“Much like the Nazis and their Hitler Youth guard of World War II, yes?” the woman said.
Jonas didn’t have a comeback for that one.
“But what you say is true, unfortunately. That is why I’m here, risking my life to stop this madman so we can get help against—” She trailed off and cocked an ear, listening to the jungle.
Jonas took the cue and strained his senses, too, trying to catch what had put her on guard. Then he realized it—the animals in the surrounding foliage had gone quiet. Even when the team had been there, the area was filled with the noises of insects, birds and other nocturnal animals. Now they could be heard in the distance, but the nearby cacophony had suddenly gone still, as if the creatures were hiding—or fleeing.
Then he heard a completely different sound—the distant growl of a rough-running engine. Jonas and the woman exchanged glances. “Come on!”
She grabbed his hand and tugged, trying to pull him to his feet. Snatching up his rifle and pack, Jonas managed to get up on his good foot and was surprised when she slipped her head underneath his shoulder. “I can manage,” he said.
“Uh-huh, I watched you on the way in. No talk, just walk.”
Together they hobbled out of the ruined sugar refinery and into the nearby jungle. Just as they edged into cover, pushing broad leaves aside, weak yellow light flooded the clearing.
“Down!” Jonas dived to the ground, taking her with him.
She struggled free of him, but remained close, her smooth forehead now smudged with dirt. Eyes blazing, she didn’t say anything, but simply watched what unfolded before them.
A large, olive-drab truck came to a stop in the middle of the area. It had barely halted before a dozen men poured from the back, all dressed in military fatigues and carrying AK-47s. They fanned out and searched the area, covering every inch of ground. Jonas held his breath as a man swept past only a few yards away. Two of the men entered the tumbledown building, rifles ready in front of them.
The woman put her lips next to Jonas’s ear. “I hope you didn’t leave anything in there.”
Jonas shook his head, concentrating on the men, assess-ing their numbers and ability. The pair left the building and spoke to the driver, who turned the truck around and drove back down the road. Men immediately began erasing any evidence of the vehicle having been there.
It was obvious to Jonas what had happened. The mission had been compromised, and these men were here to capture—or more likely kill—the team when they returned.
He got the woman’s attention and motioned for her to move farther into the jungle. She crawled away, lifting one limb at a time, checking with every movement to be sure she hadn’t been noticed. When she was a few yards away, Jonas began his withdrawal, keeping his eyes on the clearing and the men waiting there.
THE THUD OF THE JET’S WHEELS hitting the tarmac jarred Jonas out of his reverie. He glanced out the window to see the bright, flat runway baking under the Florida sun. Even though the airplane cabin was pressurized and air-conditioned, he already sensed the heat outside, as if it were waiting for him to emerge.
The ten-hour flight had been uneventful, save for some minor turbulence. Jonas had tried to sleep on the way over, but his restless mind kept returning to the same old thoughts.
In the decades since that mission, he had returned to Cuba more than once, but had never found any way to lay what had happened that night to rest. And now it looked as if he was going to come face-to-face with the results of that evening, one way or another.
The flight attendant welcomed the passengers to Miami, and he let the words skate over him as he waited for the plane to stop moving, looking like any of the other European tourists or businessmen coming to America. The plane taxied to a stop, and Jonas got out of his seat and removed his small overnight bag from the overhead compartment.
Slinging it over his shoulder, he waited for the door to open and walked through the airport to the baggage claim.
Miami International Airport bustled with the start of the tourist season, but Jonas didn’t give the assorted wildlife, animal or human, a second glance, scanning the crowd for his contact instead.
A young Hispanic man, dressed in sandals, khakis and a brightly colored shirt held a simple cardboard sign with his cover name on it. Jonas walked over and looked him up and down, then started walking again, the younger man falling into step beside him. “I didn’t expect it to be this warm,”
Jonas said.
“It’s not the heat but the humidity that gets to most people. You’ll get used to it soon enough,” the young man replied.
“I suppose a good night’s sleep will help.” The conversation was innocuous enough, but Jonas had given the proper initial code phrase, and more importantly, his contact had given the correct reply, word for word.
Jonas held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Azul.”
His new acquaintance took it and shook briskly. “Like-wise, Mr. Heinemann. But don’t you think this is all rather melodramatic?”
“How so?”
“This back and forth we just did, like something out of the movies. I’d have thought our handlers would have sent a photo of me to your cell to compare faces.”
Actually, Jonas did have that, but he knew that his adver-saries could always disguise themselves, as well. “Tell that to one of my friends in Europe back in 1987. During a trip behind the Iron Curtain, his contact was made, apprehended and replaced with a government agent. The man said one wrong word when he gave the counter, but my friend passed it off as nervousness and went with him.”
“What happened?”
“He spent five years in a Bulgarian prison before being swapped in a trade. His career was over, his health was shattered and he died soon after. All because of one simple wrong word.”
“Point taken.” The younger man glanced up at him. “I have to admit, you’re not what I expected.”
“Oh, you were thinking someone younger?”
“No, I read your file. You just appear to be in much better shape than your picture would indicate. Taller, too.”
Jonas glanced sidelong at the young man, but got no hint of animosity or insult from him; he had just stated a simple fact. “I do my best.”
“Any baggage?”
“Just what you see here.”
“You didn’t bring any clothes?”
“My wardrobe wasn’t appropriate for this assignment.”
In response to the younger man’s quizzical look he said, “I don’t own a two-thousand-dollar suit. Yet.”
“So we’ll need to go shopping?”
“At the best tailor in town.”
“That’s gonna be expensive.”
“Don’t worry.” Jonas patted his pocket. “It will all be taken care of. In a couple of days it will be time for me to make my entrance into Cuban-exile society.”
Damason rested his head on one hand as he held an ancient black Bakelite telephone receiver to his ear. Stifling a yawn, he tried to pay attention to his commanding officer’s stream of orders and questions.
“Yes, colonel. I have followed up on all of the freed women, and their various consulates are working on getting them back home, as well. No, at this time I have not yet received a report concerning the interrogation. I will get it as soon as possible.
Yes, of course we wish to eradicate this loathsome pestilence of human smuggling. I will keep you informed at all times.
Thank you, colonel.
He replaced the receiver and rested his head in his hands.
Since the morning’s activity he’d had about two hour’s sleep, and now felt as if the smugglers’ panel truck had run him over. However, there were still a few hours to go until he could rest. Even then he knew his respite might be brief, for army officers were supposed to be “vigilant and ready to fight for the revolution at all times,” according to one of their leader’s interminable, three-hour speeches he often inflicted on the military.
Indeed, if the man spent as much time working on the problems of our nation as he did haranguing its citizens,
