Deadly Passage

by Lawrence Gold

  Back in Havana, Rafael Ochoa turned to his aide. ‘‘I’m going to Combinado Del Este Prison to deal with Jorge Lopez. Do we have any new information about the Americans?’’

  ‘‘They departed from Cancún. Our agents think they’re headed for Miami.’’

  ‘‘Sneaking into Miami by sailboat isn’t easy. Do we have any idea of their mission, yet?’’

  ‘‘Nothing.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps Jorge will enlighten us.’’

  When he reached the prison, the colonel looked through the one-way mirror at Jorge. They had him strapped, naked, to a heavy oak chair. The Cuban’s body was swollen and bruised. Blood and mucous dripped from his nose.

  Ochoa turned to the interrogator. ‘‘How long have you been at it?’’

  The warden shook his head. ‘‘He hasn’t slept in four days, and despite our usually persuasive techniques, he’s said nothing. He’s a tough one, Colonel. The scars on his body and his deformed hands say that he’s been tortured before.’’

  Ochoa watched as Jorge’s lips moved continuously.

  ‘‘What’s he doing?’’

  ‘‘He’s praying, or reciting the Koran, we’re not sure. To tell you the truth, Colonel, I don’t think we’ll get anything from him. He’s a true believer, a fanatic, crazy, or a combination of all three. I think he’ll die, rather than talk.’’

  Even from a Cuban prison, Jorge’s plans for Dr. Fernando Baños were underway.

  Baños had traveled to Havana, following the meeting with the Americans, where he sought the crowded city’s anonymity. Today, he had left his friend’s apartment for the first time in a week. After shopping at a local market, he approached the apartment house carrying two grocery-filled paper bags. He opened the door to the nearly darkened lobby that had only a small, dim light bulb in the corner.

  When he stepped inside, a soft voice said, ‘‘Dr. Baños?’’

  Fernando trembled and started sweating, but he controlled himself and didn’t answer.

  ‘‘Dr. Baños, I come from Jorge Lopez, our mutual friend.’’

  Baños sighed with relief. ‘‘Tell him I haven’t talked with anybody, and I never will.’’

  The small man wearing a dark coat moved under the light. He smiled and raised the barrel of the silenced pistol.

  ‘‘Please… no,’’ The doctor pleaded as the first muffled gunshot pierced the center of his chest. The man stepped over Baños, smiled, and fired another round directly into the doctor’s head.

  With Baños eliminated, and with and Jorge in jail, Pablo Milan was packing his few belongings for the trip to the airport. He’d given his friends a package for the diplomatic pouch, scheduled to leave Cuba the next day. He’d heard nothing since Adios sailed from Santiago de Cuba. The thought of the Americans and what they were about to do sent chills through his body.

  Pablo decided to nap until his friends returned to take him to the airport. He didn’t know how long he had been asleep when the door shattered, and four uniformed men burst through.

  ‘‘Pablo Milan, you’re under arrest,’’ Said the officer in charge.

  ‘‘What for? I’m innocent. You can’t prove I did anything wrong.’’

  ‘‘Your friends are waiting for you outside.’’

  ‘‘What friends?’’

  The officer smiled. ‘‘How quickly friendship dies.’’

  They placed Jorge in handcuffs, and walked him to the waiting van. Behind the black, metal-barred windows were his friends.

  The policemen opened the door for Pablo, but before he could enter, the officer in charge held up two pages. ‘‘These emails came from your computer, I believe.’’

  Chapter Thirty

  Ryan sat in Adios’ cockpit as the sun broke over the horizon. He looked at the instruments, showing a boat speed of 7 knots. The mainsail didn’t look right, and the large sail in front that Carlos had called the jib slapped back and forth.

  In the bright morning light, red streaks of blood covered the cockpit and the deck.

  ‘‘Nicole, get up here, and get rid of all this blood.’’

  When she stuck her head through the companionway, her eyes were red, and her cheeks were wet with tears.

  Ryan pointed. ‘‘Clean it up.’’

  ‘‘Clean it up, yourself. I don’t feel well, Ryan. I think I’m getting sick.’’

  ‘‘It’s too early for the virus. We shouldn’t have symptoms for another four or five days.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. I feel like I’m going to throw up.’’

