“Yes.” I’m trained to be sure.
“We could knock on some doors. Ask if any of his neighbors saw what happened.”
“I’d rather not.”
“It’s okay,” Brad said. “Neighbors keep an eye on one another here.”
“No. Let’s go.” She turned away.
The adjacent building’s front door opened and a slightly built man in his mid-thirties stepped out. He wore rumpled shorts, but no shirt or shoes. An unlit cigarette stuck out of the corner of his mouth.
“Americans?” His bloodshot gaze roamed over Anika.
“Do you know what happened to the owner of this house?” Brad asked.
“You need a room?”
“Maybe. But first, we want to know what happened here.”
“Jail,” the man said.
“Jail?” Anika asked. “But I was just here yesterday.”
“The CDR reported him. The police came last night.” The man scratched at his stomach. “I have a nice room. Big enough for two. Better than his. You want to see?”
“No,” she whispered to Brad.
“Maybe later,” Brad said. “Thanks for your time.” He tucked Anika’s arm in his and set off down the street.
Out of the neighbor’s earshot, she asked, “What’s the CDR?”
“Committees for the Defense of the Revolution. Every neighborhood has one. They were formed in the last century, during the Castro era, to uncover counterrevolutionaries. Nowadays, they mostly monitor civic activities and behavior.”
Was Señor Alejo’s disappearance connected to her?
“The CDRs do a lot of good,” Brad continued. “They make sure the streets get swept, garbage gets picked up, drunks don’t bother people. But they also watch and report those who have contact with foreigners. If the police decide that the contact is too frequent, they move in.”
“I thought the Ministerio del Interior tracked foreigners.”
“Tracked?” Brad looked over at her. “That’s a little strong.”
You haven’t met Enrique Castillo. “I mean,” she said, “I thought I read something like that in a guidebook about Cuba. Isn’t that right?”
“The Interior and the police do work together. But what we saw back there looks more like the work of a jealous neighbor who complained to the local CDR representative. It may have been the man who wanted to rent us a room.”
“How do you know so much about this?” She slipped her arm out from his. She didn’t need him leading her around like a child.
“The Estradas used to get harassed a lot. The more successful you are, the more you’re a target. I wouldn’t worry too much. After a day or two, the police usually let the person go with a warning and a fine.”
“The Estradas used to get harassed, but they don’t now?”
“They haven’t for several months. I guess they’ve figured out a way to beat the system. Maybe they just pay the fine in advance. If you still want the room, it’ll probably be available in a couple of days.”
“How active are the CDRs in the beach towns? Like where you stayed near Guardalavaca?”
“Not as active. The big resorts dominate the towns. And they get special treatment from the government because of the tourist money they bring into the country. Are you hungry for lunch yet?” Brad asked. “I know a nice place near here. Then we can see some more museums this afternoon.”
“You’re running the show.” At Brad’s quizzical look, she blew out a virtual breath and forced a smile to her lips. “Just kidding. It sounds great.” She slipped her arm back through his. “Tell me more about this cottage you stayed at.”
Chapter 19
“How did you become interested in painting, Jane? From your mom or your dad?” All morning, Brad had been trying to coax personal details out of her. So far, she had stayed within the parameters of her cover.
“Neither.” She looked around for a distraction. “What’s that over there?”
A weathered motorboat sat inside a glass structure in a square up the street.
“That’s the Granma, the cabin cruiser that Fidel Castro and his men took from Mexico when they invaded Cuba. The building used to be the presidential palace. It’s now the Museo de la Revolución. If you haven’t been inside, we should go.”
Anika recalled her slow trudge through the building’s many dark rooms the day before. She didn’t think she could stand a repeat tour of Cuba’s revolutionary past.
“What about that building?”
“Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. As a painter, you’ll want to see it.”
Crossing the street, Anika maneuvered Brad through a chaotic rush of traffic and yanked him out of the path of a bicycle-riding Cubana who shot out curses like old-style machine gunfire.
“Sorry about that. Again.” He shook his head as if to clear away the thoughts inside. “My mom always said I lived here.” He tapped his temple. “Just like my dad.”
“Is your father a teacher, too?”
“He was. High school history. Until … well, he passed away five years ago.”
Yes, I already know that.
She released his arm once they were on the curb.
“What does your father do?” Brad asked her. “Is he a painter, too?”
“Oh, look.” She pointed at the banner that hung crookedly over the museum’s entrance. “They’re showing selections from Picasso’s ‘blue period.’ I love Picasso.” She quickened her pace.
Once inside the building’s cool interior, Brad picked up their conversation. “Did your parents disapprove of your painting? Is that why you don’t want to talk about them?”
“It’s nothing like that.” She looked up to see Brad standing there, watching, waiting for her to say more. She decided on a short version of the truth. “Madame Morrisette was my tenth grade art teacher. She wore all-black unisuits, macro jewelry, and metallic lipstick. As my students would say, she was the mega-cool teacher in school.”
“Is that why you became a teacher?”
“Partly.” Anika started moving through the galleries.
