Die Run Hide

by P. M. Kavanaugh

  “I know. Bad habit. Reading instead of watching where I’m going.” He rose to his feet and winced as he straightened. Fully upright, he stood a couple of inches above her. “I’m Brad.” He had a nice smile, easy and relaxed, with teeth imperfect enough to be real.

  She looked past his shoulder and stiffened.

  Two heavy-set policemen, mirror images of each other in white shirts, dark pants, and sunshades, were bearing down on them.

  Brad followed her gaze.

  Different escape tactics raced through Anika’s mind. Sprint between the cars, dart around a corner, jump on the bus in the cross street ahead. Then again, she could always faint.

  Before she made a move, though, Brad stepped into the men’s path and started speaking to them in flawless Spanish. He made a joke about walking around with his head in the clouds, except that he substituted a more vulgar phrase for “in the clouds.”

  The policemen laughed. Brad praised the bus driver’s quick reflexes. An outright lie, but the men nodded in solemn agreement.

  Anika was impressed. The guy might be a physical klutz, but he was a mental gymnast. She was even more impressed when the officials gave her a cursory look and then wandered off without asking to see any papers.

  A lucky break or a set up?

  She still hadn’t decided when Brad turned back to her. “How can I thank you for saving my life?”

  “You just did.”

  The policemen had stationed themselves on opposite corners a half block away.

  “Have you had trouble with Havana’s finest?”

  “I seem to attract them.”

  “Can’t say that I blame them.” His gaze swept over her in frank admiration. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Jane.”

  “Well, Jane, can I buy you a drink to thank you again?”

  “Sorry, I’m meeting someone.” Lucky break or not, she wasn’t going to take chances with a stranger. She signaled for a nearby taxi, a blue station wagon with oversized rear tires and glittering fenders.

  “Maybe later then. Are you staying in Havana?”

  “For now.”

  Brad reached the back seat door before she did and opened it for her. She hesitated. He had helped with the police. That could be an advantage if Gianni encountered delays in getting here. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Inglaterra. Do you know it?”

  “I can find it.” She slid onto the cracked plastic seat.

  “I know a place that has the best mojitos in Havana.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Watch yourself crossing the streets.”

  He shot her a rueful smile and shut the door. The taxi lurched out in front of a bicyclist who swerved away and cursed an indecipherable stream of Spanish.

  She asked the driver to drop her at Avenida de Las Misiones, home to two of Havana’s oldest museums. She wandered the galleries, wishing she could enjoy the paintings and sculptures the way she had during her high school years, but she couldn’t shake her anxiety at not connecting with Gianni.

  Though she tried to concentrate on the artwork, she kept seeing his expressions from their pre-solo briefing: his stony profile as he talked her through the scenario, the fatigue lines around his mouth, his dark eyes when he challenged her lack of concern about getting a solo so quickly.

  He had been right to be suspicious. She should have trusted him more. About a lot of things.

  In the middle of a photographic exhibit honoring Fidel Castro, her leg dialed up its protest, her eyes rebelled against the subdued light, and her ears strained through the enforced silence. Spotting another computer center through a dusty window, she shortcut her way through the rest of the rooms.

  Steps from the center’s door, she noticed the sign propped up against the glass. Cerrado. Her heart plummeted.

  She couldn’t make herself go back inside the museum. Even though it strengthened her cover, she had had enough of stationary artwork and hushed interiors. Her sore leg and the ever-present Cuban police ruled out a leisurely stroll. And the thought of being closed in by the walls of her hotel room depressed her.

  Still, better to be depressed than trapped in a police station having to answer questions about how she had entered the country, how long she planned to stay, where she could be reached, and God knows what else.

  The tinny bell of a bicycle-powered rickshaw pulled her attention back to the street. The driver, a teenage girl wearing yellow pants, a white top, and a red bandanna, called out to her.

  “Taxi, señorita?”

