‘‘It depends on how many carriers we can smuggle into the country, but in Miami, for instance, we’d kill up to 100,000 people.’’
‘‘Allah Akbar,’’ The man said. ‘‘Is it possible to kill even more?’’
Kamal smiled. ‘‘Yes. With Allah’s help, killing is easy.’’
When Kamal told his wife about his proposal, she shook her head in disgust. ‘‘You’re the principled man who embraces his family’s strong religious beliefs. How can you even consider killing innocents?’’
Kamal’s face flushed. ‘‘He was your son, too. They murdered him.’’
‘‘He was killed in war, fighting for his country.’’
‘‘They buried him alive. Can you imagine what it was like to be buried alive? It’s the first thing I see every morning, and the last thing at night. Heavy desert sand covers him… fills his mouth, his eyes… he can’t move… can’t breathe. I still hear his muffled scream… I can’t escape it.’’
Kamal sighed, and then took a breath. ‘‘They’re going to pay. The Americans declared war and incited a crusade against Allah and his true believers. We act in our own defense, or we die. That is the meaning of defensive jihad.’’
Sabeen shook her head in disgust. ‘‘Oh, please, Kamal, that’s Al-Qaeda’s voice. I don’t believe them for one second. They thrive on terror.’’
‘‘How dare you…’’
‘‘Don’t put some high-minded purpose to your actions, or pretend that this is anything but revenge.’’
Kamal stood. His face reddened, and his fists clenched white with rage.
For the first time in their marriage, Sabeen feared his anger. She looked into his eyes, grasped his hands, and held them until his fists relaxed. In a near whisper, she said, ‘‘The Holy Koran warns us specifically against harming the innocent.’’
He shook her hands off, and pushed her away violently. ‘‘Don’t look for innocents among the Jews and the Americans. They don’t exist.’’
Chapter Twenty-One
Carlos sat with Ryan in Adios’s saloon while Nicole sat listening to her iPod in the laundry room, waiting for her wash.
Carlos pulled out his nautical planning chart, placed it on the table, and traced the route with his finger. “We’ll sail east along the south side of Cuba, staying well north of Jamaica and the Caymans.”
Ryan pointed to the chart. “Why not sail the northern side of Cuba? It looks a lot shorter.”
“It’s shorter, but there’s much more traffic. I thought your objective was to be as inconspicuous as possible.”
“Yes, I agree. How long will the trip take?”
“It’s a little over 1200 miles to Miami. Without problems, and with a single stopover in Cancun or Cozumel for fuel, I’m guessing about two weeks.”
“When will you be ready?” Ryan asked.
“The mechanic said he’d be done tomorrow, and the mainsail will be back this afternoon. I’ll need you to work with me on provisions for four.”
Ryan looked away, and then returned his eyes to the chart. “There will only be three. I’ve decided that Jorge Lopez will remain in Cuba.”
Carlos stood. “What kind of shit is that? You promised an extra hand.”
Ryan stared at Carlos. “Get over it. I’m sure as hell paying you enough.”
“Like hell, you are. Three people with one who ain’t worth a damn, wasn’t the deal,” Carlos said, stroking his beard. “You can’t expect me to make a two-week passage with nothing but deadwood aboard.” He smiled at Ryan. “No offense intended.”
“You’ll have to make do,” Ryan said. “Take a few days to teach Nicole what you can. She’s a smart girl.”
“Forget about it. The deal’s off. Find somebody else.”
Ryan stood. He walked up to Carlos, their faces separated by only inches. “You’ll do what I paid you for, or you’ll regret it.”
Carlos took a step forward, and shoved Ryan against the wall. Ryan shook his head and started for Carlos when the Cuban reached into his pocket, and produced a serrated rigging knife. “I don’t think you want to do that.”
Ryan froze. “This isn’t the way we do business, Mendoza. Perhaps we can work something out?”
“Try to strong-arm me again, and I’ll cut your damned throat.”
“If you cut this shit, I’ll double our payment after you complete the trip.”
“You’re out of your mind. That’s a lot of money.”
“Do we have an agreement?”
“I want it up front.”
