Wood's Harbor

by Steven Becker

The crowd was pressed tightly against a rope, waiting to board, and finally a man walked to the fore with a microphone. He did some throat-clearing, then began thanking everyone for coming to the inaugural run of the new Key West to Havana ferry. He went on about the long history and new relations between the countries and finally, as the crowd’s interest waned, cut the ribbon.

  People slowly boarded the ferry after passing through another security station. Each was handed a small flag, which several held high above their heads, in victory, as they boarded. They were watching a small sliver of history but the machinations of politics disgusted Mac. He ground his jaw and followed Norm as he pushed his way through the crowd.

  They reached the security area and another ICE agent blocked their path. Mac held his breath again, wondering why he was so paranoid. After all, he was with the CIA man. Norm and the man had a heated conversation and the agent walked away, leaving them standing to the side. A few minutes later he came back, led them to the front of the line, and they boarded the ferry. Norm apparently had some juice with the agency and they were immediately ushered to the starboard rail, away from the boarding ramp and commotion on the port side.

  A band started playing the Star Spangled Banner and then another piece Mac suspected was the Cuban anthem. He felt the vibration of the deck as the motors revved and watched the crew scramble to release the dock lines. Slowly the boat inched forward.

  ***

  “Where you thinkin’ about going?” Trufante asked.

  She ignored him and stared at the TV screen, the pieces falling into place. “I need a computer and internet.”

  “Here? Don’t you need one of those hippy-ass coffee shops?”

  She looked down at herself, the once expensive silk shirt wet and clinging to her body, dirty linen shorts and her heel-less shoes; she could only imagine what her hair looked like. She felt like crying.

  “Hey, I’ve got a buddy. Maybe he can help. Works on a dive boat out of Pennekamp. Kind of a computer nerd on the side, but he likes to party.”

  There were no options. Her ID and credit cards had been left on the boat at the tweeker’s island. “How do we find him?” she asked,

  “Maybe on the reef, maybe not. You still got that phone?”

  She shook her head. Everything was lost.

  Trufante got the bartender’s attention and placed another bill on the bar. A minute later he returned with a phone book, turned to the back bar, grabbed the phone and handed it to him. “Dial nine,” the bartender said.

  Alicia watched him flip through the Yellow Pages, wondering why anyone still used paper. He settled on a number, dialed, and spoke to someone.

  “He’s out on a charter, should be back in an hour.”

  “Let’s go then,” she said and started to leave.

  “You can’t go running around looking like that. There’s a gift shop by the road - my treat.”

  She knew he was right; the fugitive look might pass over the heads of many of the tourists, but if any law-enforcement saw them, there would be questions, and she couldn’t afford the time. Not wanting to go shopping with him leering over her, she held out her hand and waited while he dug in his pockets for some cash. A few minutes later she left the store feeling better in a floral print shirt and sarong wrapped around her waist.

  “Chifon - lookin’ fine. I was thinking more along the lines of a T-shirt.”

  “You gave me a hundred,” she answered.

  He muttered something but she was focused on the street. “Where are we going?”

  “Shop’s just down the road. We can walk.”

  Great, she thought as she felt the first beads of sweat form and cling to her new clothes. They walked a quarter mile down the sidewalk towards a building with a dive flag swinging in the breeze. Surprised when he held the door for her, she entered the humid shop, wondering why it was not air-conditioned like everything else here, but around a rack of T-shirts, she saw the back side of the building, floor-to-ceiling shuttered doors swung back, opening to a dock. She drew closer and felt the sea breeze evaporate the moisture from her skin.

  Trufante walked to the counter where an unshaven, grumpy-looking man answered his questions. She walked outside and looked at the empty dock. Dive gear was neatly organized against the building but the boat was nowhere in sight.

  Trufante came out and looked towards the end of the canal. “Dude in there called them on the VHF. They should be coming around any time now.”