  Chapter 15

  Anika took her time walking over to the rickshaw. Its thin tires, mismatched metal rods and worn cloth roof promised a less-than-comfortable ride, but it would allow her to enjoy the fresh air a while longer. Her spine bumped up against something hard and immovable when she folded herself into the passenger seat.

  “Are you okay?” the girl asked.

  “Fine.” Anika winced as she tried to find a comfortable spot in the cramped space.

  Her physical vulnerability bothered her more than the pain and discomfort. “I’m headed to the Santa Isabel, but can you take a scenic route? I’d like to see more of the city.”

  “Sure, no problemo. We’ll drive down the Malecón. It runs along the sea. Very pretty.”

  The driver navigated with speed and nerve through the crowded streets. Anika caught her breath a few times at some near-misses with other vehicles, but her driver never lost focus, even when cursing like a soldier at any idiota who got in her way.

  The sun had softened to a late afternoon glow when they turned onto the Malecón. The cool breeze coming off the ocean dispelled some of the tension that had clamped around Anika in the museum and outside the computer center.

  Pastel-colored mansions lined the wide boulevard, their elaborate displays of caryatids and plastic flowers so unlike the slick unadorned buildings in New Angeles. At the eastern end of the wide boulevard, a sign had been posted in a second floor window of one of the mansions. Se alquila cuarto. Room for rent.

  On impulse, Anika asked the driver to pull over.

  The teenager jammed on the brakes. The driver behind them honked and yelled as he passed. The girl flipped him off and grinned over her shoulder at Anika.

  “The Santa Isabel is that way.” She pointed up the street.

  “I just wanted to look for a minute.”

  The three-story house looked like a baker’s confection with its pale aqua walls, lavender window frames, and giant green vines, sculpted out of plaster, snaking across the entire surface. The face jutted farther out toward the street than the neighboring houses.

  That additional bit of privacy held a lot of appeal. And it had a balcony that looked out over the water. Even better than a great view, a balcony offered a possible escape route. Just in case.

  Anika eased out of the seat just as an elderly gentleman opened the front door and stepped outside. He wore a crisp white shirt and pants and a straw hat dipped at a rakish angle.

  “Good afternoon.” The man spoke in lightly accented English and touched the brim of his hat.

  “Buenas tardes,” Anika said.

  “¿Es usted americana?” His smile revealed a gold-plated front tooth.

  “Soy de Canada.”

  “¿Habla usted Español?”

  “Not very well, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you interested in the room?” The man switched back to English.

  “I might be.”

  “It’s very nice. Wonderful light, beautiful view. Quiet neighbors.” He half turned toward the front door and pushed it open. “Would you like to come in and see for yourself?”

  She glanced up at the deepening sky. She would still have time to visit another computer center before evening set in.

  “How much do I owe you?” she asked the rickshaw driver.

  “I’ll wait and drive you back to your hotel when you’re done.”

  “Are you sure you want to wait?”

  �
�No problemo.” The girl crossed her arms behind her head and swung her legs up to rest on the handlebars of her bike. She caught the eye of a young man cruising on a jetbike on the opposite side of the street and flashed him a bold smile.

  Anika’s lips curved at the girl’s carefree attitude. She wondered if Cuba might eventually have that effect on her, too.

  “I’m Alberto Alejo.” The man removed his hat and held open the door.

  “Jane Brown.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Señorita Brown.”

  The room for rent occupied its own floor, between the ground level where Señor Alejo lived and the top floor. Afternoon light streamed through the half-opened shutters of the balcony doors. High ceilings created an open, airy feel.

  “Does anyone live upstairs?”

  “My cousin stays there on occasion. When he’s had an argument with his girlfriend. She lives across town and usually takes him back after a week or two. I often visit with friends in the country on weekends, so you’ll have the building to yourself then. How long are you staying in Havana?”

  “I’m not sure. How long is the lease?”