  ‘‘Clean the damn boat. If you throw up, do it over the side.’’

  ‘‘Maybe we should call for help.’’

  ‘‘Are you crazy? We’re too close to Cuba. Do you want them to take us back?’’

  ‘‘Would that be so bad? At least they would give us medicine to cure this disease.’’

  ‘‘Don’t be ridiculous,’’ Ryan shouted. ‘‘You don’t need a cure. It’s benign, as I told you. We’ve been given a great opportunity, and we’re not going to blow it, now.’’

  Nicole wiped her eyes. ‘‘Nothing has happened as planned. Now we’ll die in the middle of the ocean for nothing. I’m too young to die.’’

  Ryan felt his rage building, but he contained it. ‘‘You’re being hysterical. We each got into this for our own and our shared reasons. Don’t wimp out, now.’’

  Nicole turned away, drew water from the sea, and washed it over the deck and cockpit. She looked at the floor of the cockpit, then lay back on the cushions and fell asleep.

  At 10 a.m., the engine shuddered. Ryan looked over the transom. Smoke, but no water, flowed from the exhaust pipe. He was sure that water should be coming from the exhaust, as well. The engine temperature gauge was in the hot zone as the red light came on, and the engine stopped.

  ‘‘What’s wrong?’’ Nicole asked.

  ‘‘I don’t know. I’ll find out.’’

  When Ryan pulled open the engine compartment door, intense heat blanketed his face. The coolant container had overflowed, and greenish fluid bubbled and steamed against the engine.

  ‘‘The engine got too hot,’’ he said.

  ‘‘What do we do?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. I’m an artist, not a mechanic. Don’t give me trouble. Fix it, yourself.’’

  ‘‘Maybe we can try it again later.’’

  They tried two hours later, and the engine overheated at once.

  Ryan remained tight-lipped with frustration.

  Nicole knew better than to say anything.

  At 3 p.m., the clouds darkened. Winds and seas started to build. After 50 minutes, the wind gusts had increased to 20 knots, and the waves to 5 or 6 feet.

  Nicole pointed to the sails. ‘‘Carlos made them smaller, or took them down, when it got too windy.’’

  Ryan nodded. ‘‘Yes. You hold the wheel while I take them down.’’

  He tried first to furl in the jib, but it was so full of wind that he couldn’t budge it, even with the winch. Adios rocked hard from port to starboard, back and forth, while the mainsail remained full and fixed in the midline of the boat. When he released the main halyard from the mast winch, the sail hesitated, and then fell a few feet as the wind shifted. Suddenly, Ryan couldn’t raise or lower the mainsail as the halyard jumped from the pulley atop the mast, and jammed.

  ‘‘Carlos said that we needed to lower the mainsail in the face of increasing winds, or we’re in for disaster.’’ She stared at Ryan. ‘‘Someone young and strong needs to go up the mast to reposition the halyard.’’

  Ryan looked up at the swinging mast. ‘‘You’re nuts if you think I’m going up there.’’

  The winds and seas increased. Nicole held onto the cockpit rails as Adios rolled violently side to side. When she glanced at the wind speed indicator, it read a solid 50 knots with gusts up to 70.

  The bow rose and fell, and green water moved over it, flooding the deck. The whole boat writhed and shifted position as a large wave sudd
enly came over the stern, and crashed into the cockpit. Nicole and Ryan coughed and gasped for air.

  ‘‘We can’t stay up here,’’ Ryan said. ‘‘We’ll get washed overboard.’’

  As they were about to go below, the jib ripped in half, then shattered, leaving the sheets snapping violently against the deck. One sheet hit the dodger, and bent its stainless steel frame.

  ‘‘Watch out,’’ Ryan shouted. ‘‘That rope could kill you.’’

  Below, they lay in their berths, but soon, they had to tie themselves in place, as the boat rocked, rolled, and seemed to rise into the air, suspended in time and space, until it crashed back into the sea.

  They prayed for the storm to stop.

  Hours passed. The clock in the main saloon crept to the 7 p.m. mark, only three hours into the storm.

  How long could it last?

