He heard a sound, like metal rustling, followed by a pattering noise on the leaves and grass around him. Drops of acrid-smelling liquid dripped on his neck and back.
The bastard’s pissing on me! Jonas held his nose as the soldier finished and zipped up. There was no choice now.
Reeking of urine, Jonas knew he’d never be able to sneak up on the soldier once he got back into the truck. Drawing his machete, Jonas burst from the jungle and lunged at the soldier, ignoring the flare of agony from his sprained ankle.
The man whirled around to see Jonas, blade lifted overhead, coming straight at him. Eyes widening in the darkness, he raised his arm to block the weapon while inhaling to yell for help. Jonas’s free hand scrabbled for the man’s mouth, trying to cover it before he could make a noise. The soldier’s blocking hand found his wrist and pushed the machete away while his free hand locked on Jonas’s throat and began squeezing. For a moment, the two men struggled silently against each other, only their hoarse pants for breath heard in the night air.
His vision starting to gray at the edges, Jonas knew he had about twenty seconds before he passed out. He released the machete, letting it drop on the Cuban soldier’s head. The man made a grab for the weapon, and Jonas used the distraction to move his right arm up in a circle block to pry the man’s hand from his throat while grabbing his sleeve and jerking him forward as he slammed his forehead into the man’s nose. All the while he kept his hand clamped over his opponent’s mouth.
The soldier arced back, a black trail of blood spraying from his face as he pistoned his knee toward Jonas’s crotch.
Jonas sensed more than saw the blow coming, and shifted out of the way so that the other man’s leg smacked hard into his thigh, numbing the muscle. The wiry Cuban used his hold on Jonas’s wrist to try to turn him against the truck while opening his mouth wide to attempt to bite Jonas’s fingers. Jonas resisted the throw, but released his hold on the man’s face and instead tried to launch a palm strike at his chin. His opponent dodged out of the way and sucked in a huge lungful of air to shout for help.
Jonas jammed his forearm into the guy’s mouth, cramming it so full of flesh and cloth that he couldn’t close it.
He kept pushing forward, driving the man back and then against the side of the truck, making it rock with the impact.
He felt the man’s fists pummel his midsection, and tightened his stomach against the blows. The Cuban clawed for his eyes, but Jonas had five inches on him, and was able to keep his face out of reach. Jonas threw his knee up into the man’s stomach, connecting solidly beneath his rib cage. The soldier sagged, choking for air, and Jonas kneed him again, making sure he couldn’t get up. Holding the man between the truck and his forearm, he lifted his opponent’s head up and drove three knuckles into his larynx, crushing it. The man wheezed, and Jonas let him drop to the ground, both of his hands clutching feebly at his injured throat.
Jonas didn’t stop to finish him, but grabbed his machete from where it had fallen and hobbled to the cab of the truck, jerking the door open and raising the blade to find—
The other Cuban soldier, his chest stained black with blood, was hanging half out of the passenger door, dead.
Fearing the worst, Jonas limped around to the other side, expecting to see a third body lying in the grass.
Marisa sat next to the truck, holding her dark, blood- stained hands away from her. She looked up at him, and Jonas saw tears in her eyes. “You said he couldn’t make any noise, so when he started to check on his friend I stabbed him, only he came at me, and I just kept stabbing and stabbing him, but he wouldn’t stop—”
Jonas walked to her as quickly as he could, knelt down and took her in his arms. “No, you stopped him. He won’t be coming after you, or anyone else again. It’s all right, you did just fine.”
A RINGING CELL PHONE JARRED Jonas out of his reverie. He flipped it open.
“Mr. Heinemann, this is Rafael Castilo. I hope I haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time.”
“Not at all, Mr. Castilo. In fact, I was hoping to hear from you. I can only assume this call is in regards to our previous conversation.”
The businessman’s voice was like oiled silk. “You are correct. I would like to accept your invitation, if it is still open, and would very much like to sample one of your man’s drinks. It sounds very appealing.”
“I think that can be arranged. Will you be bringing any friends with you?” Jonas asked.
“Not at this time. If I like what you show me, then I will be able to put you in touch with them. Shall we say six o’clock?”
“Excellent. Why don’t I have my people meet you at the Key Biscayne Yacht Club? My runabout is berthed there, and they will bring you out to the yacht, where I insist that you dine with me. I do hope your lovely wife will be joining us?” Jonas asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“I’m afraid she has a prior engagement. Until six, then,”
Castilo said.
“I’m looking forward to it.” Jonas snapped the phone closed and opened another one, calling Kate to let her know that his fish was about to jump into the boat. But as he waited for the connection, his mind kept wandering back to Marisa, and her deep blue eyes.
Marcus tamped down his anger as he stalked through the Havana streets.
Who does that high-toned British bitch think she is, sand-bagging me like that? If she’s ever been in the field longer than an afternoon, I’ll eat my goddamn phone. I handled that riot just fine, didn’t even come close to getting caught. Next time I’ll turn off those damn glasses before doing something that could be construed as not within her bloody mission parameters.
With an effort, he put his feelings aside and got back to the problem at hand. All right, back to business. I’ve got four million possibilities in a city with no phone books. I’ve been in worse spots. He racked his brain, trying to figure a way in. Cuba didn’t have any corner Internet cafes he could just stroll into. Something Kate had mentioned in the briefing clamored for his attention, an off-the-cuff remark about the military becoming more involved in Cuban businesses.
That’s how to find him, he thought.
Marcus hailed a small three-wheeled cab and told the driver, “Hotel Saratoga, please.”
The cabdriver looked at him strangely, but Marcus nodded and discreetly held up a palmful of pesos. The cab took off so quickly it rose up on its two back wheels, and Marcus had to brace himself in the back to keep from falling over.
Fifteen minutes later, he stood across the street from one of Havana’s recent success stories. According to his information, the Saratoga dated from the late nineteenth century, but had closed by the time of the revolution and was left to rot for a half century. Recently restored with modern amenities, it was now one of the city’s top destinations. On the western edge of the historical center, it afforded a fantastic view of the
Looking at the eight-story building’s elegant, neoclassi-cal facade, Marcus was reminded even more of the crumbling neighborhoods he had passed, only several blocks away, on the way over. He knew that it was the same in cities all over the world, yet the disparity kept gnawing at him. At least I now know firsthand why my parents left. They certainly didn’t want to raise me or my brothers here. But for each one that was able to escape, hundreds, thousands more were stuck, struggling to live every day as best they could.
Just a few yards away, however, a steady flow of well-dressed European, Canadian and even American tourists walked in and out of the Saratoga, either uncaring of the plight of the people, or perhaps just considering it part of the local color. Marcus checked the street for policemen, then casually crossed the road and walked past the front of the hotel, heading around back. As he expected, there was a large, ancient truck unloading crates of vegetables. Marcus edged closer, biding his time until no one was around the back of the flatbed. He walked over, grabbed a crate of let-tuce, hoisted it to his shoulder and entered the hotel kitchen.
The long, large room was frantic with activity as the staff prepared for the evening dinner crowd. Steam rose from several large pots and pans of sizzling vegetables and meats cooked over the open flames of stainless-steel industrial stoves. White-uniformed chefs barked orders at hapless assistants who weren’t doing whatever they were doing fast or well enough.
Marcus walked through the room, looking like just another faceless laborer. He found the walk-in cooler for the
