirred the tops of the trees. It was such a perfect evening, or would be, if Charlie weren’t so preoccupied with wondering what he was doing there. He jumped as the crowd burst into laughter, and took a sip of the champagne. He was already halfway through his second glass and he would have to watch it, in case he had to make small talk with the ambassador, or worse, some Cuban official. He scanned the crowd again for Drew Landon, or any other familiar faces from the embassy. Seeing none, he briefly considered a stroll to the other side of the patio, but the thought of trying to incorporate himself into yet another group of strangers was more than he could bear at the moment. So he stayed where he was, pretending to be relaxed.
Social situations had always been difficult for Charlie, for reasons he could never fully understand. Whether it was some innate flaw in his physiological makeup, or an acquired tic, he always seemed just a little … off, as though he were operating in a parallel world just slightly out of synch with everyone else. He had struggled with it through university and law school, thinking the awkwardness would eventually fade, but it still plagued him twenty years later. Standing there in silent agony, he could only marvel at the irony of his current situation. A lawyer who hated to argue, Charlie had successfully abandoned his legal training years ago and settled in to a perfectly bland bureaucratic career. How fitting that his role as faithful husband to an unfaithful wife would eventually force him to transform himself into a diplomat who couldn’t schmooze. Was it any wonder he was so screwed up? He tipped back his glass and was looking for a waiter when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Charlie Hillier,” Landon said, gesturing to the woman at his side. “I’d like to introduce you to Martina Blanco, Argentine special envoy for trade.”
“Nice to meet you,” Charlie said,