  “I would prefer a minimum of one month. But I am open to other offers. Let me show you around.” He guided Anika through the kitchen and bathroom, stopping in front of a peach ceramic sink. “I know they are common in the West, but hands-free appliances are still rare in Cuba.” He waved his hand under the faucet and it released a splash of pale blue water. A mint-flavored scent wafted through the air. “Morning mist. I purchased the scent enhancer from a supplier in Miami during the last El Dulzor. Marvelous invention.”

  “El Dulzor? What’s that?”

  “It means The Sweetness. It is our expression for the times when sanctions are lifted by the United States. I can hardly wait until the next one. Whenever that might be.” Señor Alejo lifted one shoulder in a small shrug.

  Back in the living room, Anika visualized herself sitting on the dark green sofa that looked comfortably broken in and walking across the blue-and-cream tile floor, coffee cup in hand, on her way to the balcony. Unlike her loft back in New Angeles, which had been handpicked and outfitted by U.N.I.T., this could be the first place she had ever chosen on her own. The prospect created flutters in her stomach, a mix of nervousness and excitement.

  “What do you think?” Señor Alejo asked.

  While she appreciated the Western-style “amenities,” the real appeal of the place was its privacy. And not just because Señor Alejo and his cousin upstairs were part-time residents. She had noted the lack of technology devices — no intercom, no monitors, no installed comms in any of the rooms. Any surveillance devices that the Cuban government might require for keeping tabs on foreigners would very likely be old-style, and therefore, easy to jam or disable.

  “How much is the — ”

  Three sharp knocks at the front door interrupted her. A flicker of concern crossed Señor Alejo’s face. “Excuse me,” he murmured and hurried over to the door.

  Her muscles tightened. The nervous flutters multiplied. She moved out of the sightlines of whoever stood on the other side.

  A stern voice announced himself.

  She gripped her knapsack, hustled through the slatted doors to the balcony, and peered over the railing. Too far to jump. A shiny black sedan idled outside the front of the house. No one stood around it, but were there men inside?

  The voices came from the living room now.

  The stern one did most of the talking. She heard snatches of terse Spanish. “ … por qué … ,” “ … quejas … ,” “No acceptable.”

  Occasionally, Señor Alejo’s calm voice threaded through the harshness.

  Anika grabbed the balcony railing and wished she had on a mission-ready unisuit and sturdy boots instead of an ankle-length dress and open sandals. At least the plaster vine decoration along the wall would provide finger and toe holds. She secured her knapsack across her shoulders and started to hoist herself up and over.

  The balcony door flew open.

  She turned back.

  A man in a gleaming white shirt, dark trousers, and slick-backed hair stood on the threshold.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, one hand still gripping the railing.

  “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” The man’s penetrating eyes held hers.

  She peeled her fingers off the metal bar. Reaching into the inside pocket of the knapsack, she withdrew a cigarette. “I stepped outside to enjoy one of my vices.” She relaxed her lips into a smile. “A rare treat that your country affords visitors. To smoke in public. Care to join me?”

  Señor Alejo appeared behind the man with a tray of three glasses. Each held a small amount of light brown liquid. “Ah, I see you’ve met my guest.”

  “We haven’t been introduced yet.” The man continued to stare at Anika.

  Before Señor Alejo could say anything, she extended her hand. “I’m Jane. Visiting from Toronto.”

  “Jane,” the man repeated, drawing out the single syllable. “Lovely name.”

  Hardly. The name is common, forgettable. But she didn’t think the man in front of her forgot much. He reminded her of Jorge. Same attention to personal appearance. Same superficial courtesy. Same watchful eyes. The question shot through her mind. Family?

  “And you are?” She deepened her smile.

  “Enrique Castillo. With the Ministerio del Interior.”

  The agency that spied on foreigners. Almost a peer. She kept her hand steady and light in his. “That sounds impressive,” she said. “I didn’t realize Señor Alejo was so well connected.”

  “Oh, yes.” Señor Alejo laughed and handed each of them a glass. “Enrique and I go way back, don’t we, my friend?”

