Jorge’s associate, Pablo Milan, had an apartment in Santiago de Cuba. Jorge was sipping tea at the kitchen table, while Pablo was on the phone. Jorge had come the evening after Adios’ departure.
Jorge turned to Pablo. ‘‘I must get out of Cuba well before they arrive in Miami. Once the Americans feel the wrath of Allah, I don’t think anyone, anywhere, will be moving around.’’
‘‘Take me with you,’’ Pablo said.
‘‘Our mission for Allah is over. For your protection, they cannot see me with you under any circumstances. Have no fear, my friend; I’ll help you arrange passage.’’
‘‘Soon, I hope,’’ Pablo said. ‘‘The eyes of the CDR are everywhere. They may not suspect anything, but we must assume that they’ve seen our movements.’’
Jorge stared at Pablo. ‘‘What about Dr. Baños? Can we trust him?’’
‘‘Baños is a lost soul. Allah have mercy on him. Once, he was a man of principle, but now, he’ll do anything for a few pesos, drinks, or the opportunity to harm the revolution.’’
‘‘He’d talk?’’
‘‘They won’t find him.’’
Jorge grasped Pablo’s shirt in his fist and pulled him close. ‘‘He’d talk?’’
‘‘Yes. And, if you’ll excuse me, Jorge, by the grace of Allah, he is, in his own way, as committed as are you.’’
‘‘Yet, you brought him to me?’’
‘‘I had no choice.’’
‘‘Can you arrange an accident for the fine doctor?’’
‘‘Yes, of course. For American dollars, everything’s for sale in Cuba.’’
‘‘Do it,’’ said Jorge with a smile. ‘‘I’ll leave as soon as I can arrange it. You can follow in a few days. We have opportunities for true believers like you.’’
‘‘Allah Akbar.’’
‘‘Peace be on you.’’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Carlos Mendoza sat below at the chart table, making a log entry and calculating their progress. They’d been motorsailing for about 12 hours on this second day at sea. Carlos knew they’d need to stop in Cancun or Cozumel for fuel. The trip was close to 800 miles, or about five days. If I can’t get the damned Americans to cooperate, this trip’s going to be a bitch.
Carlos stuck his head up through the companionway. ‘‘Are you okay, Ryan?’’
‘‘How much longer?’’ Ryan asked.
‘‘Nicole’s watch starts now. I’ll get her.’’
Ryan jumped up. ‘‘You must be kidding. Never go near her. I’ll do it.’’
‘‘Stupid gringos.’’
‘‘When will you get it? Nicole’s not one of your Cuban whores.’’
Carlos moved to the helm. ‘‘Wake her up and have her make breakfast. Tell her to fry a couple of eggs and grill some bread. Have her make coffee… strong coffee, for a change.’’
Ryan shook his head in disgust. ‘‘You don’t order a woman like Nicole to do anything. You ask politely.’’
‘‘Whatever.’’
Carlos pointed to the nautical chart. ‘‘Do you want to see our position? I’ll show you how to plot it from the GPS data.’’
Ryan ignored him and went forward to wake Nicole.
Carlos remained at the helm until Nicole appeared, and waved him below.
‘‘Take the helm, Ryan,’’ Carlos demanded.
Nicole poured coffee and placed the scrambled eggs on his plate with the pan-fried bread.
‘‘Gracias,’’ Carlos said.
Nicole watched as he ate. When Carlos took a sip of coffee, he made a face.
‘‘What’s wrong?’’
Carlos hadn’t really looked at her before. Her pale skin had developed a reddish glow from the sun, and the freckles around her nose were more obvious. A lock of blond hair was escaping from her Nike visor. Her lips were full and sensuous.
‘‘What’s the matter with you? The coffee’s too weak… next time, double the grounds.’’
‘‘Do it yourself, next time.’’
‘‘I feel sorry for American men.’’
She looked at him and shook her head in disgust.
‘‘Anyway, thank you again for making breakfast.’’
‘‘See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’’
‘‘I’ll take the helm, while you and Ryan have breakfast.’’
When Ryan came below, he studied Nicole. ‘‘He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?’’
‘‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’’
‘‘Don’t be too cavalier. Carlos is a dangerous man.’’
