Die Run Hide (13 page)

Anika’s chest tightened and she slowed to a casual stroll. The T-shirts and ball caps in a nearby window provided an excuse for her to stop and pretend to study the images of Che Guevara, President Gonzalez, and some
Cubana
singer named Sofia.

A half-block away, a bicyclist balancing a giant entertainment monitor collided with a pedestrian carrying groceries. The monitor crashed to the street. Fruit and vegetables scattered. The pedestrian started swinging, blood spurting from his nose. The policeman sprinted over.

Anika relaxed her hold on her knapsack and meandered away. The rest of her journey was a deliberate stop-and-start crawl to the shopping section of El Centro, next to Old Havana.

She entered a “dollar shop,” named for the U.S. dollar even though the store accepted all foreign currencies. The only currency it didn’t take was the Cuban peso, which explained why the store stocked better merchandise than what she had eyed in the windows of the local bodegas and shops. Generous lighting swept the interior and scents of vanilla and lavender permeated the air.

Anika couldn’t remember the last time she had bought anything from a store. U.N.I.T.’s concierge services and cyber-shopping were her usual methods of getting what she needed. But those days were in her past. Now she would experience a new life as a born-again civilian, sauntering along shiny linoleum aisles in search of something to buy. It seemed like a poor use of time, but maybe it was a good thing. If it made her feel more like a civilian and less like an operative, it was worth it.

The sparkle from a pair of shoulder-length earrings caught her eye. She held them up to her ears and turned her head from side to side. The countertop mirror showed the silver strands swaying against her neck and catching in her hair. The dressers in Wardrobe would never approve of something so impractical. She smiled and dropped the earrings into her shopping basket, then headed further into the store.

Shelf after shelf held a bizarre assortment of items, from kitchenware to household appliances to in-home entertainment in models and styles from several decades. This year’s latest handheld sat next to ones she hadn’t seen since leaving the orphanage.

An island country full of jumbled merchandise, aging infrastructure, and old-style security made an ideal place for an operative-turned-civilian. She could embrace a country that had thumbed its nose at joining the member nations that funded U.N.I.T. A country that was too small and unimportant in the global picture to warrant more than the occasional satellite sweep. However odd, Cuba promised a fitting place to start her new life.

Racks jammed the clothing aisles, full of cotton dresses, tops, and pants in colors that mimicked the fruits and vegetables in the street stalls: papaya yellow, sugarcane green, watermelon pink. No black in sight. No dark gray, navy, or taupe either. None of the standard colors that filled her closets back home.

She selected a blue-green skirt and matching top. The bright colors were so different from what she was used to wearing. But she resolved to get used to them.

Fifteen minutes and five outfit changes later, she stared in the mirror at a convincing image of a high school teacher-tourist. Gone were the full-body protection clothes in head-to-toe black and the thick-soled boots. In their place, she wore a sleeveless yellow-and-white striped sundress and brown fake-leather sandals. A broad-brimmed straw hat topped her head.

If it weren’t for the Glock around her torso, concealed by the dress’s loose fit, she could believe she really was a civilian. A sensation, like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings, moved through her. Fragile, but steady. Her dreams of freedom, of living a gloriously normal life, were becoming real.

Buying art supplies proved a greater challenge than the colorful clothes. The first two stores didn’t carry anything she could use. The third yielded a couple of dog-eared sketching pads and a half-empty box of charcoal pencils.

“Are these all your art supplies?” she asked the clerk, a middle-aged woman with teased dark hair, orange-red lipstick, and rings on every finger.

“We have some watercolor sets in back,” the woman replied. “But they’re for young children, five to seven.”

Anika’s lips twisted in disappointment. They wouldn’t help her cover at all. “Do you know where else I can go?”

“One of the gift stores in the museums might have what you want.”

After buying the pads and pencils, Anika consulted her map. Six blocks away, the
Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes
offered an easy walk that ran through
Parque Central
. She would grab lunch from one of the food stands and eat it in the park, underneath the leafy shade of a tree. She stepped outside into the bright sun, adjusted her hat, and slipped on her sunshades.

