by John Lutz
He saw her reaction and held up a hand. “I’m not mocking you. America once had ideals. And people who believed in them. But now you are in the hands of Morales and his kind. He was doing something that would profit his cronies in Washington, and they made sure that he would not be hampered. Not even questioned.”
Ava wanted to contradict him. Couldn’t.
He continued. “Morales’s offer—to build a resort—had been on the table for a long time. I knew about it, but I must confess I failed to realize how useful he could be. Finally realization dawned. I did not call him at once. First I went to Moscow.”
Gonçalves rose. “Come with me.”
He turned and walked out into the corridor and up the steps. The other two guards who had brought her fell in behind them. They stepped out. It was late afternoon, the shadows long and the day’s heat ebbing. She could smell the sea but not see it. Gonçalves led the way through a copse of giant ceiba trees. On the other side, they began to ascend a slight hill. Here and there lay felled and sawn-up trees. Scars gouged in the red earth by bulldozers. They passed an empty swimming pool, a bank of tennis courts without nets. Ava stopped. There was something wrong with the courts.
Gonçalves noticed her reaction. He waited patiently as Ava went closer. The high fence surround the courts was real, but the courts weren’t. Canvas tarps had been painted with what looked like concrete and lines, then smoothed out on the grass and weighted.
Ava felt a chill. She began to understand. But she said nothing, only followed Gonçalves as he walked to the top of the rise. Now she saw roads scraped but not yet paved, dry fountains, the beginnings of garden beds. And YEMAYÁ RESORT HOTEL, A Rodrigo Morales Property.
The building had a large concrete footprint. The first and second floors were going up. Trucks and bulldozers and cement mixers stood around piles of construction material. But the site was quiet today, no people in sight.
“Come closer,” said Gonçalves.
She did and understood. There was no hotel here.
Only the rebar framework was real. The walls were plywood. She turned to Gonçalves. He smiled at her expression.
“Oh, a great deal of work has gone on. Almost all of it underground.”
He beckoned her and they walked closer. The soldiers were silent, but she noticed the smiles on their faces. It was pride in accomplishment, she thought. They stepped into the shadow of the fake hotel. The plywood panels creaked and shuddered in the wind off the sea.
Underfoot was a gray concrete apron. The concrete was thick: you could see a yard of it above the earth level. There were ventilator housings, manhole covers surrounded by railings. These things she recognized. Another feature she didn’t. Waist-high circular coamings topped by lids, with heavy steel and concrete hinges. They were numbered, one to five.
Gonçalves gave a nod to one of the soldiers, who raised his walkie-talkie and spoke into it. The response was immediate. The cover labeled 1 slowly rose on its hinge. A steel lid underneath smoothly retracted with a whine of electric motors. Ava walked closer to the edge.
She looked down at the conical nose cone of a missile. A ladder led down to a retractable metal platform. Men in white protective suits and helmets were kneeling on it. They were working on a panel in the missile and did not look up.
“ICBMs,” Morales said. “We also have medium-range cruise missiles on mobile launchers, capable of hitting Miami, Atlanta, Houston. These are for targeting Washington and New York. For them range is not an issue. They could hit Seattle if we chose.”
Ava gazed into the depths of the silo. Her head spun. She turned and staggered away, out into the sunlight. The beach and the sea stretched out before her. Her voice sounded hollow in her own ears as she said, “They’re Russian.”
Gonçalves and the soldiers had followed her. “Yes. Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “Your cities will not be destroyed. These missiles will not be fired. A move is being made in a chess game, that’s all. America is about to be put in check by Russia.”
“The Baltic invasion,” Ava said.
“Yes. The Baltic states used to be part of the Soviet Union, and Russia wants them back. So Russia will take them. Their army is poised. At the order, the tanks will roll.”
“NATO will stop them.”
