by Cliff Ryder
“Again, do not move until I do—you’ll know when.
When we separate, begin counting to five hundred, and be in position by the time you reach the end. When I’ve finished my count, I’ll take out the driver right away, and you must be close to the truck and ready to go by then.”
She nodded again.
“Good luck.” Jonas released her and Marisa vanished into the black jungle again. Jonas gave her twenty seconds, then crawled slowly forward, parallel to the front of the truck, keeping the silent count in his head all the while.
About ten yards past the vehicle, he crept to the edge of the road and peeked out, making sure he hadn’t attracted any attention. He put an arm into the overgrown path and held it there. No reaction came from the truck. Jonas put his other arm out. His internal count hit two hundred. He slid his right leg out, then his left. Still nothing. Moving one limb at a time, Jonas crawled across the knee-high grass, slipping into and out of the deep ruts in the road. His foot throbbed, his hands and knees ached and he was being bitten all over his face, neck and fingers. But he ignored all of that, focusing every bit of willpower he possessed on getting back into cover so he could get to the truck.
Step by step, he covered the few yards from one side of the road to the other, always keeping an eye on the two soldiers.
He crawled into the foliage as his internal count edged past three hundred. He was still fifteen yards away from the truck, and had to be even more cautious. Squirming through the brush on his belly, placing every hand and knee with care, he slithered through the tall grass and bushes until, as his count approached five hundred, he saw the truck’s rear tire through the brush.
Jonas heard the squeak of an opening door, then the rustle of boots crushing grass as someone walked toward him. He froze, his hand inching toward his sheathed machete as the steps grew louder, then stopped right in front of where he was hidden.
He heard a sound, like metal rustling, followed by a pattering noise on the leaves and grass around him. Drops of acrid-smelling liquid dripped on his neck and back.
The bastard’s pissing on me! Jonas held his nose as the soldier finished and zipped up. There was no choice now.
Reeking of urine, Jonas knew he’d never be able to sneak up on the soldier once he got back into the truck. Drawing his machete, Jonas burst from the jungle and lunged at the soldier, ignoring the flare of agony from his sprained ankle.
The man whirled around to see Jonas, blade lifted overhead, coming straight at him. Eyes widening in the darkness, he raised his arm to block the weapon while inhaling to yell for help. Jonas’s free hand scrabbled for the man’s mouth, trying to cover it before he could make a noise. The soldier’s blocking hand found his wrist and pushed the machete away while his free hand locked on Jonas’s throat and began squeezing. For a moment, the two men struggled silently against each other, only their hoarse pants for breath heard in the night air.
His vision starting to gray at the edges, Jonas knew he had about twenty seconds before he passed out. He released the machete, letting it drop on the Cuban soldier’s head. The man made a grab for the weapon, and Jonas used the distraction to move his right arm up in a circle block to pry the man’s hand from his throat while grabbing his sleeve and jerking him forward as he slammed his forehead into the man’s nose. All the while he kept his hand clamped over his opponent’s mouth.
The soldier arced back, a black trail of blood spraying from his face as he pistoned his knee toward Jonas’s crotch.
Jonas sensed more than saw the blow coming, and shifted out of the way so that the other man’s leg smacked hard into his thigh, numbing the muscle. The wiry Cuban used his hold on Jonas’s wrist to try to turn him against the truck while opening his mouth wide to attempt to bite Jonas’s fingers. Jonas resisted the throw, but released his hold on the man’s face and instead tried to launch a palm strike at his chin. His opponent dodged out of the way and sucked in a huge lungful of air to shout for help.
Jonas jammed his forearm into the guy’s mouth, cramming it so full of flesh and cloth that he couldn’t close it.
He kept pushing forward, driving the man back and then against the side of the truck, making it rock with the impact.
He felt the man’s fists pummel his midsection, and tightened his stomach against the blows. The Cuban clawed for his eyes, but Jonas had five inches on him, and was able to keep his face out of reach. Jonas threw his knee up into the man’s stomach, connecting solidly beneath his rib cage. The soldier sagged, choking for air, and Jonas kneed him again, making sure he couldn’t get up. Holding the man between the truck and his forearm, he lifted his opponent’s head up and drove three knuckles into his larynx, crushing it. The man wheezed, and Jonas let him drop to the ground, both of his hands clutching feebly at his injured throat.
Jonas didn’t stop to finish him, but grabbed his machete from where it had fallen and hobbled to the cab of the truck, jerking the door open and raising the blade to find—
The other Cuban soldier, his chest stained black with blood, was hanging half out of the passenger door, dead.
Fearing the worst, Jonas limped around to the other side, expecting to see a third body lying in the grass.
Marisa sat next to the truck, holding her dark, blood- stained hands away from her. She looked up at him, and Jonas saw tears in her eyes. “You said he couldn’t make any noise, so when he started to check on his friend I stabbed him, only he came at me, and I just kept stabbing and stabbing him, but he wouldn’t stop—”
Jonas walked to her as quickly as he could, knelt down and took her in his arms. “No, you stopped him. He won’t be coming after you, or anyone else again. It’s all right, you did just fine.”
