JET - Escape: (Volume 9) (20 page)

Havana, Cuba

Horns honked along the famous Havana
malecón
that paralleled the waterfront as cars slowed for the explosions of spray driven by waves crashing against the rocks, flooding the road with the regularity of a metronome. Drago’s taxi was a new model Honda with surprisingly icy air-conditioning, and its suspension largely cushioned the uneven pavement on the inbound road from the airport.

He’d caught the morning flight from Venezuela to Havana, which was only half full, mostly with businessmen who kept to themselves, for which he was grateful. He contented himself with dozing the entire trip, ignoring the man in the seat next to him, who seemed happy with the arrangement. After a rocky landing at the airport, which more resembled a penitentiary than an international hub, he cleared customs on his Colombian passport and moved to the taxi stand, where he was delighted to find a fleet of newish vehicles, not the 1950s relics he’d expected.

“First time in Havana?” the driver asked as they passed the Meliá hotel, an area landmark built by American gangsters in the 1950s and now owned by a Spanish hotel chain.

“Yes.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“A little of both,” Drago responded honestly. He’d dreamt of the woman again last night, only in his dream she was not only his captive, but naked, her skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration as he went about his work. Drago viewed his fixation as a sign, an omen, of the reward awaiting him after the most difficult assignment in his career, which was saying something.

“Ah, then you come to the right place. The city’s got everything you could want, and then some. But you got to be careful, especially at night. Shit can get crazy, you know?”

“Sure. I’ll have to watch my step.”

They coasted to a stop in front of the Parque Central hotel, and Drago paid the driver. The man pocketed the generous tip, waved, and drove away, sending a kit of pigeons soaring into the air over the park across the street, which was filled with young people enjoying the late morning sun. Drago watched the vehicle round the corner and then continued to a strip of shops adjacent to the square, where he placed a call. Five minutes later a squat man wearing a panama hat, a white button-up short-sleeved shirt, and navy blue slacks approached him.

“Do you have the time?” he asked.

Drago nodded, eyeing the three cigars in the character’s breast pocket. “Yes. A cigar fan, are you?”

The man looked around and grunted. “This way,” he said, his voice low, and moved down the sidewalk at an unexpected clip given his age and his short legs. Drago tailed him for two blocks and then followed him into a run-down building, where they climbed a set of questionable stairs before entering a suite of offices, plaster peeling off the walls and ceiling, a standing fan blowing warm air through the open window.

“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, he 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.”