RW15 - Seize the Day

by Richard Marcinko

  “Are you personally guaranteeing that?” asked Trace.

  I didn’t answer. No sense giving Mr. Murphy another excuse to kick me in the butt.

  Mongoose and Shotgun worked their way down the Malecón, hunting for the taxi that had taken Doc. But there were so many places to check, and so many crossroads, that they soon realized it was hopeless. After roughly a half hour, Mongoose tried calling Doc again. But all he got was Doc’s voice mail.

  Doc, meanwhile, was facing one of the most perilous situations he’d ever faced, a life or death situation.

  Or maybe just lust or death.

  MacKenzie slipped the taxi driver twenty euros to wait, then got out of the car and led Doc down to the shoreline.

  “Isn’t the night perfect?” she said. Then she dropped all pretense, along with her skirt.

  “I’m happily married,” said Doc.

  “No problem.” MacKenzie wrapped herself around him.

  Doc did what came naturally . . . to him, anyway. He started talking . . . and talking and talking and talking, until MacKenzie passed out, either from inebriation or exhaustion.

  At least that’s the story Doc tells, and for the sake of his marriage, I won’t question it. Once MacKenzie was slumbering peacefully, he put her over his shoulder and packed her into the cab. When they got back to Havana, Doc told the driver to deposit her at Villa Marista—state security headquarters.

  “Villa Marista?” The driver was more than a little apprehensive.

  “That’s where she works.”

  “At this hour?”

  “They’re expecting her. Just leave her with the guard at the gate,” said Doc.

  “But . . .”

  “They’ll know what to do.”26

  Shotgun and Mongoose were about ready to go over to Villa Marista themselves and tear the place apart looking for him. But after being dropped off at the hotel, Doc used the phone to call one of the Canadian phone numbers we’d arranged to forward to Junior. The Cubans were undoubtedly eavesdropping, so the message he left was short and sweet.

  “Busy day today, honey. Going to bed.”

  Junior snickered, then called Mongoose.

  “He’s all right,” he told him.

  “He’s all right where?”

  “Back at the hotel.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m looking at the number.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “You can’t figure it out?”

  “Doc? No way.”

  Junior changed the subject. “How are you guys doing out there? Do you need help?”

  “We’re fine, Junior. Just fine.”

  “Work on Dick, for me, would you? I need to get out in the field.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Mongoose had seen Junior in action in China and Korea, but he thought he still needed some seasoning.

  Shotgun needed seasoning as well, but of a totally different kind.

  “Cool,” said Shotgun, when Mongoose told him that Doc was OK. “Come meet me over here near the Malecón. There’s an all-night stand selling roasted peanuts. They smell great.”

  I’d told Red and Trace to wait until I relocated to our backup lookout spot, but that had about as much effect as telling the wind to stop blowing. They slipped down to the basement and found Raul’s hideaway office. Getting past the magnetic switch on the door was simply a matter of jumping the foil contacts; Red found the contact by tracing the current, then slipped a thin metal and wire jumper into the jamb. Picking the lock was nearly as easy.

  The motion detector was more difficult. The first problem was finding it without setting it off. Red knelt by the door, poking a telescoping optical wand inside to look for it. The scope had a very narrow viewing range, and it took quite a while for Red to find the detector in the opposite corner of the room, even though it was roughly where she expected to find it.

  Like most motion detectors, the one guarding the basement offices was actually a heat sensor. Depending on how good the alarm is, it’s often possible to defeat a motion sensor by moving toward it very, very slowly. But that takes Zen-like patience, a quality neither Trace nor Red had in abundance.

  Another way to defeat them is to slowly warm the room until it’s close to body temperature. We had killed the AC on the way in to make things easier, but the building had only reached eighty-two degrees, not nearly warm enough to fool a mediocre sensor, let alone the pretty good ones I figured Fidel would use. Warming the entire room another sixteen degrees would take quite a lot of oil. And the detector was too far from the door to use a device that would slowly heat the air around it, Bunsen-burner style.

  So the next best option was to cool down. Way down.

  Once she found the unit, Red donned what looked like a puffy chem suit, then pulled the lanyards on two canisters of compressed gas, turning herself into a walking ice cube.

  Ice cubes aren’t seventy-eight degrees, but you get the basic idea. With the suit inflated, Red walked slowly toward the detector. Once she was underneath it, she reached up and undid the shield protecting the infrared detector. A piece of clay did the rest.

  Past experience had shown that with all that effort expended protecting the outer office, it was highly unlikely that there would be anything guarding the inner door. Still, they couldn’t take that for granted. Trace checked for a circuit running along the doorjamb. Before putting her pick into the lock, she tried turning it gently.

  It wasn’t locked.

  That didn’t mean there wasn’t a motion detector inside, though. Red and her cold suit eased into the room.

  “No detector,” she said. “Lord, I’m freezing. And I gotta piss.”

  “There’s a soda bottle right there,” said Trace.

