JET - Escape: (Volume 9)

by Russell Blake

  “Sit. Please,” the man said. “You made it without issues?”

  “Yes. The trip was fine.”

  “Wonderful,” he said, and sat behind a desk that looked like it had been there since the Spanish had built the harbor fort. “You can call me Oscar. I have your items as well as a car.” Oscar unlocked his desk drawer, reached inside, and extracted a ballistic nylon bag. His eyes twinkled as he held it aloft and then set it on the desktop with a clunk.

  Drago withdrew and inspected the weapon, a Russian-manufactured Makarov 9mm pistol with a sound suppressor and four of the latest-issue twelve-round magazines filled with ammunition. It was in reasonable shape, worn, but serviceable, and he reassembled it with practiced hands.

  “This will do. And the rifle?”

  “Ah, yes,” the little man said, rising and moving toward a gray metal locker in the corner of the room. “We couldn’t secure your first request, but I think you’ll find what we did get to be acceptable.”

  Drago frowned and his tone turned annoyed. “I thought I was clear that there were to be no substitutions.”

  “It’s either this or no rifle. I took it upon myself to procure it – if you don’t want it, no problem.” Oscar opened the locker and removed a gun bag, and then returned to the desk and placed it atop the scarred top like a prize.

  Drago unzipped the bag and removed the rifle, which appeared nearly new. Oscar smiled appreciatively as he eyed it.

  “It’s an Alejandro sniper rifle. Made here in Cuba. Fires a Soviet-style 7.62x54mm round. Magazine holds eight shots. Bolt action, PSO-1 scope, accurate to a thousand meters,” Oscar said. “Depending on the shooter, of course.”

  Drago slid the bolt open and smelled oil. “Of course.”

  “This one is sighted for five hundred meters. The rounds will penetrate any bulletproof vest at that range. If that’s of interest.”

  Drago had heard of the weapon, but had never seen one. He dismantled it and liked what he saw – the machining was precise, and the feel was of high quality. He looked up at Oscar and nodded once. “I suppose I’ll take it. Don’t have much choice, do I?” Drago paused. “And the ballistics computer and laser range finder?”

  “Oh. That proved to be impossible to find. I am sorry. With the Americans limiting what we have access to, some things simply don’t exist on the island. I tried my best, but nobody had one.”

  Drago’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Better hope I don’t wind up needing it. A missed shot because of the lack of one would be…most unfortunate.”

  “I understand. But it’s not because I didn’t scour all my sources. There are simply none available.”

  Drago slipped the rifle back into the bag and reached into his jacket. He withdrew an envelope and tossed it to the arms merchant. “There’s thirteen thousand, as agreed. I’ll want two back since you don’t have the computer.”

  After quickly counting the wad of bills, Oscar handed some back to Drago. “I’ll show you to the car. But first, we must package your items so they don’t draw unwanted attention.” He stood and moved to a pile of cartons, and selected a rectangular one. Two minutes later they were back on the street, Drago with the box under his arm, the rifle inside, the little Cuban at his side carrying his bag.

  The car was a ten-year-old Fiat. Drago gave it a once-over and took the keys.

  Oscar adjusted his hat with a plump hand, tilting it at a rakish angle, and smiled. “Stolen yesterday, new plates this morning. Fake registration in the glove box along with a map. Return it when you’re through. If you must leave it somewhere, just tell me where. You have my contact information.”

  With that, Oscar handed Drago the pistol bag, spun on his heel, and walked away, their business concluded.

  Drago stowed the weapons in the trunk and then slid behind the wheel and started the car, which sputtered uncertainly before settling into a rough idle.

  The map proved invaluable in navigating the city’s byzantine streets, and he was on the Autopista Nacional highway to Cienfuegos in thirty minutes. The green of jungle streaked past as he drove southeast, one of only a few vehicles other than heavy trucks and the ever-present army vehicles that seemed to dominate every other corner.

