Ryan lay, gasping, on the cockpit floor.
‘‘Pichacorta,’’ Carlos yelled. ‘‘I’m sick of your shit. I was showing her how to use the binoculars. One more time, and you’ll wind up below in irons.’’
When Ryan straightened up, his cold-blue eyes stared with hatred at the captain.
Carlos moved toward Ryan until their faces were only inches apart. ‘‘You may intimidate women and children with that stare, but to me, you’re nothing but a coward.’’
They motored for the rest of the night and most of the next day, but managed to sail as they approached Cancun. By 3 p.m., they were safely in Marina Hacienda del Mar.
Ryan hadn’t said a word to Carlos in two days.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Herb Goldberg was sitting at DHS with Claire. ‘‘We can’t keep meeting this way. People are going to talk.’’
‘‘You’re never too old for fantasy.’’ He paused. ‘‘I have something for you on your favorite terrorist.’’
‘‘Please tell me it’s Ayman al Zawahiri.’’
‘‘Sorry. The Keyhole satellite in its last pass over Guantanamo Bay picked up something of interest in Santiago de Cuba.’’
‘‘I’m listening.’’
‘‘In the International Marina, two analysts, both avid sailors, identified a Hans Christian yacht; we think it’s Adios.’’
‘‘You think, or you know?’’
‘‘We could read part of the name on the transom: five letters beginning with an ‘A’. That’s not bad from a couple of hundred miles out in space. When we contacted our asset in the CDR, he confirmed the presence of two Americans: a girl and her older brother.’’
‘‘Nicole and Ryan?’’
‘‘Not a bad bet.’’
‘‘What’s the status of Al-Qaeda in Cuba?’’ Herb asked.
‘‘That’s a good question. Our assets have suggested that the Cubans worked with Al-Qaeda to ship arms to Hugo Chavez, but that’s about it. The CDR has agents in Cuba’s Muslim community, but even they don’t know how many might be Al-Qaeda, or what they’re up to.’’
‘‘The last thing Castro wants is a tie-in with Al-Qaeda, especially any action of this group against the United States.’’
‘‘The neocons might love that,’’ Claire said. ‘‘It would give them the dream excuse they’ve been seeking to invade Cuba.’’
‘‘You’ll do what you can to find out what they’re doing?’’ Herb asked. ‘‘I can’t wait until we talk again.’’
‘‘Of course,’’ Claire cooed. ‘‘Who am I to discourage your fantasies?’’
In Cuba, Jorge and Pablo moved into the countryside when they heard that the DGI was looking for them. They stayed with Pablo’s brother in Palma Soriano, about 16 miles north of Santiago de Cuba.
‘‘My brother balked at first,’’ Pablo said. ‘‘The CDR is everywhere. If they catch us here, we’ll go to prison.’’
‘‘We’ll remain inside and won’t go out until we leave for the airport,’’ Jorge said. ‘‘Don’t forget: you owe me.’’
After a week, Jorge was ready. ‘‘My flight leaves tomorrow evening for London.’’
‘‘What about me?’’ Pablo asked.
‘‘You’ll leave in three days. I’ve arranged everything.’’
Jorge stood before the bathroom mirror with scissors, shaving cream, and a razor. He stared at himself, unable to remember the last time he saw his beardless face. He recalled the words of the Prophet: ‘‘Do the opposite of what the pagans do: keep the beard, and keep the moustache short.’’
‘‘Allah will understand,’’ he said as he grasped a handful of black hair, and cut. He chopped away until all that remained was stubble. Then he shaved clean with difficulty, cutting himself three times.
Jorge looked at the chalky face in the mirror. ‘‘Praise be to Allah.’’
Jorge came to Pablo. ‘‘Where can I email something?’’
‘‘Will it be a large amount of information?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Use the computer down the hall,’’ Pablo said. ‘‘We have a dedicated phone line.’’
Before Jorge left Havana, he had called Pakistan, and they gave him an email encryption key. Only those on the receiving end, with a matching private key, could decode the message.
