Yet at moments he almost felt like laughing. There was a deranged glee to it once he found his rhythm, as with the Nantucket sleigh ride of the New England whaler, dragged to glory or doom on the tethers of impaled harpoons. He remembered the old terror and thrill—one never came without the other—of beating homeward to Stonington before one particular squall. All their barrels had been filled to the brim with clicking, banded bugs hauled all day from the lobster pots. His hands had smelled of bait, with fish oil smeared across his face as he stood awestruck, watching the waves build walls around their retreat.
But this sense of rhythm could be dangerous, a sinister lullaby, because inevitably there were surprises to jar you awake.
One came upon him toward the end of the first hour, just as the storm seemed to be weakening. There was a flash of white over his shoulder. A bolt of spindrift raced past as if pursued by something terrible. Then his stomach dropped as the boat skidded down the side of a sudden trough, which told him that something huge was rearing up from behind. Falk turned his head to see the wave towering like a bluff, a thirty-footer that came upon him from a crazy angle so suddenly that he barely had time to turn the wheel, desperate to move the hull to forty-five degrees. The stern lifted with a sucking sensation, as if the wave’s force had momentarily leached all rain and noise from the air. It was a wonder he wasn’t already swamped, that the stern wasn’t submerged, but that was only the first hurdle to be cleared. Half a second later the boat perched high on a precipice. It was the sensation of reaching the top of an incline on a roller coaster, that point where you stare into the nothingness below while the breath catches in your throat before the plunge. He heard the rushing of the sea, and then his stomach soared as the hull tore downward across the face of the wave, surfing now, far too fast, and the last thing he wanted to do. The slide seemed to last forever, the boat with a mind of its own in a dive toward the seabed. He watched the prow, certain that it would pierce the foaming blackness and dig in, pitch-poling the boat forward into a flip upside down. Then he would sink, the lifeline dragging him toward the bottom until he could free the knot.
But the wave overreached, water rushing across the transom from behind. That provided just enough counterweight to lift the bow ever so slightly, so that in the nick of time it planed rather than spiked. The backwash tore in across the deck and took Falk’s feet from beneath him, one last bit of deadly mischief. He fell hard on his ass but managed to keep his left hand on the bottom of the wheel, or else he would have been washed to the limit of his tether in the swamping. But his frantic grip swerved the wheel, turning the boat violently to port, and when he stood and tried to correct course the engine whined in protest, the prop having momentarily risen above the waterline. The boat was like a climber who had lost his grip, and the next wave was approaching to topple him.
Then there was a coughing sound, a smoky gargle as the prop bit into the sea. The hull turned to starboard, finding the correct angle just as the next roller coursed beneath her. He held on, steadied himself, and thanked his luck.
There were two more rogue waves in those first hours, but none quite as menacing as the first, and by the time a faint peep of grayness began to show itself in the east, Falk felt as if the worst of the journey was behind him. He checked his position on the GPS and determined that he had crossed the midsection of the pinwheel. From here on out conditions would only improve. Maybe it was the added comfort of finally seeing light, but he would have also sworn that the waves were already abating. Just as forecast, Clifford was weakening with the dawn, and moving on, up the Cuban coastline.
When Falk checked the wind gauge a half hour later, the reading was eighteen knots, with gusts to thirty. Still quite a blow, but manageable. As the sky brightened, his certainty grew. He was going to make it.
The challenge then was maintaining his concentration against the onslaught of fatigue. Even the dim light of dawn made his eyes ache. Hours of blinking against salt spray had made the stinging almost unbearable. What he wanted more than anything was to curl up on the deck and sleep, while the warm film of water sloshed back and forth, rocking the boat like a cradle.
He wondered what was happening back at Gitmo, now some fifty miles in his wake as the gull flies, although his arcing course had crossed perhaps sixty-five miles of open water. Even if Fowler came calling for him at around eight—assuming that the MPs outside had never checked on him—he would probably be okay. And if Fowler waited until later, then his absence wouldn’t be discovered until Skip arrived at the marina, around nine. He could only guess what kind of story Bo and Van Meter would concoct. Both, in their way, would put themselves in untenable positions by telling all. And neither was likely to agree with the other’s preferred cover story.