  He’d decided to arrive in Cienfuegos early, reconnoiter the waterfront, and spend the night in a local hotel rather than remain in Havana. He passed a billboard featuring a giant Che Guevara with a fist clenched in revolutionary salute, and he smiled to himself at a country that had been frozen in time, the island’s communist revolution kept alive almost sixty years after the fact, its failure to achieve anything of note ignored in favor of the rhetoric spouted by its leadership at every turn. He knew the irony was that the fathers of the uprising had been the offspring of the wealthy, bored and filled with intellectual ideas garnered at privileged universities, who had led their countrymen in a revolt that had changed little for the average Cuban other than the master they slaved for.

  “Poor bastards,” he muttered, and stopped on the last syllable.

  He wasn’t going to talk to himself anymore. Drago had decided that last night. This little slip, more an exclamation than the beginning of a one-sided discussion, meant nothing.

  He was holding it together. No question. And he’d be finished with his task tomorrow when the ship arrived in the afternoon. At which point he could filibuster for days in the privacy of his hotel room if it made him happy.

  But not until then. For now, it was all business.

  Except for his idle vision of the woman.

  That was something more.

  His bonus for a job well done.

  Chapter 36

  Southwest of Port-au-Prince, Haiti

  The wind howled across the superstructure as the Milan plowed through fifteen-foot seas. The evening sky had darkened with twilight’s approach, and the wind was living up to the thirty-knot promises of the weather report. Captain Adrian stood beside the helmsman as the heavy ship labored northwest, Jet at his side.

  He looked down at the fuel indicator and grunted. “That’s it. We’re not going to make it. We’ll have to change course and head for Haiti to take on more fuel.” Adrian turned to the helmsman. “Set a course for Port-au-Prince. We’re about equidistant between Haiti and Santiago de Cuba, but we won’t be fighting the headwind and the swell nearly as much heading east.”

  “How long will it take to get to Haiti?” Jet asked.

  “Should be there by late morning, at the latest.” Adrian tapped the fuel gauge again and shook his head.

  Jet stepped closer. “What is it?”

  “It’s these gauges. They’re not that precise.”

  “And?”

  “I believe we have enough fuel to make it to Haiti, but I’m not a hundred percent certain.”

  “But shouldn’t the wind direction help us?”

  “Yes, just as it hurt us all day. But only to a point. It’ll be touch and go.”

  The helmsman entered in the new coordinates, and the autopilot slowly adjusted the steering until the seas were on the port stern. The bucking movement of the ship diminished to a slight roll. Adrian considered the radar screen.

  “Not much around this strait. All the cruise activity is closer to Jamaica.”

  “So nobody you can borrow, say, a few thousand gallons of fuel from?”

  “Afraid that’s not how it works.”

  The wind abated sometime after midnight. The engines droned beneath their feet as Jet and Adrian remained awake, fortified by caffeine, and in Adrian’s case, cigarette after cigarette.

  Matt was relieving Jet on the bridge at five a.m. when an alarm sounded and a red light blinked to life near the throttles. Adrian leapt from his chair and moved to the helm, and then swore a string of colorful oaths before shaking his head at Jet.

  “The starboard engine flamed out. Won’t be long before the port does the same.” He reached for the radio and, after checking their position, depressed the transmit button and sent a Mayday. When he was done, h
e waited, and a minute later a Creole-accented voice crackled over the speaker.

  “Milan, this is the Port-au-Prince Coast Guard. What is your precise location? Over.”

  The second engine sputtered out and the ship was eerily silent other than the sound of the alarms. Adrian twisted them off and spoke into the microphone.

  “Port-au-Prince, this is the Milan. We are approximately sixty kilometers from the bay. Almost due west.” He gave the latitude and longitude. “We’re dead in the water. Over.”

  “What is the nature of your emergency? Over.”

  “We’re out of fuel. One of the tanks must have a leak. Over.” The embellishment was the only plausible explanation for why a veteran captain would run dry.

