Castro's Daughter (7 page)

The attendant had brought back his Coke, and a half hour after they were in the air, she served him a box lunch with a fresh turkey and Swiss croissant, a light pasta salad, an apple, a chocolate chip cookie, and a split of a very good sauvignon blanc.

And after he ate, he’d laid his head against the window and watched the clouds as he tried to make sense of the why of the thing, and tried to send a telepathic message to Louise that everything would turn out well.

The president had sent Deputy Secretary of State Gladys Faunce; along with William Chapman, who was the assistant legal adviser for Inter-American Affairs; and Ralph Scott, the State Department’s Coordinator for Cuban Affairs; plus two bodyguards for Faunce. Other nations had sent either their premiers or presidents, but the White House felt it was conciliatory enough to send a delegation of this rank.

When the Cadillacs and their escorts pulled away and sped across the tarmac, the man riding shotgun in the Gazik waiting for Otto got out and walked over. Otto took him and the driver to be DI officers.

“Señor Rencke?” he asked respectfully.

“Yes.”

“Have you brought any weapons into Cuba?”

“No.”

“A cell phone or satellite phone?”

Otto took out his phone and handed it over. But they wouldn’t learn anything unless they came up with his very complicated password, and if they tried too hard, the phone’s SIM card would be erased.

“If you will get in the backseat, sir, it is about a half hour’s drive from here,” the officer said, and he took Otto’s overnight bag.

The day was warm and humid, but the Gazik was a cabriolet; its canvas top was down and the breeze felt refreshing as they headed away from the airport.

Havana city center and the Plaza de la Revolución were about fifteen miles to the north, as the crow flies, the countryside this far out mostly barren, just the occasional small cattle ranch and clutches here and there of shacks down dirt roads, with very gently rolling hills in the distance to the east and west.

They drove fast until they came to Arroyo Naranjo, one of the bigger population concentrations within the city of Havana, seven miles south of the old city on the Havana–Las Vegas Highway. A lot of old cars and bicycles and even donkey carts clogged the narrow road until they reached the modern divided ring road that circled downtown.

At one point a few miles away, they passed a sign for a turn-off to the Finca Vigía, which had been Hemingway’s home, under renovation for the past several years. But money was tight and the work would probably take several more years to complete. So much depended on the American tourist dollar, which up to now was practically nonexistent.

A couple of miles past that, they reached the Autopista Nacional, this one a modern highway that went straight into the city, but instead of turning to the northwest, they continued on the ring road that would eventually end up at the castle on Havana Bay and another way into the city, and the headquarters of the DI, where Otto figured they were taking him.

They were out in the country now, in what was considered Havana’s east side, some boxy Soviet-era high-rise apartment buildings mixed with small houses, sometimes hovels, and small factories dotted here and there.

But again, the driver did not head into the city; instead, they got off the main highway and drove roughly northeast, toward the coast.

“I thought we’d be going to DI headquarters,” Otto said.

The officer riding shotgun glanced over his shoulder. “No.”

“Where, then?”

“I don’t know.”

Otto was alarmed. They were well off the main highway now, in the middle of what amounted to nowhere. People disappeared in places like this. “You have to know where you’re taking me. I came here to meet with Colonel León.”

The driver glanced at Otto’s reflection in the rearview mirror, and said something to his partner, who turned around.

“You are correct, we are not taking you downtown to headquarters, that would be far too dangerous at this moment. And you are also correct that the colonel wishes to speak to you.”

“Why too dangerous downtown?”

The officer said something to the driver that Otto didn’t catch, then turned back again. “There is much turmoil since El Comandante died.”

“I understand. But isn’t Raúl fully in control?”

The officer was extremely nervous. “There are some
facciones,
what you call ‘factions,’ that may be forming.”

“Troubles?”

“Sí, problemas.”

“Are you expecting trouble for our delegation at the funeral?”

The DI officer reared back as if he’d been shot. “No, nothing like that, I assure you. This trouble I’m speaking of involves only a certain section.”

