“You know what’s the matter with Cuba?” Shotgun asked after they stopped outside the facility’s perimeter, near the water where they were supposed to meet the others. “They don’t have any 7-Elevens.”
“So if there were 7-Elevens in Cuba, it’d be perfect?” snapped Trace. She began climbing up a rockslide to get on the high ground over the water.
“Close to it. Imagine having a Slurpie right now? Or a Ring Ding.”
“Heaven.”
“You got that right.” Shotgun heard no sarcasm in Trace’s voice. After all, he was talking about junk food, not something to joke about. “I’d settle for some Oreo cookies.”
“You don’t have any in those pockets of yours?”
“Had the last one an hour ago. I’m down to Fig Newtons. This is hardship, man. Real hardship.”
Junior made it to the woods, but just barely. Thirty seconds later, two guards armed with shotguns came out to look for him. They passed him by, hustling down the path. Junior thought of trying to follow and maybe tackle one of them, but then thought better of it.
A good thing—a few seconds later, more guards came out, running down the trail with some sort of supervisor. (Unlike the others, he was wearing a white shirt rather than khaki.) He told them they were looking for a patient disguised as a lab worker, and they should consider him armed and dangerous.
“You will simply kill him,” said the Cuban. “Don’t hesitate. And do not touch the body, or especially the blood. Take no chances.”
Junior slipped a little deeper into the shadows, then pulled out his sat phone and called Crusty.
“Where the hell are you?” snapped Crusty when he answered his phone.
“There’s a bunch of security people coming your way,” Junior told him. “Get out of there.”
Junior gave Crusty a few more details about what he had seen, then told him he thought he’d be able to slip out through the marina. It’d be easier than going through the woods, since the guards were concentrating their search there.
“I’ll check back with you in an hour.”
“Don’t get lost.”
Junior pulled off the lab coat, figuring it would be a beacon to the guards. Then he took off his shirt and turned it inside out, hoping the coagulated blood left from the Cuban they’d killed earlier might seem slightly less conspicuous. But it was a false hope, and finally Junior decided that wearing the lab coat made more sense—especially if he went back inside the facility.
Why back inside?
Junior realized the Cuban security force had responded to the alert the way most security forces would: they sent out search parties, which would deplete their regular force and patrols. Those search parties would pursue their subject—and leave the building itself wide open.
There was no one at the door to the hospital, or in the hallway. He walked in the direction of the marina, hoping that he would find a set of doors that would take him out there. He did—but just outside of them he saw a security guard with her back to him. She was short, with longish curly black hair and a pronounced curve at the hips. It was the guard he’d wrestled with earlier.
He swung around and ducked into the nearest office.
A clerk or a secretary was sitting at a desk behind a reception counter. The counter was so high that only the very top of her head was visible.
“About time,” she said, practically jumping up. “I’m starving.”
Junior bit the side of his tongue and hoped his heart was still somewhere in his chest.
“Where’s Ernesto?” said the woman, coming out from around the counter.
“Sick.” Junior fell back on his one-word Spanish.
“I’ll bet. What a phony.” The woman lowered her gaze to his pants, catching sight of the blood and a rip from the fence. “What happened to you?”
“Uh —”
“You had a smoke outside, didn’t you? That’s why you’re late.”
She came closer and touched his leg; he stepped back immediately.
“I wasn’t going to hurt you. You should have that fixed.”
Before he could say anything, she added, “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell on you. But don’t expect me back right away, either. One favor deserves another. And don’t let the director see your coat dirty like that. He’ll fire you. Which would serve you right.”
She stomped off to eat.
Junior glanced around the office, looking for another lab coat but couldn’t spot any. Finally he sat at the desk where the woman had been.
She’d been playing computer solitaire. Not very well.
Junior knew he had to get the hell out of there, but he wasn’t sure exactly what to do. The only thing he could think of was to shoot the guard—he had her gun, after all—and then make a break for it. But he was afraid that the noise would bring too many other guards.
He was also queasy about killing someone else, especially a woman. Doing it while he was involved in a struggle, with no choice, seemed somehow different than planning it.
He fiddled with the computer as he tried thinking of an alternative. Besides the solitaire game, two programs were running. One was a text messaging system used by facility personnel to communicate; little different than the corporate text message systems Junior had seen before, it had a small window with a few buttons governing how the messages were disseminated. The other program was Microsoft Word for Windows, the ubiquitous word processor.
The MS Word screen was blank. Thinking he might find some useful intelligence, Junior went through the open file menu and began scrolling through the list of documents. They were all letters from the director to different personnel at the facility. He opened the first on the list, the most recent document that had been created.
It said personnel were not supposed to sneak out for cigarettes “or other activities” while on duty and would be severely disciplined if they did.
