Tempest Page 19

  The purser came back on the PA and announced that there would be a short delay as they waited for their gate to become available.

  “Are you ready?” Carlos asked her.

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Check your passport again,” he said.

  Melissa opened her passport. It bore the picture from her driver’s licence; the name next to the photograph was Nicole Roberts. Carlos took out his passport, opened it to the photograph page and showed her. His stated name was Richard Roberts.

  “Husband and wife,” he said.

  His confidence was reassuring. “What do I say if they stop me?”

  “We’re here on vacation for a week. We’re staying at the Saratoga.”

  “The Saratoga,” she repeated. “Okay.”

  He handed her a Cuban tourist card. “You’ll need to show this with your passport. I’ve already filled it out for you.”

  She looked down at it. The pink document—headed Republica De Cuba Visa: Tarjeta Del Turista—held her name, passport number and citizenship.

  The 777 rumbled ahead to the gate, and the captain switched off the seatbelt sign. She unclipped herself, got to her feet, opened the overhead bin and took down the carry-on suitcase that she had brought with her.

  Carlos got up and took down his own case.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said quietly.

  She nodded, a little nervous.

  The line started to move as passengers shuffled to the door.

  “Ready, Mrs. Roberts?” he said, smiling. “Let’s go.”

  Melissa wheeled her suitcase down the aisle, slotted the handle back inside when she reached the end and picked up the bag so that she could carry it down the steps. She made her way down to the sweltering tarmac below and Carlos led the way to the doors that opened into the terminal.

  Melissa looked around. José Martí International Airport was filled with foreigners; not surprising, she reminded herself, since Cubans were forbidden to use it. The international terminal looked like any other major airport: polished white tile floors, a suspended ceiling inset with bright squares of fluorescent light, banks of red upholstered seats, and mazes of queuing travellers funnelling between black stanchions that were themselves linked with long stretches of canvas strips. Incoming passengers swarmed out of the gates. Melissa made her way to the luggage carousels and collected her checked-in case.

  They continued on, joining the line for immigration. Melissa saw the uniformed police officers and officials watching from the edges of the room, and guessed that there would be others in plainclothes who would be impossible to spot. There were cameras everywhere, too. Cuba was still a police state, she reminded herself.

  The confidence that she could carry this off felt a million miles away now as the official behind the smeared Plexiglas screen called her forward.

  “Passport.”

  Melissa handed it through the slot and smiled nervously as the woman examined the photograph and other details.

  “Your name?”

  “Nicole Roberts.”

  “And you’ve arrived from where?”

  “Miami.”

  “Your purpose in Cuba?”

  “Pleasure,” she said. “I’m with my husband. We’ve wanted to visit for a long time.”

  The woman looked back down at the passport, ignoring Melissa’s attempt at polite conversation.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Saratoga,” she said.

  The official checked the Cuban tourist card that Carlos had given her and, seemingly satisfied, she slipped it back into the passport, turned to a clean page and added a stamp.

  She handed the documents back. “Welcome to Havana.”

  69

  Carlos led the way outside to the cab rank. It was chaos: a scrum of tourists queued for the taxis that were parked nose-to-tail against the kerb, with a dour captain dispatching the next people in line to the frontmost taxi and then whistling for the next vehicle to come forward.

  “This is crazy,” she said to Carlos.

  “Nearly there,” he said. “We can relax once we get to the hotel.”

  There was evidently a method to the madness, because they shuffled forward and reached the front of the line much more quickly than Melissa had anticipated. The captain held up his hand for them to wait, took his whistle and blew it to summon the next car. The driver put their luggage in the trunk while Melissa and Carlos got into the back.

  “Let’s go,” Carlos told the driver.

  The cab was not in the best of shape. It must have been thirty years old, and it hadn’t been cleaned properly for months. A crucifix had been hung around the stem of the rear-view mirror, and a religious effigy had been stuck onto the dash, the rosary that was draped around it swinging to and fro with the motion of the car. The driver was a younger man, dressed in a tank top, shorts and flip-flops and, after confirming their destination, he jerked out into the traffic. He didn’t speak again, turning on the stereo and selecting a radio station that played reggaeton. He turned up the volume and nodded his head to the beat.

  Carlos had told the dispatcher that they wanted to go to the downtown area, and a fare of thirty pesos had been agreed. There was a meter in the cab, but the driver had made no effort to turn it on. Melissa settled back against the beaten-up leather upholstery and was grateful that she had Carlos with her. She would have been worrying about being extorted otherwise.

  “What hotel you want?” the driver asked.

  “The Saratoga,” Carlos replied.

  Melissa looked out of the window as the road brought them to the outskirts of the city. They passed the first of the art deco buildings that she had been expecting, and saw, to her disappointment, that they were crumbling and badly maintained. The people on the street looked poor and the cars that chugged along were old and haggard. She saw vehicles that must have been from the sixties together with Soviet-era Ladas, all of them dinged and throwing out clouds of thick black smoke that gathered in the air around the stoplights and junctions.

