JET - Escape: (Volume 9) (30 page)

“But overall, you like it?” Matt asked.

“Yes, but you have to understand that I’m in a very different position from most Cubans. On the positive side, they have an excellent educational system, and it’s free for everyone, so if you want to become a doctor or a lawyer or a professor, there are no limitations. The problem is that once they graduate, there are no opportunities, which is why any jobs dealing with tourists are prized positions. You’ll find young women with specialized physician’s degrees working as cocktail waitresses or escorts, because they can’t make a decent living as doctors. It’s sad, but the country’s a train wreck economically, as are all communist regimes. Note I don’t count China among those, because it’s really a capitalist oligarchy, with only some loose trappings of socialism still in place.” He paused. “But I, because I was fortunate enough to sock away money for a rainy day, can live like a king on a fraction of what it would cost elsewhere. And of course, my little hobby brings in an occasional dollar.”

Carl’s voice drifted off and the car was silent.

“Tell us about the passport process,” Matt said.

“Nothing to it. We get photos taken, and you’ll have legally issued Cuban passports within forty-eight hours in the names of your choosing. Birth certificates for you will appear in the system, and never be questioned.”

“And those are safe to travel on?” Jet asked.

“Of course. That’s the entire point, isn’t it? Depending on where you want to go, you might need to get visas, but that’s the only hassle, and it’s really no big deal. Because of the way the passports will be coded, you won’t be subject to any of the exit constraints the less fortunate here have to contend with.”

“We haven’t decided where we’re off to next,” Matt said, his glance darting to Jet for an instant.

“No problem. I don’t need or want to know. My role is that of a conduit. The major is the one who makes it all happen. I’m just a small cog in a big machine.”

“Why do I get the sense that you’re being too modest?” Jet asked.

Carl laughed and twisted in the passenger seat to look back at her. “My dear, if I were about fifty years younger and you weren’t frittering your time away with this no-goodnick, you could have had your way with me and I’d have been the luckiest man alive for it.”

She reached across Hannah and took Matt’s hand. “No accounting for taste, is there?”

“I’m rarely envious, but in this case, Victor here has the honor of having awakened the green-eyed monster in me.”

The inn turned out to be an old mansion two blocks from the shore, in a neighborhood of stately homes, many in disrepair, but most in some form of rehabilitation.

Carl pointed to the black wrought-iron fence that ran along the street. “Built in the 1880s by a wealthy plantation owner, it fell on hard times after the revolution. The current owner bought it a decade ago and refurbished it. Be sure to let me know what you think of the service and the furnishings.”

“Why? Are you friends with him?” Matt asked.

“In a manner of speaking. I own it.”

Jet smiled. “I see. You’re a man of many surprises, aren’t you, Carl?”

“You’ve seen my best ones. It’s all downhill from here.”

“Why do I think that might be an exaggeration?”

“You have excellent intuition. If you rethink your commitment to this scoundrel, we might have a short but glorious future together. At least for me it will be.”

“I’ll take that under advisement in case he doesn’t behave,” Jet said as she opened her door. “On that note, thank you for everything. You mentioned there were restaurants nearby?”

“Yes. Ask Gloria, the manager. She’ll arrange transportation. It’s not recommended that you walk around after dark, even in this neighborhood.”

“I see. Thanks again,” Matt said.

“I’ll be by at nine tomorrow, sharp, to get your photos done. We’re a bit old-fashioned here, so everything takes twice as long as it should. But I know a shop that does decent work.” He paused. “I own it as well.”

Jet leaned into Matt as Carl’s car drove off.

“Your friend’s a peacock, isn’t he?” she whispered.

“He’s gotten worse in his winter years, obviously. Apparently he enjoys the attention. I imagine he’s an
enfant terrible
on the social scene.”

“He certainly isn’t shy.”

“No, he makes an impression wherever he goes. That’s his style.”

They mounted the stairs and approached the ornately carved mahogany entry door, which glided open as if by magic. A handsome woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun stood with a small bouquet of flowers and a beaming smile of welcome.