Junior looked at a few more of the memos, his natural curiosity taking over despite the danger he was in. He found his way into the computer folder where various operational memos were stored. He opened a few, reading a few sentences to see if he could get the gist, and then moved on. The administrator seemed to be a punctilious asshole, micro-managing every aspect of the employees’ work habits.
And then Junior came to a memo that addressed Fidel’s death, and procedures to be taken when that occurred.
It had been written several days before, apparently right after Fidel had been hospitalized. It was a long, detailed list, filled with instructions on where people were to report and what alerts would be sounded.
Junior couldn’t understand everything, but it was clear that Fidel’s death would set in motion a detailed response at the facility—a response big enough, he thought, to make it easy for him to escape.
According to the plan, the alert would begin with a text message through the system: El Comandante en Jefe has passed on.
Easy enough to initiate, he thought.
Junior slipped the mouse to the bottom of the screen, bringing the text message system up.
Had he given the matter a little more thought, he might have realized that putting the facility on a special alert wasn’t the best idea. True, it might divert a guard or two—at first. But that long and detailed a list should have made it clear that anyone out of place would arouse suspicion. And that was the last thing Junior wanted.
But Junior didn’t give it any thought. He pulled up the program, typed in the words that appeared in the memo, and sent it as a “broadcast all” message. Then he typed the double confirmation—also outlined in the memo—and sent that as well.
He rose and scrambled from the desk. Before he reached the door, a siren began wailing so loud his eardrums nearly split. As he covered his ears, two Cubans raced past him into the office. He put his head down, stepped out into the hall, and turned toward the door.
Which was being locked off by a pair of security gates, inside and out.
( III )
Whil
e Junior was wandering through the Cuban lab/hospital, Crusty retreated farther into the jungle. Guessing that the security guards would search the area near the trail first, he tried tracking to a point where he could slide under or climb over the outer fence without too much trouble. But by now it was too dark to see easily, and he had to move slowly—so slowly, in fact, that he was soon overtaken by the guards. Fortunately, they had as much trouble with the vegetation and darkness as he had, and despite their flashlights passed within a few feet without seeing him.
On the other side of the fence, Trace and Shotgun saw the flashlights poking through the trees. They took up a position near the spot where Crusty and Junior had first gone in, then waited as the guards made their way to the fence. The Cuban soldiers hesitated for only a few seconds before slipping through.
“You have the one on the left,” Trace told Shotgun as the men started past. She leapt up, ran two steps, and launched herself at the back of the lead Cuban.
Trace’s forearm hit the back of his head with a satisfying crunch. He fell forward at an angle, his legs buckling. Trace grabbed at his side but lost her balance; both of them tumbled down a narrow rock-filled slope, just missing several boulders. She scrambled to her feet, then kicked the Cuban in the face. Dropping her knee into his back, she pulled the gun from his holster, but by now he’d lost the will to fight and lay prostrate on the ground.
Shotgun had taken a less showy route, grabbing his soldier from behind and squeezing.
Very hard. The man coughed, struggled, coughed again, then lost consciousness. Shotgun disarmed him, and with the handcuffs he was carrying in his belt secured him to a tree three or four yards from the trail.
“More coming,” said Shotgun when Trace ran over to him, pointing to the flickering flashlights back up near the fence.
Junior found himself in the middle of a human tsunami. People seemed to have materialized in the middle of the hall. They rushed past, grim looks on their faces. Two or three of the women had tears rolling down their cheeks.
“Everyone, to their stations. Everyone, to their stations. You will do your duty,” said a voice over the loudspeaker.
Junior realized that if he stayed where he was, eventually he would be questioned and probably discovered as an imposter. So he chose someone to follow and started walking down the hall.
He made it to the door of the room he’d come in through without being stopped. Pushing inside, though, he found himself face-to-face with a pair of startled secretaries.
“Wrong room,” muttered Junior, retreating back to the hall.
The hall was still filled. He went to the stairs and began trotting upward. He got to the third floor, but then stopped near the door, unsure what to do.
Footsteps in the stairwell below pushed him back into action. Junior grabbed the door handle and strode out as purposefully as he could into the corridor.
There were only three or four people in the hall, each scurrying to rooms farther down. Junior took a quick right into the first room he came to. The occupant who slept in the bed closest to the door was in the bathroom; the other stood dressing behind the curtain that divided the room.
A sweater and robe sat at the foot of the nearby bed. Junior grabbed the sweater and robe, deciding to pass himself off as a patient while he looked for another way out. He threw off the lab coat and pulled on the sweater, donning the robe as he strolled down the hall toward the common room.
It was empty. He went over to the windows, looking for a fire escape. He’d just pulled back the curtains when a loud voice startled him.
“What are you doing out here?” asked a woman behind him.
Junior turned. A male and female nurse stood in the alcove that led to the other stairs. The male nurse had a tray in his hand, stacked with medicines. Both wore surgical masks and rubber gloves.
“I, uh—”
“You’re ready?” asked the woman.
