Black Horizon (38 page)
Authors: James Grippando
“You don’t have to do this,” said Theo.
“We’ll stick to the plan.”
“I mean it,” said Theo. “You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t. I’m just playing the odds.”
“What odds?”
“See, if we turn this plane around, we’ll be flying straight into the Devil’s Triangle. Isn’t that right, Bocelli?”
“Brunelli. Yes, that’s right.”
“There you go. It’s safer to fly straight on through to Cuba. That’s my decision. Just don’t go thinking that I’m doing you any favors, Theo. You got that?”
Theo smiled and settled back into his seat. “Got it.”
N
oori woke at dawn. Ninety minutes of isometrics prepared him for his day.
The morning exercise routine was something that Noori had developed during his seven years at Guantánamo, though in those days he had no idea if it was morning, afternoon, or night. Camp 6 was said to be reserved for “noncompliant” detainees, but the alleged acts of “noncompliance,” like the alleged terrorist acts that had landed him and the other Chinese Uighurs in Gitmo in the first place, were never explained to Noori. Each detainee at Camp 6 was confined to a small, windowless steel cell with no access to natural light or air. Noori was allowed no contact with fellow prisoners. Meals were served through a slot in the door. Fluorescent lights buzzed twenty-four hours a day, limiting sleep. He was allocated fifteen sheets of toilet paper a day, but because he used it to cover his eyes to help him to sleep, his toilet paper—considered another comfort item—was removed for “misuse.” Even after his release, the Americans refused to acknowledge that he was kept in solitary confinement, instead speaking in euphemisms of greater “privacy” and “single-occupancy cells.”
Seven years.
Noori crossed his legs yoga style and breathed deep. He was trying to relax, pushing aside the anger inside him. But not all of it. A little anger was a good thing. It could get you through another day without sleep. It could get you through seven years of living hell.
It could put the world’s largest oil rig on the bottom of the ocean.
Noori pushed himself up from the rug and walked to the window. Cheaper rooms had been available, but Noori had sprung for the top floor—not a perfect view of the harbor, but at least a glimpse of it in the distance. No matter the city, no matter the hotel, Noori always insisted on a view. Windowless rooms triggered bad memories and bizarre conduct that he couldn’t explain, not even to his lawyer or his counselor.
Noori, why did you smear your feces on the walls of your cell?
I have no idea.
There had to be a reason.
I have no idea.
Noori opened the window and breathed in the morning air. Fresh air. It was something he no longer took for granted. Like the sun, the rain, or the stars at night. Even the unremarkable view of an old building across the street beat seven years of staring at the same four walls. Even the cracked and crumbling walls that hadn’t been painted since Batista.
The walls in Havana were beautiful.
Sunday had been Noori’s travel day. His route—New York to Miami, Miami to Kingston, Kingston to Havana—had been intentionally circuitous. He’d arrived in time to get a full night’s sleep. Havana was coming to life, another work week just beginning.
Noori, too, had work to do.
He grabbed a chair and went to the closet. It was the same room he and Long Wu always used for their trips to Havana. He climbed up on the chair and popped out one of the tiles in the false ceiling. He reached inside the crawl space, retrieved a metal strong box, and brought it to the bed. The key was on his ring. He unlocked the box and opened it. All was in order, just as he had left it.
One Russian Makarov PM semi-automatic pistol. One leather ankle holster. Three magazines of 9-millimeter ammunition, eight rounds each.
The Makarov PM had been in frontline service with the Soviet military for more than forty years, which meant that plenty were available on the black market in Cuba. Noori had purchased this one on his first trip to Havana, when Long Wu closed a deal for one million counterfeit handbags with a Russian billionaire who had suddenly stopped doing business out of Miami and had taken a serious liking to Cuba—which had no extradition treaty with the United States.
Noori lifted his pant leg, fastened the ankle holster, and secured the weapon. He checked himself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. No sign of a handgun beneath his khakis. He sat on the end of the unmade bed, thinking of the e-mail message that had prompted his trip to Havana:
One million by Monday. Or the attached goes viral.
A million? Really?