Ryan extended his hand.
Carlos refused it. “I want my money tomorrow. We’ll leave in three days.” He turned to Ryan. “You and Nicole will follow my orders at sea, or you’ll never make it to Miami.”
Ryan shook his head in disgust, turned, and stormed away.
When Colonel Rafael Ochoa finally retired from the Revolutionary Armed Forces at the age of 61, he’d directed the military police for more than a decade. While Rafael dreamed of sleeping in late and lounging on the beach with his wife, the head of the General Intelligence Directorate was inconsiderate enough to die from an accidental cyanide overdose.
“Bastante es bastante,” His wife said. “You’ve done enough. Let them find someone else.”
When Raúl Castro, Fidel’s brother, said his country needed Rafael, the old policeman had answered the call. He was a true patriot, and quickly resigned himself to the unwanted opportunity.
While Rafael considered himself apolitical, he had enough influential friends to keep himself out of trouble and do what he liked best: operate an intelligent and aggressive police force. Rafael detested the meddling gossip from the CDR, a poor substitute for real intelligence, and instructed his agents to keep their crap off his desk.
His assistant came into the office, and stood before Rafael. “Ricardo Muñoz is having a fit about the two Americans at the International Marina in Santiago de Cuba.”
“Ah, he’s like an old woman.”
“The man, Ryan, met with Jorge Lopez, and they’re going to meet again.”
“I see. What do we have on Lopez?”
“Nothing, except his publicly expressed sympathies for Islamic terrorists.”
“Is he Al-Qaeda?”
“We don’t know.”
“Keep an eye on him. After 9-11, the last thing Cuba needs is a tie-in with Islamic terrorists.”
“They’re getting the sailboat Adios ready for departure in two to three days.”
“Where are they going?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Carlos Mendoza?”
“Mendoza’s been on the fringe of the law for years. He’s an opportunist, out for anything that will earn him a few bucks. As far as we know, he has no political affiliations.”
Rafael stood. “Find their destination. See who’s aboard, and keep close watch on them until they leave. I want everything you can get on Señor Lopez.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Two days before departure, Ryan paced the dock. He’d irritated the harbormaster with four-times-a-day questions about whether he’d received a phone call from Jorge Lopez.
Finally, Ryan picked up the payphone and dialed.
‘‘Lopez speaking.’’
‘‘It’s Ryan.’’
‘‘Oh, I was about to call you. Are you ready?’’
‘‘Of course.’’
‘‘Write this address down. I’ll expect you at nine tonight.’’
‘‘The doctor… his equipment… you have it all?’’
‘‘I’ll see you at nine.’’
While Carlos went into town to provision, Ryan sat in Adios’s saloon with Nicole. ‘‘Tonight we meet and pick up the virus.’’
Nicole kept her eyes down, and then looked up at Ryan. ‘‘I don’t like this one bit.’’
‘‘You can’t back down now, especially now that we’re here and ready to rumble.’’
‘‘We can’t go through with it, Ryan. It’
s too dangerous.’’
‘‘I told you that once I get my hands on it, I’ll make the switch.’’
‘‘What if you can’t? These are dangerous people, and they’re not stupid.’’
‘‘After we’ve come so far, Nicole… why back out now?’’
‘‘I’m afraid.’’
‘‘Tonight,’’ Ryan said, ‘‘You will learn their intentions, but remember that their plans are not ours.’’
Ricardo Muñoz watched from his window as the cab drove away with Ryan and Nicole. He picked up the telephone and dialed. ‘‘They just left. Don’t lose them.’’
The cab drove through downtown Santiago de Cuba, and stopped at a boarded-up movie theater with window posters of Casablanca and The Godfather. The streets were still wet from the afternoon rain. Ryan led Nicole to the side entrance, and knocked four times on the tin-coated door. Jorge answered, then stood back to allow them to enter. He looked both ways down the dark alley, glancing unknowingly at Ricardo, who was viewing him through binoculars. He then closed the door, and they walked to the stage where a wicker chair stood before the mounted video camera.
Ryan stared at Jorge. ‘‘First things, first. Where’s the doctor?’’