  They stood together watching until finally a converted sport fisher came around the bend. The boat came closer and she heard the happy tourists talking about everything they had seen on the reef. A heavy-set man climbed down the ladder from the flybridge and started talking to the excited group. He was unshaven, his hair a nappy mess, kind of like dreadlocks, but cut short enough to stick straight out from his head. The clerk came outside and helped with the lines. She heard two girls with thick southern accents ask the man where he was going to party tonight. He grinned, tied off the boat and jumped back aboard where he pocketed a few bills from the tourists. The group gathered their gear and disembarked.

  “Trufante. Son of a bitch!” he yelled and helped one of the girls off the boat. “Ladies, if my old boy Tru’s in town, we’ll be partying hard tonight.”

  Alicia felt Trufante move next to her.

  “And you brought your own.” The man pecked one of the girls on the cheek. “Looks like y’all will have to share me.”

  Alicia pushed Trufante forward.

  “Yo, TJ, ’sup?” he called to the man. “Listen, I ain’t here to party.”

  The man frowned and she wondered how he was going to be able to help her. The girls walked away giggling. His demeanor changed. “She’s looking pretty serious, never mind too good looking to be hanging out with the likes of you,” he said and turned to the clerk and captain. “You guys clean up the boat.” He turned to Trufante, “Got to check something. We can talk upstairs.”

  He walked towards a set of stairs to the side of the building. They followed him upstairs into an apartment, its louvered shutters matching the open ones downstairs, but these were just for looks; the air-conditioning blasted them as they entered.

  “Getting too old for this,” he called to Trufante. “Beer?”

  He looked at her and she shook her head, already regretting the drinks she’d had at the tiki bar. From a large, stainless steel refrigerator he pulled a bottle of water and two beers. “So, what brings you to these parts - I know you got a story.”

  Alicia was running out of patience. “I’m with the CIA. I need a computer and internet access.” She looked towards Trufante, “He said that you could help.”

  “CIA?” He winked at Trufante.

  TWENTY THREE

  Airhorns blasted and a loud cheer came from the crowds of people on the deck and lining the shore. The brand new 107 foot ferry blasted its horn and eased away from the pier. It picked up speed, idled through the harbor, and cleared the breakwater before turning south. The pitch of the engines increased as its twin hulls came up on plane and the boat found its cruising speed. The passengers moved away from the rail, the excitement of the inaugural voyage wearing off as land disappeared. Mac stood by the rail, his stomach grumbling, hungry, the drugs finally wearing off. His head started to clear and he wondered why Norm had brought him along if he was going to be here himself. As they moved further away from Key West, he had the feeling he was moving further from his destination, instead of closer. Tomorrow he needed to be in Marathon for the ethics meeting, and going to Cuba was the wrong way. Armando was next to him, staring out to sea, a smile on his face. He knew he was going home. Norm came up behind them with a tray of food in one hand and a drink holder in the other.

  “Better eat,” he said. “You’re looking a little better. Thought you were a goner for a while there. You were a lovely shade of green.”

  Mac took some tacos from the tray and sat down. Norm joined him after passing around the rest of the food. The l
ast thing Mac wanted to do was to share a meal with the man, but he was starving now, and one way or another, he expected he would need the energy. This was not the deal, but he had little choice if he wanted to save Mel.

  “This is what’s going to happen,” Norm said, his mouth half-full of food.

  Mac turned his attention to him, fully focused on doing whatever had to be done.

  “The cattle disembark first. Then there’ll be a welcoming committee coming for you and Armando - some bigwig officials. I expect one of them will be his grandfather.”

  “What about me? You already broke your word to get my boat back,” Mac said, and reached for another taco.

  “There’s bound to be pictures, and it’s better for you to make the hand-off than me.” He paused, stuffed the rest of the tortilla in his mouth and took a sip of soda. “Your girlfriend will be kept alive until you get back. I had my office let the hospital and sheriff know that you were alive and cooperating with us. They should wait for you. Who knows, maybe you’ll be a hero.”

  “Should?”

  “Unless, of course, she’s declared brain dead. If that’s the case, they’ll pull the plug on their own.”

