JET - Escape: (Volume 9) (7 page)

“Hello, handsome. See anything you like?” she asked in a musical voice.

“I do now,” Drago said. “What are you drinking?”

“What are you?”

Drago held the sweating glass up in a toast. “Vodka and tonic.”

“Can I taste it?” she asked.

“Among other things.” He handed her the glass and she took a sip, considered it, and handed it back to him.

“I like that.”

“Then you should have one. What’s your name?”

“Alana.”

Drago nodded to the bartender. “Alana would like one of these.”

“Very good, sir,” the young man replied.

Five minutes later Drago was following Alana up the stairs, marveling at the view. He’d requested the brothel’s most luxurious suite, and when he was told it was occupied, he’d appeared disappointed but was secretly delighted. He’d spent time in that room, and the odds were nearly a hundred percent that Renaldo was there tonight – it carried a considerable premium, which few of the bordello’s weeknight clientele would have been willing to pay for an hour’s diversion.

When they reached the third floor, Drago pointed at a door near the end of the hall – one down from the master, outside of which a sour-faced young bodyguard sat in a folding chair, scowling at them suspiciously. Drago waved with his drink hand, pretending to be tipsy. “Let’s use that one,” he suggested.

Alana smiled professionally and teetered over to it on translucent plastic stripper heels. “Perfect.”

You have no idea how
, Drago thought, and followed her inside under the watchful eye of the bodyguard. When the door closed behind them, Alana twisted the lock with a loud snap. “Nice and private,” she said with another grin, and Drago mirrored the smile as he moved to the bed, noting with satisfaction that there was no sound coming from the room next door.

Chapter 9

Havana Harbor, Cuba

The lights of Havana twinkled along the shore as a matte gray Cuban navy patrol boat cut through the light wind chop. Two dozen marines sat on steel benches as the vessel made its way toward the harbor mouth, past deteriorating commercial piers that hosted the darkened hulks of cargo ships.

The half century of American sanctions against the island nation had drained the port of much of its prosperity, and the waterfront buildings that lined the
malecón
were weather-battered and decaying, many dating from the 1800s or earlier, veterans of countless hurricanes and generations of neglect.

Major Luis Fuentes stood beside the helmsman as the boat neared a commercial fishing vessel moored in the anchorage by the fort that guarded the harbor approach. The boat was low in the water, obviously overloaded, and in poor shape even by Cuban standards. Fuentes squinted in the gloom and nodded to the helmsman.

“That’s it.
El Limon
,” Fuentes said, and then called out to one of the crewmen at the bow, where a .50-caliber machine gun that was older than the gunman stood on a support rod next to a spotlight. “Showtime. Hit it.”

The high-wattage beam blinked to life and settled on the fishing boat. Fuentes could make out five fishermen on deck, all of whom were dazed, blinded by the light as the military vessel pulled closer.

Fuentes spoke into the hailing system handset and his voice boomed overhead through amplified speakers. “Vessel
El Limon
. This is the harbor patrol. Prepare for boarding.”

The men on the fishing boat froze in place. The Havana harbor patrol had a nasty reputation for being trigger happy, and nobody wanted to be tomorrow’s obituary – or slipped over the side several miles offshore with a few cinderblocks chained to their ankles.

Havana Harbor had a long and colorful history as a Spanish port that had been plagued by pirates, brigands, and scoundrels of all shapes and sizes. The current political masters, for all their rhetoric, had proved no better than the island’s earlier leadership, and the country had suffered while those in power grew rich, all the while trumpeting equality with the fervor of the newly converted.

The fishermen were accustomed to the rule of the sword, and didn’t question being boarded in the middle of the night while at anchor. It was the captain’s problem, ultimately, as long as nobody got heroic while the authorities went about their business.

The gunboat pulled alongside the fishing scow, and Fuentes’ nose crinkled at the stink that wafted from the deck.

“Jesus, that’s foul,” he said, and coughed into his hand. Once the lines were secured, the marines rose from the benches, their rifle barrels gleaming in the moonlight. “Stay here,” Fuentes growled, and made his way over the gunwale to the fishing boat.

