Love Uncharted

by Berinn Rae

  School kids and day laborers crowded the noisy café while music pulsed from the sound system and monitors played news, sports, comedy, and promo channels. Anika bought a Mediterranean wrap, citrus water, and single-use card, then headed to a private booth. She took a seat, inserted the card into the computer payment slot and tapped the keys to access Gianni’s regular channel.

  After the incident in the safehouse, using his private line seemed pointless. She estimated she had forty seconds before U.N.I.T. traced her message. She prayed Gianni would understand what she was trying to tell him before then.

  As soon as the channel was open, she identified herself. Then, “Are you there?”

  Six seconds passed. “Yes.”

  Thank God.

  “Survived solo. No thanks to you, you SOB.” Her fingers flew across the keys. Thirteen seconds. “I’ll see you — and St. Jude — in hell. With the rest of U.N.I.T.” She punched the transmit key then fisted her hands in her lap while she waited for his reply. Please, please, please.

  “I can explain,” he wrote back. “Give me four hours. For our sake. For what we shared our first night together.”

  Anika’s mind blanked. What do you mean? Then it clicked. Three seconds left. “Last chance.” She punched the send key and closed the channel.

  She sat back and gripped the sides of the chair, her pulse racing as if she had just completed a fifty-meter sprint. After a moment, she peeled her fingers away from the plastic, reached for the water, and swallowed several gulps. The orange fizzy liquid tickled the back of her throat.

  She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. Hungry, too. She tore off the packaging and took a big bite of feta cheese, olives, and tomatoes.

  Gianni had understood. Maybe it was the use of the open channel. Maybe it was the reference to St. Jude. He knew that she was trying to tell him she was alive, that she had made it to the truck stop, that she had found the medal and the knapsack. But that something had gone wrong. Something she couldn’t tell him on an unsecured channel.

  The four hours he had asked for must be how long it would take to arrange another private channel. And the reference to their first night together had to be the numeric code for it. He had chosen a date only the two of them knew.

  Anika thought back to that night. They had been assigned a mission as a husband-and-wife assassination team. Success required they play their roles as expert shots and devoted lovers to perfection. The weapons part was easy, but Anika had trouble with the rest of it. Despite detailed directions from the agency’s coaches during the prep sessions, she wasn’t convincing as Gianni’s wife of two years.

  After an especially awkward session, Gianni had consulted with the coaches while Anika stood nearby and hugged the bed sheets around her naked body.

  She had been ordered home. They would try again the next day.

  That night, Gianni had come to her loft, suggesting they get a head start, out of sight of the coaches, the lights, the recorders. He uncorked one of the champagne bottles he had brought. At his urging, Anika drank most of the bottle by herself. The combination of nerves and an excellent year helped glass after glass of the bubbly liquid slide down.

  Then Gianni took her hand, led her up the narrow circular staircase to her bedroom, and guided her through a flawless session that left her fully satisfied and craving more. Anika had expected his skill, but not his tenderness. Or her uninhibited response.

  Three days later, the mission went off without a hitch.

  A week after that, Gianni had shown up at her front door. She had studied him through the security monitor and debated whether to let him in. He looked so casual and harmless in faded jeans and worn boots, his hair hanging loose over the upturned collar of his leather jacket. He held a bottle of wine in one hand and a warming pouch in the other. Pollo alla cacciatore. His mother’s special recipe.

  But he wasn’t just a guy who had shown up, uninvited, on her doorstep. He was a senior level operative in an agency that didn’t tolerate mistakes. Her finger hovered over the entrance button while the cautions of U.N.I.T.’s trainers circled in her mind. Not cautions against sex with a fellow operative. Sex was understood, even encouraged as a form of physical release. As long as it didn’t lead to an emotional attachment that could jeopardize mission proficiency.

  She buzzed him in.

  “Just dinner,” she said when he crossed the threshold.

