by Mark Dawson
They came to the dockside. A river ran down to the sea, fifty feet across at this point and with the rusting hulks of old wrecks moored along both banks. There was a series of industrial warehouses behind them, old buildings from years ago that had been allowed to sink into decrepitude and disrepair. They formed a rough terrace three and four storeys high. The terrain was striking, with lavish vegetation foregrounding the city skyline laid out in a thin crescent around Matanzas Bay.
Alfredo parked the car.
“Where is she?”
“There,” he said, pointing to a warehouse beneath the bridge that carried the Via Blanca further around the coast to Cardenas.
Beatrix opened the door and got out. She sniffed the air: it was sweet, a cloying fragrance carried on the breeze from the rum distilleries that were down by the docks and the citrus farms deeper inland. The warehouse that Alfredo had indicated was two storeys tall and in slightly better condition than its neighbours. The windows on the upper floor were boarded, and coils of barbed wire had been positioned on the parapet that ran around the roof, perhaps to deter gulls and terns from descending and making their nests there. There was a single car parked on the quay.
She looked back into the car and saw that Alfredo was on his phone. He finished the call, opened the door and stepped out to join her.
“I have a man over there,” he said, pointing to one of the rusting boats a little further along the dock. “He says that there has been no one going in or coming out since the others left.”
Beatrix nodded and bit her lip, trying to assess the best way of approaching the building. She knew that she didn’t have time to waste.
“How will you get inside?” Alfredo asked her.
“I can’t just go and knock on the door.”
He paused, waiting for her to finish her thought.
“I know I’ve already asked a lot,” she said.
“Please,” he interjected. “What can I do?”
102
Millman had the TV on, but, since he didn’t speak Spanish, he couldn’t find anything to distract him for more than a minute or two. He left the old set tuned in to Cubavisión, the state broadcaster, and stared at a telegenic young female presenter who appeared to be commenting on the opening of a new factory by a distant relation of the Castro family.
This country, he thought, is insane.
He had prepared the woman’s meal, taking one of the tamales that Ramalhete had bought in bulk from the paladar at the entrance to the dock. Ramalhete had worked in Cuba before and had explained that the quality of the food was better in the privately run restaurants than in those owned and operated by the state. That made sense, Millman supposed, but that didn’t mean that the food was actually any good. He had eaten one of the other tamales after it had been explained that they were similar to their Mexican namesakes; that didn’t turn out to be absolutely correct, since in Cuba the meat was apparently mixed in with the dough and not used as a filling. It was soggy and unpleasant, and he had only eaten half, launching the remainder into the open barrel that they were using for their trash. They were all sick of Cuba, and they were all looking forward to when they would be able to go back to the States. The food, the weather, the squalor… Millman couldn’t wait to get back to base, where he intended to eat well and drink himself into a merry oblivion.
He turned away from the TV and glared over at the locked door. The only person preventing it from being opened was the woman’s old man. Millman was not impressed with the rigmarole that they had already been put through, and that was before the vanload of Chinks had sideswiped their car in Hong Kong. Millman knew that he had been lucky to walk out of that wreck with just a concussion, that it could have been much worse, but he still found it hard to be grateful. The whole operation had been a mess from start to finish, and he would be wholeheartedly glad when they could put a fork in it and go and do something else instead.
He found the remote and flipped aimlessly through the channels, finally finding a baseball game that would pass the time. He was settling down to watch it when he heard a knocking at the door.
He frowned. There was no reason why anyone would be outside. He took his pistol from the table and went to the door. The knocking was repeated, louder this time. Millman transferred the pistol to his left hand and used his right to unlock the door. He put his foot in position to block it should it be forced back and, with the pistol hidden behind the door, he opened it.
There was a man standing there. Millman’s attention passed over him quickly, drawn to the thick cloud of smoke that was billowing across the quayside behind him.
“Perdóneme,” the man said in Spanish. “¿Este es su coche?”
Millman didn’t understand the Spanish, but it didn’t matter. The source of the smoke was obscured by the frame of the door; he slipped his pistol into the waistband of his jeans, pulled the tail of his jacket over it and stepped outside. He looked over the man’s shoulder and saw, to his consternation, that the smoke was pouring out of his rental.
His phone rang.
Shit.
He took the phone from his pocket and looked at the display.
Navarro.
He put it to his ear. “Millman here.”
“Where’s MIRANDA?”
“She’s here,” he said, frowning. Navarro sounded fraught. “Why?”
“Lock the door. Don’t let anyone in until we get there.”
He frowned and was about to ask Navarro to repeat himself when he felt something hard pressed up against the base of his skull.
