LITMIR.BIZ

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the reception area of the Canadian embassy, looking at a painting on the far wall, trying to decide whether the harbour was in Nova Scotia or Newfoundland. He felt refreshed after a quick shower and change of clothes at the hotel, and he was looking forward to seeing where he would be working for the next three years. From the outside, the converted villa on 70th Avenue didn’t look that impressive, and Charlie knew from his review of the property file that even after sacrificing the tennis court for a new annex building, the mission was still pressed for space. He was wondering whether his office would be on the ground or first floor when he heard the door behind him open and a young man appeared. With his tall, athletic frame clad in a polo shirt and khakis, the guy looked as ready for the front nine as a day at the office.

      “You must be the new MCO. I’m Drew Landon. Welcome to Havana.”

      Standing to take the outstretched hand, Charlie saw the same benevolence in the young man’s eyes as in his smile. “Charlie Hillier.”

      “Sorry about the wait. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

      As he tried to place Landon’s age within the low twenties — he looked young enough to pass for a student — Charlie couldn’t help wondering whether Winston Gardiner had realized that two rookies were going to be in charge of embassy administration when he had assigned Charlie to Havana.

      “I decided to drop in for a quick look around. I don’t want to put you out, but if you could just show me where my office is …”

      “It’s no trouble.” Landon looked at his watch. “Why don’t I give you the dime tour, then maybe we can grab a late lunch?”

      Charlie nodded and followed Landon as he punched in a code on the terminal next to the forbidding glass-and-metal door separating the reception area from the rest of the building.

      “The head of mission’s in Port au Prince until tonight, but I’ll show you his office anyway,” he said, leading the way through the open door and up the nearby stairs. “Good man, by the way,” he added, as he punched in his code again at the top of the stairs and they entered the zone that housed the ambassador and his assistant.

      “Afternoon, Martine.”

      A formidable grey-haired woman peered at them over her glasses from the other side of her desk.

      “This is Charlie Hillier, the new MCO. Charlie, meet the ambassador’s executive assistant, Martine Monette.”

      Charlie’s lips twitched with an involuntary smile at the sound of his new official title. He had always wanted an acronym of his own. This particular one, short for Management Consular Officer, actually blended two formerly separate positions, before budget cuts had trimmed the ranks of the Foreign Service. The new position was responsible for both consular cases and the myriad administrative matters at the embassy, from human resources, to property and housing, to finance.

      “Welcome to Havana,” she said, with a curt smile.

      “I was just showing Charlie around …” Landon glanced toward the ambassador’s open door.

      “You can have a quick look.” She waved at the door and returned her attention to her computer monitor.

      Landon seemed surprised by the invitation and went straight for the door. Standing in the doorway of the office, Charlie was impressed with its size and decor, furnished as it was with mostly modern pieces, accented by a few antiques and some wonderful artwork.

      “Very nice.”

      “You should see the residence,” Landon said, before pointing out some framed photographs of the ambassador with various senior departmental officials, as well as the prime minister. Next, Landon led them back out into the main part of the embassy and introduced him around to the few people they met as they made their way from section to section. The numerous empty offices, Landon explained, were due to a conference being held in Old Havana. After a brief tour of the ground floor, Charlie was surprised to find himself back at the main reception area.

      “So, where’s my office?”

      “Oh, we’re next door.”

      Charlie assumed he meant the modern-looking annex building, so he was puzzled when, back outside, Landon led them in the opposite direction, past the lane where the embassy van still sat, and then up a flight of exterior stairs over what looked like the garage.

      “The admin section’s back here,” Landon said, as they reached another locked door and he entered his access code. The door opened onto a long and narrow hallway with offices on either side. Landon stopped in front of the second door.

      “This is you.”

      Charlie hesitated at the door and, as he poked his head inside, his heart sank. The office was small, its walls of the same shiny material as the ones in the corridor — like the inside of his grade four portable, except white instead of faux wood. The sole window was shuttered from the outside and the glass was crisscrossed with what looked like masking tape.

      “Hurricane mitigation,” Landon said, following Charlie’s gaze to the taped windows.

      “Hurricane mitigation,” Charlie parroted, as he took in the rest of the office and its battered furniture. The desk and cabinets looked like they had been pulled out of the basement at headquarters and shipped here in an open boat, possibly through a hurricane. He thought of the spacious digs he had left behind in Ottawa and felt like turning around and going back to the airport. A couple of shrivelled plants sat on the desktop, and he noticed that the back of the rolling chair was listing sharply to the right. Whereas the main building had been pleasantly cool, Charlie could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead after just a few seconds in the close air of the office.

      “Like I said, I wasn’t really expecting you until tomorrow.” Landon paused, noticing Charlie’s crestfallen look. “But don’t worry. We’ll get you settled away, maybe with some new furniture.”

      Can you please take me back to that nice building next door?

      “Oh, this will be fine, I’m sure,” Charlie said, waving away any concern.

      “Have you seen your SQ yet?” Landon asked, using the departmental lingo for staff quarters.

      “Uh, no.”

      “Why don’t we grab some lunch and then I’ll take you out to have a look. You’re going to like it, I promise.”

      Charlie was still staring at the rickety chair and feeling the first hint of sacroiliac pain. “I’m sure I will,” he said, his deflated tone suggesting the opposite.

      “There’s the OR,” Landon said, as Carlos slowed the van so his two passengers could get a good look. Set apart from the other houses in the leafy neighbourhood to the west of Miramar, the sprawling white stucco villa that served as the Canadian ambassador’s official residence was well back from the road, nestled on a lush green lawn. In fact, the only other structure in sight was a dilapidated brick tower across the road.

      “Jaimanitas,” Carlos said as he swung the van around, stopped at the edge of the curving driveway, and pointed toward the large house beyond.

      “I heard there was some connection to Hemingway,” Charlie said, as he surveyed the sprawling house.

      “Everything in Habana has a connection to Papa,” Carlos said, giving Charlie a broad grin.

      “Grant Mason, of Pan Am, had it built in the thirties for him and his wife, Jane,” Landon continued. “Hemingway had quite a thing for her, apparently. Anyway, we’ll get you in to see it soon. It’s beautiful on the inside.”

      “I’ll bet,” Charlie said, as the van moved back in the direction they had come.

      “You’re just around the corner.”

      “From here?” Having seen his office, Charlie had imagined his new

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