In any event, by nine the worst of the storm would have moved well past Guantánamo. The air search team would rule the skies. Perhaps the helicopter crew would get lucky and spot him, although he doubted it. Looking for a single small boat was a difficult business. He’d seen searches of far smaller patches of ocean drag on for days.
More worrisome was that there were only a limited number of anchorages at his eventual destination. The Navy would alert port authorities and harbormasters in western Haiti and eastern Jamaica to be on the lookout for a stolen piece of U.S. military hardware, even if it was a pleasure craft. While Haiti might not offer the most efficient assistance, the authorities would be ill-equipped to restrain any direct U.S. search efforts.
Those circumstances had weighed heavily in Falk’s choice of landfall. He had picked Navassa Island, an uninhabited two-square-mile lozenge with steep bluffs and hardscrabble soil, about a hundred miles due south of Guantánamo and roughly a third of the way between Haiti and Jamaica.
During his Marine days a Coast Guard ensign had told him about the island, because the Coast Guard had then maintained a lighthouse there. The place had a strange history. It was rich in guano—the bird shit that through centuries of accumulation formed much of the island’s landmass. Guano was a prized fertilizer, so the United States had claimed the island just before the Civil War and turned over the mining to a U.S. phosphate company. Slavish working conditions led to a bloody revolt, but it was the declining market for guano that finally shut the place down at the turn of the century. Seven years ago the Coast Guard had also closed the lighthouse. Nowadays the only official American visitors were biological survey teams from the Department of the Interior. The island’s more common visitors were Haitian fishermen, who often camped there overnight, especially when they needed to ride out an approaching storm such as Clifford. At least, that’s what the Coast Guard ensign had told him long ago. He hoped it was still true.
Only the GPS made it possible to find his way. Otherwise, the island was so small that he almost certainly would have passed wide of the mark. But with the rain gone and his speed up to twenty knots on a choppy but navigable sea, he now saw Navassa Island dead ahead, an emerging forehead of gray bluffs sprouting a green hairline of scrub.
Anchorage was easier than he’d expected, via a scantily sheltered cove at Lulu Bay on the southwest side of the island. The better news was that a single battered fishing boat also lay at anchor. The engine looked suspect, and the red and white paint job had seen better days, but if she had survived last night he supposed she could last a few hours more.
Getting ashore was trickier. He had to swim for it, thrashing twenty yards across a sea that was still coursing with deep swells. He grabbed at an iron ladder suspended sixty feet down the side of the bluff, and was shocked at the weakness of his arms and legs as he clambered onto a slick lower rung. An incoming swell pressed his chest against the metal. He held on tightly as the wave receded, his soaked clothing pulling like an anchor. It was all he could do to keep from tumbling back into the emerald sea. Then he caught his breath long enough to begin the long, slow climb. Halfway up the sun broke through the fleeing clouds, warm against his back. Finally he reached the top and heaved himself onto a plat
form of rough concrete, exhausted. From there he could scale an old concrete stairway the rest of the way to the top of the bluff. But for the moment he was too tired, and he quickly fell sound asleep.
He awakened in what seemed like seconds, startled by a shadow across his face and the gritty scrape of sandals on concrete. It was an opportune moment, he supposed, because he had been dreaming of helicopters arriving in droves to drop ladders from the sky, each with a dangling Van Meter at the bottom. He opened his eyes onto the dark leathery face of a wiry man in tattered shorts. The man, shading his brow with a hand, stared intently.
Falk checked his watch. He had been asleep for only an hour. His thirst was overpowering, and a thick knot of bile in his stomach made him want to retch. But first things first.
“Speak English?” Falk offered.
The man shook his head and replied in a patois Falk couldn’t understand. The language was probably Haitian Creole, but a little French might do the trick. He hoped so, because that was all he had.
