by Mark Dawson
And now this.
“What are you thinking?” Carlos asked her. “Can I help with anything?”
“When is he going to be in Cuba?”
“He’s in the air now,” Carlos said. He looked at his watch. “He’s due to land tomorrow morning at six, our time.”
“And I could be there to meet him?”
“I don’t think we can get there in time for that,” he said. “But you’d definitely be able to see him in the next day or so.”
She went to the sideboard and picked up the photograph that her father had sent her. She had put it in a nice frame and it gave her pleasure to look at it and to think that she would be able to meet him soon. She had no one else in her life: no husband, no boyfriend, and her mother was dead.
“This shouldn’t make any difference to your decision at all, but let me just say that, if you decide to go, everything will be paid for by the government. We’ll fly you out and put you up in a nice hotel for as long as you like.”
“I’d like that,” she said.
“You want to come?”
“Yes. Will you be going, too? I’ve never been out of the country before.”
“I will,” he said. “I’m working on the investigation your father is helping with, and I’d like to speak to him. I might be helpful for you, too. Havana can be a confusing place. It might be good to have someone with you.”
“A chaperone, you mean?”
He corrected her with a warm smile. “A friendly face.”
“I don’t have a passport,” she said.
“You can leave that with me.”
“You don’t need a photograph?”
“I’ll use the one on your driver’s licence.”
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“We like to be prepared,” he said. “How soon can you be ready?”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Perfect.” He stood. “I’ll come and pick you up. I believe there’s a nine-forty flight with American. If I come and get you at seven?”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Thanks for the coffee,” he said, putting the mug down and making his way to the door.
She opened it for him. He stood on the threshold for a moment and looked up and down the street, as if looking for something. He said goodbye again and made his way down the path to the BMW that he had parked up against the kerb. He gave her a final wave and she watched as he drove away. The clouds had moved on and the afternoon was bright; she decided that she would go for that run on the beach after all, and, with a bounce in her step, she went back inside to get changed.
65
Thomas Hook put the viewfinder to his eyes and watched through it as the man left MIRANDA’s property and made his way down the path to his car. He fired off another round of photographs as the man got into the car and pulled away. MIRANDA stayed in the doorway for a moment, looking up into the sky, then returned inside and shut the door behind her.
“That’s de Gea,” José Ramalhete reported.
“You know him?”
“Carlos de Gea. Joined the Agency in ninety-three, worked as an analyst for Russia, Europe and Africa, then joined the OIG as an investigator. The boss asked me to run surveillance on the OIG a while back. I’ve seen him before.”
“So the IG is investigating Lincoln?”
“I can’t think of another reason why he’d be here.”
“Does Navarro know?”
“I’m not sure.”
“He’s not going to be happy.”
Hook put the camera down and turned away from the window. They had been in the bungalow for three weeks and, in that time, had recorded hundreds of hours of audio and video of MIRANDA. One of the first tasks that they had undertaken was to let themselves into the property across the street so that they could install the equipment that they would rely upon. They had waited until she had left for school one morning, had picked the lock of the door at the back of the house, and then had spent six hours setting up an array of pinhole cameras and covert listening devices, all of which communicated wirelessly with the receivers in the bungalow.
“We need to wrap this up and send it to Navarro,” Hook said.
“I’m already on it,” Ramalhete said, looking at the progress bar to see how much longer it would take to upload the feed of the meeting that had just taken place to the secure server.
“You remember what flight he said they were going to get?”
“Nine forty?” Ramalhete said. “United.”
“American. I’ll book seats for us.”
“I got another idea,” Ramalhete said. He held up a small GPS tracker. “If she’s going on a trip, we might want to add a redundancy. How many suitcases did you see in the bedroom?”
“Only one.”
Ramalhete held up the device. “What do you think?”
Hook nodded. “Easy enough to fit it.”
“That’s what I thought.”
The motion sensor that they had fitted to the front door buzzed. Hook looked at the monitor as MIRANDA ran down the path and turned toward downtown and the beach.
“Now might be the only chance we get,” Hook said. “Keep an eye out. I’ll go and do it now.” He held out his hand and Ramalhete tossed the tracker over to him. Hook clipped the radio receiver to his belt and pressed the earpiece into his ear, then let himself out onto the street.
“Comms check,” he said into the mic.
“Loud and clear,” Ramalhete reported. “Get a move on. And then you can go and get lunch when you’re done.”
Part III
Havana
66
Beatrix opened her eyes to see daylight streaming in through the porthole windows. She could not say for certain how long she had been asleep. Her dreams had been of a darkened room lit by a dozen points of light, a dozen opium pipes serving a dozen addicts. Her dreams were full of the scent of the hua-yan jian, the ache that she felt in her bones, and the release she would feel if she just inhaled.
Lin saw that she was awake and came to stand next to her bed.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
“Where are we?”
“An hour out.”
“Have I been asleep the whole time?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We were on the ground in Toronto for an hour,” Danny said from the other side of the aisle. “You slept through that, too.”