True, Noori had promised him a million upon successful completion of the mission. True, also, that Noori’s face was clearly recognizable in the surveillance video from the New Providence Bank and Trust Company. But none of that changed his mind: the fifty thousand dollars in seed money that he’d deposited in that account was plenty for a guy who earned $1,200 a year.
Not a penny more.
Noori’s cell phone vibrated. There was another e-mail message with the same subject line: NR050527, the account number from the Bahamian bank. Noori opened the message and read it:
I’m betting that the deposit slip has fingerprints. The original goes to the FBI after the bank surveillance photos go viral. Unless a wire transfer of $1 million hits the Bank of the West Indies (Cayman) Ltd., Account No. NR65430, by the end of business, Monday.
It was a new account, at a new bank, in a different country. The same offshore secrecy, a thousand miles away from the investigation by the Bahamian police into Mr. Jeffries’ death and the Lopez account.
The e-mail had an attachment. Noori clicked to open it. It was a photograph of the original deposit slip for the fifty thousand dollars. It had fallen into enemy hands—literally—as the hand that held it was visible in the photograph.
The eye tattoo, just below the wrist, wasn’t staring straight at Noori. But it might as well have been.
Noori deleted the e-mail. He was angry, but he smiled. The demand that one million dollars hit the new Cayman bank account before the end of the day—with no mention of Noori’s whereabouts—only confirmed that his trip to Cuba would come as a complete surprise to the greedy fool who was pushing his buttons. Noori rose from the bed and slipped the extra clips of ammunition into his pocket.
There would indeed be a “hit” before five o’clock.
Noori would make sure of it.
A
t noon on Monday, Jack heard a knock at the door.
A taxi ride from the airport had put Jack and Theo at the Hotel Nacional just after midnight, where they shared a double room. Heeding Brunelli’s instructions, they’d ordered room service for breakfast, and they had yet to set foot outside their room, much less the hotel.
Jack checked through the peephole and opened the door. It was Brunelli. He had a small duffel bag in one hand and a stainless-steel briefcase in the other. Jack didn’t do drug cases, but nary a criminal defense lawyer in Miami was unaware that the five-inch Zero Halliburton held exactly ten thousand one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Some ground rules,” Brunelli said as he laid the duffel bag and the briefcase on the bed. “Number one: we are a serious law-enforcement operation from this point forward. That means no more ‘Brunelli’ jokes. It’s not even a funny name.”
“Agreed,” said Theo. “Not like Venus Williams marrying Bruno Mars. Venus Mars. Now, that’s a funny name. Brunelli? Not funny.”
Brunelli was not amused, but Jack understood that humor was how his friend had remained sane on death row. Joking around was his natural reaction to stress. Theo could push things too far. Jack got that. But Jack had also seen the effects of prison on guys who’d never developed coping mechanisms. It wasn’t pretty.
“We’re going to stay completely focused from this point forward,” said Jack. “No more goofing around. Isn’t that right, Theo?”
He took Jack’s cue. “If that’s what Special Agent Brunelli wants, that’s what Special Agent Brunelli gets.”
“Thank you,” said Brunelli. He popped open the briefcase. Jack’s hunch about the cash had been correct. Benjamin Franklin was staring back at them, many times over.
“If it’s not real, it sure looks it,” said Jack.
“It’s real,” said Brunelli. “For your own safety, I’m not going to tell you which bills are embedded with a GPS tracking microchip.”
He unzipped the duffel bag and emptied the contents onto the bed. There were two sets of clothing, one for Jack, the larger set for Theo.
“Guayaberas,” said Brunelli. “Armored, but it’s hard to tell. By Michael Cabrera, out of Bogotá. The president of Colombia loves these shirts.”
Theo picked up the white one. “Very cool. And it’s bulletproof?”
“To a point. Don’t go out looking to get shot, but it will give you a chance to take a hit and make a run for it, at least up to a .38-caliber slug. Maybe a 9-mil, if not fired at close range. Beyond that . . . duck.”
“And the jeans?” asked Jack, “also armored?”
“Yes. You’ll be a lot warmer than you’d like to be, but not much we can do about that.”
“Better hot than shot.”
“Good line,” said Brunelli. “I’ll pass it along to Cabrera’s marketing people. No need working up a sweat before you leave the hotel. Just put these on when you’re ready to leave.”
