In the meantime, there were a few things to do. He called reception and asked for an outside line. After several failed attempts and what seemed like an eternity, he reached the secretary to the Chief Education Officer for Schools. He was effuse in his apologies for the change of plans, but could he now delay his visits to the schools for one week. The woman’s English was almost as bad as Kelly’s Spanish but between them he felt he had made the point and successfully postponed his school visits.
Then he contacted the hotel in Santiago and brought his reservation forward three days. The receptionist spoke perfect English, so Kelly took the opportunity to request a hire car be available on his arrival. It was an expensive gesture, unbecoming a schools’ equipment salesman, but he felt he needed the extra mobility this would provide.
Finally, he dressed in casual clothing, made his way downstairs and out into the streets. He turned left out of the hotel and crossed the Prado and onto the Trocadero. He strode purposefully down the street, then stopped outside a side door near a drug store and rang the bell. Not waiting for a reply, he tried the door and found it open. He stepped inside and closed it behind him.
Facing him was a flight of stairs, the walls on either side stained and grimy. Kelly felt a momentary sense of deja vu as he remembered Norway. After waiting a moment until his eyes accustomed to the dim lighting, the contrast with the sunshine outside accentuating the effect, he started up the stairs. A figure appeared at the top and said something in Spanish that Kelly didn’t understand. He replied in English, “Hello, my name is Shepherd. I need to speak to someone from the Barrio import export agency.”
“Ah Mr Shepherd,” replied the Cuban, switching effortlessly to English. “I’ve been expecting you, please follow me.” So saying, he disappeared off to the right. When Kelly reached the top of the stairs, the man was waiting for him. He smiled, turned on his heel and walked down the corridor, Kelly following.
The corridor couldn’t have been more different to the stairs; it was clean, simply but nicely decorated and well lit. At the very end of the corridor the man slipped a key into a lock, opened an office door, and stepped inside. Kelly followed him in.
The office was small but well equipped, giving it a crowded look. It was also clean and boasted an air conditioning unit, which gave the room a slight chill. The Cuban held out his hand, which Kelly took. “Manuel Barrio,” he said by way of introduction. “Welcome to Cuba, Mr Kelly. May I call you Dragan?”
“Please call me Dan,” answered Kelly as he surveyed Manuel Barrio, the local G Man. He was small and slight with the almost obligatory moustache and thick black wavy hair. He wore a colourful shirt and a white cotton suit, badly crumpled, but clean. Apart from his physical size he was almost indistinguishable from thousands of other Cuban men.
“Where is she?” asked Kelly lowering himself into the chair indicated by the Cuban.
“I don’t know, Dan. She stopped contacting me two weeks ago. Frankly, I’m worried.” He certainly looked worried.
“You must have some ideas?” persisted Kelly.
“I know she was keen to travel south. She mentioned Santiago de Cuba; it’s a hot bed of communism down there. I counselled her against it. It’s difficult for an oil company representative to justify their presence in that area.” He shrugged. “She is hot headed, this one. I don’t think she was listening. My guess is she has gone south.”
“Is she likely to find her Soviets in that area?” asked Kelly.
“If all CS wants is to know whether or not there are Soviets operating in Cuba, then the answer is yes. I could have told them that. If they want to know what they’re doing then Peregrine is right, you need to be in the South. That seems to be their main base.” There was an air of frustration in Barrio’s voice.
Kelly pursed his lips and was quiet for a moment. “So, on the one hand if she is to get the intelligence CS wants, she must go south, but on the other hand it is logically inconsistent for her cover to be in that location,” he said.
“That, Dan,” said Barrio, “is the dilemma.”
“So, what the hell are the Soviets doing here anyway?” asked Kelly. “I thought that Socarras was vehemently anti-communist?”
“And he is,” answered Barrio, “but he also has the dilemma. He knows that the Americans will engineer Batista back into power unless he has a bargaining chip. His bargaining chip is playing brinkmanship with the Soviets and threatening a pact that would blow the US plans out of the water.”
