But it was knowing that she had been deceived about the souvenir video that most haunted Anika. That knowledge and the fact that it didn’t change anything. It didn’t change the truth about how different her profile was from Gianni’s. About what mattered most to him. Family. Every homemade Italian meal, every story from his childhood reinforced that difference, that distance between them. She knew nothing about family life, about being part of a family. And Gianni had said it himself. Family is everything.
She pressed her hands against her eyelids and forced back tears. She was beyond tired. No wonder her emotions were so close to the surface. Or maybe the pregnancy hormones were to blame.
“Hotter.” She repeated the instruction until the water temperature rose to just below scalding and steam swallowed up the room.
Warm to the bone, she wrapped herself in a towel, left her clothes soaking, and returned to the main room. The light beside the door indicated a tray had been left outside. Before she had finished the generous portions of rib steak, baked potato, and wilted spinach, her shoulders sagged like deflated balloons and her eyelids kept sliding shut.
She wished she could contact Gianni from here. The corner desk-console contained an inset monitor and controls every bit as up-to-date as she had seen outside of U.N.I.T. But based on the equipment in the elevator and hallway, she suspected this room was well outfitted with surveillance. Probably built right into the bed frame, the console, even the 3-D artwork on the walls.
It wouldn’t be smart to give Jorge more intel about her situation. An Internet café, though less convenient, was a safer choice.
She had two hours before it was time to leave for the café. Two hours to sleep and recharge. That sounded like a lifetime right now. She programmed the voice alarm and curled up under the covers. This time, when she closed her eyes, no disturbing images appeared. Her mind, and her body, shut down.
Pounding on the door jerked her upright just as the alarm went off. “Good evening,” a female voice crooned. “The time is twenty-thirty hours.” The alarm kept repeating itself as the door began to vibrate from the blows on the other side.
Anika checked the privacy monitor. Ramon’s head and fist filled the screen.
“Good evening. The temperature outsi — ”
“Computer off.” She lunged over the end of the bed and grabbed a fresh set of clothes from her knapsack. Yanked on the pants and strode to the door. “What?” she demanded through the intercom.
“Time to go,” Ramon snapped back.
“You’re early.”
“Boat’s leaving. Jorge wrote you a note.” Ramon held up an envelope.
She slipped on her top and pulled open the door.
The thick sheet of paper inside the cream envelope displayed a strong scrawl of blue ink.
The Department of Aquatic Security has compelled a change in our schedule. My apologies. Should you require assistance while abroad, please do not hesitate to contact me. Jorge.
Underneath his name, he had written out his personal contact information.
“What about the next boat?”
“Not for two weeks.” Ramon clamped his hand around her arm.
She jerked free. “I’m not ready. I have … I have to contact a friend.”
“No.” Ramon stood, arms crossed over his chest.
She took a breath. “Give me twenty,” she began, then changed when Ramon shook his head. “Okay, okay, twelve minutes.” She prayed Gianni would be early. She curved her lips into her best sweetheart-mission smile. “Please? I really need to get hold of my friend. It’s important.”
Ramon relaxed a fraction.
She placed her hand on his forearm, her fingers reaching only partway around its muscled circumference. “Have some wine while you wait.”
She hurried over to the desk-console and activated the computer while Ramon ordered up an aeroball game on the viewscreen. She typed in the code for the new private channel. While she waited for a response, she thought about what she could say that wouldn’t give Jorge, whom she was certain was monitoring all communication, any information that could be used against her. With each passing minute, the knot in her stomach tightened.
The screen lit up. “I’m here.”
Ramon stood. “Time to go.” He drained the glass of wine and powered down the viewscreen.
“Can’t talk,” Anika typed. “Transport waiting. Meet me in Havana?”
“Are you safe?” The words whipped across the screen. The emotion behind them caught at her heart.
“Yes. Can’t say more now. Can you — ”
Ramon hoisted her up.
“Wait!” She hooked her leg around the desk.
“Two days.” The words glowed on the monitor. She let go and shot sideways, stopping hard against Ramon’s chest.
Without releasing her, he snagged her boots and knapsack in one hand.
“I’ve got clothes soaking in the bathroom.”
Ramon didn’t break stride.
“Computer off,” she called out, as the bodyguard half dragged, half carried her out of the room.
Twenty minutes later, she stood on the dock of the Miami Beach Marina and studied the transport Jorge had arranged.
The streamlined twenty-one-meter cruiser looked seaworthy enough, its hull and decks worn but clean, free of peeling paint and visible cracks. The captain, a compact grizzled man, had told her that the trip would take four hours, assuming no detours to avoid border patrols.
Three crewmen were loading the cabins and galley with boxes of contraband. The markings on the boxes indicated music, movie, and book discs, as well as the newest models of computers, widescreens, and handhelds. Due to the latest sanctions imposed by the United States, Cuba’s black market for foreign entertainment and technology was thriving.
