Die Run Hide (17 page)

A man bumped into her with his bag.

Hot licks of fire shot up her leg. Her jaw clenched and her hand fisted against the pain.

He tossed a brief “sorry” over his shoulder.

She blew out a breath and returned her attention to the woman who had gotten up from her chair and was waving to another young woman — blond with olive skin, late twenties — in a flowery print dress.

Anika didn’t recognize the second woman at all.

“Taxi,
señorita
?”
The bellboy stood at polite attention.

Nodding wearily, she followed him outside and climbed into a cab.

• • •

The next morning, Anika stared at the blank screen in the computer center. She hadn’t slept well and the blinking cursor irritated her eyes. The only other people in the center were a teenager in a gray sweatshirt and a woman in a screaming yellow sundress.

Anika thought about putting on her sunshades, but the room’s dim light would make it hard to see through the lenses. Not that there was anything to see. Still no word from Gianni.

Maybe he had changed his mind. Maybe he wasn’t coming.

She rubbed her hands over her face.
No
. If he had changed his mind, he would have left her a message.
He’ll come. He has to.

She tapped some keys and closed out the private channel, then moved across the aisle to a new computer where she read a reply from her message to Jorge.

She almost cursed out loud.
Thirty-five hundred? That’s blackmail, you bastard.

But if she wanted to remain in Cuba for any length of time, she would have to pay it. Or take her chances with the police.

Maybe Brad knew something about registration. After all, this was his fourth visit to Cuba.
Brad
.

She checked the wall clock. 8:57. If she were going to meet him by ten o’clock, she’d better get started on her intel verification.

She straightened in her seat, shook off her fatigue, and typed a polite response to Jorge. “Will consider your kind offer of help.”

She hit the send button, signed off, then turned her attention to researching Mr. Brad Baxter. As expected, his public files confirmed what he had told her the night before, so she quickly moved on to private ones. Her fingers tapped the keys and her eyes skimmed the screen in a rapid back-and-forth exchange. She could almost hear Evan, the agency’s tech wiz, murmuring prompts that helped her work around password protections and override security codes.

She discovered a civil court file, Baxter vs. Baxter. Sounded like a divorce. Brad hadn’t mentioned anything about that last night. Of course, it wasn’t exactly first meeting small talk.

The file resisted her initial attempts to open it. Recalling more of Evan’s tips, she made two more attempts. No go.

She checked the clock again. 9:41. She blew out a frustrated breath. Time was up. The file would have to wait.

Anika strolled along the crowded sidewalk next to Brad, who kept pace with the other pedestrians.

Just two tourists blending in with everyone else. Where are the police when you’re ready for them?

“The Santa Isabel Hotel is up ahead.” Brad was taking his role as tour guide very seriously, pointing out every notable detail on their route. “One of Cuba’s great old hotels. It used to be home to royalty, the palace of the Count of Santovenia. The government turned it into a hotel in eighteen sixty-seven.”

“Looks lovely.” Anika tugged the brim of her straw hat lower and hoped to escape notice.

“
Señorita
Brown.” The doorman called out to her.

“Let’s cross. There’s a store I want to visit on the other side.” She started out into the street.

“Wait.” Brad took hold of her arm. “I think the doorman is trying to get your attention.”

“I don’t think so. I’m not staying there.”

But the doorman was hurrying in their direction, calling her name. He waved a piece of paper in his hand.

Her heart jumped into her throat.
Could it be from Gianni?

She turned and strode toward the man, deserting Brad. “
Gracias
.” Her gaze raced over the words. Then her heart plummeted. Not from Gianni. Instead, the
policía
had called several times reminding her to report to the local station.

“Is everything okay?” Brad came up behind her.

“Fine.” She crushed the paper in her fist. “It’s from … the manager.”

“But I thought you weren’t staying at the Isabel.”

Focus.

“I’m not.” She forced herself to look at Brad, smile, explain. “There was a misunderstanding about my reservation when I tried to check in last night. That’s why I’m at the Europa.”

