places are so fucking attractive?”
Trujillo’s response was a wry grin. What Pena meant by “these places” were corporations, joint ventures, and dollars-only stores, shops, and boutiques, the businesses with the country’s most coveted full-time jobs. A job in a hotel, outlet, or the office of one of these companies offered a better standard of living than working in a school, hospital, or government office. While investigating a few robbery cases, Trujillo had visited several to interview various managers and executives. Each time he’d noticed how many highly attractive women there were. It spoke volumes about some executives’ recruiting policies.
“I heard the news yesterday, around noon,” Fonseca was saying. “I sent my secretary to find out why Pablo had missed two days in a row. He lives, lived, two blocks away. Well, of course you know that. Pablo’s sister had just returned from the morgue. Anita came back in tears. But no one here knows what happened to him. He had an accident or what?”
“No, comrade, it was not an accident,” Major Pena began. “He was murdered. Somebody broke his neck.”
Fonseca was rendered speechless for a moment. He shook his head in disbelief. “Why?”
“That’s what we are trying to find out,” Pena said.
Fonseca unsuccessfully dragged on his cigar and scowled. “Okay. You just tell me how we can co-operate and we’ll do it. Whatever the cost, no matter how much time it takes, we’ll do it.”
Pena and Trujillo nodded. This was the kind of big-shot jargon they heard whenever a warehouse was robbed, a state-owned car stolen, a cashier held up. The important entrepreneur willing to help police solve a crime, putting his organization at their service. Observance of unwritten rule number two: full cooperation with the police and the State Security.
“Well, first of all we would like to have a word with you. Then we need to talk with everyone on your staff who worked with Pablo.”
“Consider it done.” Fonseca swivelled his chair round energetically and pressed an intercom key. “Anita, call the Ministry of Foreign Trade and cancel the meeting. No phone calls until I finish with the comrades.”
Suppressing smiles, Pena and Trujillo exchanged a glance.
Eight years earlier, when Marco Ferrero, the major stockholder of EuroAmerican Trading, a company based in Turin, Italy, signed the documents that gave birth to its Cuban-Italian joint venture, the Cuban government had appointed Fonseca as its representative. He had no experience whatsoever in trade, didn’t speak a second language, hadn’t a clue what terms like
promissory note
and
letter of credit
meant, and was unable to operate a computer, fax, photocopier, or any other piece of office equipment. At the time, Fonseca estimated he had spent less than fifty hours inside offices in his entire lifetime.
However, as political reliability was the primary qualification, Fonseca possessed all the required credentials: a retired armycolonel, specialty tanks, he’d served in Angola and Ethiopia and was a militant of the Communist Party. He was extremely obliging when dealing with superiors; stubborn and obstinate when giving orders to subordinates. Fonseca didn’t need to be told where his loyalties lay: he was supposed to report to the Cuban authorities whatever the foreign partner might try to keep secret concerning sales, prices, accounting, profit margins, taxes, new products, and long-term planning. The Cuban staff under him was very helpful in this, his most important revolutionary duty.
Marco Ferrero had honed his negotiating skills in Communist countries, had figured out the system’s weaknesses and the role his Cuban manager was supposed to play. The Italian businessman also relied on the fact that human nature is the same everywhere. So the first thing he did was to present Fonseca with a brand-new Toyota Corolla. His Cuban manager was no longer to ride the jalopy he had been sold seventeen
Trujillo’s response was a wry grin. What Pena meant by “these places” were corporations, joint ventures, and dollars-only stores, shops, and boutiques, the businesses with the country’s most coveted full-time jobs. A job in a hotel, outlet, or the office of one of these companies offered a better standard of living than working in a school, hospital, or government office. While investigating a few robbery cases, Trujillo had visited several to interview various managers and executives. Each time he’d noticed how many highly attractive women there were. It spoke volumes about some executives’ recruiting policies.
“I heard the news yesterday, around noon,” Fonseca was saying. “I sent my secretary to find out why Pablo had missed two days in a row. He lives, lived, two blocks away. Well, of course you know that. Pablo’s sister had just returned from the morgue. Anita came back in tears. But no one here knows what happened to him. He had an accident or what?”
“No, comrade, it was not an accident,” Major Pena began. “He was murdered. Somebody broke his neck.”
Fonseca was rendered speechless for a moment. He shook his head in disbelief. “Why?”
“That’s what we are trying to find out,” Pena said.
Fonseca unsuccessfully dragged on his cigar and scowled. “Okay. You just tell me how we can co-operate and we’ll do it. Whatever the cost, no matter how much time it takes, we’ll do it.”
Pena and Trujillo nodded. This was the kind of big-shot jargon they heard whenever a warehouse was robbed, a state-owned car stolen, a cashier held up. The important entrepreneur willing to help police solve a crime, putting his organization at their service. Observance of unwritten rule number two: full cooperation with the police and the State Security.
“Well, first of all we would like to have a word with you. Then we need to talk with everyone on your staff who worked with Pablo.”
“Consider it done.” Fonseca swivelled his chair round energetically and pressed an intercom key. “Anita, call the Ministry of Foreign Trade and cancel the meeting. No phone calls until I finish with the comrades.”
Suppressing smiles, Pena and Trujillo exchanged a glance.
Eight years earlier, when Marco Ferrero, the major stockholder of EuroAmerican Trading, a company based in Turin, Italy, signed the documents that gave birth to its Cuban-Italian joint venture, the Cuban government had appointed Fonseca as its representative. He had no experience whatsoever in trade, didn’t speak a second language, hadn’t a clue what terms like
promissory note
and
letter of credit
meant, and was unable to operate a computer, fax, photocopier, or any other piece of office equipment. At the time, Fonseca estimated he had spent less than fifty hours inside offices in his entire lifetime.
However, as political reliability was the primary qualification, Fonseca possessed all the required credentials: a retired armycolonel, specialty tanks, he’d served in Angola and Ethiopia and was a militant of the Communist Party. He was extremely obliging when dealing with superiors; stubborn and obstinate when giving orders to subordinates. Fonseca didn’t need to be told where his loyalties lay: he was supposed to report to the Cuban authorities whatever the foreign partner might try to keep secret concerning sales, prices, accounting, profit margins, taxes, new products, and long-term planning. The Cuban staff under him was very helpful in this, his most important revolutionary duty.
Marco Ferrero had honed his negotiating skills in Communist countries, had figured out the system’s weaknesses and the role his Cuban manager was supposed to play. The Italian businessman also relied on the fact that human nature is the same everywhere. So the first thing he did was to present Fonseca with a brand-new Toyota Corolla. His Cuban manager was no longer to ride the jalopy he had been sold seventeen
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