Someone was coming around the house and he knew he was out of time. With the board clutched under on arm and a paddle in the other, he went for the door. A sideways glance confirmed the man had not reached the back. He made a beeline for the dock and jumped with the board glued to his belly and the paddle by his side. The board hit the water, landing perfectly underneath him and planed over the water. He quickly stood and started paddling. A voice yelled for him to stop, but there was no threat behind it and he thought he was far enough away there was a chance the officer thought he hadn’t heard it. With long and deceivingly powerful strokes, so it appeared to an onlooker he was out for a leisurely paddle, he pulled the board forward over the water and left the cover of the canal leading to Boot Key Harbor.
The wind was in his face when he reached open water and he struggled to make headway, but with the police behind him, there was only one place to go and that was forward. He fought to make every stroke count as he made his way into the harbor, the tip of the board slamming each wave as he moved toward the gas docks along the north shore. He stepped forward on the board to sink the nose into the swells and gained a bit of speed. Grounding, although possible in the tidal area, was not a concern with the shallow draft board, and he paddled onto the flats by Hog Key. He was more worried the police had recognized him and called in backup than he was of getting stuck in the backwater. It would be hard, but he could walk out of the muck. He wasn’t so sure he could walk away from the police. He paddled into the skinny water on the side of the channel, moving his weight even further forward to bring the fin almost out of the water, using sweeping strokes to steer without the aid of the rudder. Even with the fin only inches in the water, it brushed bottom several times, but the board only drew a few inches and he had to use the paddle to pole himself several times. He moved back on the board when muddy bottom finally turned to sand and gained some depth, then made his way around Knight Key and crossed under the first span of the Seven Mile Bridge.
The paddling was easier with the wind at his back and he stroked to deeper water after checking he wasn’t being followed. The Fanny Keys blew by on his right and he started to enjoy the downwind paddle. He concentrated on the shoreline as the wind helped push him by the numerous canals and small lagoons along the coast, not sure which one led to Trufante’s. The airport was the best landmark to find the narrow canal and as he passed between Rachel Key and the point of land projecting from the mainland, he could see the runway ahead.
The sound of a siren startled him. He almost lost his balance and fell from the board, and for the first time he was thankful he had taken the wider board. He looked towards the bay, saw a Zodiac police boat stopping a kayak and pulled harder, hoping the report was wrong and they were looking for a kayak, not a SUP. Two canals lay ahead and he went for the far one, glancing over his shoulder at the police boat and turned. The officers were finished with the kayaker and had spotted him. Mac froze for a second as the siren blared. He knew they wanted him.
The only thing he could do was to paddle harder. He doubled his stroke rate, putting everything he had into it, not caring that it looked like he was fleeing. The Zodiac entered the canal and the siren blared again, but he was in a shallow channel barely wide enough for the boat, with the refuge of the mangroves just ahead. He pushed forward, knowing the police boat would have to slow or risk fouling their propeller in the gnarly root system of the trees, and headed straight into a gap in the brush. The fin snagged a root and he was launched forward, saving himself from the water only by grabbing an overhead branch and swinging to what looked like dry land.
He chanced a look back at the police boat, idling by, both men searching the shoreline. Unreachable in the brush, he pulled the board towards him, stashed it by the trunk of a lignum vitae tree, and ran to an austere commercial building in a small clearing. After clearing the brush he made an all-out sprint towards it. He knew the police would be searching there any minute. He pulled the phone from his pocket, flipped it open and hit the button Alicia had programmed in for her cell phone.
She answered on the first ring, annoyed that he wasn’t at Trufante’s waiting for her. He pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the time. She was right; he was fifteen minutes late.
“Scold me later. Right now get me out of here,” he said, “and you better take Trufante too. The police are after me and somehow he’ll stumble into them if he’s around. The boy’s just got that kind of luck.” He pulled the phone away and closed the cover in the middle of her sentence. The last thing he needed right now was a self-righteous rant from a desk agent; he needed her to concentrate on the task at hand.
The phone rang a minute later and he quickly flipped the lid to stop the sound, fumbling with the volume button. “Tell me where to go,” he whispered, hoping his calmness permeated the line.
“You are just around the corner. Walk out to Aviation Boulevard and turn left at the first driveway. We will be waiting.” She hung up.
Mac started walking, wondering at the same time how she knew where he was. He was impressed that after her initial rant, she had calmed down and handled the situation. He looked both ways, half-expecting a police car to appear when he crossed Aviation, and ran across the clearing to the building on the corner.
He stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Finally her car approached and he got in. “What happened?”
“Couldn’t find my damn shoes,” Trufante grumbled from the back, still buttoning up a grimy safari shirt.
Mac turned to tell him where his shoes were and noticed a police cruiser turn into the apartment complex. Alicia must have seen it in her rearview mirror. She turned onto the frontage road instead of the highway, slowly increasing speed as they sped past the lone runway. Several hangers and a field with a handful of aircraft appeared on the side. She turned to the general aviation building, cut through the parking lot and caught a green light for the turn onto US 1.