“Documents please,
señorita
.” A policeman blocked her path.

“Of course,
señor
.” Anika flipped up her shades and made eye contact with the official. His too-flowery cologne mixed unpleasantly with the street smells of diesel, tar, and warm peanuts. She brought a smile to her lips. “My papers are in my bag.” She moved slowly, taking her time, making sure the knapsack stayed close against her side where the Glock was strapped.

While the policeman riffled through her passport and visa, she looked around as if taking in the street scene. Except for the occasional sympathetic glance of a passerby, no one else appeared to notice them.

The sun grew hot on her bare arms and a trickle of sweat ran down her neck.

“Why haven’t you reported to a station yet?”

“Reported?” she asked, startled.

“Any visitor staying longer than two weeks has to register with the police. Didn’t the customs official at the air terminal tell you this?”

“I came through customs at the marina.”

“Did you travel here on a cruise ship?”

She searched her memory for the name of the cruise liner that had been unloading passengers when she had gone through customs. She tried to visualize the letters on the side of the ship. Something royal.
The Sea Queen?

“Your papers don’t have any cruise ship markings.”

“It was a private boat,” she said, going with the truth. Maybe the boat she had arrived on was legitimate, even if its contents, including her, weren’t.

“What’s the name of the boat? When did it dock?” The official flipped through her passport again.

“Doesn’t it show that?” She craned her neck to look at the page. “I remember the customs official stamping something.”

“There’s a mark here that could be from the Marina Hemingway.” The policeman sounded doubtful.

“That must be it. I was so seasick, I’m afraid I don’t remember much about the trip.” She added a grimace. “I know we arrived after dark. The captain told me to join the line with the passengers from one of the cruise ships. Have you ever been seasick?”

The man studied her, tapping the passport against his palm.

Regret for flushing away the pregnancy hormones seized her. It might bolster her story if she could give in to a bout of nausea right now. But her stomach wouldn’t cooperate.

The official pulled out a bright yellow piece of paper from his pants pocket, scribbled something on it, and folded it around her visa. “You’re staying at the Santa Isabel?” At Anika’s nod, he continued, “There’s a station three blocks away. Take this with you when you go there.”

“What’s involved with registering?” At the man’s unsmiling stare, she added, “I was just wondering how long it takes. I’m meeting a friend for lunch.”

“It depends. Every verification process is different. But you should have done it within eight hours of your arrival.” His voice grew stern and he pointed at the yellow paper. “This form gives you until three o’clock this afternoon.”

“Then I’ll go right now.” She took the paper and tried not to think of it as a bomb that had just been activated. “Thank you so much for the extension.”

She crossed the street and made her way down the sidewalk. She took care to match her pace with those around her. Her thigh, pain-free all morning, started to throb and a swell of fatigue rolled through her.

Up ahead at the next corner, another policeman leaned against the building. She slipped into a storefront where she bought holo-cards and cheap souvenirs, making sure to mention to the clerks how much her friends and family “back home in Canada” would enjoy them. She lingered in the store until the official moved away, then zigzagged through a dozen others on an indirect route back to her hotel.

After a lunch of paella and iced coffee in the shaded courtyard of the Santa Isabel, she took a taxi to the nearest state-run computer center even though it was only three short blocks away. Until she had resolved her registration problem, she didn’t want to chance another run-in with the
policía.

In the center’s waiting area, she sat for twenty minutes on a hard bench until a corner spot opened, then another five minutes waiting for the computer to boot up. When the dark screen at last sprang to life and the green cursor blinked its readiness, she typed in the private channel she had used to contact Gianni in Miami.

Knots of anticipation bunched in her stomach. She tried releasing them through exhales that tasted like paella and cigarette smoke from the center’s other customers. The glowing digits of the wall clock counted down ninety more seconds and still no response from Gianni.