“Let’s not do anything silly,” said a female voice. He felt a hand on his shoulder and was turned around, back to the door, and impelled forward. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”
103
Beatrix gave the man a shove between the shoulders and sent him back into the warehouse again. She looked around, taking it all in: the wide, open space; the table and chairs; the television set showing a baseball game; an overflowing trash can. The man’s face was marked by a livid bruise that ran from his temple down to the point of his chin, with a large mottled scab in the middle of the purples and blacks. She wondered whether he might have picked that up in the accident that Michael had orchestrated in Repulse Bay. Beatrix saw the bulge in the small of the man’s back, reached beneath the tails of his jacket and took out the pistol that he had hidden there. She stepped back.
“Turn around,” she said.
He did as he was told. He was a good head taller than Beatrix and must have outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds.
He still had his phone in his hand.
“Is Navarro on the line?” Beatrix asked.
The man glared at her and nodded.
“End the call, please, and put it on the table.”
The man stared at the phone, looked into the barrel of the Makarov and then into Beatrix’s face. He decided—wisely—that it was not worth the risk of calling her bluff. He tapped his finger against the screen and laid the phone on the table to his right.
“Is she in the room at the back?”
He nodded.
“Go and get her, please.”
“You know who we are, don’t you?”
“I do,” she said.
“And you know that going up against us is a really fucking bad idea.”
“Yet here I am. What’s your name?”
“Bugs Bunny.”
She smiled. “Go and get her, Bugs. Nice and slow. Now, please.”
He stepped back and Beatrix stepped forward, the gun never wavering. She took three steps to bring her to the table and reached down to pocket the phone. The man, his eyes on her the whole while, backed up to the door. There was a key in the lock, and he turned it.
Beatrix took another step toward him. “Open the door and stand over there,” she said, nodding to the corner of the room.
The man pushed down on the handle and stepped off to the side.
“Melissa,” Beatrix said, “you can come out. I met
you before, yesterday. I’m your father’s friend.”
The door opened all the way and Beatrix saw that Melissa was standing inside.
“I’m going to get you out,” Beatrix said.
“Where’s my father?”
“He’s waiting for us, but we really need to hurry.”
Beatrix spoke calmly but firmly. She didn’t doubt that Melissa would be frightened—she had been abducted and imprisoned, and she had seen Logan’s man shot dead the evening before—yet they didn’t have the luxury of time. Navarro would be on the way back to the warehouse and, even without knowing how effective the surprises that she had left at the house in Santa Cruz had been, she knew that the balance of power would be in his favour should he arrive before they had had the chance to leave.
Melissa stepped out of the cell and walked toward her.
“You’re crazy,” the man in the corner said.
Beatrix ignored him. “There’s a car waiting outside,” she said to Melissa. “Go onto the quay and turn right. The driver is a friend of your father, too.”
She did as she had been asked.
Beatrix didn’t take her eyes off the man for a moment.
“You can’t run from us,” he warned.
She ignored his threat. Instead, she flicked the gun in the direction of the room where Melissa had been kept. “In there, please.”
He went inside and backed away from the door. “You know we’ll find you, don’t you?”
“You’d better hope not.”
Beatrix closed the door and locked it. She put the pistol away, hurried through the warehouse and emerged into the darkness of the quay. The car was still burning, the orange glow casting its light over the water of the bay. Alfredo had brought his car alongside; the lights were glowing and she could hear the grumble of the engine over the hungry snicker of the flames. She opened the door and slid inside next to Melissa.
“You okay?”
The woman nodded.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Alfredo hit the gas.
104
Alfredo drove them back to the safe house. Beatrix asked him to wait outside and then went around to join Melissa on the pavement.
“Your father is inside,” she said. “This way.”
She led the way to the door and opened it. Danny must have heard the arrival of the car. He was waiting for them in the living room.
“Melissa?”
“Dad!”
The privations of Melissa’s last few hours were forgotten; her face broke into a wide grin and she rushed forward, meeting Danny in a tight embrace.
Beatrix watched them for a moment and wondered what her own reunion with Isabella would feel like. She found a catch in her throat and tears in her eyes and, unwilling to spoil the Nakamuras’ moment with her own bitterness, she quietly backed out of the room and left them to it.
They reconvened in the kitchen. Danny and Melissa were still smiling, seemingly unable to stop. Beatrix would have preferred to leave their happiness undisturbed for a little longer, but Alfredo was outside and she had business to attend to that could not wait.
“You want a beer?” Danny asked her, heading to the fridge.
“No,” she said. “I need to go.”
“Why?”
“There are loose ends that need tying. Don’t worry about it—it’s all in hand.”
“What about us?” Melissa asked.
“You stay here tonight,” she said. “It’s safe. No one knows anything about the house.”
“And then?”
“You’ll be leaving the country tomorrow.”
Danny took out two beers and gave one to his daughter. “Where? The States?”
“Not there,” Beatrix said. “It won’t be safe. I’d rather not use the airports, either. I was going to suggest you drive down to Santiago de Cuba. There’s a cruise ship that leaves from there tomorrow. It’s going to Montego Bay. It’ll be a reasonably safe way off the island—lots of other people there and it’s a long way from Havana.”