He typed, ‘‘Ryan and Nicole left May 1st on the sailboat, Adios. With a stopover in Cancun, I anticipate their arrival in the Miami area around June 1st. Your techniques for bypassing the Coast Guard and immigration have proven effective in the past, and, Allah willing, they will be again, this time. The curse of Allah will fall upon the infidels.’’
Jorge followed the Al-Qaeda technician’s specific instructions. He first ran the encryption program, and, in two minutes, the screen told him that the encryption was complete. He smiled as he clicked the ‘‘Send’’ button, carrying the message off into cyberspace.
Early that evening, Pablo’s friends met Jorge out of town, and drove him to Antonio Maceo Airport. His new false passport was perfect, and he checked through without difficulty as he had only a carry-on bag containing nothing suspicious.
While he waited in the departure lounge, Jorge said his prayers in silence. When they called his flight, he joined the boarding queue. As he approached the attendant taking boarding passes, three armed police officers were studying those who were departing.
They’ll never recognize me, he thought.
Suddenly, his eyes met with those of a middle-aged man, and he froze. ‘‘It’s him,’’ cried Ricardo Munoz, pointing his finger directly at Jorge. ‘‘It’s him! I’ll never forget those eyes. It’s Jorge.’’
Jorge turned to look for an escape route, but three more police officers were closing in from behind.
‘‘Jorge Lopez,’’ The officer in charge said.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Jorge said. ‘‘You’ve made a mistake.’’ He handed them his papers.
The officer took Jorge’s papers, studied them, and placed them in his pocket. He then nodded to his men. ‘‘An excellent counterfeit, Señor Lopez. Take him into custody.’’
An officer reached for Jorge, but he twisted free, leaped over a bank of seats, and charged for the departure door, where he ran into an enormous policeman, and bounced to the floor. Jorge looked up at the burly giant, who smiled as he stepped on Jorge’s hand.
They grabbed Jorge and placed him in handcuffs.
As they led him out, Ricardo stood before Jorge, and smiled. ‘‘I’m good with faces. I’d never forget dead eyes like yours, Señor.’’
Minutes later, Ochoa’s aide rushed into the office. ‘‘We caught Jorge Lopez, Colonel.’’
‘‘Where?’’
‘‘He tried to board a flight from Antonio Maceo to London. He’d shaved, and carried a false passport. What should we do with him?’’
‘‘Bring him to Havana as soon as possible.’’
They flew Jorge to Havana, and then drove him 30 minutes east. The police car slowed as it exited the heavy forest. The Cubans had stripped away the trees, leaving the land barren for miles around the huge prison complex with white concrete walls.
The steel gates swung open slowly, and the car drove to the main building, where a thin, well-dressed, middle-aged man stood with two enormous, uniformed guards. The police dragged Jorge before them.
The man studied Jorge with unblinking eyes. ‘‘Welcome to Combinado Del Este, Cuba’s largest prison, Señor Lopez. I’m sure you’ll come to appreciate our accommodations.’’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Carlos couldn’t wait to get away from Adios. He’d sailed with foulmouthed degenerates, murderers, and even amoral terrorists who’d smile as they slaughtered women and children, but he found Nicole unnerving, and Ryan particularly obnoxious. They oozed privilege so characteristic of ignorant and intolerant Americans.
The harbormaster at Marina Hacienda del Mar, an old friend, arranged for an agent to check them into Mexico whil
e Carlos headed for the nearest cantina.
After several hours, Carlos found himself in the company of a beautiful young woman who was wearing a short skirt and a tight tank top. She had offered him services he couldn’t refuse. They continued to drink until 2 a.m. and then they staggered back to the marina.
They were laughing hysterically as he offered her his hand to board Adios. ‘‘Here, let me help you, señorita.’’
When she extended her hand, Carlos pulled, and both fell back into the cockpit, laughing.
Ryan stuck his head up through the companionway. ‘‘What’s going on, here?’’
Carlos ignored him, grabbed the woman’s hand, and started down into the boat, pushing Ryan away. When they reached the main saloon, Carlos pointed the woman to his compartment. ‘‘Go ahead. I’ll be right there.’’
Ryan stared at Carlos. ‘‘Nicole’s here. Get that whore off this boat.’’
‘‘This is my boat. If you don’t like it, then get the fuck off.’’
