Dire Straits (5 page)

Derek was one of
thousands on bikes, motorcycles, and scooters and he felt a level of anonymity he hadn’t felt in a car. Still, he was cautious, driving circuitously through the city. He drove around the CBC complex, not seeing much different. Security didn’t seem any higher. There were more cars in the complex. He knew from his brief tour that two of the manufacturing plants ran around the clock, but the R&D and administrative areas did not.

He drove the scooter past the safe house, seeing nothing. Derek drove the scooter several blocks away and parked it. Walking back toward the safe house, he found an isolated spot to keep an eye on the property, a brick wall bordering a row of apartment buildings. He sat in the shade of a eucalyptus, back against the wall, out of sight, watching people come and go. There was no movement in the house and no indication anyone was watching the house.

It was possible the Cubans had set up some sort of watch in the apartment building.

Derek knew paranoia from being in war zones, but that was a different kind of paranoia than he was experiencing in Cuba, where you trusted no one and suspected everyone.

In the Army, you trusted your squad and your partner, your fellow soldiers. They weren’t all trustworthy, but it gave you at least the illusion that someone had your back. As far as he was concerned, the CIA had given him a complete illusion of support. It all went to hell within a matter of hours. And he no longer trusted any of their backup plans.

As it grew dark, the area became even quieter. Leaving his watching spot, he began to stair-step around the area on foot, making sure he wasn’t being watched. When he was confident he wasn’t, he circled close to buildings near the ocean, and made his way to the beach. In the dark, he jogged down the waterline until he came to the safe house, which was quiet and unlit.

He crouched in the sand and watched the house for a while. Still nothing.

He entered through the rear door to the garage and made a quick search of the house in the dark using night vision goggles stored in the garage. Standing in the front room, he peered out the windows at the street and the apartment building, scanning each window for any indication someone was watching the house. After a methodical scan, he decided he was probably safe.

In a back room was a computer. Next to the computer was a CD-ROM in a jewel case. Booting up the computer, Derek slid the CD into the drive. The CD-ROM apparently contained a few dozen photographs. A scan through them showed them to be shots of Havana—the beach, historical buildings, the Marecón.

Derek double-clicked on Photo 04, of the Marecón, waves crashing over the breakwall.

He typed: 8X3_$/>Fgi and pressed Enter.

The screen went blank except for a small square requiring an entry code.

Derek typed: CCcF*^@Zy+. But didn’t hit Enter. Enter would cause the DVD to be erased.

The photograph of the Marecón reappeared, then pixels slowly faded out until a message was visible.

DS.

Network blown. Exfil ASAP. Exfil 3 suggested.

Derek glanced at his watch. The Agency had sent him out with three contingency plans for leaving the country. One was to simply go to the airport and fly out as fast as he could. The second was to get to the Swiss Embassy. From there a route out of the country would be set in place.

Exfiltration #3 was more complicated. He was to get to a spot on the Cuba coast northwest of Havana on any given night by 2:45 AM. There was an exactly 15-minute window when a small boat would be available to get him off the island to a larger vessel waiting several miles off the coast.

There were other contingency plans, but getting all the way across the island to Guantanamo Bay was only useful if you were close to Guantanamo Bay.

Derek looked at his watch. It was just past midnight. Time to get moving. He typed in a set of figures that caused the CD to be deleted as well as cleaning the computer’s cache and ROM. He didn’t completely understand how the tech wizards at Langley and Meade made it work, but he’d take their word for it.

Sliding into the garage, he started packing for the trip out.

With some gear in a backpack, he rode the motorcycle out of the safe house and headed toward the countryside. He drove along the highway toward La Boca, something of a tourist destination for Cubans. He’d been told in his briefing that it wasn’t really a spot tourists outside of Cuba visited that much—too rustic. In the off-season it was pretty quiet.

Leaving Havana behind, he found the suburban areas stretched out, leaving more smaller homes, farms, and what could probably be described as wilderness areas—Derek was hesitant about calling it jungle, although Cuba had its share of mountains and rain forests.

Half an hour outside Havana, Derek spied a long line of cars backing up. He eased up on the throttle. A half a mile ahead or so he thought he saw flashing lights. An accident? Or some sort of roadblock? Heart hammering in his chest, he wondered if it was a roadblock.

