by Guy Adams
Penelope gave one last spasm then died, her forehead banging off the floor loud enough that it was followed a few seconds later by a remonstrative tap from below.
‘Such delicate neighbours you have,’ said Mr Wynter, getting to his feet and moving around the apartment. ‘Don’t worry, I shall be quiet. I wouldn’t want to give you a bad name.’
He moved into the kitchen, opened a few cupboards and then smiled when his eyes fell on an open packet of cookies. ‘I do believe in being naughty once in a while,’ he said, untwisting the plastic packaging and pushing up a few cookies with his gloved thumb. He pulled one out and popped it in his mouth. Delicious.
Coming back out of the kitchen, he looked around the room for Penelope’s cell. It was on a small table in the hall, along with her car keys and purse. He dropped the phone into his jacket pocket and unpacked the purse onto the table. Money, bits of tissue, make-up, all the usual detritus. Nothing troublesome. He replaced everything and put the purse back where he had found it.
He walked through the main living area to the bedroom and en-suite bathroom. By the side of the bed he found a scrap of paper where Penelope had written a phone message. It said ‘Shaeffer – Havana – Extraction/ID – Gleason – experimental tech’. That last was ringed with an incredulous question mark next to it. Mr Wynter crumpled the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. Elsewhere looked clean enough. He hadn’t expected a distinct paper trail, but it paid to be sure.
He made a call on his cell. ‘Hello,’ he said. I’d like to book your next available flight from Washington to Nassau please… Yes, Nassau in the Bahamas… Why yes,’ he laughed. ‘I am a very lucky man, but if you can’t enjoy yourself at my age, what’s the point?’
Rex had a night to kill before his plane. The time passed slowly. Not only because he was impatient to leave, but also because he was having to spend the time with Ted Loomis, and the man was reluctant to let Rex get off lightly with the day’s events.
‘“Just observe”,’ he said as they sat in their hotel bar. ‘That should be the main thing they teach people in training.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Rex sipping at his beer and not really listening. ‘Observe.’
‘People always want to jump in,’ Ted continued, ‘make a name for themselves, be the hero.’
‘They do.’
‘Not me, I’m happy in my work, a cog in the big machine.’
‘Good,’ Rex replied. ‘Glad you’re happy.’
‘Not just happy,’ said Ted, raising his voice, ‘but proud. What we do is important, it keeps people safe!’
‘And is often top secret and shouldn’t be shouted about in bars,’ said Rex.
Ted, realising he was being indiscreet, dropped his volume. ‘Yeah, cos you’re Mr Frigging Discreet aren’t you? In the van for a couple of minutes, and an operation I have given hours to is flushed down the pan because you couldn’t sit still.’
Rex placed his beer carefully on the surface of the bar. He felt it was for the best – if the bottle stayed in his hand he might be tempted to break it on Ted’s face, and that wouldn’t be good. ‘Your case was flushed down the pan because you chose a flaky pervert as a potential asset.’
‘Oh grow up and read your history books,’ said Ted. ‘The CIA doesn’t care what people like Dmitri get up to in their spare time. Fact is, if the guy has unusual tastes then all to the better. Something to hold over him.’
‘So if you had been in my shoes, you would have been punching the air?’
‘Certainly not the asset.’
Rex got to his feet.
‘Where the hell are you going?’ asked Ted.
Rex leaned in close and whispered in his ear. ‘Somewhere I won’t end up beating someone to death.’
He walked out of the bar, loud calypso music leaking from pretty much everywhere he walked past as he tried to calm down. Eventually his breathing slowed and his fists unclenched. It’s hard to be furious when people keep banging on steel drums; even if you hate that sort of thing, it’s the aural equivalent of a Tom and Jerry cartoon and not built for raging through.
He took an outside table at one of the small restaurants and ordered some cracked conch. If he had to spend another night here, his arteries might as well suffer along with the rest of him.