‘‘He’s in the back. I’ll get him. No questions, please.’’
Jorge returned with a slight, dark-skinned man who looked to be in his early forties. His wrinkled tan suit looked as if he’d slept in it. His hairy hands showed fingernails that were deformed from a lifetime of chewing.
Jorge pointed to a table and chairs. ‘‘Doctor?’’
The doctor led them to the table, and then removed white towels from his black bag, which he spread out. He pulled a small box from his bag, lifted the lid, and removed two foam-wrapped glass vials. He placed them on a towel with care.
Jorge stared at the vials, and took two steps back.
The doctor unwrapped the vials; he raised the first, containing a white powder at the bottom. ‘‘This is the virus. It’s been freeze-dried. It’s inactive. The second vial contains the diluent, the fluid you’ll add to the virus to bring it to life. Once mixed, you must refrigerate the virus until used. I suggest, however, that you mix it and use it at once.’’
Nicole stared at the vials. ‘‘What kind of virus is it?’’
‘‘A deadly, highly contagious one. That’s all you need to know.’’
‘‘How do we use it?’’ Ryan asked.
‘‘In a moment, please,’’ the doctor snapped. He withdrew a plastic syringe from his case, and pulled off the needle hub. ‘‘Stick this into the fluid vial, and draw the liquid up to the highest mark. Then squirt it into the bottle with the powder. After it’s mixed, wait ten minutes, draw the mixture into the syringe, and spray it into your mouths. Half a syringe-full is more than enough for each of you.’’
Ryan smiled. ‘‘When do we do this?’’
‘‘Try to administer it when you’re sure you’ll arrive at your destination in a week to ten days. You may be a little sick by then, but nobody can make a diagnosis at that stage of the disease.’’
Jorge stood. ‘‘There is no God, but Allah. All praise to him.’’
‘‘Right,’’ the doctor smirked as he stood. ‘‘I’m done here.’’
When he turned, Jorge placed a thick envelope in his hands.
Jorge turned to Ryan, pointing to the seat in front of the camera. ‘‘If you’re ready.’’
Nicole stared at the camera. ‘‘Ready for what?’’
‘‘To record your statement. We’ll be showing it around the world to glorify your mission.’’
‘‘Screw that,’’ Nicole said as she turned to Ryan. ‘‘You knew about this, but didn’t tell me?’’
Ryan turned to Jorge. ‘‘That’s not part of our deal.’’
Jorge trembled in anger. ‘‘It’s traditional. We expect it.’’
‘‘I don’t give a damn,’’ Ryan said. ‘‘Please feel free to take the virus for your own trip to Miami.’’
Ryan grasped Nicole’s hand. ‘‘Let get out of here. We’ll find another way.’’
Jorge paled. ‘‘I thought you were one of us… sympathetic to our cause.’’
‘‘We do this for our own reasons. If you think we’re buying into the jihadist bullshit, you’re nuts.’’
‘‘I see no reason for these insulting comments. We may have differing reasons, but our objectives are the same.’’
Nicole clenched her jaw. ‘‘To kill innocent women and children. Islam… jihad… my, what a wonderful religion.’’
Jorge gasped in rage.
‘‘Don’t listen to her; you know how emotional women can get. She isn’t thinking straight. She knows. She agrees, or else she wouldn’t be here.’’
Domingo, Ricardo Muñoz’s 25 year old son, stood outside the theater with his camera ready. He felt the threat of foreign intervention in his beloved Cuba more than his father did, and he hoped to replace him as head of their local CDR.
Suddenly, the theater door opened. The doctor stuck his head out, looked both ways, and headed down the alley. Domingo’s high-speed digital camera captured his frightened features.
The man looked vaguely familiar. Who is he?
Maybe his father would know.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ryan encouraged Nicole to cooperate with Carlos as he tried to impart the basic elements of seamanship.
‘‘The guy freaks me out. I hate being near him.’’
‘‘He’s right about standing watch. You need to do your share.’’
‘‘Okay, but I’m keeping my pepper spray handy.’’
