Hostage in Havana

six, four, and hit Send. It will connect you to a voicemail. Just say, “I’m here.” Violette will immediately double- check the active drop each day. If the phone is gone, it means you’re clean and he’ll call you within the next twenty-four hours. You be sure to speak first. What was the name you used on the passport that the CIA had for you in Kiev?”

“Anna Tavares,” Alex said without hesitation.

“I’m told you’ll be using a similar cover again. Is that right?”

“It is,” Meachum said.

“It is,” Alex confirmed. “The same cover, but a new passport. Mexican this time.”

“Then identify yourself as Anna immediately when you answer the call from Violette,” Fajardie said. “You’ll be speaking Spanish to him, not English. No problem with that, correct?”

“Correct,” she said.

“Your accent can pass for Mexican, right?”

“I’m fluent and it’s from my mother and childhood,” she said. “It’s native.”

“Violette’s window for phoning will be between 4:00 and 6:00 p.m., Havana time, but he’s erratic, we already know that, so he might call anytime. He’ll arrange to meet with you at a rendezvous point. You’ll have one go at it. One chance to sit down and talk him into coming to the U.S. with you. After you have him, you may need to babysit him twenty-four-seven if you have to; just get him to the aircraft.”

“And where will that be?”

“Near the city of Cienfuegos on the south shore of the island. Cienfuegos. ‘A hundred fires.’ See if you can prevent it from being a hundred and one fires. The city is about forty miles southeast from Havana. There’s an inlet another mile to the southeast. Your mob guy tells me he can arrange a driver.”

“You talked to Paul?”

“Twice,” Fajardie said. “In person. We know Paul,” he said.

Alex was only mildly surprised. “That’s interesting,” she said. “How well do you know him?”

“He’s dependable,” Fajardie said. “If he says he’s going to get something done, he gets it done. He’s not one of us, if that’s what you’re wondering, but he’s someone who has contacts in convenient places. We can work with him, hitch one of our operations alongside his. And that’s good.”

“So what happens when we get to Cienfuegos?” she asked.

“Your lift out will be a seaplane, limited seating,” he said. “Four to six passengers plus the pilot. There’s an army and naval base near Cienfuegos, and we’ll be using an inlet and pier near there. It’s no small task to clear the Cuban coast for a seaplane pickup, so there’s not much room for error or change in schedule, and the smaller the plane the better for beating the radar. There’s probably some U.S. Navy in the area for potential emergency help, but you can’t count on that, and you don’t want a distress call that the Cubans could follow.”

“Much easier to sneak onto the island than off it,” Meachum added.

“So it appears,” Alex said.

“The aircraft, which will be coming from Grand Cayman, will take you to Yucatan in Mexico, then we’ll airlift you back, or somewhere else if you still need to stay away from New York. But Violette comes back to Washington.”

Alex continued to listen.

“The whole exit operation, the seaplane coming in and leaving,” Fajardie said, “has to take place in under half an hour. The connection time will be 5:15 a.m. You’ll be there ahead of time and hide out in a hut near the beach. I’m told you can’t miss it. The hut will be flying a Brazilian flag because we have a contact there from Sao Paulo. Watch the southern horizon until you see the plane land and taxi to the pier. Got to beat the daylight, and you also have to beat the radar. When you see the plane come to the pier, the assembled passengers head for it, maybe ten feet apart, hands by your sides. If anything looks queer, the pilot turns and takes off without you. If you’re not there and don’t make the connection, it leaves without you and then who knows where we are? We’d have to reschedule and work another pickup and that is not the easiest thing to arrange. So let’s avoid it, all right?”

Alex tried to process all of it. “I’ll try to make things as convenient for you as possible,” she said. “Seriously, if this thing falls apart, I’m in a Cuban jail and you’re having beer and burgers in Georgetown the next day. I’d hate for you to feel bad over lunch.”

“I would too,” he said, going with it. “What’s the numerical code for calling Violette?” Meachum asked.

“Bush Johnson,” she said.

“What?”

“Bush was elected in eighty-eight. Johnson in sixty-four. That’s how I remember these things.”

“You’re good at this,” Meachum offered.

She smiled.

“Okay, today is June eighth,” Fajardie continued. “You’re going into Cuba tomorrow night, getting there the morning of June tenth. You’re on your own getting in; Guarneri says it’s a north shore landing between Havana and Matanzas. That’s his arrangement for his personal part of the operation, not mine, so good luck. I’m setting up the airlift to get you out, along with anyone coming with you on June sixteenth. Questions?”

“A couple.”

“Shoot.”

“What if we have to alter the date of exit?”

“Ha! Please don’t. It’s hell to bribe a gap in Cuban radar.” He paused. “But if you do …” He pulled out his own cell phone. “Dial 7734 on the phone you will have. It will connect with me. Keep the call under one minute and call close to the hour on the hour. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“What else?”

“What’s the backup if I lose the phone?” she asked.

“There isn’t one. Don’t lose it.”

“What sort of dead drops are we talking about?” Alex asked.

“One of them is a brick wall,” Fajardie said. “Another’s in a church. Iglesia de San Lazaro. That’s the first place you should try. Go in, enter two rows to the left, sit down, and search under the pew. There’s another one in a cemetery. You’ll see it all in your notes, plus the map,” he said. “Memorize everything because you shouldn’t bring the notes onto the island.”

“What’s in it for you?” she asked. “For the CIA?”

“We’re getting back a defector and turning him over to the Justice Department.”

“I know that part, but what’s in it for you?” she asked again.

“It doesn’t make sense. Violette comes back to spend the rest of his life in prison. He’s cut a deal somewhere with you, I’d guess.”

“He’ll be carrying a small suitcase,” Sloane said. “He’s managed to rifle some Cuban intelligence documents. Mostly political stuff. Shore defenses. Whatever. The deal is that we get him and his booty back to the U.S.; then we assess what value it has. If it has good value, he may serve less than five years and die a free man.”

“With senile dementia?”

“All the more reason to get him back now,” Fajardie said, “before he goes popping off to the wrong audience, if you know what I mean, and sells his bag of goodies somewhere else. At least if we have a collar on him, we can control him.”

“He’s cut a deal with you?” she asked. “Or someone has on his behalf?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Because I’m going to Cuba and have to sit down with him.”

“A deal exists in principle,” Fajardie said. “He’s got one of the red lawyers from New York, one from the Brandeis/New School/Columbia axis of Maoist legal training, all right? Does that keep you happy?”

“Almost,” she said.

“Look. He wants to come back, Alex,” Fajardie said, his voice rising a notch in irritation, “and we’re willing to take him. That’s all. We’re even arranging free pickup and delivery, rather generous, I would submit. What more could he want after the acts of villainy he’s committed against this country?”

He settled down.