  “Roger. We will deploy a vedette and a tug to escort you to port. The tug can be there in about four hours. The vedette in three. Please stay in radio contact. We’ll alert you once we have you on radar. Over.”

  “Very well. Thanks. Over.”

  Adrian’s face looked drawn when he set the microphone back in place and looked to Jet and Matt. “You heard him. Three hours until they’ll be alongside.”

  “I can’t believe we made it this close and ran out,” she said.

  “This is why,” he said, pointing to the fuel dial. “The gauge still shows above empty. I told you they weren’t precise.”

  “What do we do now?” Matt asked.

  Adrian sighed. “Try to get a few hours of sleep if you can. It’s going to be a long night.”

  “They’ll tow us into port, and then we get fuel and we’re good to go?” Jet asked.

  “It’s not quite that easy. The company doesn’t have an account with the Haitians, so we’ll have to pay cash or wait for a wire transfer to clear before they let us leave. And there will be the cost of the tow. That won’t be cheap.”

  “How much do you think it’ll be?” she asked.

  “I’d think five thousand dollars’ worth of diesel would more than get us to Cuba, plus the tow, which could easily run double that.”

  Jet did a quick calculation. She didn’t have anywhere near that much cash left.

  Adrian walked away from the helm and Jet followed him. Adrian murmured to her in a soft voice when they reached the window. “I talked to the helmsman. He’s been with me for six years, so he’ll go along with the fuel-tank leak and won’t say anything. But it would be best if you made yourself scarce. I need to brief the crew, and then go tear a seam open on the main tank so it can be repaired once we’re in port. That way I don’t get fired for incompetence, although at some point someone might notice the bill for this week’s run in La Ensenada was half what it should have been.”

  “What will you do if they figure it out?”

  He smiled and lit another cigarette. “I’ll blame the Venezuelans. They shorted us, maybe ran out and didn’t tell us. The company will believe me. I have no reason to lie. That, coupled with a small leak…it’s not the best possible story, but it hangs together.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing.”

  Matt approached and took Jet’s hand. “Hannah’s asleep in our cabin, but you should get down there. I’ll hang out up here.”

  Jet nodded. Matt would keep an eye on Adrian while she got some rest.

  Adrian looked ready to protest, but Matt’s expression made him reconsider. Matt softened it with a small grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse.”

  Adrian spun and returned to the wheel, and Jet squeezed Matt’s hand before stepping toward the stairs. “Thanks.”

  “Get some rest. I’ll come get you if there’s any reason to.”

  “How’s Hannah? Fever almost gone?”

  “Yes. The pills worked.”

  “At least that went according to plan.” She looked through the window a final time at the pitch-black sea and shook her head.

  “About time something did.”

  The coast guard boat reached them just before nine a.m., when the seas had flattened and the wind had died down. The bump of the hulls meeting as the vessel lashed itself to the Milan woke Jet, and she reluctantly rose and made her way to the bridge with a sleepy Hannah to watch the rescue at sea play out.

  Chapter 37

  When Jet reached the bridge, three Haitian officers were standing by the helm, talking in low tones with Captain Adrian. One of the Haitians, a bulldog of a man, looked over at her without breaking the discussion. The hair on Jet’s arms stood up as she overheard the conversation.

  “No, we only need a tow. We’re stable here,” Adrian insisted in accented English.

  “You are carrying passengers?” the bulldog demanded.

  Adrian hesitated. “Yes. It’s not unusual.”

  “Of course not. But I’ll need to see passports for everyone aboard. Crew, passengers, the lot.”

  Adrian nodded. “That’s not a problem. But why?”

  “If you’re going to enter Haiti, it’s standard procedure. We don’t want illegals coming in.”

  “I’ll tell the crew.”

  Twenty minutes later, everyone was assembled on the bridge. The Haitians checked the crewmen’s papers and then came to Matt and Jet. Jet smiled shyly at the humorless officer and handed over their passports. He flipped them open and then handed them back.