“Good evening. I’m so glad you made it,” she said. “I’m Gloria.” She stooped down and handed Hannah the bouquet. Hannah’s face broke into a happy grin. “Aren’t you gorgeous?” Gloria said, studying the little girl.

“Thank you,” Jet said.

Gloria stood and motioned for them to enter. “I’ll show you to your rooms – Carl said you’re to have the honeymoon suite, which is two large rooms with a sliver view of the sea. Your little one should be comfortable in the sitting area – there’s a daybed in it for her use.”

“Lead the way,” Matt said, his voice tired, and Jet nodded approval.

Gloria gave them an orientation and, after promising to book dinner at a nearby restaurant in an hour, left them to freshen up. Jet stood on her tiptoes and kissed Matt before detaching from him and giving Hannah’s shoulder a squeeze. “This will do just fine, Mr. Victor.”

“You know what they say. To the victor go the spoils…”

“We can negotiate the truce over dinner.”

“I can’t wait.”

Chapter 54

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

“Cuba? On a military transport?” Ramón repeated, incredulous.

Jon Renoir nodded his massive head. “That’s what I said.”

“How?” Ramón was trying to digest the information. Suddenly his desperate fugitives, on the run and nearly cornered, could commandeer military flights? What was he missing? He had the same sense of dislocation he’d had when he’d found Fernanda’s body in the bell tower, the feeling that the situation was more complex than Mosises understood – and that he was in way over his head.

“Simple. The pilot filed a flight plan and gained approval to refuel here. He wasn’t authorized to, but apparently he took on three passengers – none of which made it into the books, of course.” Renoir shrugged. “It happens, you know. This is Haiti,” he said, as though that explained everything.

Ramón had spent a difficult night after talking to Mosises and meeting with the two killers he’d sent, one of whom he knew from Colombia. Mosises had been seething at Ramón’s failure, but had eventually calmed down and authorized Ramón to do whatever it took to continue the pursuit.

That morning he’d seen a doctor about his injuries, and the man had done a quick inspection of his wounds and pronounced him fit, if badly bruised. As Ramón had suspected, he had a hematoma on his thigh that would require months of physical therapy to treat, so the clot would eventually dissolve and be absorbed into the surrounding tissue, but it wouldn’t incapacitate him – it was just painful. The doctor also said he showed all the signs of a minor concussion from the blow to his head, but with rest that would also pass.

Ramón nodded and rose from his chair. “The flight was eighteen – no, nineteen hours ago. By now, they could be anywhere.”

“Maybe. But I wonder why Cuba?”

“It’s nearby, and that’s where the boat they were on was headed when it ran out of fuel.”

“So there’s something there that’s drawing them.”

“Or someone.”

Clyde took him back to the hotel, and he called Mosises and reported the new development. Mosises didn’t hesitate. “I want you on the first flight to Havana.”

“Mosises, with all due respect, the military transport changes things, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s starting to look like the situation is more complicated than we originally assumed.”

“Complicated in what way? These people killed my son. I want them dead. That seems simple to me.”

“Yes, of course. I’m just saying that the involvement of a government, rather than private individuals, means that Jaime could have stepped into something far bigger than he was expecting…and that’s why he died. I never liked or trusted Fernanda. Seems like she might have left out some important information in order to gain your cooperation.”

“Such as?”

“We don’t know who she was working for, do we? What if it was a government agency?”

“So what? They still killed Jaime.”

“True. And they should pay. But if this is one government battling another, it could be a war we want to stay out of, or at least know more about before we rush in. That’s all I’m saying.”

Mosises voice grew quiet. “I want you to fly to Havana and do whatever it takes to kill them. Leave the strategizing to me. Is that clear?”

“Of course. I was just–”

“Your concerns are noted. Let me make a call or two. I’ll be in touch.”

Ramón found himself listening to a dial tone. He hadn’t expected Mosises to back down, but wanted to go on record with his concerns. Throughout this nightmare he’d had misgivings, and they’d grown as the trio had escaped time and time again from impossible situations.