“Think we can eat before we gotta rescue Armando?” Trufante asked from the back.
Mac and Alicia looked at each other and laughed.
FIFTEEN
Bradley Davies paced back and forth outside the hospital, careful to avoid the puddles from last night’s rain. He checked his watch and the entrance after each lap, wondering if it rained this much in Cuba. He had picked up a guidebook for the island that now held a prominent position in his briefcase. The financial opportunities there, now that the US had opened trade relations along with what he was sure would remain a no extradition policy, made the island alluring. Finding the nightlife in Marathon substandard - meaning unless you were into dive bars and beach bands, there was none - he had eaten a surprisingly good meal at the Barracuda Grill and gone back to his hotel room to read the book, cover to cover.
The history and architecture of the island surprised him. The constant notion that “tourists are king” only increased the appeal of the nation - and they had nightlife. Already a popular destination with European and Canadian tourists, the lifting of the transportation ban from the United States would truly make it a hotspot. Not one to trust the communist government with his assets he still planned on keeping what money he had left in the Cayman Islands.
A cab pulled into the lot, interrupting his thoughts. He went to the curb and waited.
An olive-skinned man exited the back seat and looked at Davies. “Pay the man, would you,” he said and walked past him to the entrance.
Davies followed behind, moving quickly to open the door. “Thanks for coming down so quickly. I really appreciate it.”
The man stopped at the threshold. “You know how you can show your appreciation. I have not gotten a confirmation from my bank yet.”
“Just wanted to make sure everything was cool. I’ll make the transfer while you examine her,” Davies said and followed the man to the reception counter where he presented his credentials and received a visitor’s pass from the smiling nurse. Her smile turned to a scowl when Davies glanced at her.
The
y rode the elevator to the fourth floor and were met at the nurses’ station by a doctor who shook the man’s hand, while not so discreetly ignoring the lawyer. They chatted briefly and he led the way to Mel’s room. Davies waited in the small foyer as the two men went inside. He sat in one of the vinyl upholstered chairs and started working through the unfamiliar screen of the smart phone. Technology had changed since his incarceration, but finally he fumbled through the screens and initiated the transfer. He expected no trouble from the local doctor, who was probably grateful for the specialist to take responsibility for the case. A few minutes later the men exited the room, shook hands, and the doctor left.
“Everything good?” Davies asked the man.
“Have to review the tests and do a little dog and pony show for the locals, but if you handle your end, I’ll take care of mine,” he said and walked out of the room. “I’ll contact you later.”
Davies watched him talking to the nurse behind the desk. They shared a laugh and he was jealous of the look she gave him. Should have been a doctor, he thought as he waited for the elevator, but then decided it would have been too much work.
***
Norm opened one eye and then the other, realizing the buzzing he felt in his chest was the satellite phone. He rolled over, fighting the throbbing in his head, and reached for it. Through bloodshot, half-closed eyes, he tried to make out the number, but it didn’t register.
“Hello,” he said, holding the phone with one hand while he rubbed the large knot on his head with the other. Dried blood was visible on his hand when he looked at it.
“Mi amigo.”
The voice on the other end startled him awake. He struggled to his knees and then his feet, checked the house, confirming he was alone. His decision to find a little diversion last night after the plan was set in motion had turned out badly. One of the many problems he had faced after being forced into an administrative job was that he had no control once the mission started. Used to running his own operations, this had set him on edge, causing him to sit in his office late into the night, guessing and wondering if things were unfolding as planned. Of course they never did due to a principle called friction he remembered from studying military history, made famous by a Prussian General named Clausewitz. The most thorough and detailed plans always changed when the opposition reacted – always. Without the ability to direct the operations, he had taken to drinking and whoring on those nights, the only way he could ease his mind.
“Why are you calling me?” he asked in Spanish.
“I have not heard from you: such a simple operation for so experienced a man.” The voice paused, losing patience. “Where is my grandson? You have less than forty-eight hours.”
Norm tried to clear his head and looked over at the windows, realizing it was morning. He calculated the time. “That’s Saturday morning.”
“Yes. The initial run of the ferry,” the man said. “And you need to have my grandson on it.”
“Don’t hit me with veiled threats,” he countered.
“It is not a veiled threat. It is a direct threat. You know that ferry service harms China.”
Norm needed to stall and think this through. “Everything is in motion,” he said and disconnected the call.
The house would not be empty for long. He expected the couple home any time after whatever party they had found exhausted his money. He reached in his pockets and found them empty, both his keys and wallet gone. The only reason the satellite phone was not taken was the special holster he used under his shirt. He left the house, saw the rental car missing and started walking, his anger building. This ferry was going to be a security nightmare, the perfect showcase for both sides to express anger pent up over five decades.