Barrio spread his arms and rolled his eyes upward. “But at the same time,” he continued, “he is scared stiff of the increasing influence of the communists such as Castro and friends, so he has armed bands of thugs wandering the streets, outside of the normal confines of law and order, to keep the communists repressed.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I tell you; this place is going to explode. My guess is that the Americans will get their way and Batista will return, but I suspect he will not reign for long.”
“I will also be going south tomorrow,” said Kelly. “Do we have any contacts in Santiago?”
Barrio hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Yes, we have Diego Diez. He is a barman at the Bar San Carlos. It’s the perfect cover as it’s a meeting place for the comrades …”
“But ...?” said Kelly.
“I don’t trust him. He’s allowed himself to be drawn in too deep.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Kelly rose and stretched out his hand. The Cuban took it and shook it vigorously.
“Be careful, Dan. At the moment it’s impossible to say who is on whose side. The whole picture is shifting daily.”
Kelly walked back along the corridor, down the stairs and out into the street where the sun was waning, and shadows were appearing. It occurred to him that the whole of Cuba was becoming a land of shadows. He looked at the people he passed as he walked back to the hotel, Russian spy, American agent, Batista supporter, Socarras henchman … perhaps even British spy. Who was to know? Or perhaps just an average Cuban citizen hoping for a brighter and clearer future.
That might be some way off, thought Dragan Kelly.
Peregrine
The journey to Santiago de Cuba by train had been long and at times tedious, but, thankfully, with only one change at Camaguey. The scenery at first had held his interest.
As they pulled out of Havana, they moved through a region heavy with industrial complexes, then almost instantaneously, seemingly without transition, through an area of scattered tobacco plantations, followed by field after field of sugar cane. As they trundled past a mill, clattering over points which allowed the freight trains to enter the complex to pick up the refined sugar, Kelly was astonished at the vast areas of the crop.
Occasionally they would leave the sugar and enter open areas of unfenced grassland, with cattle grazing freely, then back into the sugar cane again. As they approached Camaguey, they again travelled through tobacco crops and briefly through a coffee plantation. After the change at Camaguey the scenery repeated itself, but with more patches of open savannah. It had been pleasant at first, but he tired of it after a while and was glad when, late in the afternoon, he was able to alight from the train and secure a cab to his hotel, the unimaginatively named Hotel Santiago.
The woman he had spoken to on the phone the day before was off duty, but her replacement was extremely accommodating and chatted with him in fair English, albeit with a distinct American accent. She smiled as she found his booking form and removed the car keys attached to it by a treasury tag.
“Your car is out the front, senor. You did say you would prefer the economy deal?” The smile and the slight inflection in her voice made Kelly suspicious. He looked at her quizzically, nodded in affirmation and raised his eyebrows. “Good!” was her only comment as she handed him the keys and the associated paperwork.
Kelly read as much of the document as he could before signing in a half dozen places as indicated by crosses next to blank spaces. His train of thought was then distract
ed by the next pile of forms necessary to register in the hotel.
On completion, Kelly paid for the car in cash and picked up the car keys and the room key, dropping both into his pocket. He exchanged small talk with the receptionist, and then asked her about the Bar San Carlos. She looked surprised.
“Is not a good place senor, full of students and … communists.” She turned her mouth down as she said it. Kelly explained that he sold educational equipment and textbooks and hence he needed to mix with students to interest them in his goods.
“I understand, senor.” She looked anything but convinced, but explained in detail how to find the place. He understood her reluctance to direct him to the bar, it sounded as if it was located in a very seedy part of the town.
Kelly changed quickly into dark casual clothes without showering. On impulse he rummaged in the bottom of his case and produced the Walther 9 mm pistol given to him by McFarlane. He smiled as he remembered having to sign for it in triplicate, and then sign another book for the ammunition. Apparently, the Secret Service was every bit as bureaucratic as its Civil Service counterpart. He also remembered McFarlane’s warning: “I am not expecting you to use this, Dan. It is purely for your own protection and may be used only in the most extreme of circumstances!”