  “Very good. And the girl?”

  “I can’t find it. I looked everywhere.”

  His face clouded. “I’m afraid that’s not good enough. Everyone is required to have travel documents, even children. It’s a violation of international law to travel without them.”

  “I understand that. It’s just that I can’t find it. Maybe by the time we make it to port?”

  The Haitian’s brow furrowed and he turned from her. “Wait here. I’ll check.” He radioed to the vedette, speaking in French. “Call headquarters. Ask Lamont what to do. We have three passengers, one of them a child, and she doesn’t have her passport.”

  Three minutes later a different voice came over the radio and barked in rapid-fire French. “This is Lamont. If the girl doesn’t have papers, bring all three of them in, and we’ll see what we can get out of them in exchange for a visa. Do they look like they have money?”

  The officer stole a look at Jet and Matt. “Probably.”

  “Bring them in. Sounds like an easy payday. We’ll throw them in the brig until the courts open tomorrow and they can face a magistrate. It’s Paulime on Mondays, and he’ll be generous sharing the fine he levies.”

  Jet’s face didn’t change. She wasn’t going to let on that she spoke French, and the Haitian obviously hadn’t considered the possibility. But she realized in an instant they were in deep trouble. Haiti had a reputation as being slightly safer than Somalia, which meant it was run by thieves and crime lords. And because Hannah’s passport had been lost at some point in their travels, the islanders saw an opportunity to extort whatever they could from her parents. The problem being that when they were taken in, they’d be put into a holding cell, and there was no doubt they’d be searched. And she had almost three million in diamonds hanging around her neck in the little pouch. The stones would vanish while they were in custody, she was quite sure. If anything, it would provide a powerful reason for them to die while incarcerated, because the dead rarely complain about missing fortunes.

  She waited as though she had no idea what was to come next, and then seemed to have an idea. “You know, there’s one place I didn’t look. If it’s that important, I’ll take another pass at our luggage. I’m sure it’s in there somewhere.”

  The officer looked annoyed, but didn’t say no. She could see the heady vision of a slice of the fine evaporate in his expression when he turned to one of his men. “Would you escort her to her room so she can search her bags again?”

  Jet handed Hannah off to Matt and made her way down the stairs to the stateroom deck and entered the small room. She made a big show of looking through the built-in desk and the chest of drawers, and shook her head. “No
, it’s not here. Damn.”

  “Then back to the bridge.”

  “Okay. I need to use the bathroom. I’ll only be a second.”

  The man nodded, and she ducked into the head and removed the pouch. She opened the cabinet beneath the sink and peered into the space, and then wedged the leather bag between the sink and the wood support frame, out of sight, next to where she’d hidden the pistol. It was unlikely that anyone would perform a thorough search of a bathroom cabinet in their absence, and even if they did, they’d have to shift the plywood to find anything. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best she could think of.

  She flushed the toilet, rinsed her hands, and then opened the door. “Thanks.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Back on the bridge, Matt was doing his best to keep his temper as the officer explained in English that if the child’s passport wasn’t located, they would have to take them in and they’d have to appear before a magistrate. They stopped their discussion when Jet arrived.

  “Well?” Matt asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know where it went. Maybe it fell out of the bag in Venezuela? Or was stolen? There are pickpockets everywhere, and a passport…”

  The lead officer scowled. “I’m afraid you will need to come with us. The regulations are clear.”

  “Why can’t we stay with the boat? We can’t swim to shore, and you can position a guard or something when we arrive to ensure we don’t disembark. It’s not as though we want to enter Haiti,” Jet tried.

  “I appreciate you telling me how to do my job, but I’m afraid it’s not my decision. My superior said to bring you in. The matter is out of my hands. A judge will determine how to handle things – they will want to ensure you aren’t kidnapping the little girl.”

  “Are you mad? She looks just like me. She’s my daughter.”