Ryan reached for his belt, which was lying on the sofa. He grabbed it and tried to remove his knife from its sheath. Carlos twisted Ryan’s wrist violently until the knife dropped. He grabbed Ryan by his shirt, and slapped him across the face as the young man writhed in his grasp. When Ryan stopped resisting, Carlos tossed him into the cockpit, and closed and locked the hatchway.
The next morning, Carlos found the boat open, and Ryan and Nicole were gone.
Good riddance, he thought.
Carlos paid the woman, and kissed her. ‘‘You’ll be there tonight?’’
‘‘I’ll wait for you, querido.’’
Carlos brushed his teeth and bathed. He checked the NOAA weather, and then walked toward the harbormaster. Ryan and Nicole sat on a bench in front of the marina’s office.
Nicole looked up as he approached. ‘‘When can we leave, Señor?’’
‘‘The weather report says big seas and winds for the next two to three days. We can’t depart until it settles down.’’
Nicole looked up. ‘‘When we leave, Captain, how long will it take to get us to Miami?’’
‘‘Three to four days at most.’’
Carlos stared at Ryan, who kept his eyes on the dock. ‘‘You two might as well enjoy yourselves, if you can. I certainly will.’’
Carlos did not return to Adios for two nights. Each day had been overcast, rainy, and windy. Nicole and Ryan sat in the main saloon after dinner. Few words passed between them.
Ryan sipped his tea and stared at her. ‘‘If we leave in one or two days, it’s time to make up the virus, and take it.’’
‘‘Do you know what it is?’’
‘‘Of course I know. I got it from a friend who works in the molecular biology lab at UC Berkeley.’’
‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘It’s a modified Norwalk virus, similar to the organism that caused diarrhea on cruise ships, only milder.’’
‘‘What happened to the virus that came from Jorge Lopez?’’
‘‘I got rid of it.’’
‘‘How?’’
‘‘Don’t cross-examine me. I told you, it’s gone.’’
Nicole steadied herself and fixed her gaze on Ryan. ‘‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’’
Ryan brought out two vials, the needle, and the syringe. He inserted the needle into the fluid vial, and filled the syringe with clear fluid. He pulled off the aluminum cap on the white powder bottle, and injected the liquid. Ryan shook the bottle, now filled with a hazy fluid, and placed it on the table between them.
Nicole stared at the bottle. ‘‘How will they know what this is, other than a random viral epidemic?’’
‘‘They’ll know, because we’ll tell them. I’ve prepared our manifesto.’’
When Nicole looked at Ryan, she saw the certainty of the true believer. ‘‘They’ll know that this was a warning?’’
‘‘Of course.’’
‘‘I don’t see how they’ll change their behavior. And how will we know if they do?’’
‘‘To tell the truth, I don’t give a damn. They’ll go nuts and employ even more restrictions on our civil rights. Ultimately, people will get sick of it, and, as they should, blame the government.’’
Nicole’s eyes filled with tears. ‘‘I love you, and, believe me, I understand your anger, but after we’re done, I’m out. I’ve had enough.’’
‘‘You disappoint me, Nicole.’’
‘‘I disappoint myself. I’ll live with it, and so will you.’’
Ryan inserted the needle into the turbid fluid, filling the syringe. He opened his mouth, and squirted half under his tongue. When he handed Nicole the syringe, she hesitated for a moment, then looked up, and injected the fluid into her mouth. It tasted bitter. She gagged, choked, and, finally, swallowed.
‘‘It’s bitter,’’ Nicole said.
‘‘And so was Dad’s death.’’
In Havana, Rafael Ochoa stood at his desk, addressing his aide. ‘‘Where are they?’’
‘‘The GPS transmitter places them in Cancun. They haven’t moved in days.’’
‘‘Do we have agents there?’’
‘‘Yes. They’re watching and listening.’’
‘‘What about Jorge?’’
‘‘He’ll talk. Sooner or later, they all talk.’’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
While the weather reports weren’t optimal, and minor tropical waves would be moving through the area, Carlos decided that it was time to sail for Miami.
I can’t get away from these Americans soon enough. If the passage turns out to be a little rough, so much the better.