He just wants you to stand at the helm and steer the boat… or, hell, just watch out for traffic... no big deal.’’
Meanwhile, back in Cuba, Ricardo Muñoz was studying Domingo’s photo of the physician. ‘‘I know that man.’’
‘‘Who is he?’’ Domingo asked.
‘‘I thought he was still in prison.’’
‘‘Father?’’
‘‘His name is Fernando Baños. He practiced medicine until jailed as an agent for the Varela Project, traitors against the revolution. What is he doing with the Americans and the likes of Jorge Lopez?’’
Rafael Ochoa listened to the information. ‘‘We need to speak with Dr. Baños, and I want you to make a visit to the sailboat, Adios.’’
The next morning, the National Police arrived at Adios. The officer in charge spoke to Carlos. ‘‘We have orders to inspect this boat.’’
Carlos stood face to face with the officer. ‘‘Who gave such orders?’’
‘‘Everyone off the boat.’’ The officer demanded.
‘‘If you steal anything or damage the equipment, I’m holding you responsible.’’
‘‘Señor Mendoza, you will sign a form afterward saying that we did no damage, and took nothing.’’
While Carlos, Ryan, and Nicole stood on the dock, two armed policemen stepped aboard and went below. One opened several drawers and compartments, pretending to search, while the other crawled into the V-berth, opened the chain locker, and attached a GPS tracking device to the foredeck’s fiberglass undersurface.
The officers sat below for another thirty minutes, and then stepped off the boat. They conferred with the officer in charge, who said, ‘‘Everything is in order.’’ He held up a form to Carlos. ‘‘Sign here.’’
‘‘Like hell I will. I’ll check first.’’
The officer scowled. ‘‘Get to it. We don’t have all day.’’
After ten minutes, Carlos signed the paper. ‘‘What a damn waste of time.’’
On the morning of their departure, Carlos sat with Ryan and Nicole in Adios’ cockpit.
‘‘Look,’’ Carlos said, ‘‘we’re going to be at sea for weeks. It would be better for us if we got along.’’
Ryan nodded. Nicole remained silent.
What’s the use? Carlos thought.
Adios slid through Santiago Harbor, and into the Caribbean. N
icole stood at the helm, following Carlos’ directions. When they entered open waters, the seas were 3 to 4 feet coming from the northeast, as was the wind, at 10 knots.
Carlos pointed upward. ‘‘Watch the arrow on top of the mast. We call that the Windex. Keep it and the boat pointed into the wind.’’
Nicole gazed up.
Carlos stood on deck next to the mast. He released the sail ties, loosened the vang, and used the mast-mounted winch to raise the mainsail. The sail was heavy, and he struggled as it moved halfway up. When the sail filled from the starboard side, Carlos was unable to move it further.
‘‘God damn it, Nicole. Keep the damn boat pointed into the wind.’’
‘‘Screw you, Carlos,’’ she said, leaving the helm and going below.
Carlos rushed to the helm. He took the wheel just as Ryan came up from the saloon.
Ryan stepped to the helm, and steered the boat into the wind.
Carlos turned to Ryan. ‘‘Keep looking up, damn it. Keep the arrow forward.’’
On his return to the mast, Carlos raised the mainsail to its full height. He applied the vang, returned to the cockpit, and moved behind the wheel.
‘‘I’m going to fall off downwind,’’ Carlos said. ‘‘When I do, you loosen the main sheet, and let the boom move out until I tell you to stop.’’
When they reached a compass heading of 250 degrees, Carlos engaged the autopilot, and then adjusted the vang, the traveler, and, last, unfurled the jib.
‘‘If you need to move the wheel, Ryan, don’t do it until you’ve disengaged the autopilot. If you force it, you could damage the pilot.’’
Ryan nodded.
‘‘If you screw up the pilot, we’re going to have to hand-steer the boat for 1200 miles. None of us will like that.’’
Nicole rushed up from below, looking pale and green. She went to the lifelines, stuck her head between them, and vomited.
Carlos turned away. ‘‘God damn it. Throw up downwind, so you don’t get it on me, or the deck.’’
This is going to be one hell of a trip, Carlos thought.
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