As the two-hour siesta drew to its close, life stirred along Havana's Prado. Shoeshine boys and maracas salesmen lolled under the laurel trees. English-speaking pimps eyed the few tourists who were waiting for the smart leather and perfume shops to open.
Ignored by the idlers, two sedans turned into the Prado and parked close to the Paseo de Marti branch of the Royal Bank of Canada. The porter was just opening the thick mahogany doors of the one-story limestone building.
From each car came five men. Said one of them to the bank porter:...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