While he ate the deep-fried shell fish, he thought about Shaeffer’s phone call. The man had claimed they were in possession of experimental technology. Experimental? The Brits? What had they ever invented except sarcastic sitcoms and bowler hats? More likely it was stolen from another power and sold on to bolster the coffers. After all, you only had to pick up a newspaper to know that the British government had convinced everyone it was desperate for cash. They sounded just like the Republicans, anything to cut public healthcare down to a sticking plaster and a pat on the back. Rex was far from convinced that his presence would be wanted – or needed – but he’d play it carefully, observe from a distance (and wouldn’t that please Loomis?) to ensure he wasn’t about to get in the way of a sanctioned extraction. If anyone complained – and didn’t they always? – he’d blame it on Esther and play nice with the Section Chiefs for a while before they sent him back here. Whether he was needed or not, it would make a welcome palate cleanser from narcotics, you could only work these cases for so long before you felt so damn dirty you needed to take some holiday allowance to shower for a few days.
He returned to his hotel, noticing Ted was still sat on his own in the bar. For a moment, he thought about going over to join him, maybe build a few bridges. Then he was honest with himself about how long it would be before they started a brawl and headed straight to bed.
In the morning, he left the hotel early, skipping breakfast – and therefore any risk of bumping into Ted – and got a cab straight to the airport.
At the check-in desk he took his boarding pass – Business Class, go Esther – and went to wait for his flight.
Mr Wynter tipped back his seat and allowed himself to doze. It was an indulgence, like syrup on oatmeal or a stolen cookie. Better to sleep now than when he arrived. Once in Cuba he would be a busy man.
He had flown from Washington to Nassau then from there to Havana, still the preferred method of circumnavigating US Customs when travelling to Cuba. It was laughable that he of all people was sneaking past the ‘powers that be’, but he liked to keep a low profile. Besides, it meant he could get a look at Mr Matheson.
Mr Wynter opened his eyes and squinted along the gangway at the man several rows in front of him. He watched as Matheson checked his watch, leaned forward, looked out of the window, picked up the inflight magazine, dumped it back in the seat pouch in front of him and checked the time once more. All of this in the space of a few minutes. Rex Matheson is not a man who likes to sit still, thought Mr Wynter. He is a man that wants the world to move at the same speed as himself. Mr Wynter smiled. We’re all young once.
Mr Wynter had no problem waiting. There’d been a time when he might have thought he could push this plane faster by will alone, but no more. Now he was happy to control what he could – which was considerable – and let the rest get by at its own speed.
‘There’ll be action soon, Mr Matheson,’ he mumbled, slipping contentedly into sleep. ‘Have no fear.’
A couple of hours later, Rex walked out of José Martí International and over to one of the small hire car offices adjoining the car park.
‘Dígame, señor,’ said the girl behind the counter, pushing her face into the breeze of a desk fan.
‘You have a car booked,’ said Rex, ‘in the name of Reynolds.’
‘The American!’ the girl said. ‘Who sneaks here from Nassau, yes?’
‘Journalist,’ said Rex, ‘on business.’
‘Oh yes, we get a lot of journalists here. They smoke a lot of our cigars and drink a lot of our rum.’
‘Not this one.’
‘They all say that, too.’ She gave him a set of keys. ‘Bay number five.’
‘Gracias, and compliments on yo
ur customer service.’
‘We aim to please.’
‘You missed.’
In bay five, Rex found himself face to face with a car so small he assumed he was supposed to sit on the roof. ‘Journalists don’t travel in style,’ he said, unlocking the door and pushing the driver’s seat back as far as it would go.
He drove into Havana, an adventure in itself. He had no idea how so many old cars were still on the road. The way the locals drove they should have been trashed years ago.
Esther had booked him a room in the old town. This would have been fine, but he wasn’t allowed to drive even this toy of a car through some of its streets. Abandoning the car a short walk away (part of him thinking, and hoping, he’d never see it again) he walked the final stretch.