She closed her eyes. She had been even more tired than she had suspected.
“What would you like me to prepare for breakfast?” Lin asked.
She sat up and looked over at Danny. His chair was upright, and he was sitting behind his tray table. He laid his knife and fork on an empty china plate and sighed contentedly.
“I can recommend the eggs,” he said.
Beatrix looked out of the window as the pilot lined them up for the descent. The ocean was a vivid, electric blue and, as they passed over the minor archipelagos and islands that lay underneath the approach, she saw scads of lime-green vegetation, crescents of bright yellow sand, and tan swathes of volcanic rock.
José Martí International was the main airport that served Havana, and it was for that reason that Beatrix had decided not to use it. She had requested that they land at Varadero instead. Juan Gualberto Gómez Airport was a medium-sized facility that served the nearby resorts of Varadero and Jibacoa and was the island’s second main airport, but much less busy than José Martí. Beatrix was still anxious about Logan and how much he could be trusted. As far as she was concerned, anything that made their movements more difficult to predict was to be encouraged.
The aircraft descended and the sea rushed up to meet them, replaced, seemingly at the last minute, by the grey stripe of the runway. The rear tyres squealed as the rubber hit the asphalt, the front wheel touched down and the pilot hit the thrust reversers to start to peel off their speed.
“Welcome to Cuba,” Captain Wilson said.
The first officer went into the ter
minal to process them through customs. He returned with the necessary documents, gave them to Lin and then went to take care of the rest of the arrival requirements. Lin sat down in the seat opposite them with the papers and a small travel bag.
“Mr. Yeung has arranged for a car to meet you outside,” he said. “It is under the name Watson. It will take you into the city.”
“Thank you,” Beatrix said.
Lin bowed his head ever so slightly. “There will be a man in the car,” he went on. “A friend of Mr. Yeung. He will be able to supply you with anything you need while you are here. If you have need of any other assistance, please do not hesitate to contact me.” He took out a cellphone and handed it to her. “My number is saved to the memory.”
She pocketed the phone.
“The aircraft and crew will wait for you here in Varadero. They will be able to leave on short notice if the need arises. Now—is there anything else that I can help you with?”
“No. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
“Thanks,” Danny added. “Please pass on my thanks to Michael, too.”
“Of course.” He smiled. “He already knows that we have arrived. I’ll be sure to pass your message to him.”
Beatrix got up and turned to look down at Danny. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he said.
It was still early, just after seven in the morning, but it was hot. The heat washed over them as they descended the steps from the aircraft to the apron, and, by the time they were inside the air-conditioned immigration hall, they were both sweating. There was a separate booth catering for the immigration requirements of visiting VIPs, and they were able to pass through and into the arrival hall without incident.
They went outside again; a black Mercedes was waiting at the kerb, and a notice propped against the window read WATSON. There were two men in the car: the driver and a passenger.
Beatrix crossed to the kerb, opened the door and slid into the icy cool of the town car. Danny slid in after her.
“Hello,” Beatrix said.
The man in the passenger seat pulled down the sun visor and adjusted it so that he could use the vanity mirror to look back into the cabin. Beatrix could only see the top of his face; his eyes were steady, giving nothing away. The angle allowed Beatrix to see the driver a little better, but his attention was on the road and he didn’t look back.
“My name is Alfredo,” the man in the passenger seat said to them. “It is an honour to meet you.”
67
The car pulled out into an empty lane that led away from the airport.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Beatrix said. “We appreciate it.”
Alfredo looked into the mirror. “Mr. Yeung said you had need of assistance in Havana. It is my pleasure to provide it.”
Yeung had explained that he would be able to offer assistance when they arrived in the city. It had taken Beatrix five minutes on Google to realise that he would have influence on the island.
Thousands of Chinese migrants had settled in Cuba during the last century, and, as was the case anywhere else around the world, they had established organisations and associations to help them to make their way in their new environment. The main organisation—Casino Chung Wah—had become involved in a wide range of charitable and cultural efforts and had spawned multiple offshoots. Clan associations had sprung up, with migrants met on the docks by kin from their hometowns and taken to the Barrio Chino, where they were helped to settle in. It hadn’t taken long for the triads to plant seeds in this fertile new ground, and, within just a few years, they had set up money-lending and credit associations. Beatrix guessed that Yeung, as Dragon Head of the Wo Shun Wo, had asked for assistance from his counterpart in Cuba, and that Alfredo had been dispatched in response. The triads here were gathered under the banner of the Tian Dao Man; for all Beatrix knew, Alfredo might have been Yeung’s direct equivalent.
Alfredo folded his hands in his lap. “We have provided accommodation for you for the duration of your stay. A house near the cathedral. Very central.”
“That will be perfect. Thank you.”
“And I received the list of items that you requested. You will find a bag in the wardrobe of your room. Everything is there. Please—check that it is sufficient for your needs, and, if it is not, please let me know. We can provide you with everything you want.”