When Carlos pulled out of the Hacienda del Mar Marina, they entered the smooth blue waters of the Straits of Yucatan. The winds blew from the southeast at 15 knots.
‘‘Keep your eye on the autopilot,’’ said Carlos to the still-taciturn Ryan. ‘‘This area has a powerful northerly-moving current. We’ll need to keep Adios pointed more to the south to compensate.’’
Ryan looked away, refusing to acknowledge Carlos.
After four hours with the sails flopping around, a boat speed of 0 to 2 knots, and their drift to the north, Carlos turned on the engine. He kept the sails up to stabilize the boat’s movements.
They continued motoring, and after Nicole and Ryan had their dinner, Carlos went below to eat his. He tried to soothe his anger with generous helpings of Jose Cuervo Tequila Gold.
Carlos was feeling warm and friendly when he came back into the cockpit. Nicole stood at the helm, and eyed him with suspicion as he came closer.
‘‘Why don’t you take off your visor so I can get a good look at your lovely hair, Señorita?’’ Carlos said, slurring his words.
Nicole blanched and tried to move away, but he blocked her.
When Carlos reached for her visor, she pulled away. ‘‘Keep your damn hands off.’’
‘‘My boat,’’ he said. ‘‘My rules.’’
When she tried to move around the starboard side of the wheel, her leg collided with the throttle handle. The engine raced, and the boat pushed ahead.
‘‘Don’t do that, god damn it!’’ Carlos yelled.
Ryan came up from below. ‘‘What’s going on, here?’’
Nicole pointed at Carlos. ‘‘This guy won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.’’
Suddenly, the sheets creaked as the increasing winds filled the sails. Carlos turned to adjust the mainsheet, and let out the jib.
When Carlos turned back to the cockpit, light flickered from Ryan’s knife, and he reacted a moment too late as it pierced his left side with unbearable pain.
‘‘No.’’ Nicole cried.
Carlos pulled his own knife, and, in an arching motion, caught the right side of Ryan’s neck. The wound gushed with blood, but it was superficial, and didn’t dissuade his attacker.
When Ryan circled to the left, Carlos had difficulty matching the movement as he grunted with pain. Blood flowed from Carlos’s side,
and covered the cockpit floor. Carlos tried to stem the flow with his left hand, while his right held the knife. A sudden gust sent Adios over on her port side, tossing Carlos directly at Ryan.
As Carlos reflexively extended his arm to break his fall, Ryan thrust the knife deep into the captain’s abdomen. Ryan smiled as he twisted the blade, and lifted it, grunting with pleasure. Suddenly, Carlos’ intestines spilled into the cockpit as he straightened up in the last throes of his life, and then collapsed.
Nicole screamed, and then vomited over the lifeline.
As Carlos lay dead, Ryan studied the lifeless body, and delivered a kick to the dead man’s head. ‘‘Good riddance.’’
Nicole turned away from the lifelines, but when she saw liters of blood running into the cockpit scuppers, she paled, and, again, vomited.
Ryan grabbed Carlos under the arms, and tried to pull him on deck. ‘‘Help me.’’
He dropped the lifeline gate, and, with Nicole’s help, threw Carlos overboard. His entrails caught on the rails, and the boat dragged him through the water. Ryan cut them free, and they watched as the captain’s body bobbed, and then sank.
Ryan grabbed the bucket, attached a rope, and then lowered it into the water. They flushed the blood from the cockpit, their feet, and their sandals.
Nicole sat, head lowered, in the cockpit. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She looked up at Ryan. ‘‘What’s going to happen to us? What are we to do?’’
Ryan hesitated, and then looked around. The waves were 15 feet, with spray coming off their tops. The boat lurched uncontrollably as he studied the instruments, sails, lines, and the wheel. He suddenly recognized an undeniable truth: they were at sea alone. They knew little about sailing, and even less about navigation.
‘‘We’ll continue as we are, and when we get close to Florida, we can radio for help. We’re Americans, and the Coast Guard will come to our aid.’’
Nicole looked around, and then fell to her knees, sobbing.
Ryan stared ahead impassively.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Deadly Passage Page 12