“Yeah,” he said, without expanding on the thought. “Please do. For everyone’s sake, including your own. No Cuban police. Please.”
Meachum began opening envelopes and pulling out supporting material.
There was a Mexican driver’s license, valid, he claimed, which used another file photo of her. Then there were a pair of credit cards: MasterCard and American Express, plus an ATM card from Banco Azteca.
“These are both live credit cards,” he said. “But only use the MasterCard. You can expense up to a thousand dollars on it, no questions asked, but be cautious. The Amex card is now a ‘fly trap,’” he said. “If used, each card will function up to $200 but will issue an immediate alert that something has gone wrong. The ATM card will only work in a teller machine that takes photographs. If primed, it will send a picture immediately to the State Department as to the location plus the photo of the user.”
“Even from Cuba?” she asked.
“Even from Cuba. The ATM card can be used as a distress sign. If we see you in the ATM photo, we’re good. If we see someone else, that means trouble. Okay?”
“Got it,” Alex said. “There must be a PIN number too.”
“Today’s date, day and month.”
“Easy enough.”
“I assume you’ll want to carry a gun,” he said.
“I have a Glock. Should I bring it?”
“No,” Meachum said. “We’ll provide one when you get to Florida. We’re going to have an FBI agent meet your plane in Miami. His name’s Frank Cordero. He’ll have artillery for you. We don’t want your personal issue going to Cuba.”
“Okay,” she said.
“I also have maps,” he said, unfolding two. They were with the passport. “We’re giving you a Havana street map and a map of the entire island. The maps are not waterproof, so no matter what happens on the boat, keep these suckers dry, okay?”
“Of course,” she said.
There was a brief rap on the door. Meachum answered with a raised voice. The door opened. Maurice Fajardie stepped in.
“Hey,” he said, looking at Alex. Fajardie shut the door behind him. He was alone today.
“Where are your two talking bookends?” Alex asked.
“Who?”
“Menendez and Sloane,” she said.
There was a pause, a rueful grin. “On to other things,” he said.
“Bigger and better?” she asked.
Fajardie took a place on the table, not at it but on it, sitting on the edge. “Just ‘other things,’” he answered.
“I’m finishing up,” Meachum said to Fajardie.
“Fine. Go ahead,” Fajardie said. “I need a few minutes at the end.”
Meachum turned back to Alex. “Now here’s the best stuff,” he said, opening a small box and bringing out a small plastic case that looked to be about six by eight inches. Out of it, he pulled three envelopes, also plastic.
The envelopes zipped open and shut. Indicating the first, Meachum said, “Money. Cuban pesos, about five hundred dollars’ worth. This is the soft currency that’s used on the island. No one wants it, but the captive population of the island has to take it.” He went to a second envelope. “Mexican pesos, in keeping with your passport. About the same amount.” He went to the third envelope and opened it. “American greenbacks. Lovely, huh. A thousand dollars, mostly fives, tens, and twenties. Everyone wants those.”
“Including us,” Fajardie said. “Bring back as much as you can and we’ll party.”
“Fat chance,” Meachum said. “We’re a bunch of tightwads these days.”
“Darn,” Fajardie said. “Not like old times.”
Meachum put all three envelopes back into the plastic container along with the maps. He tucked Alex’s new passport and bank cards in with them. They made a flat little package. There were straps on the case.
“You’re going into Cuba at night on a boat,” he said. “It could get wet, it could get rocky, it could get rough in more ways than I care to enumerate,” he said. “So do yourself a favor. Strap this to your leg somewhere during the boat ride. You never know.”
“Should I expect trouble?” she asked.
“You never know,” Meachum said. “You might be greeted as a liberator. You might be shot on sight. Or both.”
Alex turned on Meachum, displeased with his failed attempt at humor, and was prepared to react angrily. But Meachum didn’t notice. Instead, he looked at Fajardie. “That’s it from me,” Meachum said.
Fajardie, seeing Alex’s displeasure, took over the informal meeting. “Alex, you’ll have a little trade craft that you’ll need to master while you’re on assignment,” he said as she turned toward him. “Fortunately, the trade craft is simple. I’ll run through it. Once you get to Cuba, get yourself into Havana,” he said. “I think Paul Guarneri should be able to help you around. He’s known to us and we feel he’s dependable. Nonetheless, we’re having some people down in Florida give him the same briefing that we’re giving you, including a background cover story, where you met, favorite romantic movie, favorite restaurant, the works. I’d suggest you go over the cover story the night before you leave so you have it down. Later on, when you get to Havana you’ll have the maps. Examine them before you set sail also. There’s a list of dead drops in Cuba. Three of them. They’re marked on the maps. Ten pin holes, plus numbers next to the holes. The numbers are one through twelve and marked with blue ink from a Sharpie. None of them are too far from tourist haunts so they should be safe, and the map could easily be for tourists if one didn’t know better. Still with me?”
“Okay, so far,” Alex said. “But what about the passports? We’re husband and wife but the names don’t match.”
“The Cubans are used to that. Not a problem.”
“How do you know his passport is secure?”
Meachum laughed. “We know its provenance. It’s good.”
“Third finger, left hand?” she said. “I’m a married girl, am I not?”
“Glad you reminded me,” Meachum said.
He reached into his pocket, produced a ring box, and handed it to her. The wardrobe department had thought of the small details. She opened it and found an engagement ring and a wedding band. Gold and zircon in a breathtaking arrangement. Then the smaller details: She looked inside the band and found her fake initials joined with Paul’s fake initials. With mixed feelings, she put the rings on and gave back the box.
“Careful what you wish for,” Meachum said.
“Careful with your smart remarks,” she answered.
“Continuing,” he said, “once we know that you’re on the island, we’ll need to send a signal to Violette to let him know that you’ve arrived to ‘bring him home.’ We’ll do this through the Swiss Interests Section once again. Nice lady named Elke, who has an American mother and favors khaki skirts from the Gap when she visits us in Washington. She does wonders for us, Elke does. The perfect Switzer lady: French charm with German efficiency instead of the other way ‘round. She’s from Minnesota. Thus, dead drop number seven. I’m told the location is the most convenient for Violette. Close to where he lives, on his regular path each day.
“Seven,” she repeated.
Seven was easy for her to remember. Rizzo, her Roman consort, had paved the way with his dwelling on the number seven.
“Only holes six, seven, and nine are any good, by the way,” Fajardie said, continuing. “The rest are dead ends for the opposition in case the map falls into the wrong hands. It’ll buy a little time, at least while they chase their tails. Got that part?”
She repeated. She had it.
“You’ll pick up a cell phone at the drop. Then once you have it, you’ll enter a four-digit number: eight, eight,