  Mac came erect and set the food down. “You never told me about that.”

  “Nothing you can do about it. Make the hand-off and I’ll clear all channels to get you back.”

  The closer they came to Cuba, the more out of control he felt. The whole scheme sounded suspicious and the tacos rolled in his stomach. He left the food half-eaten, got up and started pacing. He needed to get back to Marathon and be with her. There was no doubt in his mind that Davies was there to terminate her. He’d make it look like he was all compassionate and acting in her interest, but Mac knew the man had anti-freeze running through his veins. The clock was ticking and this was all wrong.

  “I’ll help you with the exchange if you get me on a plane back to Key West,” Mac said.

  “Sure, Travis. This goes off smoothly, I’ll help you. If not, you’ll be dead before her.”

  He stared at the CIA man. “What now?”

  Norm leaned close to him, “The boat is rigged to blow if we don’t return Armando here to his grandfather.”

  Mac stared at the man, wondering how he could be so calm knowing they could be on the bottom of the sea any second. “And you let this happen? You could have told the authorities in Key West.”

  “This goes higher than you want to know,” he said.

  “There are hundreds of people at risk here and you’re sitting there eating tacos. Do something,” Mac pleaded.

  “I am. We hand over Armando and they will disarm the bomb.”

  Mac tried to sort through the information but none of the pieces fit. “I have a feeling you have something to gain from all this.”

  “Just keep the plan the plan and everything will work out,” Norm said. He stood feeling the pitch of the engines change and walked to the rail. “There’s Havana, Travis.”

  Mac looked at the land, seeming to grow larger every second. The other passengers had seen it too and the jubilant mood embracing them earlier returned with fervor.

  “Just hand over the man,” Norm said sliding to the side allowing two young boys to squirm between them waving small Cuban flags.

  The Havana skyline was visible now and the excitement increased. Mac looked at Armando, at the rail with the others, clearly happy to be going home.

  ***

  Alicia stared at the dual monitors set up in what TJ had called his war room. The room was dark, painted gunmetal grey and lit only by tiny spotlights. A large screen TV covered most of one wall and framed game posters adorned the others. The glass top desk faced the big screen, looking like a command post from a high tech TV show. She sat in the chair, straight from the deck of the Starship Enterprise, and focused on the news feed streaming on one of the four monitors sitting side by side. Video of the ferry leaving the dock in Key West was on one monitor while the feed from several other cameras placed around the terminal were on two of the other screens. The final monitor directly to her right showed a chat screen, the conversation scrolling quickly down the screen. She wondered how the setup of a gamer could be better than the agency provided her. She closed the chat window when she felt the men behind her.

  “Whatcha got there?” Trufante asked.

  She ignored him and frantically typed a line of code. A picture appeared on the screen and she waited impatiently for the image to clarify.

  “Damn, she’s got ninja skills,” TJ said leaning closer. “You got to show me some of that CIA voodoo.”

  “Can you give me some room, please. Working with this archaic equipment is hard enough without you two looking over my shoulder.” She was not going to let him think he had a better setup than the CIA.

  “Archaic? This is the best on the market. I rule on World of Warcraft.” He reached over her shoulder, pressed a key sequence almost faster than she could recall it and the big screen TV showed a composite of all four monitors.

  “You have no idea,” she muttered and worked the dual track pads, wishing she had this equipment in her office. Another picture came into focus and she panned the satellite image back and forth, looking for anything out of place. The scene unfolding at the Havana dock was quite a bit more subdued than the replay of the launch on the other monitor. It looked like a step back in time, accentuated by the poor resolution of the Cuban cameras. Figures dressed in what looked like army fatigues were patrolling the line of barricades restraining the waiting people. Unlike the United States, where the media roamed freely, they were clearly corralled in one area.

  “Holy mother of weaponry! That’s a live shot of Havana. Me and you gotta hang out.”