‘‘Carlos is a horny Cuban prick.’’
Carlos stuck his head through the companionway. He’d been listening. ‘‘What did you call me, bruja?’’
‘‘First I’m a whore, now I’m a witch.’’
When Carlos stepped into the saloon and approached Nicole, Ryan tried to block his way.
Carlos grabbed him by his shirt, slapped him three times across his face, and then brought Ryan’s face within two inches of his own. ‘‘I told you not to fuck with me.’’
Carlos dragged Ryan to the bulkhead, and then threw him to the saloon’s floor.
Ryan began to cry.
Carlos looked into Nicole’s eyes. ‘‘Look at him. Look at your protector. You’ve both made serious mistakes.’’
Two hours later, while Nicole cleaned the main saloon, Carlos came up from below. He raised his hands to Ryan in mock surrender. ‘‘An insult is literally a slap in the face. Do it to a Cuban man at your peril.’’
Ryan looked to him. ‘‘Nicole is a kid, and my sister. I’ll do anything to protect her, comprende?’’
Carlos remained silent and shook his head in disgust.
Ryan faced Carlos. ‘‘Must we stop in Cancun?’’
‘‘Or Cozumel, but yes. With this much motoring, we’ll need to fill up. If time wasn’t important, we could sail, but that would prolong our trip.’’
Ryan ran his fingers through his surfer-blond hair. ‘‘How many days in Cancun? How long is the trip from Cancun to Miami?’’
‘‘Why? Do you have a date?’’
‘‘No, we’re just meeting friends in Miami.’’
Carlos smiled. ‘‘A woman? What’s her name? Maybe she has a friend for me?’’
‘‘What’s the use,’’ Ryan said to himself.
‘‘It’s a joke,’’ Carlos said. ‘‘Just a joke.’’
‘‘You’ll let me know when we have a week to go?’’
‘‘No problemo.’’
What’s the big deal about a week? Carlos thought.
That night, Adios bucked and rolled, then heeled over hard to port, awakening Carlos. He checked his watch: 3 a.m. He stuck his head through the companionway. Whitecaps crashed against the hull, and wind howled through the rigging. Nicole sat frozen behind the wheel, watching its movements as the autopilot drove Adios on her predetermined course.
‘‘What’s the matter with you? Why didn’t you call me?’’
Nicole’s lips were glued together.
Carlos moved to the helm, disengaged the pilot, and started the engine. ‘‘We have too much sail up for these strong winds. We need to furl the jib. Let the mainsail out, and I’ll turn toward the wind. When the jib starts to shake, bring it in.’’
When Nicole let the mainsail move away from the midline, Adios flattened out. She pulled hard on the furler. ‘‘I can’t move the damn thing.’’
‘‘No, god damn it. I said wait until it starts to flop. You can’t furl the jib when it’s filled with wind.’’
In another moment, Carlos had the boat directly into the wind. As the jib flopped, Nicole furled it in.
‘‘We’re going to have to reef the mainsail,’’ Carlos said. ‘‘Get Ryan up. I need someone I can trust.’’
Nicole went below, and, moments later, she brought Ryan into the cockpit. He was rubbing his eyes.
‘‘With winds this big,’’ Carlos said, ‘‘we’re going to need to shorten the sails.’
’ He turned to Ryan. ‘‘You keep the boat heading directly into the wind and the swell, or I’m going to kick both your American asses. Too much sail in heavy winds can be a disaster.’’
Ryan’s hands blanched as he squeezed the wheel.
With Carlos’ years at sea, reefing wasn’t difficult. He put on his harness, attached himself to the jack lines, and then moved to the mast. He released the main halyard, and let the sail fall approximately ten feet to the first reef point. Next, he attached the hook to the sail’s steel ring, the first reefing point, and, again, tightened the halyard. The smaller sail went half way up the mast. Then Carlos went to the boom, placed ties around the excess sail, and then returned to the cockpit.
‘‘You pull this shit again, I’m throwing both of you overboard for the sharks.’’ Carlos pointed his long index finger at Ryan. ‘‘If you want to kill yourself, be my guest. But please don’t do it on my boat.’’
Ryan smiled internally. Kill myself? Yes, if you only knew.