  There were several soda bottles, as a matter of fact. The room was a mess. There wasn’t much furniture: a pair of couches, both covered with thick Spanish red leather, flanked the small room, and a single desk stood at the side. A stereo and a television were propped on a table in the corner. Official papers were scattered around the desk, and piled high on one of the couches. The floor was littered with empty bottles, coffee cups, and newspapers.

  The first thing they checked was the television, but there was no DVD player there. While Red sorted through the papers on the couch—mostly routine legislation and proclamations designed to reinforce the Communist Party’s rule—Trace went through the desk. The drawers on the right side were all locked with individual locks. After checking to make sure they weren’t wired with an alarm system, she slipped her pick and spring tools into the bottom drawer. It stuck a bit, testing her patience as well as her technique. When she finally got it, she found it was filled with cigars.

  The next drawer had some envelopes and stationery. The top drawer had an appointment book in it. She put it on the floor and started snapping photos.

  “It’s not a total loss,” said Trace when she was done. “We know he’s a slob.”

  They backed out of the office, hitting the detector with a blast of cold CO2 to cover their retreat. Down the hall they followed essentially the same routine at Fidel’s office, getting past the alarms and rifling everything they could find to rifle.

  Meanwhile, I’d relocated to the roof of an apartment building two blocks from the first. This one was taller and had a slightly better view of the Party Headquarters Building, but was occupied; I had to be quiet as I snuck up the back stairs. Once I had everything set up, I checked back in with them.

  “You have ten minutes until the next rounds,” I told them over the radio. “Assuming they stay on schedule.”

  “Thanks,” said Trace. “We’re in el Jefe’s office. Still looking.”

  Fidel’s office was the exact opposite of his brother’s, without a paper out of place. Its only furniture was a thickly padded leather chair. There was no safe, no television, and definitely no DVD.

  “Maybe it’s hidden in the upholstery,” suggested Trace.

  “No, it’ll be easy to g
et,” said Red.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Trace took her knife, picked the chair up, and cut the bottom out. The disc wasn’t there.

  “How are we going to fix it now?” asked Red.

  Trace walked out to the small secretary’s office without answering, then returned with a stapler. She stapled the bottom back together, then put the chair back where it had been.

  “Let’s get the hard drive,” said Trace.

  “Are you sure?” asked Red. “Dick said the guard’s going to make his rounds soon.”

  “I know what Dick said.”

  Trace relocked Fidel’s door and went to the secretary’s desk. We’d discussed the possibility of stealing the hard drive, even though we weren’t sure what sort of intelligence it would provide. Naturally, it would be discovered missing as soon as the secretary came in the morning. But since the DVD hadn’t been in the building, alerting them to the break-in wouldn’t compromise the overall mission.

  Besides, it was too good to pass up.

  The computer at the side of Fidel’s secretary’s desk was a Lenovo—once made by IBM, now a Chinese owned and controlled conglomerate. Trace got down on her knees, put the computer on its side, and unfolded the unit like a book.

  Just about then, the guard started his rounds. He was a few minutes early, but the growing heat in the building annoyed him. I heard him tell his companion to check the thermostat again, and if it didn’t work, to go out and check the AC units.

  “Snow White, Stepsister, time to move,” I said. “The wolf is on the prowl.”

  The computer was open on the floor, but the hard drive was still attached to its rail.

  “How much longer?” Red asked.

  “The screw is stripped,” said Trace. “I’ll have to drill it out.”

  “The battery in the drill is dead.”

  “Then I’ll just rip the damn thing apart. Give me a screwdriver,” said Trace.

  The guard, meanwhile, passed our last video bug and headed down the stairs.

  “Snow White, Stepsister, he’s huffing and puffing,” I warned.

  “Damn,” said Trace.

  She may have said something else, but if so it was drowned out by the siren below.

  ( III )

  When I’d let the kids go, I figured that they would spend a little time looking for the bullets, then sneak back home, replace the gun, and tough out whatever inquisition the father put to them when he discovered the bullets were gone—two or three days from now.

  I was counting on the kids being devious. Those who steal guns out of their parent’s bureau drawers usually are.

  What happened, apparently, is that one of the kids ran home and spilled the beans. And then instead of thrashing the kids to within an inch of their young lives, the man who owned the weapon called up his comrades at the force to go out and look for me.

  Yes, I will shoot them next time.

  Three police cars sped past my building, pulling up near the one I’d left. I could hear more sirens in the distance.

  My options were limited. I was already at the far end of the range of the system supplying the feed from the video bugs; if I relocated, I’d be useless to either Trace or Red.

  Of course, getting arrested wouldn’t particularly help them either.

  I decided to sit tight for a while. It was the right thing to do, even though lights were flashing all over the street below.

  In Fidel’s office, Red doused the light and froze near the door. Trace crouched behind the desk, the computer open next to her.

  They assumed that the guard would try the door and then move on. Otherwise he’d set off the alarm, something we hadn’t seen or heard him do.

  But we all know what happens when we ass-u-me something.

  Red nearly fell over when she heard the guard’s key turning in the lock. Then, either out of brilliant inspiration or just because she didn’t know what else to do, she grabbed the small knob of the lock with one hand and the handle with the other.