The hotel was a converted colonial house, white walls and black, wrought-iron railings. It was built around a central courtyard, thick curtains of ivy hanging from the balustrades above. The place felt like the revolution had never happened. Rex hoped the plumbing wasn’t so nostalgic. He checked in and made his way to his room in the upper far corner of the building. It was huge and empty with two windows in it. One looked down into the central courtyard and the other onto an alley filled with garbage dumpsters. Nice. The sweet smell of what looked like weeks’ worth of build-up wafted up along with a few deliriously happy flies.
He closed the window and stretched out on the bed. A soft puff of mouldy air sprang up from the mattress beneath him. He could tell this was going to be a great couple of days.
Mr Wynter watched Rex get into his hire car and drive away from the airport. He went into the hire office.
‘Hello there,’ he said in perfect Spanish. ‘My son was just in here picking up the car.’
‘The journalist?’ The woman behind the desk asked. ‘Your son?’
‘Ah, well,’ Mr Wynter laughed. ‘Son-in-law.’
The woman smiled. ‘I thought you looked a bit pale!’
They both laughed at this bit of inane wit. Mr Wynter was in no great rush to hurry her along – the less you seemed to push people, the more they filled the space you left them.
‘He did not enjoy his flight I think,’ the woman said after a moment. ‘He was a little rude.’
Mr Wynter looked mortified. ‘I’m so sorry, you must forgive him, he doesn’t travel well. And truth be told,’ he leaned over the counter as if passing on a little secret, ‘I don’t think he likes me coming with him on his work trips. But you know, I just love it here and would hate to miss it.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘at least someone in the family knows how to be nice.’
Mr Wynter winked at her. ‘You’re too kind. Hey, the thing is, he meant to ask for some directions but you know what these young men are like.’
‘They don’t like to ask a woman?’
‘You’ve got it.’
She laughed, pulled out Rex’s hire contract, and checked the local address given with the booking. ‘It’s in the old town,’ she said. ‘Calle de los Oficios. I’ll draw you a map.’
‘So kind!’ Mr Wynter smiled adoringly at her as she scribbled an illegible doodle on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.
‘Anything else I can do for you?’ she asked.
‘Ah…’ said Mr Wynter with a shrug. ‘If I was forty years younger…’
They both laughed again, the woman particularly loudly. Mr Wynter blew her a kiss and left the office.
He walked over to the taxi rank, threw his holdall in the back of the first car in line and told the driver to head to the Hostal Moraira on Calle de los Oficios.
As the cab made its way into Havana, Mr Wynter took out his small notebook and jotted down a list of the CIA’s affiliated safe-houses in the area. He also tried to bring to mind his memories of the city. Havana had been where he had started his covert life, a young man fresh from school and eager to help his country fight the communist menace.
As a rule, he tried to avoid nostalgia in his work. A man had to exist in the now to be effective. Still, in the old days the information that had led Esther Drummond and thereby Rex Matheson here would never have been exposed. Things were so open now. So many different departments, so much chatter. It had been better when information was a thing you typed onto paper or recorded onto fat coils of magnetic tape. All it took then to make facts disappear was a box of matches and a loose set of morals. Now, thanks to this airborne virus of data transfer and cellphone calls, a man had a mountain of work to keep things dark.
One day, he mused, it would all be a bit much for a man of his age.
One day.
Five
Shaeffer was trapped in the house. As he had expected, Gleason was once again tightening his hold. They’d had their window of false freedom, now they were in lockdown while Gleason and Mulroney worked through the packing crates and began to hatch plans. They worked in the house’s wine cellar. The spacious brick chambers were perfect, not only because they kept them safe from prying eyes, but also because the entrance could be locked.
In the last couple of days, the unit had sat on their bedrolls, playing cards or listening to the radio, going slowly mad with boredom as they waited for whatever came next. In a way, Shaeffer guessed, this was all part of the plan. By the time Gleason announced what they were going to do, they would be so desperate to move they’d agree to anything.
Shaeffer had tried to occupy himself by exploring the house. According to Gleason, it had been an unofficial CIA house back in the 1950s and 1960s; somewhere where things could be conducted off the record. Shaeffer found dark brown stains on the floorboards in one of the bedrooms and an ancient yellow lump that he could have sworn was a tooth. Espionage was a dirty business.