It seemed to work, because within minutes they had arranged the necessary transaction. The old fisherman, whose name was Jean, was now the proud owner of a twenty-four-foot Sea Chaser, formerly belonging to the Morale, Welfare and Recreation division of the U.S. Navy. Falk was the new skipper of the battered white fishing boat.
For both men, it was the deal of a lifetime.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Miami Beach
GONZALO HAD BEEN WATCHING his back closely in the five days since his meeting with Falk. He wasn’t sure what he dreaded more: federal agents arriving on his doorstep or henchmen dispatched by Havana.
Either visitation seemed possible following his indiscreet words on the boat. But after two decades of operating largely on his own, he had sensed the need for an ally as he and Falk bobbed in the waves of Biscayne Bay. Odder still, he had sensed the same need in Falk, an amateur on this field of play if there ever was one, yet a kindred spirit.
Or so Gonzalo hoped. How else to explain why he had taken the additional risk of asking their old middleman, Harry, to deliver an updated passport, if only because he believed that Falk, like him, might soon need more flexibility. It was the sort of hunch that either paid off handsomely or mired you deep in trouble, and he had been having second thoughts ever since. Maybe he had finally succumbed to the recklessness that afflicted the entire Directorate.
He was also anxious over the possibility of losing his posting. Lucinda had a lot to do with that. Being recalled now would be a personal disaster. He would be lost and lonely, rattling around Havana like an exile.
The good news was that so far there was no cause for alarm. There had been no unexpected visitors to the apartment, no unsolicited painting crews or telephone repairmen. His core of regulars on South Beach had remained steadfast and friendly, the same creatures of habit as always. If any of them had been approached by strangers asking about Gonzalo, they would have told him. Yes, even the old GI.
What troubled him most was the eerie radio silence from Havana. Not a single message had come across the shortwave since he had filed the report of his rendezvous with Falk.
“Message conveyed to Peregrine” was all he had said, and all they had wanted.
He had then disbanded his team of operatives, paying dollars for a job well done and telling them their services would never again be necessary. You used up a lot of personnel that way, but the reward was almost always an airtight job.
The performance of the Americans that afternoon hadn’t impressed him—a skeleton crew, he concluded, and not very experienced. It was further confirmation that he was dealing with some unofficial structure, an off-the-books outfit without the polish or professionalism of his usual adversaries. Experience had taught him that in America a newcomer flying by the seat of his pants usually ended up either testifying to a congressional committee or sowing the seeds for spectacular mischief. The ones who didn’t go to jail either ran for office or got a show on talk radio.
Whatever the case, Gonzalo was jumpy enough to have begun monitoring an emergency mailbox he had set up years ago, in case his boss ever needed to reach him without going through the usual channels at the Directorate. He had changed the location every six months, but up to now it had never been used. Even so, he checked it every morning, pedaling there on his bicycle before his first cup of coffee. On the way back he bought a bagel with cream cheese and a double espresso, then took his usual walk on the beach.
The mail drop’s current location was behind a loosened brick along the back wall of a commercial parking lot bordering Flamingo Park, a shaded sanctuary of green with ball fields and tennis courts. Gonzalo had been dismayed to see a construction notice go up recently at the parking lot, signaling the imminent arrival of yet another condo complex. Soon he would have to scout out a new location.
Last night, at least, had offered a welcome respite from such worries. He met Lucinda for dinner at 10 p.m., the sort of late hour she preferred for its Continental feel, as if she were back in her hometown of Caracas, or abroad in Spain. The only blemish on an otherwise spotless evening was when she insisted on talking again about moving.
“Why not Arizona?” she said, having given up on Manhattan and L.A. “There are still plenty of people who speak Spanish, and it’s nice and warm. Okay, it’s in the desert, but I can handle the desert as long as you’re standing next to the cactus.”
Gonzalo, too restless to argue, only shrugged in response, which Lucinda misread as a sign of progress.