In Cuba, Rafael Ochoa sat behind his desk at Havana’s DGI headquarters. ‘‘Where’s Fernando Baños?’’
‘‘He disappeared, Colonel,’’ His young assistant said.
‘‘Find him, god damn it. The Americans are getting a lot of chatter about another Al-Qaeda attack.’’
‘‘They’re always finding chatter, Colonel. They’re paranoid.’’
‘‘Talk to me when El Capitolio lies in ruin from a terrorist attack.’’
‘‘It’s their own fault, Colonel.’’
How many years before reality replaces dogma? Ochoa thought.
‘‘Find him. The last thing Cuba needs is a tie-in with Islamic Terrorists.’’
‘‘I’ll put out a full alert.’’
‘‘Where are our friends on the sailboat, Adios?’’
‘‘They’re about 19̊ 20 North, and 79̊ 45 West.’’
‘‘Maybe that makes sense to you. Where are they?’’
‘‘That puts them about 30 miles south of Cayman Brac.’’
At CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, Claire Cousins of the Office of Asian Pacific and Latin American Analysis had her Homeland Security counterpart on the line. ‘‘Do we have anything more on Ryan and Nicole Allen?’’
Herb Goldberg was a 21-year veteran CIA analyst on loan to Homeland Security. ‘‘Nothing, except that they’re the children of Nathaniel Allen. His death is a part of our history better left forgotten. What are they doing in Trinidad?’’
‘‘Don’t know. Nobody has seen them for about two weeks.’’
‘‘What’s their story?’’ Claire asked.
‘‘A deep cover agent at UC Berkeley places them with Whitney Brewer and the People’s Rights International. We know much about the PRI, and, until now, they’ve confined their efforts to political action. Let’s remember their father’s association with an Al-Qaeda asset.’’
‘‘I know the case. Do you believe the Al-Qaeda story?’’
‘‘In this world, and against this enemy, we can’t afford to be wrong, Claire.’’
‘‘We can’t lose track of those people,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Remember what happened the last time we lost track of suspected terrorists?’’
‘‘Put all our assets to work,’’ Herb said. ‘‘Trinidad’s not that big.’’
Chapter Twenty-Five
A week later, Claire Cousins was sitting with Herb Goldberg at CIA Headquarters. ‘‘I have a little more information on Ryan and Nicole.’’
‘‘Shoot.’’
‘‘The PRI’s Whitney Brewer tried to recruit them for their political action agenda, but Nicole turned them down flat. This is what’s disturbing: Ryan thought PRI too passive. He was seeking revenge for his father’s death.’’
Herb shook his head. ‘‘Two alienated All American kids might prove irresistible for terrorists.’’
‘‘Do you think it’s possible?’’
‘‘Alienation is a long way from terrorism, especially terrorism against your own country. In many ways, it’s unthinkable.’’
‘‘It’s time we reconsider what’s unthinkable.’’
‘‘Point taken,’’ Herb said.
Claire picked up a folder labeled ‘‘Top Secret’’. ‘‘We just got this in from Havana. They’ve had their eyes on a Cuban, Jorge Lopez, although we’re sure that’s not his real name. Last year, he traveled to Saudi Arabia, and met with someone we know well: Rashid Jalal. Him, we know a lot about.’’
‘‘Jalal was active in terrorist activities in Saudi Arabia until they made him a recruiter. Since then, he’s trained at least 20 suicide bombers. We learned quite a bit about him when one of his recruits lost heart at the last moment, and fell into our friends’ custody.’’
‘‘What kind of friends?’’
She smiled. ‘‘The kind that aren’t out to kill us.’’
‘‘That’s a liberal definition of friend.’’
‘‘Welcome to the Middle East, Herb.’’
Herb shook his head. ‘‘It takes a special kind of man to be willing to send others to die.’’
‘‘Anyway, he’s the real deal: intelligent, well-organized, persuasive, and fanatic in his hatred for Israel and America. He’s the most dangerous type of terrorist.’’
She opened a manila folder. ‘‘This is what we have on him.’’
They looked through a series of long distance surveillance photos, and a chart of anthropometric data, measurements of his height, weight, head size, etc.
‘‘Take a look at this,’’ said Claire, pulling a glossy black and white photo from the folder.
