Damason got up and tossed another rock at the door. The three whispered among themselves, then one began climb-ing the creaking steps, with the other two watching.
He crept back to the rotting wall that formed part of the stairway and listened to the slow footsteps as the boy approached. When he judged the intruder was close enough, Damason put his shoulder to the wall and pushed again.
The weakened wall crumbled and gave way, collapsing on top of the boy, who screamed briefly as dozens of pounds of mortar and dust rained down on him. The other two scrambled to assist him, shouting his name and digging through the rubble. Damason checked to make sure they were completely occupied, then slid through the hole with the package in his hands, landing in front of the doorway.
He raced to his car, placed the package in the backseat and drove away.
Damason wound through the narrow streets of Havana until he found a deserted alley. He got out, put the package into the trunk and, after another circuit of the city to ensure that he wasn’t being followed, he headed south, getting on the highway that would eventually take him past the military base at Managua. He didn’t give much thought to the three youths he had left behind. If their curiosity hadn’t gotten the better of them, their friend would have been fine. It was a minor sacrifice compared to what he had gained.
Risking pushing the Lada beyond its limits, Damason pressed the gas pedal down harder. He had to be back in the city for a rare speech that Raul Castro was giving in the plaza later that afternoon, but first he wanted to see what he had recovered, and to do that, he needed total privacy.
A dozen miles outside the city, he found one of the in-numerable side paths that led into the jungle. They were little more than trails that had once led to fields or an old sugar mill, now long overgrown. He pulled onto it, wincing as the Lada bottomed out in the ruts. He prayed not to get stuck, for it would impossible to explain why he had come out all this way. The little car seemed to sense his need, however, for it rose to the occasion and didn’t bog down once.
When he was sure he wouldn’t be seen by anyone, Damason pulled over and got out. Walking to the trunk, he opened it, removed the package, then closed it and placed the bundle on top. He carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal a slender, long-barreled rifle with an unusual, skeleton-ized stock featuring a built-in pistol grip. A long scope was mounted on top. Included with the rifle were two magazines full of 7.62 mm ammunition.
Damason lifted the Russian-made Dragunov SVD sniper rifle, feeling its weight, its balance, relishing the texture of the wood and stamped steel. It felt right in his hands.
It felt like a weapon that could kill a dictator.
Jonas sipped an excellent Australian Zinfandel and dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then placed it over the remains of his delicious blackened-snapper lunch. “There is something about everything in America, although I enjoy my homeland, everything here somehow just tastes better.” His accent had thick-ened, the guttural Germanic tones coming through on each word.
He was dressed in a new, tropical-weight, beige linen suit with a white, raw silk shirt underneath. A pair of Christian Dior sunglasses covered his eyes, lending a cool gray tone to everything he looked at. His dining companion—a Room 59 operative on temporary loan from a long-term assignment in the Florida Keys—was dressed in a strapless, light blue, hibiscus-print sundress and a straw hat.
“Glad you think so. Has our target arrived yet?” Karen Mulber was tall, blond and tanned—the perfect accessory for a foreign businessman on vacation. She also had a mind like a titanium trap, which made her the perfect partner to watch his back during this meeting. While Jonas was making contact, she would be locating Castilo’s car to plant a minuscule tracking device on it.
They sat on the topmost tier of the five-level restaurant, which had been built to allow all of its guests an unobstructed view of the track below. The bright Florida sun bathed the arena in golden light, making it a perfect racing day. While pretending to discuss the day’s races, they casually scanned the rest of the restaurant.
Jonas finished his wine. “Not yet, but the matinee begins in twenty minutes, so unless he’s stuck in traffic, I expect him to walk in any moment now.” The Room 59 hackers had accessed Castilo’s computer calendar. Every Wednesday afternoon was blocked off for the greyhound races.
Karen pressed a slender finger to her ear, making the movement look perfectly natural. “Hold on—his limousine has just arrived, along with another car. Looks like he has company.”
“What about the driver?” Jonas asked.
She leaned forward, revealing a lush swell of cleavage along with a wicked grin. “Just leave him to me.”
“Say no more.” Jonas studied the racing program for that afternoon. “Let me guess, Mr. Castilo’s animal is number six in race ten.”
She followed his pointing finger. “Cuba Libre? Nothing like displaying certain political views in plain sight.”
“Let’s just hope he’s a winner. It’s a Class B race, and old Cuba Libre has just slipped a ranking, so he should outclass the others. Unfortunately, he got box six, but he’s an inside dog, so he’ll need to do some hard running to get ahead of the pack before the escape turn.” Jonas slid three onehundred-dollar bills across the table. “Put this down on him across the board.”
“Am I your beard now?” Karen asked.
“Someone’s got to stay and watch for him. Besides, it won’t seem suspicious if you head out to bet and also scout the parking lot to see where their car is.”
She scooped up the bills. “And here I thought you’d only go for the win—you know, that kind of all-or-nothing macho bullshit.”
“A smart man hedges his bets whenever he can,” Jonas said with a smile.
“Looks like he’s coming in.”
Both Karen and Jonas kept up their idle chatter while watching the party of three men and three women enter the restaurant. The maitre d’ greeted Castilo effusively and escorted the party to a pair of reserved tables on the first tier, a good distance from Jonas’s table. They were all dressed well, but Jonas only had eyes for one man.
Rafael Castilo had a bit more gray hair than in the picture Kate had sent to him, and his suit was probably tailored to hide a few additional pounds, but otherwise he’d aged well.
He laughed and talked with his party and was affectionate with the woman at his side, a beautiful Cuban- American woman at least twenty years younger, and from the looks of it, trying not to age any faster than necessary. She was Castilo’s second wife, his first having passed away seven years ago. Jonas noted that the man’s eyes were always in motion, sweeping the room as if constantly evaluating who was there.
Jonas swept the party with his gaze, while his Dior sunglasses recorded everything through a quarter-inch color, closed-circuit lens built into its frame. Unlike other spy glasses, which still required relatively bulky battery packs, this model, reverse engineered by a cutting-edge technology firm in California, had modified lithium batteries installed into the temple bars, so that the glasses were ready to go when put on.
“Hope you’re getting all this, Kate,” Jonas muttered.
Everything was being transmitted back to Room 59’s on-line suite for analysis. He hadn’t bothered to bug the reserved table, as it was doubtful that Castilo would be discussing anything regarding his personal crusade there.
Loudspeakers around the track blared into life, the sound distorted and muted by the thick glass windows. Jonas kept an eye on the small LCD screen at his table as the greyhounds came out for the post parade, guided by the lead outs. The people at Castilo’s two tables cheered and clapped when Cuba Libre appeared in the lineup. By the time the last dogs were walked out, the first ones were in the boxes, ready to go.
With ten races before the action would really begin, Jonas still kept an eye on Castilo’s group, but his thoughts kept returning to that long-ago mission. Seeing the island last night, even through the darkness, had brought back more memories, and they were proving increasingly hard to dismiss.
THE BACK OF JONAS’S NECK itched as rivulets of sweat ran down it and his sprained ankle throbbed, but those were the least of his worries at the moment. The twelve men taking up ambush positions around the clearing a dozen yards away were another matter entirely.
After squirming far enough through the jungle to be sure that they wouldn’t be seen, Jonas and his contact took cover in a copse of blue mahoe. He turned to the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Your name. Or should I just say ‘Hey, you’ when I need your attention?”
“Marisa,” she whispered.