  “Is this the rough part of town?” she asked.

  The driver laughed. “This is Havana, lady,” he said. “It all looks like this.”

  They continued. Melissa saw more and more classic cars, the luxury sedans that had been imported by wealthy Americans in the fifties, many of them with the chrome-tipped tailfins that were so popular at the time. They were of every colour, too: incarnadine reds, electric blues, and canary yellows that gleamed in the sun.

  She saw a sign for the Parque de la Fraternidad, and then she saw El Capitolio, the enormous building that had once housed the government. She knew from what Carlos had told her that her hotel was nearby and, on cue, he pointed out of the window at a glorious neoclassical building that had been constructed on the junction of two main streets. It was six storeys tall with a façade painted in pastel blue and green. The guidebook that Melissa had purchased at the airport in Miami suggested that the hotel had been built atop a portion of the wall that had once defended the old city.

  “This is us,” Carlos said.

  The driver swung the car around and pulled up next to an awning that reached out over the entrance to the hotel. A uniformed bellhop appeared, opening the door for Melissa and then going around to the back to take out her luggage.

  Carlos got out, too.

  “Enjoy your visit,” the driver said.

  Carlos closed the door, thanked the cabbie, and paid him.

  The cab pulled away. Melissa watched as it muscled into a gap in the traffic and then disappeared around the corner. She looked around her and, not for the first time, questioned whether she was making a mistake.

  Carlos must have sensed her trepidation. He reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “This way, please,” the bellhop said to them. “I’m sure you’ll want to get to your room.”

  70

  Beatrix spent the morning checking the house out, clearing each room one by one.
It was luxurious, including five bedrooms with en suite bathrooms, a large living space, a generous kitchen and, on the roof, a secluded terrace that was equipped with canvases to provide shelter from the blazing sun.

  She went back down to the largest bedroom and opened the wardrobe. A set of motorcycle leathers had been left on two hangers, and a black-visored helmet sat on the shelf. There were new clothes on the rail; Beatrix took down a sundress and a blouse and saw that they were in her size. She put them back, knelt down, and took out the black leather rucksack that had been left next to a new pair of biker boots. She took the bag to the bed, unzipped it, and removed the contents.

  There was a Makarov PM, the handgun that had served as the standard Soviet pistol for forty years. She pulled the slide back a little from the muzzle end of the weapon so that she could expose the chamber and saw that it was empty. She ejected the magazine, noted that it was full, and then looked in the bag to find another three full magazines. She turned the gun over and saw that the registration had been filed off. She guessed that the weapon had originally been used by the Cuban Revolutionary Army before falling into the black market. Alfredo had provided her with a shoulder holster, too. Both would serve her purposes well enough.

  She put the pistol and ammunition on the bed and took out the other items that she had asked for. There was a hunting knife, a GPS receiver and a hard-copy map of Havana. She took out a further cellphone, still boxed, with a SIM attached to it with a piece of tape. She pulled the cheap phone out of its blister pack and examined it. It had a rudimentary camera and allowed for text and limited internet, but not much else. She peeled the SIM away from the tape, inserted it, fired up the phone and waited for it to wake. She checked that it was charged before going out to the corridor where Danny was inspecting the other rooms.

  “This place is amazing,” he said.

  “Here,” she said, tossing him the phone. “Only use this.”

  She went back to the bag and took out two wads of banknotes, each fastened with elastic bands. There were Cuban convertible pesos and Cuban pesos, five thousand dollars’ worth of each. There were two small plastic envelopes; she tipped out new passports, visas and travel documents for both of them.

  Alfredo had been thorough. He had provided everything that she had asked for.

  71

  Melissa went to the balcony and looked out across the rooftops of the city. The sun had set and dusk was quickly darkening into night. The lights of Havana shone brightly below, and she could hear the sound of voices as they drifted up to her. She rested her elbows on the rail, then stood and went back into the room.

  “I need to get out of here,” she said.

  Carlos was lying on the bed reading a magazine. “It would be best if we stayed.”

  “We’ve been in here for eight hours. Can’t we go out?”

  He sat up. “What do you want to do?”

  “I looked in the guidebook. Isn’t the bar Hemingway used to visit near here?”

  “You want to go for a drink?”

  “Can’t we?”

  “It’d be safer—”

  “Why would it be safer?” she interrupted. “You said we weren’t followed.”

  “I don’t think we were.”

  “So, what’s the risk?”

  “Well—”

  “What about the secret police?” she said. “You said they keep an eye on tourists. What if they’re watching us? Aren’t they going to think it’s weird that we arrived and then just stayed in here all day?”

  He gave a rueful smile and chuckled. “I suppose a drink won’t hurt.”

  She picked the guidebook up and flipped through the pages to the one that she had marked.

  “Bar Floridita,” she said. “It’s half a mile to the north.”