“And transport?”
“A motorcycle has been left there for you. The helmet and the clothes you asked for are in your room. Without wishing to interfere, I arranged new clothes for you both. I thought you might appreciate a change after your long journey.”
“That’s kind,” Beatrix said. “And if we need to contact you?”
“Here,” he said, reaching back with a cellphone.
“It’s clean?”
“A brand-new SIM,” he said. “My number is in the memory.”
Beatrix switched the phone on and slipped it into her pocket beside the handset that Lin had given her.
“Did you get my message about the airport?”
“I did,” he said. “We have people there. I will let you know when the lady and the gentleman arrive.”
Beatrix had sent on a picture of Melissa that Danny had provided and had described Logan. She wanted to know when all the players were in place; she intended to be well prepared before she considered the parameters of any meeting.
Danny turned to look at Beatrix. “When do you think Melissa will get here?”
He had asked her the same question several times already. “I don’t know,” she said. “We flew straight out—we’ll be first here. It’ll take Logan a day or two to make the preparations. Melissa will need a passport, and she might not be able to leave straight away. It’s not as simple as picking her up and taking her to the airport.”
“I know,” he said. He gazed forward. “I’m just worried.”
“You should be,” she said. “I’d be worried if you weren’t.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“I know. Think of it this way—we have a lot of advantages here. Advantages we didn’t have in Hong Kong. The plan is good. We’ll be equipped and we have backup that Logan doesn’t have. And we shouldn’t have Lincoln and Navarro to worry about.”
“‘Shouldn’t’?”
“Won’t,” she corrected. “Try to relax. Logan will call when he arrives.”
He nodded, but, as had been the case when they had discussed the situation on the flight, he looked uncertain. He turned to look out of the window as the sun-baked landscape rushed by.
Beatrix looked out of the other window at the white clouds and deep blue sea and took a breath. She was worried, too, and she had underplayed just how much. It had been a long time since she had been on the island and, although a hostile secret police would make it more difficult for Logan to operate—or Lincoln, come to that, if his men entered the equation—it posed a significant threat to her and Danny, too.
The Dirección General de Inteligencia were not their friends. The state’s snoops and thugs would brook them no quarter because they were opposed by the CIA. And, if the DGI found Beatrix, it would take no time for her details to find their way back to the musty building by the Thames where Control ran his brutal little fiefdom. She would be trapped and helpless, and incarceration would offer no protection against the assassin who would be dispatched to put an end to her and the threat she posed to his corrupt way of doing things.
Alfredo dropped them on a side street close to Avenida Paseo.
“It is this house,” he said, indicating the property at the side of the road. It was a large colonial building, three storeys high and painted white. It looked grand, and it was close to the centre of the city.
He reached back with a large iron key. Beatrix took it. “Thank you again,” she said.
Alfredo bowed his head. “Anything you need, please call.”
Beatrix grabbed her go-bag, opened the door and got out. Danny stood outside with her,
his rucksack over his back.
“You have well-connected friends,” Beatrix observed.
The car pulled away from the kerb, took the first right and then disappeared around the corner. A narrow path, paved in red and beige tile, led between the house and its neighbour and offered access to a door at the rear. Beatrix led the way, grateful for the shadow and anticipating the air-conditioning inside. She reached the door, unlocked it, and went inside.
68
“Welcome to Havana, ladies and gentlemen,” the purser said. “The temperature outside is a hot ninety-three degrees. Thank you for flying with us, and we hope to see you again soon.”
The flight had been delayed by an hour, and, instead of landing at eleven, it was just after midday. Carlos was in the window seat next to Melissa, and she gazed past him and out of the porthole as the 777 lumbered up to the gate. Miami to Havana was a short flight, and they had passed the time in amiable conversation. Melissa had found his company enjoyable. He had explained his role at the Agency, and a little—a very little—about the particular investigation that her father was assisting. Carlos explained that it was anticipated that her father’s involvement would extend to the provision of evidence and perhaps a debriefing, with nothing additional foreseen beyond that. Once that was done, his file would be cleaned and they would take him anywhere he wanted to go. They had offered to resettle him in the States. Miami, perhaps, Carlos suggested; they could buy him a house in Melissa’s neighbourhood so that they could see each other more often.
After that, he had encouraged her to talk about herself. Melissa rarely had that opportunity, and, given that it was something that she enjoyed, she quickly settled into it. She told him about the school and about how she enjoyed teaching but how the administrative side of things was becoming such a drag that she was thinking about going part-time when the term began after the vacation. She rambled on about the state of her social life, her lack of real friends, and, at his gentle prompting, admitted that she had no romantic interest, nor any immediate prospect of one. He flattered her shamelessly, remarking that he found that hard to believe and shining one of the frequent smiles that she had to admit were very attractive indeed. He was, she decided, kind of like an Hispanic George Clooney. She enjoyed his company very much.