  The tomatoes and onion and garlic smelled sinfully delicious. Worth pushing aside some cautions. Even as the heat in Gianni’s eyes ratcheted up the volume of those cautions.

  He pulled a single red rose out of the pouch and handed it to Anika.

  “Nicer than a moodstick, don’t you think?”

  Her throat suddenly dry, she nodded and punched the cautions farther away.

  After a soul-satisfying meal, Gianni stood up to leave. She stretched out her hand. “I’m thinking … dessert.”

  He brushed his lips across her fingers and set off tiny fireworks. His touch shoved the cautions into a box and slammed the lid shut.

  Now, sitting here, Anika wondered what she would say to Gianni in four hours. She had to tell him the truth, but how much? At least, that the solo had been devised by Command to test his loyalty. A test he had failed by helping her. That his life was at risk. Because she had survived. Because she had lied. How could she explain why she had done it?

  She hugged her arms to her chest and stared at the screen. Instead of seeing its dark square shape, she saw again the look of longing in Gianni’s eyes when he had stood in her kitchen and talked about how much family mattered.

  How could she ever explain about the pregnancy?

  Her fingers dug into her upper arms as she tried to push aside the guilt and second guesses. She blew out a quick breath, then punched in a new number, typed her message and waited for the reply.

  “Never thought I’d hear from you again.”

  “For the record, you haven’t,” she typed back. “I need to collect on that favor.”

  • • •

  One hour later, she had what she needed. She walked into the dingy lobby of Hotel Paradiso, past a sagging couch, two broken chairs and a dying plant, through a door marked “Private.”

  The space behind the door was no bigger than a munitions hold. As soon as the lock clicked shut behind her, a security scanner cast a greenish glow on the floor and walls. Seconds later, the opposite door swung open.

  A man, seated at a large gleaming wood desk, was speaking into a comm device wrapped around his ear. He gestured her inside.

  As soon as Anika cleared the threshold, a dark shape rushed at her from the right. A grunt boomed in her ear and a nasty garlic-sweat smell invaded her nostrils. The bodyguard knocked her to the ground. Meaty hands groped her torso, found the gun and removed it. Then he hauled her back up and shoved her into a hard-backed chair, digging his hand into her right shoulder to keep her there.

  She took it all without protest. Amateur.

  The man at the desk set his jewel-studded ear comm in its holder, smoothed back his already perfect dark hair and rested his hands on the wooden surface.

  “Welcome.” His dark eyes studied her. “I’m Jorge. And you are?”

  “Whoever you tell me I am. That’s why I’m here,” she replied. “I would have handed over the weapon. All you had to do was ask.” She tried to keep the edge out of her voice, but fatigue dented her self-control.

  “Ah, yes. My apologies.” Jorge spoke with no trace of regret and no trace of a Cuban accent. “Ramon is new and one can never be too careful.” He signaled the bodyguard to return to the corner of the room.

  The richness of Jorge’s office contrasted with the shabbiness of the hotel lobby. The warm beauty of antique wood furniture and wall tapestries were juxtaposed with the cool efficiency of sophisticated surveillance and communications equipment. A bank of monitors along one wall flickered with changing views of hotel rooms, factories, and warehouses. His various businesses, no dou
bt.

  “Lights, fifty percent,” he called out. The room softened to a golden glow. “Ah, much nicer, don’t you agree?”

  “Do you have my documentation? And my transport?”

  Jorge smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Americans.” He shook his head. “Always right down to business. Very well. You have brought an image?” Anika reached into her sack, pulled out a disc, and placed it in front of him.

  Jorge slid the disc into his computer and studied the different images of her real face, full front, three-quarters, side profile. “You’ve managed a decent disguise,” he commented. “Let me guess. Facial tape, colored lenses, fake teeth?”

  “When will the package be ready?”

  Pursing his lips, Jorge continued, “I can do so much better. New retinas, new fingerprints. Even an entirely new face. One that would enhance your natural beauty rather than disguising it.”

  “Just the documents,” she said. “And the transport. When does it leave?”