Herb gasped at the hooded terrorist who was holding a severed head. ‘‘My God.’’
‘‘That poor man worked as a clerk in the police office. The hooded man… that’s our friend, Rashid Jalal.’’
‘‘Are you sure?’’
‘‘The eyes and the computer measurements give us a 99 percent certainty. Look at the smirk through the mask slit. None of us will ever forget his mouth, a black pit of evil.’’
Herb frowned. ‘‘I’ve been in this business for many years, and I once considered the amoral psychopath to be the greatest perversion of the human spirit, the personification of evil, but these terrorists have made me reconsider. It’s bad enough to kill without a conscience, but it’s worse when murderers relish the slaughter of innocents with joyous celebration. What kind of murderers are we breeding today? Atrocities during and immediately afterward heated battle are easier to understand than the heartless executions of the modern Islamic terrorist.’’
‘‘You are at CIA, Herb. We have hundreds of smart people trying to answer that question. We traced Rashid to Berkeley, where he met with Ryan Allen. A month later, Ryan and Nicole flew to Trinidad.’’
‘‘Where are they now?’’
‘‘We’re not sure, except that they met with Carlos Mendoza, the skipper of the sailboat, Adios. The boat and our two Americans have disappeared. We must assume they’re with Mendoza.’’
‘‘What does the agency know about Mendoza?’’
‘‘He’s Cuban, and he’s been involved in drug running, transportation of illegals, and just about anything else that would earn him U.S. dollars. We have no information to suggest that he works with terrorists.’’
‘‘How can we find them?’’
Claire turned her eyes upward. ‘‘A small boat in the Caribbean? We’re good, but not that good. We’ll task our satellites and other surveillance assets to the job and hope for the best. They’ll make landfall somewhere.’’
In Cuba, Rafael Ochoa had his aide before him. ‘‘My patience is running short. Why haven’t you found Dr. Baños?’’
‘‘He’s disappeared, Colonel.’’
‘‘What about Jorge Lopez?’’
‘‘He’s gone, too.’’
Ochoa stood. ‘‘Something’s going on in Cuba, and I want to know what.’’
‘‘We’re questioning their closest associates, but nobody’s say
ing anything.’’
‘‘They don’t know, or they’re not saying?’’
The aide snapped to attention. ‘‘We’ll find out, Colonel. We’ll find out.’’
‘‘Good,’’ Ochoa paused. ‘‘Call Ricardo Muñoz, and have the CDR open their 8 million ears to find them. Maybe we can get some use out of those gossips, for once.’’
Aboard Adios, at 3:13 a.m., Carlos felt someone pulling on his arm.
He turned away, but the pulling continued. ‘‘Carlos,’’ Nicole said in a soft voice, ‘‘I see lights ahead of us. What should I do?’’
‘‘Are we on a collision course?’’
‘‘Collision course?’’
Oh, what’s the use? Carlos thought.
Every time Carlos went to sleep, the nervous pair would discover something requiring his attention. He was getting suspicious that the interruptions were on purpose.
Carlos rubbed his eyes, and then went to the sink to splash cold water on his face. When he came above, Nicole was back at the helm. He pulled the binoculars from its waterproof box, and looked at the light ahead. It was too far to distinguish anything.
He gestured toward Nicole. ‘‘Come here.’’
Nicole hesitated.
‘‘Come here. I won’t bite.’’ He handed her the binoculars. ‘‘Look at the light, and when you find it, read the compass bearing.’’
‘‘Bearing?’’
‘‘Look, god damn it. Do you see the numbers moving at the bottom?’’
‘‘No.’’
Carlos shook his head. He reached over her to grasp the binoculars, and tilted them so she’d see the compass reading.
‘‘Oh, I see it now.’’
Carlos held the instrument to Nicole’s eyes. ‘‘Remember the number. If the light ahead stays on the same number, call me. It means we’re on a collision course.’’
As Carlos was about to step back, he felt someone grasp his shoulders, and pull him away.
‘‘Get your disgusting hands off her,’’ Ryan shouted.
‘‘I was just trying…’’ He started to say when Ryan looked at his belt and his knife. As he reached for it, Carlos delivered a punch into the younger man’s abdomen.
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