“A power struggle?”

The officer nodded. “Something like that.”

This was not good. “Turn around,” Otto said. “Take me back to the airport.”

The officer was genuinely alarmed. “That’s not possible. The colonel has gone to a lot of trouble to get you here.”

“Yes. Including kidnapping my wife and killing an innocent civilian at a day care center, and endangering the lives of the kids there, my child included. Take me back! Now!”

“Ramiro,” the driver said urgently, jamming on the brakes as a small canvas-covered troop truck pulled out from a dirt path and blocked the road.

“Do exactly as you are told, Señor Rencke,” the man riding shotgun said.

The Gazik came to a complete halt a few yards away from where a half dozen armed soldiers jumped out of the truck and took up defensive positions. Their officer came around from the front.

“Or else what?” Rencke asked.

“Or else you will die here. All of us will.”

Their driver got out and walked up to where the officer beckoned, and they walked a few feet down the road away from the troops. The driver appeared a minute later and motioned for his partner.

“We’re going the rest of the way in the truck,” the officer told Rencke. “Just keep your mouth shut.”

They got out of the Gazik and, without saying a thing, walked to the truck and climbed aboard. Moments later, the troops joined them, and immediately the truck lurched forward but only about twenty-five yards, where it stopped again.

One of the troops, armed with a LAWS rocket, jumped down, extended the tube, unfolded the sights, and fired, hitting the Gazik dead center, the Russian jeep going up in a ball of flame, the explosion flat and loud.

“It was necessary to maintain the illusion,” the DI officer told Otto as the soldier hurried back and climbed aboard.

“What illusion?”

“That you were killed or kidnapped by insurgents.”

ELEVEN

It was early evening, already dark outside, when Louise awoke with a splitting headache. For several beats she was disoriented, not sure at all where she was or what had happened to make her body ache all over. But then it came to her that she’d been in a fight and she had been drugged again.

The bed frame had been taken away and she was lying on the bare mattress on the floor, the filthy pillow that smelled of something sour under her head. She pushed herself up to a sitting position, and then struggled painfully to her bare feet. They’d taken her shoes for some reason, which didn’t make any sense to her.

For a long time she stood swaying, her legs trembling, until she could shuffle to the bathroom, where she splashed some cold water on her face and used the toilet.

There’d been a towel bar above the tub, but that had been ripped out of the wall, leaving absolutely nothing she could use as a weapon, except perhaps the wooden toilet seat. But she didn’t think she had the strength to take the toilet apart, let alone put up a decent fight. At least not for now. And she was actually glad the mirror had been removed so she didn’t have to look at herself; she suspected she was a mess.

It had taken all three kidnappers to finally subdue her and stick her arm with the needle, and then nothing. She suddenly felt her wrist, realizing that they’d taken her watch, too, along with her shoes, which she supposed could have been used as weapons. Maybe like brass knuckles.

She walked back into the bedroom at the same moment someone was at the lock, and the door opened. The driver, a tray in his hand, stood there with a half smile on his narrow features, and she decided that he looked dangerous, like a street hood, which had been her first impression outside the day care center.

“You must be hungry,” he said.

She nodded. “And thirsty.”

“It’s the drug,” he said. He tossed her a liter bottle of Evian.

Which she caught and opened with fumbling fingers. Her mouth was dry, the water a relief. “What do I call you?” she asked.

“Rodrigo will do.”

“Is that your real name?”

Cruz smiled faintly. “May I come in and give you this tray? Or do you mean to attack again?”

“Set it down on the floor and leave.”

“I’ll do that, señora, but if you wish to have another meal, you will push the tray under the door when you are finished. No tray, no food.”

“Okay,” Louise said.

Cruz motioned for her to back up, which she did, and he stepped just inside the doorway and set the tray, which was covered with a napkin, on the floor. “Beans and rice, with some shredded pork. Same as we had for dinner.”