  “I can promise you the newest techniques, the newest medications. The procedures and recovery will take a matter of days.” He leaned toward her and pressed home his point. “You would then be free to travel in much greater comfort than the transport I have otherwise arranged.”

  “I’m sure the transport you’ve arranged will be fine. What is it?”

  “At midnight,” Jorge said, sighing, “Ramon will drive you to the marina. The captain’s expecting you.” He keyed some information into his computer. Then he turned, blocking her view, and worked at the equipment on the credenza behind his desk. After a few minutes, he swung back and handed over an envelope. “How is Carlos these days?”

  “What are these?” She held up the old-style paper passport and visa. “I expected discs.”

  “My homeland prefers paper.” He spread out his hands in a gesture that attempted to both appease and dismiss. “I assure you they will satisfy the authorities.”

  She studied the documents for Jane Brown, a public school art teacher from Toronto, Canada.

  “How do you know Carlos?” Jorge asked.

  “Friend of a friend.” Anika wasn’t about to reveal that she had first met Carlos in Arizona. That he had been on the wrong side of a mission, then turned informant, and was now under witness protection in the middle of nowhere U.S.A.

  “Until he contacted me with your request,” Jorge said, “I hadn’t heard from him in months. Not since that unfortunate incident in Phoenix.”

  “I hear he’s doing okay. Keeping out of trouble.” She looked up from the papers. “You’re sure these will get me through customs?”

  “Not to worry.” Jorge moved his hand as if swatting away a mosquito.

  She didn’t doubt him. Carlos had told her Jorge was the best. Her own check had revealed Jorge Fidel Alejandro López to be a man who mixed legitimate business activities with illegal ones. While he had some reach beyond Miami, he was still a big fish in a little pond. He wanted more. His ambition drove him to deliver what he promised. So that his reputation would grow and, one day, make him a big fish in a gigantic pond.

  Abandoning the topic of Carlos and his whereabouts, Jorge pursued a new line of inquiry. “Technology is not so pervasive in Cuba as elsewhere in the world. But that’s part of my native country’s appeal for you, is it not?” He smiled, but his eyes watched her with razor-sharp intensity.

  She was confident Jorge didn’t know she was an operative on the run. She hadn’t shared her plans with anyone, certainly not with Carlos. Jorge was fishing for information. In his business, information was merchandise. Sometimes, it could be sold right away. Other times, it could be held in storage until the right buyer was found.

  “Actually, Cuba’s appeal lies in its many beautiful beaches. I’m going there to work on my tan, the old-fashioned way.”

  Jorge laughed out loud, a deep low sound. “There is one other item I can offer you.”

  Anika suppressed a sigh. He just wouldn’t stop trying. “What is it and how much?”

  “A souvenir video. It will add credibility to your identity. We can make one for you.”

  “No, you can’t.” Her tone was cool, dismissive. “You can’t fake a souvenir video. That technology doesn’t exist.”

  “You’re partially correct. The images wouldn’t be fake. We have to film those with you playing yourself. Or rather, you as Jane Brown. We have stage sets and staff — professionally trained of course — ready to improvise any number of scenes. Teaching your students, or having coffee with a friend, or if you prefer, something more intimate.”

  “With the time-date indicator for all the scenes the same? I don’t think that would be very convincing.”

  “Quite right.” Jorge registered no offense. “That’s why we use ‘patching’ technology. It superimposes a patch of your cover name, with the desired time, date, and place, over the real information. Though quite new,” he added in a smug voice, “the technology is foolproof. I stake my reputation on it.”

  Anika felt as stunned as if she had been hit by a laser. Patching technology. If Jorge had it, then U.N.I.T. certainly did. She thought back to the sickening moments in Command’s office, the sight of Jewel’s wet naked body and satisfied smile on screen. Although the images had been real, the time and date were not.

  She had been watching part of a prep session for the honeymoon mission after all. A session that had occurred before the mission was canceled. She was sure of it now.