“What about the audio equipment?”
“All the electronics are sewn into the fabric. There’s no switch or button to activate it. Once you’re suited up, we’ll be able to hear everything you say.”
“Got it,” said Jack.
Brunelli moved the cash to the duffel bag, explaining the move before Jack could ask why. “GPS tracking won’t work through anodized aluminum,” said Brunelli. “The bag also has backup microphones, in case the ones in your clothing fail. You don’t have to keep the bag right on top of the table, but keep it nearby.”
“What about my earpiece?”
Brunelli stepped closer and inserted it into Jack’s ear canal. Jack checked in the mirror over the dresser. No sign of the earpiece.
“How’s that feel?” asked Brunelli
“Like there’s something in my ear.”
“You’ll get used to it. We’ll do an audio test before you head to the Coppelia to meet with Josefina.”
“Speaking of, do I just go with the flow, or do you want me to follow some kind of script?”
Brunelli pulled a notepad from the briefcase. On it was a list of questions in the agent’s handwriting. “I’m glad you asked,” he said.
J
ack left the Hotel Nacional de Cuba at 2:45 p.m. Theo was at his side, toting the cash-filled duffel bag.
Both the hotel and the Heladería Coppelia were in the Vedado district, one of Havana’s most upscale and touristy areas. The blonde getting out of the taxi in front of the hotel was trying to pay in euros. The gay couple walking toward them, in the direction of the Malecón, were speaking Portuguese. Jack was two blocks from his hotel, almost halfway to the ice cream parlor, when he heard Brunelli’s voice in his ear.
“Have you in sight. If you can hear me, tell Theo his fly is open.”
It was a lame attempt at payback, but Jack did it.
“Your momma,” said Theo.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Brunelli,” Jack said for the agent’s benefit.
“Listen up,” said Brunelli. “Make a left on Calle L and you’re less than a block away. You won’t hear from me again until we get a visual on Josefina. Good luck.”
The old and decaying Hotel Victoria marked their turn at Calle L. To Jack’s dismay, almost the entire city block ahead of them, all the way to the Facultad de Economía (business school) at the University of Havana, was without shade. He could almost see the mid-afternoon heat rising from the sidewalk. They’d only walked a quarter mile from the air-conditioned lobby of their hotel, and already Jack was sweating beneath his armored guayabera. It was nothing compared to Theo’s soaking.
“Not sure about your ‘better hot than shot’ slogan,” said Theo.
“Almost there.”
Their previous walk to Coppelia had been from the south, but the building’s flying-saucer design was instantly recognizable from any direction. The ice cream parlor was surrounded by a park, and the shade trees brought welcome relief. They were deep into the park, nearing the outdoor seating area for ice cream customers, when Jack’s cell phone rang. It was 2:56 p.m. Four minutes before the scheduled meeting time with Josefina. Jack wasn’t sure if he should take the call, but Brunelli cleared up the confusion.
“Answer it.”
Jack stopped beneath a coconut palm tree and answered. It was Josefina.
“I didn’t tell you to bring your friend,” she said.
“You didn’t say not to. Surely you didn’t expect me to come alone carrying this kind of cargo.”
“Okay, but change of plan,” she said. “Meet at three-fifteen on the Malecón by Hotel Nacional.”
The Malecón was the most famous esplanade in Havana, stretching four miles along the waterfront, from the mouth of Havana Harbor in Old Havana to the Hotel Nacional in Vedado. Jack knew it.
“Okay,” he said into the phone, but Josefina was already gone. Brunelli’s voice was in his other ear. “Tell Theo what she said in a voice that I can hear. Don’t stand there like you’re talking to the FBI through a microphone.”
He told Theo, but it was Brunelli who replied. “Go there. We’re on it. Keep in mind that we have no way to find out where she’s calling from. I don’t have a team of techies to triangulate in Cuba.”
Jack knew enough about police surveillance to understand Brunelli’s limitations. It was impossible to get a location on a mobile phone with no technological access to the cell towers that relayed the calls.
“Let’s go,” he told Theo, but Brunelli got the last word:
“Jack, I’m green-lighting this change, but be careful with Josefina. I’m not as convinced as you are that she’s an unwilling participant under this guy’s thumb.”