The timeline started clicking in his head as he reached Atlantic Boulevard, where he stood and watched the waves break against the beach. Travis should be on his way back from Krome in a few hours. He needed to get him to Key West quickly. A seaplane buzzed over his head and he thought that might be the answer.
His plan had encountered friction already, only hours after starting. He had planned to insert the men into Cuba by boat and then have them swim in with the aid of a dive scooter, his typical method for inserting operatives, but Choy’s demand of having Armando on the ferry changed everything. What if he wasn’t aboard? The general could be blowing smoke, but the risks in ignoring his threats were large. He needed to reach Alicia.
On a nearby bench he sat, pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts and pressed send. The phone rang and went to voicemail, Alicia’s nervous voice saying she wasn’t available. He wasn’t really worried; the girl was so reliable and eager. There probably wasn’t service out by Krome.
***
The trio headed north on US1 in silence. Alicia had turned over the wheel to Trufante and was pecking at her phone while Mac tried to relax after his morning adrenaline rush.
“How ‘bout some food?” Trufante asked again.
“Find a place with WIFI,” Alicia said, not lifting her head. “It’s still early. Visitors’ hours aren’t until nine and I’d rather wait till eleven when it is more crowded and the guards start to take their lunch breaks.”
They were almost to Key Largo when Trufante made a sharp turn into the parking lot of an upscale resort. “Only thing I’ve seen,” he said and pulled into a parking space.
“Long as you’re buying,” Mac said, hoping there was still some money left from the sale of the boat.
They walked into the lobby, turned into the restaurant and waited to be seated. A hostess came over and eyed them suspiciously, but Alicia said something to soothe her and they were seated in a booth by the kitchen.
Mac glanced at the menu, watching Alicia out of the corner of his eye as she pulled a tablet from her messenger bag and started typing. The waitress came over with coffee, took their order and they were left alone.
“You been doing this CIA thing for a while?” Mac asked.
“I graduated Stanford in ’08. Kicked around Silicon Valley for a while, but got tired of working on code; finding more often than not you do all the crazy hours and deadlines, and it’s obsolete or somebody beat you to it before you’re even finished. My brother had some friends that worked for the NSA and they hooked me up.” She sipped her tea.
Mac had no doubt about her technical ability, but she didn’t look like a field agent. “How much time in the field?” he asked. If she was guiding this mission, he hoped she had some experience.
She looked down. “This is my first time,” she said shyly. “But it’s a slam dunk security breach deal. I’ve done a bunch of these from the office.”
The food arrived and he was able to end the conversation without hurting her. Maybe she was right and this was a computer game, and the last thing he wanted to do was to make it appear he doubted her abilities. He needed her focused. They finished the meal in silence and she went back to pecking at the screen after the table was cleared.
“So you have this all planned out?” he asked.
“To the minute; I drop you off and drive Tru to the airboat rental. You signal me with a text from this cell phone right before they let you in.” She handed him another burner. “They’re going to take the phone, but it’s untraceable. As soon as I get the text, I initiate a sequence of alarms that should provide the diversion you need to get out. She reached in her pocket and handed him a small black key. “This is carbon fiber. The metal detectors won’t pick it up. As soon as the guard leaves to answer the alarm, you open the restraints.”
He took the key and slid it into his pocket, surprised by how light it was.
“It’s delicate though. You might only get one shot at the locks. If you force it, it may break.”
Great, Mac thought, give a breakable key to the guy that could break something by looking at it. “You better hold this one then,” he said. “Your boss wouldn’t want them to get a hold of it.”
She frowned, took Norm’s burner phone and held it
delicately in her hands.
“And you’ll be with numb-nuts here, so he knows what to do?” Mac quipped.
“I’m sitting right here,” Trufante whined.
Mac ignored him and looked at her.
“No, he can rent the boat and meet you. There is no need for me,” she said and ran her hands down the front of her expensive shirt.
The self conscious gesture was not lost on Mac. She was plainly out of her element and maybe it was best if she wasn’t along if things got rough. Trufante was bound to do something boneheaded along the way, but he was used to him and knew what to expect. She would be a total wildcard.
Her phone beeped and she looked down at the screen. “I have to take this. I’ll meet you outside.”
She got up and left. Mac looked over at Trufante, “Well, you might as well pay the bill. Looks like it’s just me and you.”
“Old times,” Trufante said.
***
“It is under control,” she said into the phone after walking outside and making sure no one was near. “We’re in Key Largo. I just briefed them and we are headed to Krome now.”
“You understand your mission?” he asked.
“Yes. Drop them off, stay on site until they are clear, and head back to the office.” She repeated her orders.
“Good. And this is between us,” he said.
She wondered why he was being secretive and turned the burner phone in her hands. They’d had several interactions before, when he needed her expertise or analysis, but it was always behind the walls of the office in Miami. She had asked to be assigned to the field several times, but was told she was too valuable where she was. The urge never left her, but even if she was destined to remain behind a desk, Miami was an upgrade from Silicon Valley, and the work was challenging.
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