“These are all views of Holguin.” Brad paused in front of a series of early twenty-first century paintings. “That’s where you get off the train for Guardalavaca. The area all around there is very rural. You can still see campesinos on horseback. These days, though, they make more money posing for tourists and offering rides than they do from farming.”
Countryside and horses. Anika took in the information. Less surveillance and another mode of transport.
“Over lunch,” she said, “you mentioned that the cottage near Guardalavaca doesn’t have any electronics. Why is that? Can’t the Estradas afford them?”
“They decided to keep it the way the original owner had designed it. Some American who made millions in the first Silicon Valley boom in the late nineteen nineties.”
“Why didn’t the owner install any electronics?”
“The guy was an eccentric. I guess it comes with earning millions before you’re thirty. Even though he made his money in technology, he wanted one of his houses to be gadget-free.” Brad opened his mouth as if to say more, then closed it.
She nodded at the painting in front of them. “Wonderful composition,” she said, borrowing a favorite phrase of Mrs. Morrisette.
“What makes it wonderful? I don’t really understand much about art. What do you see in the painting?”
Why did I stop in front of this one? All I see is a generic landscape of colonial-style rooftops!
“Art … is hard for me to put into words. I’m better at drawing it than talking about it.” She moved toward the next painting, a landscape of green fields and reddish brown earth. “What kind of surveillance does the cottage have?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brad stiffen. “Well, it’s not totally gadget-free.” He lowered his voice. “The Estradas had to put in something. To satisfy the government.”
“Of course.” She nodded matter-of-factly.
His
shoulders relaxed. “The devices are practically pre-historic. Not very reliable.”
Perfect.
“Still, it’s best to go outside or run the shower if you’re having a conversation you want kept private.” They turned into the gallery that projected holograms of the Picasso artwork. “The Estradas used to be caretakers of the cottage. When the original owner died, he left it to the family.”
“Why do you stay there?” She squinted through lighting so dim that the paintings could have been called Picasso’s “muddy period.”
“It’s a good place to write. Quiet, no distractions.”
“What do you write?”
“Academic papers, books. I’m just finishing up a book that combines two of my favorite interests.”
As Brad continued talking, Anika studied the image in front of them, Child with a Dove. Despite the bad lighting, the piece moved her. Like the young girl in the painting, she felt herself holding something soft and fragile. Her new life as a civilian. Her freedom. But the girl seemed so solemn. Shouldn’t she look happy?
“Jane?” Brad prodded. “What is it? What do you see?”
“They’ve got it wrong. This painting isn’t from Picasso’s ‘blue period,’” she said, surprised she remembered that snippet of detail from her art history classes. “And the lighting in here is terrible. Can we go?”
Back outside, she narrowed her eyes against the afternoon sun and started to slip on her straw hat. Then she stopped, her hands suspended in midair, hat strings dangling. Her heart slammed into her chest.
Could it be?
He was a half block away, his back to her, flowing down the street, moving like liquid in and around the clusters of people. His hair, blonder than she remembered, was pulled back in a low ponytail. His dark shirt stretched across broad shoulders.
She sprinted down the museum steps, not caring about her sore thigh, not hearing Brad’s surprised call behind her. Gianni. She wanted to cry out his name, make him stop, turn around. But she didn’t want to make a scene.
He turned the corner.
Anika hurried to catch up. Olive skin, high cheekbones. She was sure it was him.
A flash of dark shirt disappeared through a storefront.
She ran inside, breathless, anxiously scanning the interior. Where are you?
In the far corner, his back to her, he flipped through the holo-cards. A curvaceous brunette in a tight black skirt and sheer blouse sauntered up to him. Slithering her arm around his waist, the woman whispered into his ear.
What the hell? Is he on a mission?
The man laughed and turned toward the woman.
Anika saw his profile clearly then. Small nose. Weak jaw. Not Gianni. She bit down on her lip, rubbed her eyes. She re-focused on the couple. The woman took a step back, then another. With an expression of playful poutiness on her wine colored lips, she pulled the man toward another section in the store.
Definitely not Gianni.
Anika shook her head at the sales clerk’s offer of assistance, then limped outside.
Across the street, a policeman stood very close to a young redheaded, freckle-skinned woman who tugged on a lock of hair and shifted from one foot to the other as he riffled through some papers. The official glanced in Anika’s direction, flipping up opaque sunshades and locking eyes with her, as if he sensed something amiss with her papers. The ones with the expired extension folded around them, lying at the bottom of her knapsack.
Shit.
“Jane?” Anika turned to see Brad loping toward her, his forehead furrowed. “Are you okay?” A thin line of sweat ran down the side of his face.
“I’m fine.” She glanced over her shoulder at the policeman who had returned his full attention to the woman. Her head kept bobbing up and down, up and down.
“What happened back there? Why’d you take off like that?” Brad asked.
“I thought I saw someone.” She licked her salty upper lip. “Someone I knew. From back home. But I was wrong.”
