Hostage in Havana

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Alexandra LaDuca stood in the elevator with Andrew De Salvo.

She used the time to collect her thoughts, prepare her words, and set her shoulders squarely. This wasn’t her first press conference, but it would be her most important.

The trip was thirteen floors down from the fifty-seventh floor to the forty-fourth floor of a Manhattan skyscraper at Duane and Wall Street and its expansive chamber used for press conferences.

She checked her reflection in the mirror above the brass buttons of the elevator’s controls. What she saw was a woman who was fit, strong, and thirty years old. Her makeup was fine, her hair was loose to her shoulders, and she looked good. She wore a navy Chanel suit, a white silk blouse, and sensible pumps.

The elevator continued its descent: fifty … forty-nine … forty-eight.

Thirteen flights. The unlucky number, if one paid any attention to such things. Forty-seven. Forty-six. Almost there. She drew a breath and was ready to go.

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