He quickly loaded the weapon, made sure it was on safe, and then tucked it into the rear waistband of his trousers, slipping on a light jacket to cover it.
Leaving the hotel, he scoured the forecourt and checked each of the parked cars in turn until he found a number corresponding to that on his key fob, and then he understood the smile of the receptionist. Kelly himself smiled with slight bewilderment as he walked around the pre-war Austin 10. He had expected a gigantic gas guzzling Chrysler or Pontiac. An English Austin 10 looked quite incongruous in this car park, full as it was of giant American limos.
Kelly unlocked the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. A heady mixture of old leather, petrol, oil and polish assailed his nostrils. He felt quite nostalgic for a moment as he slipped the key into the ignition, pulled out the choke and pressed the starter button. Kelly was surprised at the eagerness with which the engine caught and coughed into life. He checked the petrol gauge. Full. Oil pressure. Good. Ammeter. Positive charge.
Kelly remained stationary and ran the engine for a moment, easing the choke in slowly until the engine was ticking over comfortably without it. He listened carefully to the note of the engine. Hunting, he thought; too rich, but it would do for now. Pressing down the clutch he eased the gearbox into reverse with only a slight screech of protest, and reversed out of the space. After checking the complementary street map, he slid out of the car park and onto the main road heading south.
It was a short drive to the area he was looking for. Once he was sure he was in the right vicinity, he scanned the street for a parking place. Satisfied, he switched off the engine and climbed out of the car, locking it behind him. Kelly walked to the end of the street and examined the sign. Santa Rita. Checking the map again, he set off down an avenue, running at right angles until he reached a road running parallel with ‘Santa Rita’. He checked the name on the sign. San Carlos. This was it.
Kelly strode down the avenue, checking each of the buildings in turn, until he located the Bar San Carlos, half hidden down a set of basement steps, in what would otherwise have passed for a large domestic house. Kelly descended the steps and found his way barred by a substantial wooden door. Unsure of how best to proceed, he knocked on the door and waited. There was no response. Grasping the handle, he turned it and pushed. The door swung easily on its hinges revealing a further set of steps downward.
Music drifted upwards from the dimly lit interior, a recording of ‘Satchmo’ straining his way through a blues number. He descended further, closing the outer door behind him and, on reaching the foot of the stairs, paused in the framed doorway allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
Groups of young people huddled around rough wooden tables as smoke swirled around them. There was a buzz of low conversation audible above the crackling of the gramophone. Kelly surveyed the scene, the walls covered in artistic graffiti partly obscured by grime, the stone tiled floor and the bar in the corner with an array of optics visible behind the single barman.
Kelly walked to the bar and perched on a vacant stool. This didn’t look like a ‘mojito’ place, so he ordered vodka on ice. He was pleasantly surprised by the amount of change he received from a five-dollar note. After completing the order, the barman retired to the back of the bar and picked up a magazine. Kelly didn’t even attempt to engage him in conversation. Instead, he swivelled on his stool and, sipping his drink, he inconspicuously surveyed each table in turn.
On the nearest table were four young students with long hair and beards, or attempts at beards in some cases. On the next table were two middle-aged men, probably locals who enjoyed the atmosphere. Further away from him were two male students clearly paired with two female students. On a table next to them sat one woman with two male students. Kelly froze and did a double take. He watched the woman carefully; she was talking in an animated way, short brown hair, and slight build and judging by the upper part of her body, petite with not much of a figure.
Peregrine!
Kelly watched for a while. One of the students, the older of the two, was obviously taking a significant part in the conversation and seemed to be keen to maintain eye contact with the female. Judging by his body language he wanted more than verbal intercourse. The younger of the two looked bored, yawned frequently and shifted in his chair. He clearly felt out of place in this group. The chances were that he would leave shortly. Kelly needed to move quickly; it would be difficult to impose into the group if it was reduced to two.