He pulled to the side of the road and pulled out the small map of Cuba he had found in the safe house. Glancing at his watch, he saw that time was running out for meeting his exfil deadline.

Wheeling the bike around, he turned around and took a right at the first road. The next thirty minutes was a blur of gravel and dirt roads winding through foothills and forest and suburbs, before he finally worked his way back into La Boca, which was a sleepy village, although there were many beautiful colonial-era homes.

Derek drove to a wooded area near the beach about a quarter mile from his rendezvous point. He hid the motorcycle behind trees, then rummage in his backpack and pulled out the night vision goggles. Donning them, he started a slow and cautious recon to the rendezvous site, keeping to the shadows. From house to house, from tree to tree. Mosquitoes swarmed around him in a cloud, buzzing in his ears.

Finally he was near a secluded area of beach. Cupping his hand around his watch, he checked the time. He had fifteen minutes until the boat was supposed to arrive.

He settled in next to a date palm and became motionless.

The seconds ticked by. Looking out at the water, he thought he saw a small boat out on the water, but couldn’t be certain.

Something caught his attention further down the beach. Some movement of some sort. He trained the NVGs on that area, the world lit up in green and black, but filled with shadows. Nothing showed up. Maybe it had just been a bush or tree moving in the breeze.

Shifting his gaze back out to the water, he saw the boat growing closer. Yes, right on time.

Taking out a small flashlight, he aimed it toward the boat and flicked it on-off-on-off, waited ten seconds and then flashed the light three times. After a moment, a light on the boat flashed once, hesitated, then flashed three times quickly.

Derek waited in his hiding place for the boat to draw closer. He would be glad to get the hell out of Cuba, but he was totally dissatisfied with how things had gone—he had not accomplished his mission.

The boat, a Zodiac inflatable with a sound-dampened engine, approached the shore. A soft breeze tugged at the trees. Crickets chirped and other insects whined. The mosquitoes were terrible, feasting on any exposed skin. Otherwise, all was quiet.

Derek stepped out from the treeline and headed for the boat.

Suddenly spotlights lit up from three different directions, pinning Derek in its harsh glare. Voices shouted in Spanish and English: “Halt! You are under arrest! Don’t move!”

The Zodiac was still thirty or forty yards off shore.

Half a dozen uniformed men rushed toward Derek. Somebody fired a rifle at the boat. With a roar, the Zodiac spun in the waves and headed back out to sea.

Derek turned on his heels and sprinted into the trees. Bullets chewed the air around him. More shouts. The soldiers thundered after him.

For one disorienting moment, Derek wasn’t sure of where the motorcycle was. Racing through the woods, branches lashing at his face, weeds and bushes tangling his legs, he didn’t have time to stop and search. He plunged on. The soldiers were a dozen yards behind him. Once they all entered the woods they had stopped firing, probably in fear of shooting each other.

He nearly ran past the motorcycle. Skidding to a halt, he leapt onto the saddle and kicked the engine to life. He zigzagged in and out of the trees, leaning low over the handlebars, barely able to make out tree trunks. He hit a rock, nearly catapulting off the bike, but clung on.

Something tugged at his shoulder. He heard the gunshot a moment later. Heart racing, adrenaline surging, he jammed the throttle down and roared through the woods, breaking out into open road.

He took the bike up to its top speed, flying down the serpentine road at over one hundred miles per hour.

It wasn’t a solution, and he knew it. He had to get the hell off the main road.

Once he was out of the town, he slewed onto a gravel road that led into the hills. Kicking up gravel, he gunned it, taking every turn he could. The hills soon flattened out and he was running on roads sandwiched between fields of sugar cane and tobacco. He felt vaguely protected by the sugar cane, with its tall stalks. The tobacco was no good, though. He couldn’t hide there.

He had lost his pursuers. Derek pulled to the side of the road alongside a sugarcane field and touched his shoulder. The bullet had nipped at his coat, but he hadn’t been hit. He’d been extremely lucky tonight, he supposed. He still wasn’t in prison and he wasn’t dead or wounded.

But his exfil plans had gone completely to shit. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do next.

He decided to return to Havana and attempt to hide out for another day. At the safe house or back at Pleasure?

He opted for Pleasure.