  The guard couldn’t turn the key. Thinking he’d picked the wrong key, he pulled it out from the lock and examined the others on his chain.

  In the ten or twelve seconds it took him to get another key and try it, Red reached down and grabbed the foil tape that jumped the alarm, then bolted from the door and on her tiptoes raced to the desk, tapped Trace to follow, and together they hid in Fidel’s inner office. They closed the door, locked it from the inside, and crouched by the couch.

  The guard tried several keys before settling on the right one. He opened the door to the outside office, stuck his head in, and flicked the light on. Trace, her MP5 ready, went over the route she’d memorized as the quickest way out.

  The guard hesitated a moment, then flicked the light out and left.

  “Thank God for lazy guards,” whispered Red, collapsing against the wall.

  Trace jumped up, listening at the door to make sure the guard had actually left. She gave him a full minute, then eased back out. Red collected herself, then followed.

  “Just tear the damn thing out,” she told Trace.

  “Relax. Now we have plenty of time. We can’t move until he gets back.”

  Red sighed.

  “That was smart of you, jamming the lock,” said Trace.

  Red wasn’t sure how to take that. It was the first time Trace had actually offered her a compliment.

  Our video bugs didn’t show the panel at the security desk, so there was no way to know if the security system was actually working or not. That wasn’t a problem for the door alarm—the women could easily jump it on the way out—but what about the motion detector?

  What about it?

  It wouldn’t be a problem, unless the guard at the front desk was watching very carefully.

  “You didn’t check the president’s office,” he said over the radio, scolding the guard making the rounds. “You’re supposed to go inside.”

  “I did.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You are a liar and a lazy bastard.”

  The two men argued for a few seconds more. The guard making the rounds wasn’t pleased—but he still turned around and retraced his steps.

  ________

  Trace pulled the last screw from the rail and removed the drive, then pried the wire connections loose. She pushed the computer back together carefully, then rose to go.

  “Snow White, the wolf’s on his way,” I told her over the radio, seeing the guard passing on his way back to the basement. “He’s coming back into Fidel’s office because the motion detector didn’t go off.”

  Red was already at the motion detector.

  “Hit it with the CO2 and let’s move,” Trace told her. “Come on.”

  Red sprayed the sensor, then put the cover back. But her hand was cold, and it slipped out of her fingers to the ground. She hopped down—she needed a chair to reach comfortably—grabbed it, and tried again.

  “Come on, come on,” said Trace.

  Red snapped in the cover. She left the chair in the corner and bolted to the door. They slipped out and got around the corner just as the guard came down the steps.

  “I thought you’d go back,” radioed the Cuban covering the security station.

  “Not because of your threats,” said the guard, continuing toward the office.

  Yes, gentle reader, the alarm did go off before the guard went inside. Congratulate yourself on being a step ahead of the security detail.

  But only a step ahead.

  “Get the hell out of there. Now!” I told Trace and Red as soon as I overheard the guard. “Go. Go!”

  “We’re going,” said Trace.

  “Watch out when you come out the back,” I added, warning them about the police in the area.

  “Are you in trouble, Dark Eyes?” Trace asked.

  “Always,” I said. “But I’m OK at the moment. Head e
ast when you’re out.”

  “Copy. We’re on our way.”

  Red and Trace were climbing onto the roof when the guard opened the door to Fidel’s office. It must have been just about then that he realized what his comrade had said earlier. He picked up his radio and called the desk.

  “I’m at Fidel’s office.”

  “Why’d you go back?”

  “Is the alarm on now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did it just go on?”

  “A minute ago. When you radioed.”

  “Something’s wrong. Very wrong.”

  On the roof, Red replaced the fan and slathered roofing tar on the screws, making it look as if it hadn’t been disturbed. Then she joined Trace, who was scouting an escape route from the side of the roof.

  “The police are right up that street there,” said Trace, pointing about a block and a half away. “We’ll have to cut across this way. Take the face paint off. Try to look normal.”

  Red took out her Handi Wipes and swabbed the black off her face. But there wasn’t time for them to change into civilian clothes—two of the police cars were heading in their direction.

  “Snow White, Stepsister, get off the roof now,” I warned, watching as the patrols moved toward the northern end of the square. Another car came up—the police had decided to search the woods behind the building for the pervert who’d bothered the kids.

  Trace and Red got off the roof, but they were barely a dozen steps away from the building when a pair of headlights arced in their direction. They threw themselves behind a low wall, hiding as first one and then two more service trucks rolled up not six feet away.

  But it wasn’t the police. They were the air-conditioner mechanics, called to look at the HVAC system.

  That sound you heard was me, being hoisted by my own petard.

  Sixty seconds later, a security response team and the shift supervisor arrived at the front of the building, called out by the security guards because of the motion detector.

  Trace radioed me and said they were stuck.

  She didn’t know the half of it. The supervisor had just called in a full alert. Following their standard paranoid procedure, the building and its grounds were about to be locked down and searched, inch by inch.