A RINGING CELL PHONE JARRED Jonas out of his reverie. He flipped it open. “Ja?”
“Mr. Heinemann, this is Rafael Castilo. I hope I haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time.”
“Not at all, Mr. Castilo. In fact, I was hoping to hear from you. I can only assume this call is in regards to our previous conversation.”
The businessman’s voice was like oiled silk. “You are correct. I would like to accept your invitation, if it is still open, and would very much like to sample one of your man’s drinks. It sounds very appealing.”
“I think that can be arranged. Will you be bringing any friends with you?” Jonas asked.
“Not at this time. If I like what you show me, then I will be able to put you in touch with them. Shall we say six o’clock?”
“Excellent. Why don’t I have my people meet you at the Key Biscayne Yacht Club? My runabout is berthed there, and they will bring you out to the yacht, where I insist that you dine with me. I do hope your lovely wife will be joining us?” Jonas asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“I’m afraid she has a prior engagement. Until six, then,”
Castilo said.
“I’m looking forward to it.” Jonas snapped the phone closed and opened another one, calling Kate to let her know that his fish was about to jump into the boat. But as he waited for the connection, his mind kept wandering back to Marisa, and her deep blue eyes.
Marcus tamped down his anger as he stalked through the Havana streets.
Who does that high-toned British bitch think she is, sand-bagging me like that? If she’s ever been in the field longer than an afternoon, I’ll eat my goddamn phone. I handled that riot just fine, didn’t even come close to getting caught. Next time I’ll turn off those damn glasses before doing something that could be construed as not within her bloody mission parameters.
With an effort, he put his feelings aside and got back to the problem at hand. All right, back to business. I’ve got four million possibilities in a city with no phone books. I’ve been in worse spots. He racked his brain, trying to figure a way in. Cuba didn’t have any corner Internet cafés he could just stroll into. Something Kate had mentioned in the briefing clamored for his attention, an off-the-cuff remark about the military becoming more i
nvolved in Cuban businesses.
That’s how to find him, he thought.
Marcus hailed a small three-wheeled cab and told the driver, “Hotel Saratoga, please.”
The cabdriver looked at him strangely, but Marcus nodded and discreetly held up a palmful of pesos. The cab took off so quickly it rose up on its two back wheels, and Marcus had to brace himself in the back to keep from falling over.
Fifteen minutes later, he stood across the street from one of Havana’s recent success stories. According to his information, the Saratoga dated from the late nineteenth century, but had closed by the time of the revolution and was left to rot for a half century. Recently restored with modern amenities, it was now one of the city’s top destinations. On the western edge of the historical center, it afforded a fantastic view of the Capitolio Nacional, Cuba’s version of a capitol building, which looked remarkably like a certain white marble domed building in Washington, D.C.
Looking at the eight-story building’s elegant, neoclassi-cal facade, Marcus was reminded even more of the crumbling neighborhoods he had passed, only several blocks away, on the way over. He knew that it was the same in cities all over the world, yet the disparity kept gnawing at him. At least I now know firsthand why my parents left. They certainly didn’t want to raise me or my brothers here. But for each one that was able to escape, hundreds, thousands more were stuck, struggling to live every day as best they could.
Just a few yards away, however, a steady flow of well-dressed European, Canadian and even American tourists walked in and out of the Saratoga, either uncaring of the plight of the people, or perhaps just considering it part of the local color. Marcus checked the street for policemen, then casually crossed the road and walked past the front of the hotel, heading around back. As he expected, there was a large, ancient truck unloading crates of vegetables. Marcus edged closer, biding his time until no one was around the back of the flatbed. He walked over, grabbed a crate of let-tuce, hoisted it to his shoulder and entered the hotel kitchen.
The long, large room was frantic with activity as the staff prepared for the evening dinner crowd. Steam rose from several large pots and pans of sizzling vegetables and meats cooked over the open flames of stainless-steel industrial stoves. White-uniformed chefs barked orders at hapless assistants who weren’t doing whatever they were doing fast or well enough.
Marcus walked through the room, looking like just another faceless laborer. He found the walk-in cooler for the vegetables and set his crate down next to the rest of them and headed back out, but instead of turning right, toward the exit, he turned left and headed out of the kitchen, into the ground floor of the hotel.
The corridors were small and cramped, but Marcus slipped past people coming and going, none of whom gave him a second glance. He knew the first rule of infiltration—
look as if you belong, and even more importantly, as if you know exactly where you’re going. He navigated the warren of passageways until he found the way to the front lobby.
He was looking for the manager’s office, who would certainly have a computer attached to their central network. The Saratoga most likely had a business center, but he didn’t want to attract attention by using it and risk drawing unnecessary attention from security.
Although he might have been able to pass himself off as a Spanish tourist, he had Cuban papers, so that story wouldn’t hold up to determined scrutiny. With the high level of tourist apartheid, he couldn’t afford to draw any attention to himself. As strange as it seemed, he decided this was the less risky plan—he just had to wait for the right opportunity.
The manager’s office was near the long front desk on the far side of the bright black-and-white-tiled lobby. The area bustled with people coming, going or just relaxing. Marcus slipped across the room until he found a small table behind a tall potted fern where he could watch the manager’s door.