It smelled very good to Louise, who had eaten nothing since the piece of toast for breakfast this morning. But her hunger meant little to her, except as a reminder that by now the cops, and probably the feds would be in the middle of the investigation, which left Otto where? Doing what?

“How long do you mean keep me here like this? Or do you plan to kill me?”

“We thought that was a possibility, but the danger has passed because your husband decided to cooperate with us.”

Louise forgot her hunger. “The DI’s not looking for a ransom. So what is it? What is he doing for you?”

Cruz considered his answer for a long moment, but then he shrugged. “He has gone to Havana for El Comandante’s funeral.”

Louise was rocked, but just for an instant. “He might have gone to Havana, but it wasn’t for the funeral. State would probably send a delegation, but his name would most definitely not be on the list. Has he been kidnapped in exchange for me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“Señora, believe me for your own comfort and safety. My orders were to pick you up, bring you here, and communicate our demands to your husband. To this point, he has complied.”

“You must be raving lunatics to think the CIA will sit still for the kidnapping of one of its officers.”

“He has not been kidnapped,” Cruz said. “He flew to Havana with your State Department delegation at noon. I was given word that he arrived safely and no harm will come to him, or you.”

“Do you people actually think he’s going to give you secrets in exchange for my life?” Louise demanded. As romantic as the notion was, she knew that Otto wouldn’t do such a thing for all the tea in China, for anyone, for any reason.

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Has to be something else, otherwise he wouldn’t have dropped everything at a moment’s notice and gone down to Havana, leaving me here. He would have moved heaven and earth to find out who you guys were and where you took me. You have no idea how clever he is.”

“I’m following my orders, is all.”

“But you must have told him something pretty convincing. What was it?”

“Eat your dinner, señora,” Cruz said. “I’ll be back for your tray in thirty minutes.”

“Wait, please,” Louise said before he could leave. “If both of us are going to be murdered, it won’t matter what you tell me.”

“I’ve told you that no harm will come to you. Those are not my orders once your husband agreed to travel to Havana.”

“Okay, that’s fair. How long am I going to be held here?”

“A few days, maybe a little longer.”

“My husband?”

“The same.”

“He knows the reasons you gave him, and if he’s sent home in a few days, he’s going to tell his boss what they were. So what’s the harm in telling me now?”

“There’s no reason for me to tell you anything.”

“Yes, there is.”

“What?” Cruz asked.

“I promise not to give you any more trouble.”

Cruz had to laugh. “What trouble?”

Louise stared him down. “I have no idea, except you should think of a caged animal, a cornered animal, who gives you no choice other than to kill it. In that case, Señor DI Field Officer, you would be in a serious world of shit, because of how bad the fallout would be for Raúl and the government.”

Cruz was impressed. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do that,” Louise told him. “Or the next time I see you, I’ll shove this tray up your ass.”

“No tray outside your door, no more food.”

“I’d give up that pleasure for a shot at you,” Louise said, and she smiled. “By the way, how’s your partner? I found the nail file next to the toilet, maybe he’ll get the creeping crud.”

Cruz just looked at her before he backed out.

“Say hi to him for me,” Louise said, not really knowing why she was pushing so hard, except that it felt good to fight back a little.

TWELVE

It was noon, and Kirk McGarvey was running shirtless along the rocky path above the Aegean Sea on the Greek island of Serifos, pushing himself as he had since coming back to the same island, the same converted lighthouse he’d run to a number of years ago.

That time, John Lyman Trotter, a close friend, had turned out to be a mole within the CIA, and in the end, McGarvey had been forced to kill him, getting seriously wounded himself. He’d found this island, this refuge in the middle of nowhere, and started the healing process.

Now in his early fifties, he was a husky man, built something like a rugby player, a little under two hundred pounds, a little under six feet, with a square, pleasant face and expressive eyes that were sometimes green and sometimes, when he was in the middle of high tradecraft, a slate gray. When his wife, Katy, was alive, she’d thought he was devastatingly handsome, self-assured, with a charisma that sent the message that all was well and safe when he was close.