  Ryan slid open the companionway cover barely enough to push his head through. The little light remaining showed towering waves reaching for the tiny boat with giant white claws. The black sky exploded in white as a lightning bolt struck the sea no more than twenty yards away. The thunder was instantaneous, and deafening. The bolts probed the surrounding sea for their target, striking within just feet of Adios, heavenly arrows drawn against His enemies.

  Ryan, a confirmed atheist, sought a prayer, but couldn’t remember one.

  He closed his eyes and tried to calm his fears.

  The wind howled through the rigging, and the torn sail shuddered again and again as gusts from all directions filled and released it from the gale’s shocking power. Without warning, the boat crashed fully to its side. Ryan counted until, after thirty seconds, the sea released its grasp on its prey, and the boat righted itself.

  Somehow, Nicole, in the midst of the maelstrom, had managed to fall asleep, but an intense piercing crack, and a crash of something against the deck and hull, awakened her. ‘‘What was that?’’

  The boat’s motion was suddenly less violent, but soon they heard something banging against the hull.

  Ryan slid open the companionway, and spun away from the intense rain and wind gusts. He turned toward the bow, and gasped. The mast was gone. He took another step higher. The shredded stainless rigging hung off the port side. On the starboard side, the lifelines were gone. His eyes followed the halyards and sheets, normally attached to the mast, and saw them enter the water. He looked aft. The mast floated up and down in the water as the boat dragged it behind. When the boat speed dropped from a large bow wave, the bottom of the mast kept going, and rammed into Adios’ stern with a sickening crunch. Each time the boat slowed, the mast kept moving by its own inertia, and rammed them.

  Ryan turned to Nicole. ‘‘It’s going to put a hole in the boat, and then we’ll sink. I have to cut it free.’’

  Nicole placed her hands over her face.

  ‘‘Where’s the toolbox?’’ He shouted.

  She pointed to a compartment on the starboard side, and he dragged out the large red box. He lifted the upper tray, and then found what he was looking for: a bolt cutter.

  Ryan crawled back on deck. He tied a rope around his waist, and attached it to the cockpit rails, and then he moved to the starboard side, where he tried to cut the rigging. Some parts were easy, but the stainless steel braided wire was impossible. After 45 minutes, he managed to chew one free, but when he went to work on another, the cutter slipped from his hands, and fell into the sea.

  Cursing everything and everyone, Ryan went below. ‘‘That’s it. We’re screwed.’’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Rafael Ochoa had the Chief of Police on the line. ‘‘What do you mean, ‘Baños is dead’? I wanted him alive.’’

  ‘‘Lo siento mucho, I’m sorry, but someone got to him before we did. It was professional, colonel. Two hits with a small caliber weapon: one to the chest, the other to the head.’’

  ‘‘Did you find anything in his room?’’

  ‘‘No, but we’ve boxed up what was there, and it’s on its way to you.’’

  When he hung up, Ochoa’s aide entered. ‘‘Anything new with Jorge?’’

  ‘‘He’s not talking, Colonel. If they go too far, he may never talk again.’’

  ‘‘We don’t know what’s going on,’’ Ochoa said. ‘‘When you put it all together, an Islamic sympathizer, a possible Cuban contact, covert meetings, Jorge’s secrets, and now the assassination of a key witness, it stinks of Al-Qaeda. The only thing that doesn’t fit are the Americans, Ryan and Nicole. They must be involved, somehow.’’

  ‘‘Homeland Security has not changed its alert level; it’s still yellow. They can’t know anything.’’

  ‘‘They have a history, as you’ll recall, of knowing things too late. We don’t want to follow their example.’’

  The aide jumped as the cell phone vibrated on his belt. ‘‘If you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I’ll take this outside.’’

  ‘‘No, go ahead.’’

  As the aide listened, his eyes widened. He turned to Ochoa. ‘‘They’ve captured Pedro Milan and his associates in Palma Soriano. In addition, they found encrypted emails.’’

  ‘‘To whom?

  ‘‘We don’t know.’’

  ‘‘I want Milan and the email in my office this afternoon.’’

  ‘‘I’ll send a helicopter. They should be here by 4.’’

  ‘‘One thing more: where is the sailboat, Adios?’’

  ‘‘We think it’s about a hundred miles off the western tip of Cuba.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean, ‘you think’?’’

  ‘‘The boat hadn’t changed position in thirty-six hours, and then we lost its signal.’’