Twisting in his chair he summoned the barman. Slowly, almost reluctantly he approached.
“Diego Diez?” asked Kelly, the barman first looked surprised then suspicious.
“Who wants to know?” he drawled. Kelly cut him off.
“Yes or no? Answer now!” The barman was about to protest or offer verbal abuse, but the look on Kelly’s face and the intensity of the gaze gave him pause to reconsider.
“Si, senor. I am Diego Diez, how can I help?” The tone was placatory.
Speaking quietly, Kelly said, “Kelly, G Branch. The group directly behind me. Do you know the woman?”
The barman looked frightened. “Si, she is one of us, senor.”
“Introduce me,” said Kelly. “Bill Shepherd. Fellow countryman. That sort of thing. Do it now!”
Diez came out from behind the bar, placed his arm around Kelly’s shoulders and smiling and chatting to him in broken English, steered him to the table. Kelly played the game, chatting back without looking overtly at the group.
“Senorita! Comrades!” said Diez expansively when he reached the table. “This is Senor Shepherd, a fellow traveller of Miss Kingstone. Perhaps you can swap stories about your adventures, eh?”
The younger of the two students stood up as Diez made his way back to the bar. “Here,” he said, indicating his seat; “You can have my seat. I’m just leaving.” Kelly ignored the invitation and instead sat down opposite the woman. A look of intense irritation passed across her face, but it was quickly replaced by a smile. The younger student was now shuffling towards the door. The elder of the two jumped to his feet.
“Wait Eduardo!” he called “I need a word.” To the others at the table, he said, “A moment. I will be back soon,” and followed his friend out of the room.
The woman opposite Dan Kelly looked extremely uncomfortable as she half smiled and said, “Look! I don’t mean to seem unsociable, but this is a private conversation. Francisco is my boyfriend, I’m sure you understand.” She looked coy and slightly embarrassed. Kelly smiled back.
“I do understand, but I also understand you were due to have another private conversation nearly two weeks ago with McFarlane. He sent me to find out why you didn’t?” For a moment, her eyes were wide and her face a
picture of shock, but she was quick to recover.
“I don’t know what you are taking about,” she said defiantly, looking him in the eyes, but her cheeks had coloured slightly, easily betraying the pretence.
“Look, Peregrine, Jenny, Miss Kingstone or whatever the hell your name is. Neither of us has time to play games. Lose the boyfriend. We need to talk.”
“No!” she said defiantly. “I don’t know who you are and I’m not about to dance to your tune!”
“Kelly,” he said, “Dan Kelly, ‘G’ Branch ...”
Before he could explain she interrupted him with a hiss. “And I’m CS Branch. You have no jurisdiction here and no authority over me, I outra—” She didn’t finish, embarrassed by what she had been about to say.
Kelly finished for her. “You outrank me? Is that it? Listen lady,” said Kelly, his voice calm, but the timbre low, “it doesn’t work like that. We may be in different branches, but that’s all. I am here acting directly for McFarlane. Perhaps if you took the trouble to contact someone, they would confirm that!” It was only a half-truth, but he needed to grab her attention.
She thought for a moment before answering. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was the shock of your approach, I suppose. I can’t lose the boyfriend. I am so close to being included in their communist cell. It’s vital. That way, I can perhaps get close to the Soviets and find out what they are up to.” She looked into his eyes. “That’s why I need to stay in deep!”
Kelly heard the plea. It was his turn to reconsider.
“Right!” he said. “I’ll leave when he returns. ‘Bump’ into me tomorrow on the promenade, about 9 am?” Francisco was approaching, beaming broadly. Peregrine nodded to Kelly then arose with a smile to greet the approaching student. Francisco clasped her shoulders and kissed her gently on the cheek. Kelly yawned and stood up.
Cast No Shadow Page 23