“NATO will hesitate and fumble, because what is the transatlantic alliance without the United States? And the United States will be throwing all its weight and will against the defense of the Baltic states.” Gonçalves swept a hand across the launch site. “America will break its word, because the Russian threat will be too fearsome. These missiles could reach your cities within minutes. Your anti-missile defenses would be useless.”
Ava stared out to sea. There was a tiny ship on the horizon, like a bug crawling along a shelf.
“Don’t look so stricken, Ms. North. It will be all right. In Europe, there will be some resistance. A few thousand will die. But America, sitting on the sidelines, will come out unharmed. That is not to say there won’t be consequences. The world will see America bend the knee to Russia. Desert its European allies. Your reign as the only superpower will come to an end.”
“Is that your reward?” Ava asked. “For letting the Russians put their missiles here? It doesn’t seem like enough.”
Gonçalves said, “It will please me to see America brought low. Why shouldn’t it? Your country backed an invasion of Cuba. Tried to assassinate El Líder. Your embargo has choked us, kept us in poverty, for more than half a century, and is still doing so. But this operation is not about settling grudges. The deal I made in Moscow will bring us far more.”
Ava saw it at last. “The Russians will start paying your subsidy again. Of course. Their rubles kept your misfiring socialist economy going for decades—”
“We would have thrived if not for the embargo.”
“Dream on. You would have gone under long ago, if the Soviet Union hadn’t kept you going to serve as an outpost of world revolution in the western hemisphere. When the Soviet Union fell, you got Chávez of Venezuela to prop you up for a while. Then he died, and you’ve been withering on the socialist vine ever since. But I have to hand it to you, Gonçalves. There are very different men in the Kremlin now, but you found something they would pay you for.”
The soldiers exchanged a look. They unfastened the flaps of their holsters, rested their hands on the butt ends of their guns. Ava didn’t think they could understand what she was saying, but they didn’t like her tone of voice.
Gonçalves snapped a curt order. The soldiers shifted to parade rest, hands clasped behind their backs. He smiled at her again.
“No harm must come to you, Ms. North. You have an important role to play tomorrow.”
“I will not cooperate with you.”
“All I want you to do is your job. Report to your government. We will be at work all night, making everything ready, tearing down this sham construction over our heads. So that when the NSA’s satellite comes overhead tomorrow, it will see what is here. But we want to make sure there is no misunderstanding. When the moment is right, I will put you on the telephone to your chief in Washington. You will tell them you have seen the missiles. We will arrange for you to witness the arrival of the warheads, watch them fitted in the nose cones. We want your leaders to be in no doubt that a loaded gun is now aimed at their heads, at point-blank range.
“It has fallen to few intelligence agents to announce to their country that its glory days are over. Your name will go down in history, Ms. North.”
“No,” Ava said.
“You have no choice.”
“It won’t come to that. You just admitted, as of now your gun has no bullets. The warheads aren’t here yet. You said Morales’s view of Cuba’s future is its past. Well, you’ve made the same mistake. This is October 1962, the Cuban missile crisis. You’re trying the same thing. And again, you won’t get away with it. America will realize what you’re up to. We’ll put a naval blockade around Cuba. Search every ship tha
t approaches. Send back the one carrying the warheads.”
Gonçalves smiled. “How desperate you are. You imagine all this will happen in the next few hours, when it hasn’t happened in the months we were pouring concrete, laying out roads, dredging the harbor to receive the ships full of building materials. And, of course, the missile components. Your satellites passed over and took no interest. If the NSA had sent a drone, it would have uncovered what we were doing. But it wasn’t just plywood and cardboard we were hiding under. It was Morales’s reputation. The dealmaker. The money-spinner. Washington wanted him to succeed.”
Ava backed away, breathing heavily, looked at the soldiers. The only thought in her head was that she would not make that call to Washington. Better to die first.
Gonçalves’s black eyes looked into hers and understood. He made a weary gesture to his men. One drew his pistol as the others closed in, each grasping one of her arms. She kicked and struggled in vain.