Whatever, or whoever, these people were, they were definitely not the typical nuclear family caught in something ugly. Which Mosises didn’t appear to care about, but Ramón had to if he was to succeed.

And survive.

He pulled up a travel site on his phone and scanned the flights. There was one in the late afternoon. He booked a reservation for himself and turned to more practical matters. The men Mosises had sent to help wouldn’t be able to breeze through Cuban immigration, he knew from his prior visit, so they’d be of no use. But he’d wait until hearing back from Mosises to break the news to them.

In the meantime, there was nothing he could do but be patient and hope that Mosises’ contact in Cuba could pick up the scent. Ramón would have had a lot more confidence if it had been anywhere else – he’d seen firsthand that the Cubans were secretive, paranoid, and highly centralized, the system far harder to game than a wide-open regime like Haiti. Securing meaningful information might be all but impossible. It would depend on how high up Mosises’ source was, and of course, the amount of money he was willing to spread around.

Which right now was limitless, Ramón guessed, based on the resolve in the drug lord’s voice.

He popped a pain pill, lowered himself onto the bed, and set the phone beside him, his eyes half closed as he waited for instructions on what to do next.

It seemed like only moments had passed when his phone jarred him from a light narcotic slumber. He fumbled for it with fingers numbed by the medicine and answered it on the third ring.

“I spoke with our contact,” Mosises said. “He’s turning over rocks. He hopes to have more by tonight. But he says there aren’t that many private parties who could arrange for a military transport. He also warned that if it’s not a private party, there’s little he can do, because the administration rules the island with an iron fist. And if it’s some sort of an intelligence operation, we’re out of luck.”

“I have a flight booked. I should be there this evening.”

“Good.”

Ramón shared his concerns about the two hired guns, and Mosises understood. “Then it’s just you, with some local support in Havana. Don’t let me down.” He didn’t have to say “again.”

“I won’t. If they’re still in Cuba, they’re as good as dead…or I will be.”

“Let’s hope it’s the former.”

“I’ll let you know when I arrive. I’m booked on the Air Caraïbes flight from Port-au-Prince.”

“He’ll have someone get in touch once you’re in Havana. He has your number.”

Chapter 55

Havana, Cuba

Ramón looked around the spacious lobby of the Meliá hotel as the reservation clerk checked him in, and he did his best to shake off the grogginess from the pain medication. The doctor had told him that he might experience blurred vision and light-headedness, but he’d hoped to avoid the worst of it. Unfortunately, the waves of nausea he had been feeling since getting off the plane were severe, and if he didn’t get better by the following morning, he was afraid he might not be up to his task.

His room was hot and stuffy when he opened the door, which didn’t help, and he lay in misery on the bed as the air conditioner groaned to life. As far as he was concerned, the next day couldn’t come soon enough, and he dismissed any idea of having a medicinal rum in the bar in favor of a glass of water, another pain pill, and a night of uneasy, pained sleep.

Ramón’s phone jangled the next morning as the sun was barely beginning its ascent. It was Mosises.

“Yes?” Ramón answered, hoping he didn’t sound too out of it.

“Our man has been working all night, but nothing yet. Renoir learned that the plane’s flight plan called for it to return to its base – a military outpost in the middle of the country.”

“That’s what I was afraid of when I heard it was an army plane.”

“Revolutionary Air Force,” Mosises corrected.

“Of course.”

“Your weapons are waiting for you.”

“Perfect. When do I pick them up?”

“Later. When he has news. He’s pulling out all the stops for me, but he didn’t sound hopeful.”

“Maybe he can bribe someone at the airfield?”

Mosises grunted. “That occurred to us.”

“Ah. All right, then.”

Ramón signed off and rolled over, willing away the sunlight seeping beneath the blinds. When that didn’t work, he rose slowly, closed the blackout curtains, and felt his way to the bathroom, where he washed down another pain pill and staggered back to bed.

Three hours later, another call woke him. The Cuban.

“We have made some progress. A description of a car and of one of the passengers, from last night. We’re trying to put a name to a face. Should have something by this evening.”

“I don’t understand. Why would that be relevant?”