Derek drove the motorcycle
past Pleasure and the market. It was slightly after four in the morning. The fruit and vegetable market was closed. Pleasure was still in business. He circled the area, then parked the bike behind the bar and drifted in.

Momka was working the bar. Two girls in G-strings undulated listlessly on the stage to very loud music that was all bass and drum. Multi-colored lights flashed, providing the girls’ imperfections some camouflage. And providing Derek with some camouflage as well.

He crossed to an empty stool at the bar and perched there, scanning the men in the bar. Three sat at the hammered-tin bar, slouched over their drinks. It was hard to tell if they were even conscious. Black men, Afro-Cuban, he guessed was the description, and he assumed they were from Sierra Leone or West Africa or were just Afro-Cubans of some vintage.

Sitting at three of the tables closer to the stage were seven men. Three at two of the tables, one by himself. Two blacks, one white, three Cubans.

Derek took them in, his brain doing computations, analyzing what he saw. One of the Cubans worried him. There was something about his bearing that suggested cop or military. He’d looked up when Derek walked in, studied him for a moment, then shifted his gaze back to the girls. But his gaze had been a little too intent and a little too long.

A girl with black hair wearing a tight pair of denim shorts and nothing else except spike-heel shoes tottered over to him. She threw an arm over his shoulder and pressed her bare breasts to his side. She said something to him in Spanish. He was guessing it was something along the lines of “Can I get you a drink?” or “Will you buy me a drink?” or, perhaps, given the classiness of the bar, “Do you want to go upstairs and fuck?”

He shook his head and tipped a finger at Momka. The man came down and said in Krio, “You bring my bike back?”

“No, but it’s fine. I can tell you where it is.”

Momka’s lips creased into a tight line. “I told you to bring the bike back. I told you not to come back. But here you are.” His voice was rising. Some of the men were watching this exchange. Derek thought only one of them knew what was being said, one of the blacks sitting two stools down from him.

“It’s safe. And I’ve got a motorcycle. But I can’t ride both, so I need somebody to come with me to get the bike for you. Okay?”

Momka shook his head. “I don’t want you coming back here. Go. Go get my bike and leave it out back and don’t come back.”

Derek sighed, reached in his pocket and withdrew his wallet. He pulled out a sheaf of bills and said, “I want a cup of coffee and some food. You’ve got a grill, right? What do you have to eat?”

Momka’s greedy eyes fixed on the money. “No coffee. I’ve got kebab. Fried plantains. Black beans and rice.”

The girl said something. Momka spat some machine gun Spanish at her and she scowled and walked away, visiting the man at the single table, who wrapped his arm around her naked waist and started talking to her.

“Then give me some. And a beer will be fine. Out of a bottle.” He didn’t want Momka watering his booze. He wanted to see him open the damned bottle. Momka pulled a bottle of Bruja from a bucket filled with ice and angrily twisted off the top and handed it to him. Derek tossed him some money.

It seemed to mellow the man some. He came back a moment later with a plate with a grilled lamb kebab. Or maybe it was goat, Derek wasn’t entirely certain, and black beans and rice. A moment later Momka delivered the plantains.

Derek drank the beer, which was dark and strong, and ate the food, mildly surprised by how hungry he was. He finished the food and considered his options. To Momka he said, “I could use a place to stay for the day.”

“I don’t want you here. You’re done. Go away.”

Derek felt movement behind him. He’d been sitting somewhat sideways at the bar so he could keep half an eye on the other patrons and get a sense of things at the door, but it was impossible to sit at the bar and keep his full gaze on the room. The man who had given him an official vibe appeared next to him. “Momka,” he said. “Problema?”

Momka appeared very uncomfortable, wiping a glass with a dirty rag, not meeting the man’s gaze. “No. No problema.”

The man turned to look at Derek, eyes appraising. “Documentación, por favor.”

Derek pretended he didn’t understand Spanish, even though he understood what the man wanted. In Krio he said, “I’m a tourist from Sierra Leon. I don’t speak Spanish. I’m sorry.” The man wore khaki pants and a white guayabera. On his hip Derek saw the holster beneath the shirt.

The man glanced at Momka. Nervously Momka said, “He wants to see your documentation.”

“Ask him why.”