“That doorman must have been watching for you.” Brad continued to stand there as the man returned to his post. “He spotted you a half block away.”

“I’m afraid I made a scene.” Anika gave what she hoped was an embarrassed smile. “Not my best moment. Is the café close?”

“Pretty close,” Brad said. “But where’s the store you wanted to visit?”

“We can skip it.” She took a couple of steps down the street and willed him to follow. “I
really
need that coffee.”

She counted four police uniforms on the way to the
Plaza de la Catedral
, a large square ringed by the city’s cathedral and eighteenth century mansions. Not one stopped them or even looked their way.

She told herself she should be pleased that Brad was proving to be a good buffer, but the back of her neck prickled with annoyance every time another official let them pass without hassle. Here they were in the middle of the twenty-first century and she couldn’t even walk alone without being bothered, despite the fact that she could take down any of these men, even with a sore leg.

At Brad’s insistence, she sat and rested while he bought
café con leches
from a street vendor. On his way back to their table, he bumped into a man carrying an oversized bag, walked right between a couple snapping pictures, and caught his knee on the edge of a bench.

So unlike Gianni.
Her throat tightened. If only she were having coffee with Gianni. If only she were watching him move across the square. Always hyper aware of his surroundings, he could flow like water in and around the people and objects in his path. Brad definitely didn’t flow.

“Here you go.” He set a cup of frothy liquid and triangular pastries in front of her.

The hot coffee slid down her throat and gave her a kick of caffeine that helped chase away fatigue.

“I chose this place because of these
pastelitos
. They’re the best in Havana.” He divided the small flaky pies into sections and placed several next to her coffee.

Nice hands
. Long-fingered, wide-palmed. Strong, but not hard-looking. Hands that had probably never detonated a bomb, fired a laser, broken a neck.

She took a bite of the pastry. At Brad’s expectant stare, she made herself exclaim how delicious it tasted. “Do you know anything about registering with the Havana police?”

“I’m afraid not.” His eyebrows drew together. “The university handles all of that for me. One of the perks of being here on an academic pass. Didn’t your school in Toronto take care of that?”

“It’s not for me.” She took another bite. “A woman at my hotel asked me about it. She hasn’t registered yet and a policeman stopped her on the street and gave her a hard time.”

“Yeah, the police can be strict about that kind of stuff. A holdover from the Castro days. She needs to get it taken care of.”

“I’m sure she will. Here, don’t let me eat all of these.” She pushed some of the pastry toward Brad. “What do you have in mind for today?”

“Is there anything in particular you want to visit?”

“I’d like to go to a computer center. And the
Malecón
,” she said, thinking about
Señor
Alejo and his room for rent.

“The
Malecón
I can understand. But a computer center? That’s not usually on the tourist route.”

“I didn’t bring my handheld on this trip and I want to check on a friend back home.” She didn’t elaborate.

“You don’t like to travel with a handheld either?” The corner of Brad’s eyes crinkled in pleasure. “That’s another thing we have in common. Okay then, a computer center it is. I should check on my flight home anyway.”

“You’re flying back tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow night. That’s the plan.” He paused and looked at her. “I could change it. Delay my return. What about you, Jane? What are your plans?”

A policeman appeared at the far corner of the plaza. His gaze slid right past Anika and Brad, then settled on a young woman wearing too much make-up and too little clothing for a morning stroll in the square. When she spotted the official, she wobbled off, her platform shoes teetering across the cobblestones.

“I try not to make too many plans while I’m on holiday.” Anika took another sip of coffee. The caffeine hummed through her now. She felt almost civil. “It’s a nice contrast to my life back home.”

“My visa’s good for a few weeks still.” Brad leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “And summer classes don’t start until mid-June.”

“Are you going to finish that?” She let his unspoken invitation hang in the air between them.

“It’s yours.” Brad sat back, easing off. “There’s a computer center a few blocks from here. If you’re not carrying a handheld, we can also stop and get a disposable camera. We’ll see some spectacular architecture today. Especially along the
Malecón
.”