  Her hands fisted in her lap. She barely heard Jorge, still trying to sell her on a video. How could she have been so stupid, so ready to believe Second? She shook her head to clear it.

  Jorge saw the movement and a spark of anger shot through his eyes. Then he smoothed back his hair and re-folded his hands on the desk. “Very well.” His lips thinned. “You have six hours until the boat leaves. You may wait in a room upstairs. Ramon will take you.”

  That got her attention. If the room looked anything like the lobby, she’d wait somewhere else. She started to refuse, but Jorge stopped her with a lift of his hand.

  “The room is nothing like the lobby. You’ll be quite comfortable.”

  She did a quick calculation. One hour and thirty-eight minutes had passed since she had contacted Gianni. That meant the new private channel would be operational in roughly three hours. Time enough before the midnight departure for the marina.

  “Fine.” She stood and tried not to wince from her stiff muscles.

  “I suggest you rest up.” Jorge’s eyes gleamed as if he had just recalled some private joke. “The crossing can get a little … rough.”

  “I don’t get seasick.” She drew herself up to her full height.

  “That’s not what I meant.” He motioned for Ramon to give her back the gun. “You’ll want to keep that close by.”

  Chapter 12

  “Water on. Jets at maximum.” Anika stretched out on the contoured bench inside the shower. Hints of lavender and eucalyptus scented the air. True to Jorge’s word, the room with its king-size bed, thick carpet, and marble-and-chrome bath offered a welcome improvement over the hotel lobby. She closed her eyes and let the pulsing water massage her tired muscles.

  Though she tried to empty her mind, images from the past twenty-eight hours streaked across the back of her eyelids: the green numbers of the detonator; the black all-terrain driving up to the diner; purple clouds billowing from the truck; the dark shadows of the safehouse operatives.

  But it was knowing that she had been deceived about the souvenir video that most haunted Anika. That knowledge and the fact that it didn’t change anything. It didn’t change the truth about how different her profile was from Gianni’s. About what mattered most to him. Family. Every homemade Italian meal, every story from his childhood reinforced that difference, that distance between them. She knew nothing about family life, about being part of a family. And Gianni had said it himself. Family is everything.

  She pressed her hands against her eyelids and forced back tears. She wa
s beyond tired. No wonder her emotions were so close to the surface. Or maybe the pregnancy hormones were to blame.

  “Hotter.” She repeated the instruction until the water temperature rose to just below scalding and steam swallowed up the room.

  Warm to the bone, she wrapped herself in a towel, left her clothes soaking, and returned to the main room. The light beside the door indicated a tray had been left outside. Before she had finished the generous portions of rib steak, baked potato, and wilted spinach, her shoulders sagged like deflated balloons and her eyelids kept sliding shut.

  She wished she could contact Gianni from here. The corner desk-console contained an inset monitor and controls every bit as up-to-date as she had seen outside of U.N.I.T. But based on the equipment in the elevator and hallway, she suspected this room was well outfitted with surveillance. Probably built right into the bed frame, the console, even the 3-D artwork on the walls.

  It wouldn’t be smart to give Jorge more intel about her situation. An Internet café, though less convenient, was a safer choice.

  She had two hours before it was time to leave for the café. Two hours to sleep and recharge. That sounded like a lifetime right now. She programmed the voice alarm and curled up under the covers. This time, when she closed her eyes, no disturbing images appeared. Her mind, and her body, shut down.

  Pounding on the door jerked her upright just as the alarm went off. “Good evening,” a female voice crooned. “The time is twenty-thirty hours.” The alarm kept repeating itself as the door began to vibrate from the blows on the other side.

  Anika checked the privacy monitor. Ramon’s head and fist filled the screen.

  “Good evening. The temperature outsi — ”

  “Computer off.” She lunged over the end of the bed and grabbed a fresh set of clothes from her knapsack. Yanked on the pants and strode to the door. “What?” she demanded through the intercom.