  Ochoa checked his watch. ‘‘How soon can we get out to its last position?’’

  ‘‘I’ll send Faul II, our Fast Patrol Craft. They should arrive in that area in five or six hours.’’

  At DHS, Herb Goldberg turned to Claire Cousins. ‘‘Tell me you have something for me.’’

  Claire Cousins sighed. ‘‘Do you really want to share in our confusion, or can’t you wait until we discover what’s going on?’’

  ‘‘Let it all hang out, Baby. Remember, until I went over to DHS, I was you.’’

  ‘‘Me. Never. You’re a throwback to the 80s.’’

  ‘‘I was a damned good analyst.’’

  ‘‘I know… people are still talking about you around here.’’

  ‘‘Well, in spite of that, what do you have?’’

  ‘‘Something’s happening in Cuba. Jorge Lopez is in a Cuban prison outside Havana. The CDR’s on alert for a Dr. Baños, and for Pablo Milan.’’

  ‘‘What do we have on them?’’

  ‘‘Baños is a drunk. Apolitical, as far as we know. We have nothing on Milan.’’

  ‘‘Why is Lopez in prison?’’

  ‘‘They caught him at the airport trying to leave the country on a forged passport.’’

  ‘‘He’s not in prison for a passport problem.’’

  ‘‘Tell me something I don’t know,’’ Claire said. ‘‘They want something from the man.’’

  ‘‘What about Adios?’’

  ‘‘We played snooper with two Cuban agents in Cancún who seemed equally interested in the Americans on board, and their destination. I think they learned about as much as we did: nothing. Adios departed on May 10, destination unknown.’’

  ‘‘Anything unusual in the Middle East?’’

  ‘‘You’ve been away too long, Herb. Every day brings something new.’’

  ‘‘Don’t be obtuse, Claire. You know exactly what I mean.’’

  Claire smiled seductively. ‘‘Well, Herb, now you’re really going to have trouble getting into my pants.’’

  He laughed. ‘‘I can barely get into my own pants. You should have made that offer 20 years ago.’’

  ‘‘When I was 8 years old.’’

  He laughed again. ‘‘Now you know why they talk about me.’’

  ‘‘In the background craziness,
the Syrians are on higher alert.’’

  ‘‘What’s going on?’’

  ‘‘Unrest in the Middle East. What else is new? Specifically, we don’t have a clue.’’

  ‘‘We live in an age of uncertainty,’’ Herb said. ‘‘That’s the nature of homeland security with Al-Qaeda cells around the world. Find Adios, and let’s put that piece of the puzzle in its place.’’

  ‘‘As we speak, we’ve tasked our satellites to their new locations, and the USCG has increased its Caribbean flyovers.’’

  ‘‘I’m too old for surprises, Claire. Let’s find out what the hell this is all about.’’

  ‘‘Our hi-tech surveillance equipment is going full blast. I’ve asked them to focus on communications to and from Cuba. I’ll call you the minute we know something.’’

  In Waziristan, Kamal Yamin worked every day in his laboratory. While at first he felt exhilarated at the prospects for revenge, over time, he became depressed and withdrawn.

  Senior Al-Qaeda officials visited the lab, brimming with enthusiasm, and pleading for biological weapons that they could put to use at once.

  ‘‘We can gear up to produce large quantities of anthrax and botulinum toxin,’’ Kamal said, ‘‘But we’d require production facilities large enough to attract attention.’’

  ‘‘Can’t you provide us with small amounts of Anthrax?’’ Asked one official. ‘‘Even the small attacks in America led to panic and massive disruptions. We can’t ever let the Americans feel safe.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I’ll go to work on it,’’ Kamal said with an enthusiasm he did not feel.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Nicole and Ryan remained tied in their berths as Adios rolled and pitched in the heavy seas. Huge waves had knocked them down at least four times, but without the weight and movement of the mast, the boat immediately righted itself.

  Nicole clutched herself. ‘‘How much more can this boat take?’’

  ‘‘A lot, I think, now that the mast is gone.’’

  By 4 a.m., the storm had moved on.

  They fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

  The morning sky was clear blue, and the sun shone brightly on the now-glassy seas. Except for the damage to Adios, the storm’s passage was imperceptible.