Offshore Islands by John Francis Kinsella
At that same moment, John Ryan was checking into the Sheraton Hotel at Frankfurt International Airport. He hauled a regulation size carry-on bag on wheels. He paid cash in advance, mumbling that he had misplaced his credit card. The stiff blonde receptionist checked his passport and gave him a cold once over as he signed the registration card. He shrugged and decided not to waste his breath on any unlikely explanations. He knew only too well that it was unusual for international travellers not to use plastic in that class of hotel, but Frankfurt he reasoned was accustomed to strange travellers. It would have been unwise to use one of the several cards contained in an inside flap of his wallet.
The next morning he took breakfast early, checked out and headed across the foot bridge into the passenger terminal. After a seemingly endless series of check-in zones and shopping areas he found the desk he was looking for.
‘Sonnen Reisen’, Sun Travels, an airport travel agent specialised in cheap last minute flights for tourists not particularly concerned about their holiday destination. There was no crowd; the Easter holiday rush was another few days away. He stood in line behind the only two other travellers, a couple of young back-packers who were discussing a flight to India with the sales girl. His eyes ran down the list of destinations available that day, hand written in large black letters with a marker pen on a white plastic notice board.
Singapore…no, that reminded him too much of the Barings scandal, Mike Leeson had ended up with a three or four year trip to Changi Prison. New York…not that either, the Yanks had put a lot of money into ‘Swap’. Mexico…didn’t sound bad, he mused thinking of Mariachis, on second thoughts he remembered having heard stories about it being dangerous for tourists and foreigners.
Cuba…hmm, he vaguely recalled being told that it had a certain run down charm from Tony Arrowsmith back in Dublin, a business friend, more of an acquaintance. He mentally rephrased ‘friend’ in the conditional, at least he had been a friend. Arrowsmith was involved in the hotel business in the Caribbean. Kavanagh recalled him talking of beaches, cigars, rum and exotic women, but also and not least he had mentioned it as being not far from those very useful offshore banking havens.
“Cuba?” he said aloud without thinking.
“Ya! It is possible,” replied the sales girl with an encouraging smile, “One thousand two hundred marks for the round trip - ten days, with two nights and breakfast included in Santiago de Cuba.”
“Sounds good,” he replied without consciously distinguishing the difference between Havana and Santiago de Cuba. After all why not, he thought to himself, it can’t be more than just a hop from there to meet Martin Wender in person.
“You’ll need a tourist card.”
“A tourist card!” he replied snapping out of his reverie.
“Don’t worry, you can get it on arrival, a few dollars will see to everything.”
“What passport do you have?”
“Irish.”
“No problem. It’s a Lufthansa charter flight with Condor, leaving at 11.30 from terminal B, check-in starts in half-an-hour. You’ll take it?”
“Okay,” he nodded thinking it’s as good as anything I’ll find today.
She made out the ticket and hotel voucher, then Kavanagh paid in cash and headed towards terminal B to the check-in.
As he tried to decipher the signs to his boarding gate, he suddenly had a misgiving, remembering Arrowsmith’s link with Cuba. He was involved in a tourist complex called the ‘Cayo’ something, near a place called Holguin, or a name like that, financed by the BCN with Castlemain, perhaps that could make a problem he thought. I’ll just have to keep my wits about me, whatever happens I’d better avoid that place, wherever it is - just in case.
Chapter 3
Siempre Rebeldes
The next morning he took breakfast early, checked out and headed across the foot bridge into the passenger terminal. After a seemingly endless series of check-in zones and shopping areas he found the desk he was looking for.
‘Sonnen Reisen’, Sun Travels, an airport travel agent specialised in cheap last minute flights for tourists not particularly concerned about their holiday destination. There was no crowd; the Easter holiday rush was another few days away. He stood in line behind the only two other travellers, a couple of young back-packers who were discussing a flight to India with the sales girl. His eyes ran down the list of destinations available that day, hand written in large black letters with a marker pen on a white plastic notice board.
Singapore…no, that reminded him too much of the Barings scandal, Mike Leeson had ended up with a three or four year trip to Changi Prison. New York…not that either, the Yanks had put a lot of money into ‘Swap’. Mexico…didn’t sound bad, he mused thinking of Mariachis, on second thoughts he remembered having heard stories about it being dangerous for tourists and foreigners.
Cuba…hmm, he vaguely recalled being told that it had a certain run down charm from Tony Arrowsmith back in Dublin, a business friend, more of an acquaintance. He mentally rephrased ‘friend’ in the conditional, at least he had been a friend. Arrowsmith was involved in the hotel business in the Caribbean. Kavanagh recalled him talking of beaches, cigars, rum and exotic women, but also and not least he had mentioned it as being not far from those very useful offshore banking havens.
“Cuba?” he said aloud without thinking.
“Ya! It is possible,” replied the sales girl with an encouraging smile, “One thousand two hundred marks for the round trip - ten days, with two nights and breakfast included in Santiago de Cuba.”
“Sounds good,” he replied without consciously distinguishing the difference between Havana and Santiago de Cuba. After all why not, he thought to himself, it can’t be more than just a hop from there to meet Martin Wender in person.
“You’ll need a tourist card.”
“A tourist card!” he replied snapping out of his reverie.
“Don’t worry, you can get it on arrival, a few dollars will see to everything.”
“What passport do you have?”
“Irish.”
“No problem. It’s a Lufthansa charter flight with Condor, leaving at 11.30 from terminal B, check-in starts in half-an-hour. You’ll take it?”
“Okay,” he nodded thinking it’s as good as anything I’ll find today.
She made out the ticket and hotel voucher, then Kavanagh paid in cash and headed towards terminal B to the check-in.
As he tried to decipher the signs to his boarding gate, he suddenly had a misgiving, remembering Arrowsmith’s link with Cuba. He was involved in a tourist complex called the ‘Cayo’ something, near a place called Holguin, or a name like that, financed by the BCN with Castlemain, perhaps that could make a problem he thought. I’ll just have to keep my wits about me, whatever happens I’d better avoid that place, wherever it is - just in case.
Chapter 3
Siempre Rebeldes