  “How long have you two known each other?” Enrique brought the glass to his lips.

  “Not long.” She opened her knapsack and rummaged inside. “I seem to have misplaced my lighter. Do either of you have one?” She waved the unlit cigarette in the air.

  Enrique reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. Not cheap plastic like the ones jumbled in heaps in the street kiosks. This looked like real silver, heavy and expensive. Flicking it on, he extended the flame toward her. “When did you meet Alberto?”

  “This afternoon,” Señor Alejo volunteered.

  She bent her head forward and touched her hand to Enrique’s. Pulling back, she remembered not to inhale too deeply and give herself away with a bout of coughing. Her days of winning smoke ring contests at the orphanage were long behind her. “But I feel like I’ve known him my whole life. Is everyone in Cuba so friendly?”

  She lifted her glass. The drink smelled like burnt caramel and rubbing alcohol. She allowed a trace of liquid to touch her lips and pretended to swallow, then settled back against the railing. She hitched her skirt to reveal more leg.

  Enrique’s eyes tracked the movement.

  Good. You noticed.

  “How long have you been in Cuba?”

  “I’ve just arrived.” She released a light stream of smoke.

  “How long is your stay?”

  “Well … ” She brought the cigarette to her lips and slanted a glance through her lashes at him. “Judging by how much I’ve enjoyed my time here so far, not long enough.”

  “May I see your papers?” His smile revealed a set of perfect white teeth.

  “Really, Enrique,” Señor Alejo protested, “is this necessary? She’s my guest.”

  “Exactly,” Enrique replied, his voice as hard as the gun pressing against Anika’s side. “A foreign guest.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. Everybody stay calm. “I’d be happy to show you my papers. Unfortunately, I don’t have them with me.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Señor Alejo stiffen. “I was in such a hurry to go out this morning and explore your beautiful city that I left them in my hotel room.” She blew out another stream of smoke. “I could bring them by your offices later.”

  “Or, I could come by your
hotel.” Enrique’s eyes gleamed at her. “Where are you staying?”

  She tried to remember the name of the hotel that the man she had rescued from the bus had mentioned. Ingle … ? Something like that.

  “The Inglaterra,” she said.

  “One of Havana’s finest,” Enrique murmured. She watched his eyes travel over her face, down her body, and back to her legs. “Wonderful bar.”

  “We could meet there. In the lobby.”

  “Lobby?” His brows drew together. “The Inglaterra’s bar is on the roof.”

  Shit. Anika took another puff.

  “I meant,” she said, exhaling, “we could meet in the lobby and then go up to the bar.” She dropped her glance to stare at the gold band on his left hand, then lifted her eyes back up to his. He had tracked the move. “When should I expect you?”

  “I’ll call ahead.” He tipped back his glass and drained it. “Thank you for the hospitality, Alberto. Excellent, as always.”

  Señor Alejo escorted him back inside.

  Anika stubbed out the cigarette and placed her unfinished drink on the table. She leaned against the railing and released a shaky breath.

  “My apologies.” Señor Alejo reappeared. “We play this little game every month or two. Usually when his office notices the sign offering a room. The government likes to discourage renting to foreigners.”

  “Why is that?”

  On the street below, Enrique exited the residence and walked over to the sedan. He glanced back up at the balcony and she gave a small wave.

  “Years of living in our own world. Cut off from others,” Señor Alejo explained. “It creates unhealthy mistrust.”

  You could be talking about U.N.I.T.

  “I see.” She continued to scan the street, half expecting the car to re-appear, perhaps with some police vehicles.

  “You handled Enrique perfectly.” He chuckled. “He has an eye for a pretty señorita.”

  “Will he come by my hotel, do you think?”

  “I am certain he will try.”

  I wonder if he’ll arrive before or after Gianni does. Her mouth curved a little at the thought of a possible encounter. That would be interesting.

  “I hope you’re still considering the room? Now that Enrique has made his official visit, I’ll be in the clear for another month.”