“Yes,” said Junior.
“Roll up your sleeve.”
When Junior didn’t respond—he didn’t understand her Spanish—the nurse walked to him and rolled the coat and sweater out of the way.
“Don’t be a sissy,” she said. “It won’t hurt at all.”
The male nurse came over with his tray. Junior started to pull his arm away, but the woman’s grip was firm.
“It’s not going to hurt, my God,” she told him. “You won’t feel a thing.”
The needle went in. Junior winced, hamming up his reaction for her benefit. By now, two other patients had appeared.
“Go get your bag,” said the male nurse. “Then come back and wait. And why are you wearing the robe? You are not a patient anymore. Remember that. You’ve been cured. This last shot makes you strong. Enjoy your freedom.”
Junior walked slowly from the room. Other patients were coming down the hall in ones and twos. Each carried a suitcase. They were quiet, but most were smiling. Junior nodded; they nodded back.
A security guard had appeared at the end of the hall, making it impossible for Junior to use the stairs. He ducked into an empty room at the right, then went to the windows at the far side, thinking he might be able to escape that way. All but a small panel of the windows was fixed in place. Even if he could have squeezed through it—dubious, he thought—he’d have to jump the three stories to the ground.
His only choice was to stay with the patients until some other opportunity presented itself. He still had his sat phone. He took it out and called Crusty.
Crusty, still ducking the second wave of security guards, answered the phone with a hushed but still cranky, “What?”
“I’m in the hospital,” said Junior. “There’s been an alert that Fidel died. I’m not sure how long it will take for me to get out.”
“You need help?”
“No. I just have to lay low for a bit.”
“Right.”
Junior checked the closet, wondering if there might be a spare suitcase or something else he could use to blend in. But it was empty.
There was a sharp rap on the door. It swung open and the nurse who’d administered the shot entered, followed by a soldier.
“Come on. Let’s go,” said the nurse. “What are you doing?”
“I —”
“Where’s your bag?”
“I—uh —”
“Just come on,” said the guard sharply.
Junior walked out into the hall, following the nurse back to the common room. All of the patients were there, talking among themselves. The buzz disoriented him for a moment; then he realized they were all using English.
The nurse clapped her hands.
“As soon as there’s confirmation,” she said in Spanish, “you can board the boats. As soon as there’s confirmation.”
“Sister, we should be using English only,” said one of the patients.
“Yes, yes, you’re right. English from this point only.”
Now what have I gotten myself into, Junior wondered.
Trace and Shotgun had barely dispatched the first set of guards when the flashlights of the second wave appeared near the fence. They hunkered down, ready to ambush the newcomers.
But the guards never reached the fence. One of their radios cackled, and they were summoned back to their stations inside the facility.
Trace took out her sat phone and called Crusty.
“Where the hell are you?”
“Sitting in a pile of sticker bushes, wondering why the hell I agreed to do this.”
“Where are you in relation to the fence?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“I’m glad you’re so cheerful.”
Crusty’s response was unprintable, even for me. Trace and Shotgun went through the fence, then followed Crusty’s insults to his hiding spot.
Earlier, Danny had dialed into the assets my CIA honcho buddy Ken had promised, asking for some help. It seemed to him that the request had been directed to the round file until one of our com lines suddenly lit
with a call from someone in Maryland.
Probably just a coincidence, but that does happen to be the state where No Such Agency is located. Or would be located if it existed.
“Someone inside the facility you asked us to watch is trying to call out,” said a man with a machinelike voice. “Would you like us to let it go through?”
“Can we answer it and pretend to be whoever it is they think it is?”
The man took a second to untangle Danny’s garbled syntax, then said he could, and left Danny on the line as the call proceeded. Danny could hear the conversation and speak to his NSA contact, but the people on the line couldn’t hear him.
“Sí?” said a female voice on the NSA side.
“This is Facility B. Is the situation genuine?”
“The situation?”
The NSA operator didn’t know what the caller was talking about, but Danny did.
“Tell them yes. Tell them yes.”
“Genuine,” said the NSA operator.
“Proceeding,” said the caller from the facility, who then promptly hung up.
Up in the ward room, Junior listened to the conversations around him, trying to tease out what was going on without having to ask and give himself away. But the clues were contradictory. People talked about feeling good, seeing old friends, relaxing, checking into a real hospital—and they did it in mostly heavily accented English, even harder to understand than Spanish.
Finally a staff member emerged from the alcove and consulted with the female nurse. She nodded, then clapped her hands.
“Listen, everyone! Listen!” she said. “We have confirmation! We will board the boats immediately.”
“Fidel is dead,” said one of the men.
There was a hush, and then a loud shout.
“Fidel is dead! Board the boats to America!”
( IV )
The captain of the navy ship where Mongoose, Doc, and I had been delivered was old school—he had a full selection of health elixirs in his cabin, including Bombay Sapphire.
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