“Is it the money you’re worried about?” she said, trying to coax him further. “Because you know that I’d be happy to—”
“Please, Lucinda. Do we have to go through all this again?”
He immediately regretted his abruptness, especially when she pushed aside her half-finished dessert and muttered, eyes downcast, “No, I don’t suppose we do. Maybe I should never bring it up again.”
The signal for a full mailbox was a red thumbtack poked into a palm tree along the sidewalk in the park, a block from the mailbox itself. For four straight mornings now Gonzalo had pedaled past the tree and, seeing nothing, continued on to the bagel shop.
This morning he saw with excitement that there seemed to be a red dot on the smooth gray bark, about six feet up. Drawing closer, he was certain. He dismounted long enough for a quick glance around before he stepped across the grass and pulled out the tack, then tossed it down a storm grate. He pedaled harder now, trying to keep a lid on his anxiety.
No attendant was yet on duty at the parking lot. It was one of those places where you took a ticket on the way in, then paid at a small booth at the gate. Gonzalo scooted to the back left corner, stepped across the low wall, and then found the brick by counting from the left and the bottom. He pried it free, and beneath it was a folded scrap of paper, which he stuffed in his pocket. He replaced the brick, glanced around once more, then pedaled away for his breakfast as beads of sweat trickled down his chest.
He didn’t read the message until he had picked up his bagel and a copy of Diario Las Américas, and was seated at the usual park bench at Collins and Twenty-first. There he saw the graffiti once again—“Castro Fall—You Go Home”—like a taunt. Gonzalo looked furtively around and unfolded the paper.
Peregrine departs nest by sea. Destination unknown.
Eagles in pursuit.
Was he reading this correctly? Falk had gone AWOL from Guantánamo? Gonzalo had never heard of such a thing. And on a boat, no less. He seemed to remember a mention of some tropical storm down there, and he flipped hastily to Diario’s weather page. The paper, exhibiting its usual homesick obsession with everything Cuban, had a story saying that Tropical Storm Clifford had fizzled out, dissipating wetly in the seas north of Jamaica as it crossed into southeastern Cuba.
Fleeing a naval base in that fashion was the sort of rash, bold stroke that only an amateur would attempt, presumably an amateur who had decided to break ranks with the professionals. The news seemed to confirm his instinct
s about the man. He wondered if Harry had yet delivered the British passport.
The very presence of this message was a sort of implicit warning, a signal that both his boss and he were temporarily operating in a danger zone, beyond the usual bounds of what the Directorate considered proper. Such behavior in Cuba earned neither a run for office nor a radio talk show. The prize was a firing squad.
Gonzalo tried to work out the timing. A message arriving overnight by this channel would be at least twelve hours old, meaning that Harry—the only plausible source of the tip—would have heard the news yesterday and then phoned it to Havana last night from home. That meant Falk must have taken off sometime between Tuesday evening and midday yesterday. If “the eagles,” meaning the U.S. military, were truly in pursuit, then maybe he had already been caught. If not, he might be anywhere by now. As long as he hadn’t drowned first.
Not just any FBI man could have piloted a boat through that kind of mess. But Gonzalo, with his usual thoroughness, had never relied on secondary sources when it came to selecting and running operatives. Long ago he had learned much more about Falk than the man had probably ever told his superiors at the Bureau. It was hard to say for sure what had made Gonzalo dig so deeply, but when you were in the business of manufacturing false identities, you became pretty good at spotting them, and something about Falk had set off his alarm. So he had researched the man’s background much more doggedly than, say, a Marine Corps recruiter in Bangor ever would have. It was one reason Gonzalo had chosen a boat for their meeting, as if to convey the message “See, I know all about your secrets, and the places where you are comfortable.”
In any event, the news meant Gonzalo didn’t have time for his usual morning stroll. There was urgent business to attend to. He climbed back on his bicycle and pedaled through the park, crossing Collins to Washington Avenue and heading for home.
The Prisoner of Guantanamo Page 33