As Brad detailed the itinerary, more tables filled up with a mix of tourists and locals drinking, talking, reading news discs.

“And then after dinner,” Brad said, drawing her back, “I’d love to take you
to El Zorro
,
the nightclub I mentioned last night.”

You don’t get it. By tonight, Gianni will have arrived, Jorge will have gotten his fee, and you will have served your purpose. We’ll be done.

“Sounds like fun.” She set down her empty cup, ready to face the next several hours.

“Here, I’ll carry that.” Brad hoisted her knapsack across his shoulder.

She had to restrain herself from snatching it back from him.
Remember. Single woman. High school teacher. Play the part.

An hour later, she and Brad stood on the hot pavement in front of
Señor
Alejo’s house. Cars, buses, and autobikes whizzed behind them along the
Malecón
. She squinted against the glare bouncing off the sidewalk from the noon day sun.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I was here yesterday afternoon. I met with the owner. He promised to hold the room for me.”

“You’re sure this is the place?” Brad asked.

Planks of splintered wood formed a crude “X” across the house’s pale yellow door and a handwritten notice read: “
No entre.
” The balcony doors were shuttered tight and the sign advertising a room for rent had been removed.

“Yes.”
I’m trained to be sure.

“We could knock on some doors. Ask if any of his neighbors saw what happened.”

“I’d rather not.”

“It’s okay,” Brad said. “Neighbors keep an eye on one another here.”

“No. Let’s go.” She turned away.

The adjacent building’s front door opened and a slightly built man in his mid-thirties stepped out. He wore rumpled shorts, but no shirt or shoes. An unlit cigarette stuck out of the corner of his mouth.

“Americans?” His bloodshot gaze roamed over Anika.

“Do you know what happened to the owner of this house?” Brad asked.

“You need a room?”

“Maybe. But first, we want to know what happened here.”

“Jail,” the man said.

“Jail?” Anika asked. “But I was just here yesterday.”

“The CDR reported him. The police came last night.” The man scratched at his stomach. “I have a nice room. Big enough for two. Better than his. You want to see?”

“No,” she whispered to Brad.

“Maybe later,” Brad said. “Thanks for your time.” He tucked Anika’s arm in his and set off down the street.

Out of the neighbor’s earshot, she asked, “What’s the CDR?”

“Committees for the Defense of the Revolution. Every neighborhood has one. They were formed in the last century, during the Castro era, to uncover counterrevolutionaries. Nowadays, they mostly monitor civic activities and behavior.”

Was
Señor
Alejo’s disappearance connected to her?

“The CDRs do a lot of good,” Brad continued. “They make sure the streets get swept, garbage gets picked up, drunks don’t bother people. But they also watch and report those who have contact with foreigners. If the police decide that the contact is too frequent, they move in.”

“I thought the
Ministerio del Interior
tracked foreigners.”

“Tracked?” Brad looked over at her. “That’s a little strong.”

You haven’t met Enrique Castillo.
“I mean,” she said, “I thought I read something like that in a guidebook about Cuba. Isn’t that right?”

“The Interior and the police do work together. But what we saw back there looks more like the work of a jealous neighbor who complained to the local CDR representative. It may have been the man who wanted to rent us a room.”

“How do you know so much about this?” She slipped her arm out from his. She didn’t need him leading her around like a child.

“The Estradas used to get harassed a lot. The more successful you are, the more you’re a target. I wouldn’t worry too much. After a day or two, the police usually let the person go with a warning and a fine.”

“The Estradas used to get harassed, but they don’t now?”

“They haven’t for several months. I guess they’ve figured out a way to beat the system. Maybe they just pay the fine in advance. If you still want the room, it’ll probably be available in a couple of days.”

“How active are the CDRs in the beach towns? Like where you stayed near Guardalavaca?”

“Not as active. The big resorts dominate the towns. And they get special treatment from the government because of the tourist money they bring into the country. Are you hungry for lunch yet?” Brad asked. “I know a nice place near here. Then we can see some more museums this afternoon.”