  “On Avenida Bélgica. Don’t worry, I know where it is—I’ve been there before.” He swung his legs off the bed and stood up. “Come on, then. I’ll buy you a mojito.”

  Carlos led the way, taking Avenida Bélgica to the north, turning right on San José and carrying on until they saw the illuminated neon sign for Bar Floridita. It was at the corner of the street, a single-storey building painted pink with white and green signage that ran all the way around it. The sign noted that the restaurant and bar had been founded in 1837. One panel was decorated with a signature; Melissa looked more closely and saw that it belonged to Ernest Hemingway. The guidebook had said that he had lived in Cuba for a time, and that this had been one of his favourite haunts.

  The sidewalk outside was busy with tourists, and a classic Cadillac—its chrome in better condition than that of many she had seen since she had arrived—rolled slowly past. They waited for the road to clear and crossed over. Melissa smiled at the burly man on the door as he stepped aside to allow her inside.

  The bar was busy, but they were able to find a table in the corner furthest away from the door. She sat down and started to look through the menu, trying to appear as normal as possible. Carlos had told her that it was important to be inconspicuous, but it was easy for him to say that and quite something else for her to put those words into practice now that they were here in Havana.

  “So,” she said, “how is all this going to happen?”

  “With your father?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Is he here?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You’ll be meeting him?”

  “Not me,” he said. “My boss. He’ll want to discuss things with him.”

  “And then we get to meet?”

  Carlos nodded.

  “Sounds like that’s contingent on him doing what you want him to do.”

  “No,” Carlos said, shaking his head. “We don’t work like that. I’m just waiting for a call. As soon as I get that, and I know where we need to go, I’ll take you immediately.”

  “And then?”

  “Once the debrief is out of the way, you’ll both be free to do whatever you like. You could stay here with him, or we could arrange for you to go somewhere else.”

  “But not America?”

  “You can go back,” he said. “It’ll be safer for him to wait a while. Once his information has been put to use, things will be different. He’ll be able to return. And he’ll be looked after in the meantime.”

  “Yes?”

  She turned. A waitress was standing at the table, holding her notepad in one hand and tapping it with her pen.

  “Sorry?”

  “What you want? You can’t just sit.”

  “We’ll have two mojitos,” Carlos said.

  “No,” Melissa said. “I’ll have a daiquiri. Make it the classic way, please. Nothing fancy.”

  The woman noted down their orders, gave an indifferent shrug, and disappeared in the direction of the bar.

  “Our first disagreement as husband and wife,” Melissa said.

  Carlos winked at her.

  She looked out across the rest of the bar, wondering to herself which of the patrons worked for the Cuban secret police. There was no way of knowing, and, anyway, how would she have been able to tell? She was a mile outside her comfort zone already. Carlos was glancing around regularly, discreetly observing the comings and goings.

  The waitress returned with their drinks. She put them down on the table together with a faux-leather wallet, muttered a gruff, “Enjoy,” and then disappeared into the crowd once more. Melissa opened the wallet and took out the printed check that had been left inside. Each cocktail cost twenty dollars.

  “Don’t worry,” Carlos said. “Uncle Sam’s paying.”

  72

  Navarro waited in the car at the side of Obrapía, one block to the south of the bar where Melissa Nakamura and Carlos de Gea were enjoying a pleasant evening drink. He had a radio earpiece pressed into his ear and a small pair of binoculars on his lap. He thumbed the button to speak.

  “Morley,” he said.

  “Morley here.”

  “What’s
going on?”

  “They’re still inside.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “The same. Sitting at a table near the back, having a drink. MIRANDA looks nervous.”

  “And de Gea?”

  “Observant. He’s a pro.”

  Not that professional, Navarro thought. Otherwise, he would have noticed the surveillance, identified the beacon that had been inserted into MIRANDA’s luggage, and seen that there were agents on the flight with them. The fact that de Gea was responsible for MIRANDA made it self-evident that this was an OIG operation, and that meant—most likely—it was being run by William Logan. Logan was the IG’s bloodhound, and he had been digging into Lincoln’s business for months. It made perfect sense that it would be him who was behind the attempt to find PROSPERO.

  Navarro was exhausted; he wasn’t as young as he had once been, and he had spent most of the last day in the air. The Ops team had arranged seats for them on the first commercial flights out of Hong Kong. They had flown Air Canada to Toronto, where they had picked up their legends as American representatives of the Red Cross, visiting Cuba to see the detainees at Guantanamo Bay. They had taken their seats on the three-hour hop to Havana and finally arrived at José Martí International twenty-one hours after they had set off.

  That had been at just after midnight this morning; there had been no time to sleep since then, with the team setting up in the capital so that they were ready to pick up Melissa Nakamura. Their weapons were ready for them in the safe house. An old hand who worked down at Gitmo had made the twelve-hour drive to deliver a selection of equipment from the armoury. They had everything that they needed.