A couple of times he had tried to work his way into the cellar, only too aware that the more he knew about Gleason and Mulroney’s plans the more information he would have to trade when the CIA came to pick him up. If I ever get far enough away from this place to make the call, he thought.
It never worked. Even though he had made a great show of enthusiasm for Gleason’s hopes for the future, the two older men clearly didn’t trust him. They worked down there alone. Sometimes the rest of the platoon would hear weird noises, the buzz of electronics, the soft crump of gunfire. Mostly all was silent.
Shaeffer knew that time was short. Gleason wouldn’t want to stay in the same place too long. He wasn’t to know that Shaeffer had partially leaked their location. Only partially – Shaeffer wasn’t dumb. He had kept the battery on the phone disconnected since making the original call, and there was no way it could be traced unless he switched it on. He wasn’t going to do that until he was safely out of the way and in a position to cut a deal.
Once they were on the move, things would be even more difficult. If he was going to make a break for it, he had to do it soon.
*
In the cellar, Gleason ran his finger down the itinerary as Mulroney walked along the neat row of unpacked items. They had rigged up a string of petrol lamps that banished most of the shadows. Neither could altogether believe the claims stacked against many of the items, and they were reluctant to try them out without a secure test site.
‘Some of this must be garbage,’ said Mulroney. ‘I mean just look at the names… A Yeti sidearm… That’s Big Foot’s revolver, is it? Or this…’ He picked up a silver disc, about the size of his palm and looked over Gleason’s shoulder at the list. ‘Item 9LLL: “hand weapon of aquatic earth reptile”. They’re making this up.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Gleason. ‘We know some of it works, and the Brits must have known it’d all be tested.’
Mulroney shrugged. ‘I guess. Makes you think, though, doesn’t it? I mean, we’re the people that work beneath the surface, we’re the ones that keep the secrets.’
‘There are always more secrets.’
‘No kidding.’
‘But not secret for long.’ Gleason picked up the rifle that had made Oscar Lupé vanish.
Mulro
ney stepped back. ‘Hey, if you’re going to play with that, maybe I’ll leave you to it.’
Gleason ignored him, turning over the rifle in his hands, keeping the barrel facing away from them. The metal was dull and corroded as if it had spent a good deal of time underwater. The shellfish and seaweed certainly suggested as much. Closer inspection showed that the organic elements were not growing on top of the original weapon but were an intrinsic part of it. The thick, grey fronds of weed flowed from the metal with no discernible join. When Shaeffer had tugged on these, the weapon had been triggered. Gleason was careful not to repeat the younger man’s mistake.
The paperwork classed it as an ‘Ytraxorian Reality Gun’. Most of the items had notes detailing their operation and tested destructive capability. This one simply read: ‘Unreliable, appears to shift target’s location in space/time, practical military application limited due to fluctuating controls.’ Gleason wasn’t sure he agreed. ‘Shift target’s location in space/time’? That seemed interesting indeed. He cast his mind back over the missions he and his unit had carried out, moments when the ability to remove someone (or something?) from the consideration of battle would have been a miracle.
Gleason ran his hands along the surface of the weapon, caressing it. There was a numb, pins and needles sensation on his skin as it touched the weed fronds. Perhaps they conducted electricity? Jesus… perhaps they conducted radiation? He could be brewing up cancers that would kill him in a few months.
‘Is it…?’ Mulroney came a little closer. ‘It is… It’s glowing.’
‘Turn down the lamps,’ said Gleason. ‘Let’s see it properly.’
Mulroney did as he was told, and Gleason was lit by a luminescence coming from inside the gun itself.
‘This is not good…’ said Mulroney.
Gleason thought he might well be right. He squatted down to place the gun on the floor before realising he couldn’t let go of it.
‘It’s got a hold of me,’ he said. ‘That weed stuff’s wrapping round my wrist.’
Mulroney went back to the lamps and turned them back up. ‘I’ll cut you loose,’ he said, pulling a knife from his belt.