Momka said, “No. Just show him your papers.”

The man rattled off something in Spanish and reached into a pocket, presumably for his own identification. Once the man had his hand deep into his pocket, Derek grabbed his wrist with his left hand and slammed his right elbow into the man’s jaw. As the man’s head snapped back, Derek reached down and snagged the gun off the holster and slammed the butt of it into the man’s skull. The Cuban collapsed to the floor like a bag of bones.

Kicking back off the stool, Derek rushed through the bar, ignoring the screams of the girls and the shouts of Momka and the other patrons. He jumped on the cycle, kicked it to life and raced off.

He didn’t make it far. He peeled out of the alley, turned onto a narrow street, and skidded to a halt. The street was blocked by two cars. Standing in front of the vehicles was none other than Juan Osorio. On his left stood the auburn-haired woman he had noticed while barhopping with Coro, the one that gave off the Russian vibe. On his right were two uniformed men carrying assault rifles.

Osorio called out, “Señor Hamill, you are under arrest.”

“The hell I am,” Derek muttered, spinning the bike on its rear wheel and hammering the throttle. The bike roared. He heard gunshots over the bike’s racket.

He skidded around a corner only to see another vehicle blocking the street. This one didn’t block the entire street and the soldiers or agents or cops, whoever they were, stayed in their vehicle.

Pull his gun, Derek held it in his left fist, gripped the throttle with his right, and raced toward the car, firing as he went.

He was squeezing past on the right when the car slammed into reverse. The car’s trunk struck his rear wheel. The bike skidded, wobbled, then Derek laid it down on the pavement, rolling away from the bike.

Lying there for a moment, he wondered if he’d broken anything. Bruised for sure. Looking down at his jeans, he saw he’d shredded his right leg and hips. He was sure as hell bleeding. And sure as hell lucky.

Rolling to his feet, pain shot up through his leg and his side. Behind him, a uniformed cop staggered out of the car, the shoulder of his uniform dark with blood. He raised a handgun.

Derek shot him.

Turning, he levered up the motorcycle, whose engine had cut out. He straddled it with some difficulty and tried to kick it into life. Nothing.

Shit!

He tried again. Still nothing.

He turned to see the red-haired woman standing two dozen feet away from him. Their eyes met.

She had a gun pointed at him. In English with a Russian accent she said, “Derek Stillwater.”

A jolt of adrenaline blasted through Derek. She knew who he really was!

“I think it would be better for my country and yours if you just got out of here. Go.” She waved the gun at a doorway. “Through there.”

He didn’t ask questions. He sprinted for the door. Who was the woman? He had no idea, but she’d done him a hell of a favor. And if she was Russian—and it seemed she was—perhaps she was right. After the breakup of the Soviet Union, Russia’s relationship with Cuba was spiraling downward in a big way.

He didn’t give it much thought. Gift horses, and all that. Darting through the door, he found himself in an apartment building. Racing through the hallway, he headed upward. The buildings in this part of Havana were old and sandwiched together, sometimes only a half dozen feet separating them, sometimes less, sharing walls.

It was six stories tall. It smelled of herbs, mildew, some sort of cooking meat or beans. This early in the morning it was quiet.

He climbed the narrow stairs to the top floor. A ladder went up one wall to a hatch. Derek climbed up, pushed it open, and rolled onto the roof of the apartment building, closing the hatch behind him.

Heart hammering in his chest, lungs burning, he took stock of his situation. Scraped up, but functional. Pretty much out of options.

As far as he was concerned, he’d just been about as lucky as he was likely to get, running into a Russian agent who would rather get him out of the country than turn him over to the Cubans.

Glancing around, he saw that the next closest building was about six feet away and maybe four or five feet lower. Pocketing the gun, he took a deep breath, set himself, and leapt the distance between the two buildings. He hit the next building, rolled, and was happy to discover that the next half dozen buildings were built adjacent to each other.

Within minutes he was several blocks from where Osorio was looking for him. Hopefully the Russian woman had pointed Osorio in a different direction.

In the east, the sun was starting to rise, the sky ribbed with scarlet as the sun burned through distant clouds. A beautiful sunrise, he supposed, if he weren’t such a pessimist: red sky in morning, sailors taking warning.

Derek thought a storm was coming.