She shook her head as if to shake off the anxiety
. It’s too early. He’s still en route. He’ll get in touch.

She closed down the channel, then brought up a new screen and accessed a public line. She dug through her sack for the crumpled note from Jorge, confirmed his email address, and typed it in.

Over lunch, she had decided that Jorge could probably help her with the police registration problem. For the right price, of course. She fought back a swell of annoyance. She was willing to bet Jorge knew about the requirement to register and had kept it from her so that she would have to contact him and pay his asking price.

Her fingers rested on the keys. She had to phrase her request just right, so that it wouldn’t arouse suspicions no matter who read it, on either side of the Gulf of Mexico.

“Arrived safely,” she typed. “Having some registration issues. Can you help?” She sat back and re-read the words.

“Registration” could suggest her problems were hotel-related. It made sense she was reaching out to a hotel owner with her request. The tone seemed right, too. Not urgent or desperate. A casual inquiry.

She hit the send button, sat back, and debated whether to re-open the channel to Gianni. The screen flickered and went dead. She sat up, her nerves ratcheting to alert mode. Then she realized hers wasn’t the only screen that had shut down.

Loud protests and complaints peppered the air in Italian, Japanese, German, Mandarin, and French. A recorded voice came over the speakers and asked for everyone’s patience while the system re-booted. The locals didn’t react, but continued to puff on their cigarettes. A young
Cubano
behind Anika, early twenties with long dark hair and a shy smile, offered her a smoke.

She shook her head with a muttered “
gracias
” and strode back outside. A mother walked by with a curly headed toddler in tow. Anika slipped on her sunshades. A blue-shirted, khaki-trousered man stood very close to the curb, his head bent over an e-reader. A bus, overcrowded with passengers, barreled up the street.

“Hey,” she called, “watch out.”

The man didn’t respond.

She switched to Spanish.
“¡Tenga cuidado!”

The man stepped down off the curb, oblivious of the rattles of the bus, the honks of the driver, the shouts of the passengers.

Anika sprang forward, grabbed hold of his arm, and yanked.

The man’s foot caught on the raised edge of the curb and he pitched sideways.

The bus rumbled past, the expressions on its passengers’ faces ranging from wide-eyed shock to open-mouthed relief.

“What the hell were you doing? Are you crazy?” Anika poured out her frustration and anxiety about Gianni all over the stranger.

A nice-looking stranger, she realized now that she saw him up close. Early thirties. Sandy brown hair, blue eyes. Slender build.

“I’m so sorry.” He looked up at her, raising his hand to block the sun. His knuckles bore scrapes of dirt and blood.

He sounded American. Neutral accent.
West Coast.

“You almost got yourself killed!”

“I know. Bad habit. Reading instead of watching where I’m going.” He rose to his feet and winced as he straightened. Fully upright, he stood a couple of inches above her. “I’m Brad.” He had a nice smile, easy and relaxed, with teeth imperfect enough to be real.

She looked past his shoulder and stiffened.

Two heavy-set
policemen, mirror images of each other in white shirts, dark pants, and sunshades, were bearing down on them.

Brad followed her gaze.

Different escape tactics raced through Anika’s mind. Sprint between the cars, dart around a corner, jump on the bus in the cross street ahead. Then again, she could always faint.

Before she made a move, though, Brad stepped into the men’s path and started speaking to them in flawless Spanish. He made a joke about walking around with his head in the clouds, except that he substituted a more vulgar phrase for “in the clouds.”

The policemen laughed. Brad praised the bus driver’s quick reflexes. An outright lie, but the men nodded in solemn agreement.

Anika was impressed. The guy might be a physical klutz, but he was a mental gymnast. She was even more impressed when the officials gave her a cursory look and then wandered off without asking to see any papers.

A lucky break or a set up?

She still hadn’t decided when Brad turned back to her. “How can I thank you for saving my life?”

“You just did.”

The policemen had stationed themselves on opposite corners a half block away.

“Have you had trouble with Havana’s finest?”