“You sure can run fast, even with a sore leg,” Brad said. “Either that, or I’m seriously out of shape from sitting around the cottage for the past six weeks.”
“I need to go to a computer center. Now.” Her leg and head pounded like angry drums.
“Is everything okay? You seem upset.”
No, she wanted to scream. No, everything’s not okay. I’m sick with worry about him.
“My leg’s hurting,” Anika said. “Do you mind if we cut the itinerary short? I’d like to go back to the hotel and rest.”
“Of course,” Brad replied. “We can always pick up where we left off tomorrow.” When Anika didn’t reply, he held out his arm. “Let’s find the nearest computer center.”
Twenty-eight minutes later, she sat in front of a monitor. She punched in the private channel, hit “enter,” and gave a quick gasp. She could barely believe her eyes.
DELAYED>NEED THREE MORE DAYS>STA
Even as she read the words a second time, the words vanished. Per protocol, the message had been erased.
She checked when it had been left. Two hours ago. She tried tagging him. Her fingers drummed on the tabletop next to the computer while she waited for a response. Nothing. She tried again. The screen remained blank, its cursor winking at her.
The message had to be from Gianni, but why had it been cut off? Was the last word “stay”?
Stay … what? Stay put? Stay away? Stay safe?
How was she going to manage that with the police leaving threatening notes at her hotel, an Interior official wanting a liaison, and the CDR closing down rooms for rent?
She sat back. At least Gianni had gotten a message through. That meant he was safe. And it sounded like he was still trying to get here.
She would have to wait the three days.
She logged off the computer, stood and walked to where Brad waited in the entrance.
“Good news, I hope? Is your friend better?”
“Much better.”
“That calls for a celebration.” Brad took her arm. They headed out of the center and into the sleepy hush of late afternoon. “How about dinner tonight?”
Brad’s eager look, his eyes crinkling at the corners, caused her stomach to skitter.
How am I going to keep you close, but not too close, for three more days?
“I’d love to.” She smiled up at him, moving in, matching her steps with his.
Chapter 20
Just treat it like a sweetheart mission. The thought made Anika want to bolt out of the restaurant decorated with starched linens, fresh flowers, and flickering candlelight. She gripped the edges of her chair to keep herself in place.
Unlike the paladare run by the Estradas, this one was more intimate with only six small tables spaced well apart. Couples sat with their hands clasped in open displays of affection, including the two exquisitely groomed young men in the far corner. The piped-in samba music absorbed the low-pitched conversations.
“Shall I order wine?” Brad asked.
“Mojito,” Anika replied abruptly, then caught herself. “I mean, isn’t that Cuba’s specialty?”
“Absolutely. Dos mojitos,” he said to the owner standing nearby.
“Sí, señor.” The owner disappeared behind a beaded curtain.
Brad turned his attention back to Anika. “Have I told you how great you look tonight?”
Three times now. She forced a smile to her lips. She had changed from this morning’s short pink sundress into a royal blue calf-length skirt and matching top. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders.
“This place is so … cozy.” She pressed her arm against her side, reassured by the Glock’s hard edges.
The owner returned with their drinks and took their order. Brad touched his glass to hers before taking a sip.
“Do you believe in kismet?” he asked.
“What’s that?” The minty taste of the mojito lingered on her tongue.
“It means fate. I was raised on it. Comes from havi
ng family with strong roots in California North, long before the split with California South. We don’t believe in coincidences. We believe in signs.”
“I believe in making your own fate.”
“Kismet can’t be made. It’s predetermined.” She shrugged. “Anyway,” Brad continued, “I think it was kismet that we met yesterday. I wasn’t planning to go to the Estradas for dinner. I was on my way to my hotel and, at the last minute, decided to stop in. Then I saw you. Second time in one day. It was meant to be.”
“Does this ‘kismet’ thing work both ways?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was it my fate to meet you yesterday?”
“Definitely.” His eyes studied her. She could almost hear his mind at work, as if trying to solve a puzzle.
“Why?” She knew of one reason, but she didn’t think Brad would be flattered to know he was being used to ward off Havana’s policía. And she needed him to feel flattered. Just three more days. She leaned forward to rest her chin on her linked fingers. “Why do you think we were meant to meet?”
“I’m still working on that.” Even in the candlelit room, she could see a flush spread across his face. He finished off his mojito in one big swallow.
“Maybe it was because I was looking for an experienced tour guide?”
“That must be it.”
The owner brought out their dinner and Brad switched to beer. “How did I do today as a guide?”
“I haven’t made up my mind … ” Men like to pursue, she remembered the U.N.I.T. trainer saying. Don’t make it too easy.
“Tough customer.” Brad grinned.
“Tough and demanding.”
“Does that mean you’ll let me show you Havana for a few more days? To help you make up your mind?”
“Hmmm.” She took a bite of spicy pork, chewed slowly, and swallowed. “Maybe.”
“What’s your birth sign?”
“My what?” Her brows drew together.
“I get along really well with Pisces women. What’s your sign?” Anika shook her head. He persisted. “When were you born?”
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