Jorge had been partly correct when he guessed that Anika had chosen Cuba because of its less-developed technology, a backwardness that would give her an edge in keeping her true identity hidden. More importantly, as the last remaining communist nation in the world, Cuba had retained its long-standing mistrust of all developed countries. It hadn’t joined U.N.I.T. and didn’t maintain relations or legal reciprocity with the organization’s member nations. Although it flirted on occasion with independent terrorist groups, the Gonzalez government remained more or less a neutral player in international terrorist activities. U.N.I.T. monitored the country from a disinterested distance.
The captain stood next to her and kept a hawk-like watch on his crew as they scurried back and forth between the boat and the large boxes at the end of the dock. Once they completed the loading, he started the engine and guided them out of the marina toward the open sea.
Anika sat portside on the bench that ran the length of the cockpit and looked back at the shoreline. With each passing minute, each shrinking light, U.N.I.T.’s hold over her loosened. She would be safer living in Cuba, out of sight of the agency’s electronic eyes and ears, than in any other country. It might not provide a permanent hiding place, but it was a start.
The boat danced across the water in a smooth gliding motion. When the shore lights shrank to pinpoints, she turned and faced forward. The weight of anxiety and tension lightened.
He’s safe. She hugged her arms to her chest as if holding a precious gift. And he was coming to her. She would see him again in only two more days. What happened after that, well, she would deal with it.
One of the crewmen took a seat opposite Anika. His gaze roamed over her.
She remembered Jorge’s warning about a rough crossing. So you’re what he meant. Though the man was shorter than she, with a slight build, she had watched him carry large boxes of the contraband onto the boat with ease. He was strong and quick. She would have to be quicker.
He started by offering her a cigarette.
Boris’s nicotine-stained smile flashed through her mind and her muscles tensed. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.
He shrugged and lit the cigarette for himself. Afte
r a few quick puffs, he moved closer to her, his leg almost touching her knee.
The other two crewmen hadn’t budged from their forward posts and the captain still stood at the helm, his hands resting on the wheel.
She squeezed her arm against the side of her waist to confirm the position of the Glock. She walked to the other side of the cockpit. The steak-and-potato dinner sloshed in her stomach. Uh-oh.
The boat reared up on a wave then dropped back down. Her stomach heaved. She grabbed the railing and held on.
The man came up behind her and snaked his arm around her waist.
She whirled to face him. Grabbed his shirt. Hooked her leg behind his knee. Pitched forward and forced him down.
They hit the boat’s wooden planks with a thud, his body cushioning her fall.
She released her hold and went for the gun. But the nausea hit first. Her stomach lurched and she spewed her undigested dinner all over the man’s face and chest.
It wasn’t a technique U.N.I.T. taught, but it proved just as effective in ending the attack.
The man scrambled on all fours toward the back of the boat, his curses spiking the air. He dragged his shirt over his head and wiped off the vomit. The other crewmen were standing now. Anika tensed for more attacks, but they remained at the front of the boat. When they realized what had happened, they hooted at their mate’s misfortune, clapping their hands and stomping their feet in child-like delight.
Anika stood on shaky legs.
The captain reached for something at his feet.
Her muscles coiled and she prepared for a reprisal.
Instead of a laser or a knife, he held a peace offering — a tube of sparkling water.
For the rest of the voyage, her attacker stayed as far away from her as possible, scowling at his mates who continued their heckling. She hadn’t heard such teasing since her teenage years at the orphanage.
Four-and-a-half hours later, they anchored at Marina Hemingway Harbor.
Impatient to leave her rocking transport behind, Anika shifted from foot to foot while the captain lowered the motorized dinghy into the water, climbed down the ladder and gestured for her to join him. She landed lightly in the dinghy and sat on the forward bench seat, her knapsack at her feet.
They sped through the dark water, weaving around cruisers, yachts, and schooners.
As the lights from the harbor grew brighter and people’s voices grew louder, Anika’s heart picked up tempo.
Have I made the right choice? Will Cuba turn out to be a haven? Will I finally be free?
Chapter 13
“La … Habana … Vieja?” Anika kept her cadence slow and halting as she asked the taxi driver in the harbor area for a ride to Old Havana.
“Si, señorita.” The young man balled up his polishing rag and ran around to the passenger side of the auto behemoth, an SUV with chromed wheel caps. He opened the door for her.
After she stepped up into the seat, he hurried back to the driver’s side, fired up the engine — with a key, not a punchcode — and started speaking to her in rapid Spanish.
“No … habla … Español,” she replied.
“Oh, okay,” the man said. “I speak un poco English. You stay in Havana long? Need driver? I’m good. Better than bus.”
His eyes met hers in the rear view mirror. He looked so hopeful. And sincere. No point in refusing him right away. A friendly local might even come in handy in the days ahead.
“Maybe,” she said.
“Okay. Bueno. Good.” He smiled at her, turned on the radio, and tapped his fingers in time to the lively music.
The harbor area had been quiet, but as they approached historic Old Havana, the streets came alive with a coffee-and-samba, rum-and-rumba buzz. Even at this late hour, people, cars, buses, and motorized rickshaws all jostled for space on the narrow streets and even narrower sidewalks. The traffic was so unlike New Angeles where pedestrians and vehicles moved in a controlled fashion, with specific pathways dedicated to different modes of transport.