“Stop that, Ms. North,” said Gonçalves. “I don’t want you to harm yourself, so I will tell you, it’s too late. The U.S. Navy cannot stop us this time. The ship carrying the warheads is here.”
Goncalves pointed at the ship she’d been watching. It was no longer crawling along the horizon. It was steaming steadily toward them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The drive to the harbor didn’t take long. The wide, smooth road, paid for by Morales, was the best she’d seen in Cuba. She was sitting behind Gonçalves, in another Word War II–vintage Jeep. The young soldier beside her was watchful—more watchful than he needed to be, considering she was tied hand and foot. Ahead of them was a heavy-duty flatbed truck, for transporting the container of warheads back to the launch facility.
The road took a sharp turn and headed downhill. They were descending to the bay of St. Ferdinand. The sun had just set and its waters were deep blue. On the other side, she could see the shacks, ramshackle wooden docks, and net-shrouded boats of the fishing village. Directly below was a long concrete pier with tall gantry cranes above it, Morales’s state-of-the-art cargo-handling facility. The freighter was already alongside. It was old, battered, and rust-streaked. At the side of the bow was its name, Comercio Marinero.
She thought what a smart idea it had been—probably Gonçalves’s own—to smuggle the fateful cargo to Cuba aboard the most ordinary-looking of commercial freighters. No one had tried to stop it, she supposed; no one had even noticed.
When they drove out on the pier, the ship was tying up. Long, thick mooring lines dropped almost straight down from the bow and stern to stanchions on the pier. Spring lines sloped from both ends of the ship to the middle of the pier. An accommodation gangway was angled against the hull.
By the time Ava was lifted out of the Jeep and set on her feet, the pier was busy. Soldiers with slung Kalashnikovs were guiding the truck as it backed up under the gantry cranes. Stevedores in helmets and hi-vis vests were climbing the gangway. A trio of men wearing white overalls, whom she guessed were Russian missile technicians, idled and smoked, looking down at the water.
Gonçalves approached her. “Come along. I want you to see everything, so you can make a full report to Washington.”
The rope binding her ankles gave her about a foot of slack. She hobbled after Gonçalves to the bottom of the steep, narrow gangway. Looked up it and said to him, “You’ll have to untie me.”
The old Cuban frowned. But a glance at the steps showed him she was right, and he summoned a soldier to cut her bonds. Then he mounted the gangway, followed by Ava, then the soldier.
Nearing the top, Ava’s steps slowed. She felt an irresistible fatigue that she knew was really defeat. Her call to Washington would be recorded, then released or leaked. As Gonçalves said, she was going to be famous. The cashiered NSA employee who told America that the trap was sprung. It was too late. Laker, if he was still alive, would hear that tape. What would he think of her?
There was only a single railing. She could throw herself over it and fall into the water. Not that she had any hope of sabotage or escape. She’d just open her mouth and swim for the bottom. Drowning was an easy death, Carlucci had told her.
The soldier behind her grew impatient and poked her in the back. That made her angry. Which was an improvement. She raised her head, squared her shoulders, and climbed on to the top.
Gonçalves was shaking hands with a taller, younger man. He had a blond beard and a captain’s white peaked cap. The stevedores were either standing with their hands on their hips or down on one knee, examining the hinges of a large hatch cover. Abruptly, a man came running toward her. He was a skinny East Asian in light blue overalls. His face looked terrified. He passed her, dodged the stevedores, ran to the ship’s railing, and jumped. Two men in dark blue overalls were chasing him. They had pistols in their hands. Reaching the rail, they leaned over and started shooting.
The captain ran to the rail. After a moment, the shooting stopped. The captain strode back to Gonçalves. They spoke in Russian, a tongue in which they both seemed to be fluent. So was Ava.
“Got him,” the captain said.
“Who was he?” Gonçalves asked.
“One of the crew. They aren’t needed anymore, and my officers are rounding them up, putting them in the galley. So they’ll be out of the way till we decide what to do with them. Do you think some of your men could help?”