The old captain poked his head out of the fishing boat’s pilothouse and his expression set in a frown of resignation and annoyance. Fuentes walked to the door and nodded to him. “Inspection. Routine.”

“I already handled this with one of your people – Gomez.”

“Nobody told me. So you’ll have to handle it with me.”

Fuentes pushed past the captain and entered the small pilothouse, and then moved to the stairway leading belowdecks. The captain sighed as the major eyed the passageway. Fuentes cleared his throat. “If I go down there and find dozens of stowaways bound for a run to Florida, you’re done, old-timer. But if I decide to have a glass of rum with you and sort things out right now instead, well, you can live to fight another day and be on your way whenever you like, with my assurance you won’t be disturbed.”

“I told you, I already paid Gomez.”

“He died this afternoon. Massive heart attack. Why do you think I’m out at this hour when it would normally be his shift?” Fuentes shook his head. “But if you already paid, we can work something out. Frankly, this isn’t a negotiation. You either pay or go to prison. However, I’m a fair man. So we can cut the usual figure in half.”

The captain slumped onto a bench seat beside the chart table. “That means I’ll lose money on this run.”

“Think of it as an unexpected surge in the price of fuel. A tax. That’s really all it is.”

Ten minutes later Fuentes returned to the patrol boat, his pocket fatter by two thousand American dollars. He knew the captain would still turn a profit, but it would only be hundreds of dollars for his trouble this time out. Not Fuentes’ problem. Some months were better than others in all businesses, and the world wasn’t fair.

The trafficking of the desperate, north to the U.S., was a well-established enterprise. The going rate could run anywhere from five hundred dollars to five thousand per head, depending upon how stable the vessel was and the likelihood of making it without drowning. The Cuban authorities were chartered with stopping the exodus at their shore, but as with so much in the world, compromises were made. Fuentes’ take-home pay as a career officer was just short of five hundred dollars a month. But he was able to squirrel away up to several thousand more, subject to how many others had to be compensated along the way – in tonight’s case, the patrol boat captain, who would distribute funds to the rest of his crew as he saw fit, and the harbor patrol commander, who had allowed an army officer use of his boat. When it was all paid out, half the money would be gone, leaving Fuentes with a tidy thousand-dollar profit to spend on his mistress, who, even in an impoverished society like Cuba, wasn’t cheap to keep happy.

Fuentes watched the hull of the fishing boat disappear off the stern as the patrol boat made a wide turn and retraced its course into the harbor, and looked down at his watch. He could be back on land and pay everyone in an hour or less, leaving plenty of time with his delicate hothouse flower before he went home to his wife and four children, exhausted after another long, thankless shift in the service of his country.

Fuentes smiled to himself.

Whoever thought Cuba didn’t understand capitalism hadn’t been there.

Chapter 10

Santuario, Colombia

Two feral cats battled with each other at the end of a small street in the industrial area of town, their howls of pain and outrage the only sound other than the distant rumble of highway traffic as heavy trucks labored up the grade to the west. A pair of headlights bounced down the cobblestones and coasted to a stop in front of an old single-story warehouse. The decaying façade advertised tires repaired inexpensively and brakes resurfaced at a discount. Half the paint was peeled off the distressed surface from years of neglect, lending the building an air of abandonment, which was in fact the case.

A wide steel roll-up door faced the street, and a small metal pedestrian entrance stood with its door ajar beside it. In the shadows, Fernanda and Ramón watched as Viega stepped down from the passenger side of the Suburban and walked to the rear. He half-dragged a cuffed figure from the vehicle; the captive’s close-cropped hair and vestments clearly identified him as one of the monastery monks.

When the pair arrived at the entrance, Ramón stepped aside. Viega pushed Franco through before stepping back, as though afraid if he crossed the threshold, he’d never be allowed to leave.

“He’s all yours. Call me when you’re through,” Viega said, and hurried back to the SUV, not awaiting any response.

Ramón took Franco’s arm and led him to a metal chair in the middle of the room, the only illumination a single bulb hanging from a frayed black wire that was suspended from a support beam overhead. Fernanda slammed the door shut and slid the bolt closed as Ramón forced the monk into the chair. When she approached him, his eyes were unafraid – a man at peace with himself, she thought.

