Chapter 29
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Havana, Cuba
Flint stepped off the Aeroméxico flight onto the tarmac at José Martí International Airport. The March weather was similar to what he’d left in Miami. Warm but comfortable, with a breeze carrying the scent of jet fuel and tropical vegetation.
Drake followed close behind. Both were dressed in lightweight khakis and button-down shirts to mimic academic researchers investigating Cuban American genealogy.
The terminal buzzed with typical travel chaos at a regional airport in a communist country.
Uniformed officials scrutinized documents at every checkpoint. Once again, Flint handed over his passport and travel authorization to a stern-faced customs agent.
“Purpose of visit?” The man’s English carried a heavy accent.
“Academic research. Historical investigation of Cuban American family connections,” Flint replied. He maintained eye contact.
Embassy workers here routinely used commercial flights to maintain lower profiles, which was why Flint chose to enter here. The embassy was small and Cuban airspace restrictions made direct military or private jet flights complicated.
The agent studied the State Department letterhead and Hayes’s authorization a moment too long for Flint’s comfort. But a few moments later, he stamped the passports and waved them through.
While they waited, Cuban customs officers searched their luggage methodically. Every item examined. Every pocket explored.
“What is this?” One officer held up Flint’s digital camera.
“Research documentation. We photograph historical sites and family records.”
The officer turned the camera over in his hands, then handed it back. “And these?” He gestured to Drake’s notebooks.
“Genealogy notes. Family trees, dates, locations.”
They examined each page carefully but found nothing suspicious. Two academic researchers with cameras, notebooks, and genealogy materials. Nothing to see here.
Flint had brought ten thousand dollars in small bills, distributed throughout his gear in zippered compartments. American currency worked well in Cuba’s underground economy. The customs officers’ search missed most of it. What they found, they stuffed in their pockets.
“Welcome to Cuba,” the lead officer ultimately said with indifference.
Outside the terminal, Drake flagged a taxi. The driver was a middle-aged man with a weathered face, and his hands were baked into deep wrinkles by the sun, but his eyes were alert and the gaze suspicious.
“Habana Vieja,” Flint said when they settled into the back seat.
The driver nodded and pulled into traffic. Soviet-era vehicles were mixed with restored American classic cars from the 1950s. Like the people, Havana’s infrastructure looked tired. Cracked roads. Faded buildings. Power lines strung haphazardly between poles.
“First time in Cuba?” the driver asked in English.
“Yes. We’re researching family histories,” Drake volunteered to put the man at ease.
He nodded and flashed a toothless grin. “Many Americans come for that now. The past is important.”
While Drake kept the driver engaged in meaningless small talk, Flint studied the city through the window. He’d been here before on a mission he couldn’t discuss. The once elegant but now decrepit streets seemed familiar and unchanged despite the passage of time.
The taxi dropped them at the Hotel Inglaterra in Central Havana. One of the oldest and most historic hotels in the city, Hotel Inglaterra was a colonial building with elegant columns and wrought-iron balconies.
Flint checked them into a two-bedroom suite using the academic credentials. The suite overlooked the Capitolio. The massive dome reminded Flint of the US Capitol in Washington, DC, but it was painted in tropical pastels that seemed to fade in the afternoon sun.
“First order of business,” Flint said as he unpacked his bag. “Check in with the embassy.”
Drake nodded. “Then Gaspar’s contact.”
“And we assume we’re being watched from the moment we walked onto that plane.”
“Hotel room’s probably bugged too.”
“Count on it.” Flint closed his suitcase. “Remember we’re academic researchers with nothing to hide. Let’s go.”
Drake flagged down another taxi to take them to the US Embassy, which occupied a modern building in Vedado. American flags flew alongside Cuban security checkpoints.
Flint presented their credentials to the Marine guard.
“Mr. Flint and Mr. Drake. You’re expected,” he said, waving them through.
A consular officer named Natalie Williams met them on the other side of the gate and led them to a secure conference room. A quick glance showed her to be mid-forties, professional demeanor, tired lines around her eyes that suggested long experience with complicated situations.
“Ben Hayes briefed me on your research mission,” she said. “How can we help?”
“We need a secure base of operations. Communications support if possible.”
Williams leaned back in her chair. “I can provide limited assistance. Secure phone access. Meeting space if required. But understand our position clearly. You’re on your own out there.
If you can make it back onto embassy grounds, we’ll get you out of the country if we can.
Beyond that, we have no resources to offer. ”
“Understood.”
“Cuba’s not a forgiving place for freelance operations.
The government monitors everything. Neighborhood committees report suspicious activity.
Prosecutors can authorize surveillance without judicial oversight.
” Williams handed him a card. “That’s my direct number.
Memorize it. Destroy the card. Use the number only in emergencies. ”
Flint memorized the number and handed the card to Drake who did the same before handing the card back to her. “What about American citizens living here off the grid?”
“They exist. Cuba doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States. Some people find that appealing,” Williams said flatly. “But we don’t track them, and we can’t do much to help them if they get into trouble.”
Drake spoke up. “Any particular areas where Americans might settle?”
“Old Havana has a foreign community. Artists, writers, people who want to disappear. But it’s also where the surveillance is heaviest.” Williams stood. “Be careful, gentlemen. Cuba may seem relaxed, but it’s still a police state. They execute people in the streets here without much fanfare.”
“Copy that,” Flint replied as he turned to leave. “When we come back, we could be in a hurry.”
Williams nodded. “I figured.”
Without conversation, Flint and Drake left the embassy and took another taxi to Gaspar’s contact’s address in Old Havana. The neighborhood was a maze of narrow streets and colonial architecture. Buildings showed their age. Peeling paint. Cracked walls. Iron balconies that had seen better decades.
“Look at this place,” Drake said quietly. “Like a museum that’s falling apart.”
Flint replied, “That’s exactly what it is.”
The address led to a small office above a restaurant. A sign in Spanish advertised private investigation services. Flint climbed the narrow stairs and knocked.
A compact man in his fifties answered. Gray hair, alert gaze, and a firm handshake that suggested he kept himself in good physical shape.
“Luis Castro,” he said in accented English. “Gaspar said you might visit.”
“Michael Flint. This is Alonzo Drake.”
Castro gestured them inside. The office was sparse but functional. A desk, two chairs, filing cabinets, and a window that overlooked the street below.
“Gaspar explained your interest in genealogy research,” Castro said with a slight smile. “Family connections that might have brought Americans to Cuba over the years, he said.”
“That’s right. We’re looking for someone who might have settled here about twenty years ago. An American named Frank Tantanella.”
Castro’s expression remained neutral. “Common enough situation. Americans who needed a fresh start. Cuba offers sanctuary for those with the right connections.”
“What kind of connections?”
“Money. Patience. The ability to blend in and live a quiet life.” Castro opened a desk drawer and retrieved a notepad and a stubby pencil used almost to the end of its life. “What can you tell me about the man you seek?”
Maintaining operational security, Flint provided the basics without mentioning any criminal activity or giving Tantanella’s name.
Castro made notes. “I’ll need to ask around carefully. Americans living off the grid here are careful about revealing themselves. But the community is small. People talk.”
“How long will it take you to find him?” Flint asked.
“Your travel authorization is good for twenty-four hours. After that, you become interesting to the authorities,” Castro replied.
Drake leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What about surveillance?”