  She smiled to herself but ignored him as an alert flashed on the screen. Nimbly she minimized the satellite view and reopened the chat screen. Text streamed faster than she could read. She scanned the interagency conversation, putting together the disparate pieces of the puzzle. The compilation program was her design, one she kept to herself. With the proper clearance an agent could access archived conversations, but this allowed real time access to any information flowing into the giant computers in Langley.

  “Mac is in trouble,” she said, grabbed a laser pointer off the desk and pointed to the screen, illuminating a pock-marked faced man, “General Choy is there to make the exchange. There are also rumors of a bomb that Choy has knowledge of, but at this point it’s all speculation. That’s where this is going: Armando for the bomb,” she said and sat back. She leaned forward and started typing in a new window. She needed to get the message out, but who could she trust?

  “I need to reach him,” she said to the screen.

  “That’s some seriously trick shit you got there,” TJ said. “You think if you applied that algorithm to the chat on WOW it would work?”

  He was leaning over her, the ends of his short dreadlocks tickling her face. It was bothering her, but at the same time she wanted him there. “Can I text from here?”

  He leaned over and clicked on an icon in the top corner of the screen. A message box opened and she started to type, thankful she had memorized the number on the phone Norm had given Mac. The number blinked on the screen and she hesitated.

  “They got service in Havana?” Trufante asked.

  She thought for a second and reopened the screen. Her fingers entered the number again, and the only message she could think of that wouldn’t draw attention: 911. She closed the screen and looked at TJ. “What kind of range does that boat have?”

  “I ain’t risking my boat.”

  “I promise we will stay out of Cuban waters. And the agency pays well.”

  He took a deep sip from the beer. “You show me that shit and you’re on.”

  ***

  Mac saw the tower of the Morro Castle on the left just before the narrow opening for the harbor came into view. Soon the rest of the castle was visible, the Castillo towering over the other buildings on the right. Havana had been an imp
ortant port for the Spanish when they ruled the Caribbean and they had built the strongholds to protect the harbor where their treasure fleets met before attempting the dangerous crossing of the Atlantic together. Only miles from the Keys, and even Miami, the history and architecture overwhelmed him. This was stuff you expected to see in Spain, not the Caribbean. The ferry sounded a long horn blast at the tourists lining the shores and entered the Canal de Entrada. More fortifications and several parks lined the shores that had seen untold riches pass by on their way from the Americas to Spain. They rounded a slight bend and three long concrete jetties appeared on the right, their architecture from the Soviet era, a stark contrast to the elegant Spanish forts.

  The captain stopped the ferry and turned, using the momentum of the boat to swing the bow away from shore, and then reversed the boat, skillfully placing the starboard side against the dock. A loud blast and the passengers started crowding the gates. The ferry was secured and Mac felt the engines stop. A group of uniformed men approached the boat. The crowd quieted on seeing the men with their automatic weapons. A well-decorated man emerged from the ranks, clearly the leader from his dress and demeanor. He walked to the closed gate and gave an order in Spanish. The gate opened and the passengers moved aside. Several soldiers followed him onto the boat.

  Mac got a bad feeling and looked to where Norm was standing. The group was fifty feet away and coming right towards them when the phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket, his eyes never leaving the group, and flipped the screen open. He looked at the message and froze.

  The head man called an order out and two soldiers separated from the group and grabbed a surprised Norm, turned him against the cabin and handcuffed him. He was led away and Mac suspected he would soon see what the infamous Cuban jails looked like. If they had no fear of the CIA man, he saw his future scratched in the rotting concrete of a cell - or worse. He had to do something.

  “Vamanos,” he whispered in Armando’s ear. The armed men were approaching and he saw the look of recognition on the leader’s face as he spotted them. Armando eased away from him and moved forward as if he recognized someone in the group. Mac looked around for an escape, but saw only one. He grabbed Armando and ran across the deck to the port side. The man resisted, but he took his arm and torqued it behind his back. Armando was the only card he had left. “Vamanos,” he said louder, to make sure the man heard, and pushed him over the rail.