“You’ve been lying to the police long enough. I need to know what you do, and I need to know it now. We’ve lost enough time,” she announced as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves with a snap. Franco’s eyes drifted to a toolbox sitting open on a wooden crate just out of the halo of light thrown by the lamp, and then they returned to hers, meeting her gaze unflinchingly.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Franco said, his tone calm.

“You do, and you’ll tell me. The man and woman escaped from the monastery. They had to have assistance. I think you helped them or know who did. If I’m wrong, I’ll repeat my interrogation with every one of your brethren until I get it out of you. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you believe something that isn’t true.”

Fernanda sighed. “Let me tell you a story. When I was just a little girl, I had a brother. His name is unimportant. What
is
important is that he was a beautiful spirit – generous, kind, friendly. When he was nine, he began his service in our town’s church, as an altar boy. A year later he was found hanging in the outhouse, where he’d rigged a noose out of wire and strangled himself by stepping off the toilet.” Fernanda paused and studied Franco’s face. “His last moments had to be excruciatingly painful, because his neck didn’t break – the wire sliced through his flesh and he bled to death.” She stepped nearer. “He killed himself because of the shame and self-hatred that consumed him, because of what was done to him by the town priest. Stories circulated after the good father was transferred elsewhere – other little boys with horrific accounts of their own – but by that time he had escaped the townspeople’s revenge, spirited away by his superiors.”

“I’m truly sorry for your loss, but what does that have to do with me?” Franco asked.

“I mention it because I want you to know that, unlike everyone else who has interrogated you, I’m not impressed by your position in the Church. If anything, it makes it easier for me to do what I must in order to drag the truth from you. Because, in a way, I’m doing it for my brother, not just for expedience.”

“I want a lawyer.”

Fernanda smiled, and the effect was blood-chilling. “You misunderstand your circumstance.”

“I’m not saying another word until I have my lawyer.”

“Oh, you will talk. You’ll beg to talk, but only when I allow you to. First, I get my revenge for my brother. Only after I’m tired will I give you the opportunity to speak.” Fernanda nodded, and Ramón slipped a knotted rag around Franco’s head, forcing the knot into his mouth and tying the loose ends behind his head.

When Ramón was finished, Fernanda studied Franco with cool detachment and moved to the toolbox. “I’m afraid I didn’t have time to gather all the instruments I would have liked. I originally conceived of your questioning as a perfect opportunity to use some of the more popular techniques from your organization’s infamous inquisition period, but circumstances didn’t deliver a rack or a Judas chair. Do you know what a Judas chair is?”

Franco’s eyes widened.

“It was popular in obtaining confessions from the particularly stubborn. It’s a chair with a sharp, pointed pyramid for a seat. The victim is seated on it, naked, with the point inserted into an orifice, and then as questioning progressed, lowered inch by inch. That sounded perfect for what I intended; but alas, there are none to be found nearby and we’re in a bit of a rush.”

Franco struggled against the bindings.

“Another popular technique was called the strappado. That’s where the victim would be suspended from the rafters by his wrists shackled behind him. The muscles in his arms would rip from the weight, and then the ligaments in the shoulders, and then, as he was bounced by the interrogators, his shoulders would break. It sounds excruciatingly painful, doesn’t it? Leave it to the Church to innovate convincing ways to extract information.” She looked at Ramón. “Unfortunately, the overhead beams don’t look like they’ll support your weight – they’re too old – and I’d hate to pull the building down on top of us. So I’ll have to make do with more modern techniques, which I promise you are every bit as painful, if not more so.”

She pulled on a green plastic apron and cinched it around her waist, and then held up a pair of cables with stripped copper wire ends. “The Inquisition didn’t have the benefit of electricity. If it had, it could have dispensed with many of its tricks and gone straight to judicious application of voltage to sensitive areas of the body. I can assure you that it exceeds the worst you might experience with the old-school approaches. But don’t take my word for it. You’re about to discover firsthand that technology has made marvelous strides since the days of Torquemada.”