“What about me?” Melissa asked.
“I’d take that cruise too if you can.”
“For how long?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“Can you do that?” Danny asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I guess. It’s summer break at school.”
“I think that would be best,” Beatrix said. “There are some things that I need to do first—you’ll be able to go home after that.”
She nodded her agreement.
Danny turned to Beatrix. “Are you coming with us?”
Melissa put her hand to her head. “Damn,” she said. “My suitcase is still in the hotel. I don’t suppose I can go and get it?”
“No,” Beatrix said. “Definitely not. Make a list of whatever you need. I’ll give it to Alfredo and he can deliver it here tomorrow before you go.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it now.”
There was a pad of paper and a pen on the kitchen counter, and Melissa started to note down the things that she would need. Beatrix was grateful for the distraction; she didn’t want to explain to Danny that she wouldn’t be joining them. She knew that he would be nervous at the prospect of travelling without the benefit of her protection; he would have to learn to manage. The two of them would be safe if the rest of Beatrix’s plan bore fruit and, once it did, she had matters of her own to attend to.
Melissa finished the list of things that she thought she might need and handed it to Beatrix. She scanned it quickly: two sundresses, two pairs of shorts, two tank tops, two long-sleeve shirts, a smart casual skirt, and toiletries.
Beatrix folded the list and stood. “You should both get some sleep. It’s late and you have a busy day tomorrow.”
Danny and Melissa stood, too. “Where are you going?” Danny asked.
“I’m going to start with those loose ends.”
105
Logan finished his third vodka and put the tumbler back on the bar. He had stayed in the hotel all evening. It was late now—just before two in the morning—and the fact that he hadn’t heard anything from Navarro yet worried him. Rather than watch the TV in his room, he had decided to come down to the bar.
He caught the bartender’s attention. “Another one.”
The woman came over and removed the glass. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re closing in five minutes.”
He took out his wallet and held out a twenty-peso note. “One more?”
“I’m sorry, sir. We’re closing.”
Logan made a show of folding the note and slipped it back into his wallet. He wanted another, and he had a collection of miniatures in the minibar back in his room that would serve his purposes well enough.
He took the elevator up to the third floor and made his way along the corridor to his room. He took his key card, pushed it into the reader, and waited for the door to unlock. He went inside.
The room was dark save for the television that he had left on. He had been watching CNN, and the hourly news was playing, the glow from the screen flickering around the room. Logan took the key card and fumbled it into the illuminated slot that controlled the lights.
He went into the bathroom and relieved himself, his arm braced against the wall as he leaned over the toilet. He closed his eyes. He had a nice little buzz going, but the booze couldn’t numb his trepidation about what might happen over the next few hours and then the days that would follow. He had no doubt that Navarro would be able to take care of Caprice. She was badly outnumbered and, despite her evident capability, the men who were deployed against her were experienced players who would not make the mistake of underestimating her. She would lead Navarro to Nakamura and the second tape. He doubted that he would see her again once Navarro had what he wanted.
Fine.
It wasn’t that which concerned him, though; it was that his own position would be weaker when that was done, and that he would have to demonstrate his value in other ways. He would deliver Miller and hel
p seal the breach in Lincoln’s security, and then he would start work to deflect Butcher’s ongoing enquiry. He would be able to warn Lincoln about the avenues that Butcher was pursuing, help him to buttress his weaknesses and identify his blind spots. He would deliver value and make himself indispensable. It was the only way that he would get out of this mess in one piece.
He zipped up, flushed the toilet and washed his hands. He stared into the mirror above the sink. It was lit by a harsh yellow light that cast deep shadows across his face. He looked old. Felt old, too. Cuba had treated him just as it had treated his father and grandfather. It offered nothing but disappointment and danger, and he was looking forward to leaving it behind.
He flicked off the bathroom light and went through into the bedroom.
“Hello, Logan.”
She was sitting in the armchair, the light behind her cloaking her in shadow. Her face was in silhouette, her features obscured, but he knew the voice.
“Caprice?”
“You’ve made some bad decisions today,” she noted, raising her arm and pointing the pistol that she was holding in his direction. “Sit down on the bed, please.”
“You…” he started.
“Should be dead?” She shook her head. “Eventually. But not tonight. Sit down.”
He did as she asked. “What happened?”
“You can ask Navarro that. I’m sure he’ll want to see you.”
She cocked her head a little; he couldn’t look away from the weapon that was still nonchalantly aimed at him, her wrist resting on her crossed leg.
“You get a better offer?” she asked.
He started to answer, to explain, but she stopped him.
“You went to Navarro and cooked up a story to sell to me. That’s not a question—I know you did. I had you followed after what happened in Mariel. You went running straight to him.”
“Because they’ve got Nakamura’s daughter.”