Gonçalves ordered the soldier standing next to him to join the officers, who were crossing the deck toward the sterncastle. He turned to the railing and gestured. The soldiers at the foot of the gangway began to climb it.
“Has the crew been giving you problems?” Gonçalves asked.
The captain wearily closed his piecing blue eyes. “You can usually count on Filipinos to do as they’re told. They’re too stupid to do anything else. But there were troublemakers in this crew. We even had a stowaway. We caught him, but rumors spread. The crew’s been very agitated.”
“Well, you’re here now. Let me know if you need any more men.”
“Thanks.” The captain shifted his blue-eyed gaze to Ava. “Who is this?”
“A former employee of the NSA, who luckily dropped into my lap. I want her to witness everything we do in the next few hours. She will be useful in making the situation clear to Washington.”
The captain shrugged. “You want her to watch the unloading? Fine. But there will be a delay. We had to push some containers overboard, and apparently the hatch cover was damaged. Where do you want to put her?”
“This stowaway—is he in a secure place?”
“Yes, the ghost deck.”
“Put her in with him.”
The captain turned to beckon an officer in dark blue overalls. Then he hesitated. “Perhaps it would be better to separate them?”
Gonçalves smiled. “I don’t see that we have anything to worry about.”
The officer received his orders. Drawing his pistol, he grasped her arm with his other hand and pulled her toward the hatch of the sterncastle. Stepping back, he told her to open it and go up the steps. At the top of the third flight, they stopped and she waited while he opened a hatch and pushed her inside.
She regained her balance to find that she was in a large bare room with steel beams supporting the ceiling. Tied to one of them was a tall, broad-shouldered man. His dark hair disordered, his clothes torn and dirty. He raised his head to look at her. His bristled face was cut and bruised. It took a full second for her to recognize him.
“Laker,” she said, and fainted.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“I was so dumb,” Ava said. “I told you at the beginning, look for the bear under the bed. But I never thought to take my own advice. Never dreamed Ken Brydon’s murder was connected to the Russians until it was too late.”
“I don’t feel all that bright myself,” Laker admitted. “I was trying to keep you out of trouble with the NSA by not contacting you. Turns out that was pointless.”
The surprised officer had picked Ava’s
limp form up from the deck and put her back against a support beam facing Laker. Grabbing a loop of line hanging from a hook, he tied her up. Then he left without a word. By then, she was conscious. They’d spent a bewildering, frustrating few minutes recounting their actions over the last couple of weeks.
“I guess I shouldn’t say I’m happy to see you, considering,” Laker said. “But . . .”
She smiled. That oval face, with the level brown eyes and the long, straight nose, made his heart turn over. As always. She was wearing a cheap embroidered blouse with a scoop neck that revealed her bra straps and baggy jeans that ended inches above her ankles. “I like the new look,” he said.
“You’re one to talk. At least they’re clean. I stole them off a clothesline.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes. Sorry for fainting. They called this the ghost deck. I guess I thought you were a ghost.”
“They call it that because it’s only here to raise the bridge, so the officers can see over stacks of containers on deck. There’s nothing here that we can use to . . .”
He broke off, because the wheel on the hatch behind Ava was turning. It opened and Ramón stepped through. His face was as battered as Laker’s. He closed the hatch and spun the wheel that locked it. Laker was relieved. When Ava had told him about the crewman jumping into the water and being shot, he’d feared it was Ramón.
“Ava, this is Ramón Milaflores, whom I told you about,” he said. “Ramón, this is Ava North. A friend.”
Ramón nodded to her. Stepping behind her, he began to untie the knots that bound her wrists.
“They put me in the bosun’s locker,” he explained. “After they got tired of beating me. It was Joseph who freed me.”
“Joseph?”
“His way of apologizing for his stupidity in believing the captain. When they started rounding everyone up, shoving them in the cafeteria, he realized that it was all a lie. They were never going to set us free and pay us five times our wages.”