He had just settled when a dozen Japanese tourists walked through the door and mobbed the front desk. The desk staff began processing their reservations and summoned transla-tion help. Pretending to be engrossed in a tourist magazine, Marcus waited until the manager came out to assist with the line of guests.
Marcus palmed his phone and extended a small metal strip from the bottom. The Saratoga may have recreated old-world charm for its decor, but the security was pure twenty-first century, with key cards needed to access the doors. His phone contained a program that would bypass the security of most card or combination door locks. He stepped around the tall column that formed one corner of the desk, and walked confidently to the manager’s office. Shrouded in shadow, the door was hidden from direct sight of the guests and the staff who assisted them. He slipped the metal prong into the door slot and activated the program. There was a soft click, and Marcus opened the door and slipped inside.
Compared to the opulence of the lobby, the office was spartan, with a plain metal desk, wheeled office chair, metal file cabinet and Marcus’s goal—a fairly new computer next to a laser printer. Marcus circled the desk and set his phone next to the computer, bringing up another program to connect to the hotel’s network. He accessed the computer and began searching for the words “Mayor,” “Damason” and
“Valdes” in any databases, e-mails or any of the various files across the country. He figured there had to be a listing of officers’ addresses somewhere. The data-miner program would find and download any files with those names. He waited for several tense minutes.
The phone flashed softly twice, signaling it was finished.
Marcus slipped it into his pocket and stood—just as the office door opened.
Framed in the doorway was the manager of the hotel, his mouth dropping open in shock. “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”
“It’s about time you got here. I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.” Marcus came around the desk and held out his hand. “Jose Prado, with the Ministry of Tourism.”
The words had the desired effect, as the manager took his hand and shook it gingerly. “What is this all about?”
“We’ve had complaints about a group of high-class prostitutes harassing the tourists here. They don’t look like the usual working women, which is why they’ve been getting away with it.” It wasn’t the best cover story, but Marcus needed to draw attention away from what he had been doing at the computer, and he figured the notion of working girls around his hotel would put the manager on the defensive immediately.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it. Our security would have notified me immediately,” the manager said.
Marcus shook his head. “Normally, that is true. However, we suspect that one or more of your employees are also involved.”
The manager’s face darkened and Marcus got the sinking feeling he’d pushed his luck too far. “What? I’ll get to the bottom of this right now. Let’s just get my head of security in here and see what he has to say about this.” Reaching for the phone, the manager glanced at Marcus again, suspicion warring with helpfulness. “Let me see some identification.”
Apparently, suspicion had won. Big mistake, Marcus thought, but said, “Of course,” as he reached for his nonex-istent credentials.
As the manager picked up the phone, Marcus grabbed his wrist and twisted it, making him drop the receiver.
“What are you doing?”
Marcus released his wrist and brought his other hand, now clenched into a fist, around and buried it into the man’s stomach, turning his shout for help into a strangled wheeze.
As the man doubled over, Marcus stepped back and rabbit-punched him, sending him down to the floor.
“Well, that was inconspicuous,” he muttered, heading for the door. Opening it, he was confronted by a white-shirted desk clerk. “What’s going on in here?” the clerk asked.
Marcus stepped aside to let the youth see the prone manager. “I was waiting for him, and he came inside and collapsed. You’d better get some help.”
The clerk’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
/> “Stay here.” He went for a phone on the front desk, and as soon as he did, Marcus was out the door and trotting down the corridor toward the kitchen. He heard a shout from behind him, but kept going. Only when he heard footsteps pounding behind him did he break into a run. He was almost to the kitchen when the double doors opened, and three assistant chefs came out, chattering among themselves.
Marcus heard “Stop that man!” behind him, and reached out to grab the nearest to the kitchen by his white smock.
He yanked him around and threw him down the hall while the other two watched in shock. Kicking the door open, he looked over his shoulder to see the assistant careen into two men who could only be security. They managed to dodge him and kept coming, yelling at him to stop.
Marcus scooted through the doors and glanced around for a distraction. He spotted a large, pot of boiling soup stock.
Grabbing one handle, he gritted his teeth as the hot metal seared his hand, but tipped the container over just as the guards hit the door, sending a wave of boiling liquid cas-cading their way. He shoved the pot off the stove, as well, and turned, heading for the back doors.
The only problem was that instead of scattering for cover like normal people, three portly chefs stood in his way. The first one brandished a knife, the second held a large marble pestle and the third one wielded a hardwood pepper shaker easily two feet long and thick enough that it could probably crush a man’s skull with one blow.
Marcus leaped up onto the metal table, running down its length and scattering prepared meals and ingredients in his wake. Shouting furiously, the chefs tried to pursue, but he had a couple steps on them, and jumped down just as the first one came at him with the knife. Marcus shoved a large cutting board full of sliced peppers off the table at him. The vegetables flew under the man’s feet, making him slip on the tile floor and blocking the other two, as well.
Running for the exit, Marcus almost collided with a guy bringing in another box of produce. Once outside, he darted between the truck and the hotel, sprinting across the small lot as fast as he could, leaving the shouts of the furious security guards and chefs behind.