A part of Anika wanted to stop the car, get out and plunge into the crowd to soak up the vitality. But fatigue had turned her muscles to wet cement. And her brain was winding down like a clock with a dying battery.
“Hotel Europa, señorita. Very good hotel.” The driver stopped the car across the street from a brightly lit entrance.
“Gra-cias.”
“My card.” He held out a small scrap of paper with a name and number hand printed on it. “You call, please. I drive you anywhere you want.”
“Okay.” She dropped the “card” into her knapsack.
Inside the expansive lobby, more bright lights, samba beats, and jostling bodies clamored for attention. Anika stopped to fiddle with the straps of her knapsack.
She didn’t know how many passengers her driver typically picked up over a few days, or how well he remembered each one. She didn’t know, if he were asked, whether he would recall a woman fitting her description and which hotel he had driven her to. She didn’t know, but it was a risk she didn’t need to take.
She exited the lobby and backtracked four blocks to a three-story building with curved archways and black iron lanterns lit with glow sticks. A casual swivel of her head confirmed no one was paying her any notice. She strolled inside the tiled lobby.
Her passport and visa passed the scrutiny of the hotel clerk who smiled as he handed back the documents and welcomed Señorita Brown to the Santa Isabel Hotel.
Three floors up, she unlocked the door to her room and stepped inside a quiet sanctuary of creamy white walls and a slate gray floor. Low lights on either side of the four-poster bed offered a welcoming glow.
She dropped her knapsack next to the bed, sat, and tugged off her boots. The tile floor cooled the soles of her feet.
She had landed. Against impossible odds, she had made it, alive and relatively unscathed. Even the throbbing in her leg was only a whimper. The wound would heal and fade into a memory. The long terrifying journey was behind her and she could rest now. Put aside the stress and worry and fear of the past few days, at least for a little while.
She placed her hand on her chest and massaged the area in slow circles. The dull flatness inside, as if she had swallowed a tube of numbing gel, told her that she had reached her limit. Her muscles and lungs and heart had done everything she had demanded of them since that first terrifying beep during the solo. She had to shut down or her body would do it for her.
Still, one more task awaited her before she could close her eyes and slide into blessed darkness. She refused to live with the lie one minute longer. She had to end it. Now.
Ignoring the squawk of her feet, she walked into the bathroom.
“Lights on,” she called out.
Nothing.
Her tired mind took a few seconds to remember.
Think old-style. Gas-fueled cars. Manual ignition. Window switches. Push button elevators.
Her hand slid up, then back down the wall. Found the toggle. Flipped it.
Wire-thin cracks jig sawed across the walls and a glob of lumpy plaster protruded from the far corner. But the porcelain and chrome fixtures sparkled and a scent of mint almost masked the smell of cleaning fluids.
A surveillance device had been installed in plain view above the light. Well, plain to her trained eyes. She almost laughed. Old-style was right. The thick clunky plastic shouted early twenty-first century. Audio only. If she wanted to muffle any conversation, all she’d have to do was run a steady stream of water and ambient noise would take care of the rest. Not that she expected to have to do that.
The Ministerio del Interior, the agency responsible for monitoring foreigners, had nothing to worry about from her. She was a civilian now and they could listen to any conversation they wanted. Except the one with Gianni.
She sucked in a breath, reminded of why she had come into the bathroom. She stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. Her hands shook as she turned the faucets to the left, then to the right, th
en left again, trying to get the water temperature just right.
The shower didn’t offer a comfortable seat, like the contoured bench in the Miami hotel. The floor would have to do. She slid to a seated position, knees bent. Her fingers skimmed her inner thighs until she found both medallion-sized implants. A third one had been inserted in her left arch. She practiced the sequence that she had been taught.
Left thigh. Count to three. Right thigh. Count to six. Left arch.
She took several slow breaths in the wet warmth.
Go ahead. Get it over with.
She hated the implants and what they had done. Forced a lie on her so that Gianni would do what she asked. Save her. And his baby.
Anika pressed her knuckles against her forehead. Except there was no baby. Had never been. Regret and guilt pummeled her like the water pouring out of the showerhead.
If only he hadn’t found the wristband covered in plus signs. If only she had refused the hormone implants. If only she had come clean about them.
But life didn’t work on “if onlys.” Gianni had found the band and she had played the lie. Now, all she could do was try to make it right.
Still, she hesitated. This was the closest she would ever come to feeling what it would be like to have a new life inside her, to create a family of her own. To being the woman Gianni wanted. Even if it was a lie, it was the best she could hope for.
The water started to cool and tiny goose bumps sprung up along her arms and legs. She searched for the implant in her left thigh and got to work. When she had finished, an orange dot flared on her arch.
The sequencing had worked. The hormones were being flushed away. The skin around the dot turned numb, like a shard of ice had frozen all feeling. Then the dot vanished along with the sensation.
The Clinic techs had told her she wouldn’t feel a difference right away. It would take a few days for her body to return to normal. But she did feel differently. The lie mixed with the water and disappeared down the drain.
When she saw Gianni in two days and confessed, all vestiges of the lie would be gone. She would be herself again. And she would have what she wanted. What she had wanted for so long. Her freedom.
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