Tempest Page 21

  She opened the wide French doors to let a little air circulate through the room and slipped into bed. She felt the locket against her hot skin and thought about Isabella again. That was why she was careful. She had a responsibility to her daughter. She had to look after herself until she had Isabella at her side again.

  She drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  77

  It was nine when Beatrix finally awoke. She had slept for eight hours and felt fresher than she had felt for days.

  She got up, showered again, and got dressed. She put on the shoulder holster, securing the pistol inside, and then pulled on the leathers, zipping the jacket up to her throat. It all fit snugly, even with the bulk of the shoulder rig and the holster beneath her left armpit. She zipped up the boots and found a pair of leather gauntlets in the wardrobe. She shoved the gloves into the pockets of the jacket and went down to the first floor.

  Danny was waiting.

  “You’re going?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Just stay here,” she said. “I’ll be back as soon as it’s done.”

  “What if something happens?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen, Danny.”

  “But if it does?”

  She paused. She didn’t really know what to offer him; if something happened to her, that most likely meant that Logan was playing them, and it certainly meant that Danny would be out of his depth.

  “Beatrix?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” she said again, raising her hand as he started to protest. “But, if it does, then you need to contact Michael. Call Alfredo. I’ll leave his number on the kitchen table. He’ll make sure you can get back to Hong Kong. Michael will be able to look after you there.”

  “And Melissa?”

  She had no answer for that. “Stop worrying,” she said instead. “It’ll be fine. Now—I need one of the tapes.”

  Danny went to his bedroom and returned with his bag. He reached inside and took out one of the tapes that Beatrix had recovered from Wang’s house. She took it and slipped it into the inside pocket of the jacket. There was a bunch of keys on an occasional table next to the front door. She took them and went to the door.

  “Do you want to talk to Melissa tonight?”

  “Yes,” he said, brightening. “Of course. Is that possible?”

  “I’ll call you when I’m with her. I’ve never met her before. I’ll need you to confirm she is who they say she is.”

  “When are you meeting?”

  “Midnight. Don’t fall asleep.”

  “I’ll be too nervous for that.”

  She nodded.

  “Good luck,” Danny said.

  She put on the helmet and went out to the street. A motorcycle had been left in a parking area to the right of the house: a Harley-Davidson V-Rod, the low-slung muscle bike that could push out one hundred and twenty-five brake horsepower. There was a top box on the back of the bike with a second helmet. She straddled the bike, inserted the key into the ignition and switched it on. The engine rumbled to life, responding as Beatrix twisted the throttle.

  She rolled the bike off the stand, fed in some revs and rode away.

  78

  Melissa looked at the clock that showed on the TV screen.

  Ten.

  “Ready?” Carlos asked her.

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Come on.”

  Carlos led the way down to the hotel lobby and asked the concierge to get them a cab. The man took them to the front door and handed them over to one of the uniformed bellhops, who, in turn, put a whistle to his lips and gave it a sharp blast. There were three cabs waiting for fares, and the car at the front of the line pulled away and stopped outside the entrance.

  “Where to?” the bellhop asked.

  “The statue of Atatürk,” Carlos said.

  “On the Malecón?” the man said. “Yes, of course.”

  He opened the door for them to get in and told the driver where they wanted to go.

  “Have a pleasant evening,” he said as he closed the door.

  The cab pulled away.

  “What’s going to happen?” she asked Carlos.

  “We’ll be picked up in another car when we get to the Malecón.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re making sure that we’re not being followed.”

  “You think we might be?”

  “No. But you can’t be too careful.”

  “MIRANDA is on the move. Her and de Gea. Cab registration Hotel Golf Foxtrot four five zero.”

  Navarro heard Morley’s report through his earpiece, put his car into gear and waited with his foot on the clutch.

  “They’re going north,” Morley added.

  “Millman,” Navarro radioed the fourth agent. “Head north, please.”

  “On it.”

  “Mazzetti?”

  “The beacon is still in the hotel. It won’t be any help.”

  Navarro watched through the windshield as a taxi with the same registration plate pulled out of the Saratoga’s entryway, raking its headlights across his car so that he had to look away. The cab turned onto the main road and drove away.

  “I see them,” he said into the radio. “The cab is heading north on Avenida Bélgica. Harker—it’ll be on you.”

  “Copy that,” Harker responded. “I’ll pick up when they get up here.”

  Navarro had placed four agents around the hotel: Harker was at the Museo de la Revolution to the north, and Millman was south on Maximo Gómez. Morley had started at a table in the lobby bar, but he would be able to get to his car within minutes and would already be on his way. The others—Mazzetti, Schroder, Hook and Ramalhete—were nearby, and would roll in to refresh the coverage as and when necessary.

  Navarro had to be flexible. There was no way of predicting how Logan might handle the meeting, but he was an experienced field agent and that meant that he was likely to proceed with caution, especially when the stakes were as high as this. Having agents in their own vehicles meant that Navarro could run a ‘floating box.’ The strategy would allow him to change the tail car frequently, reducing the chance that their surveillance might be detected.

  “MIRANDA approaching the museum,” Navarro reported. “I’m turning off.”

  “Copy that,” Harker replied.

  Navarro turned right onto Emperor Gerardo and waited for Harker to confirm that he had taken his place.

  “I’ve got them,” Harker reported. “Turning onto Peña Pobre.”

  Navarro had memorised the grid of streets in this part of town and could already predict where they were going to end up.

  “It’s the Malecón,” he radioed. “They’re headed there.”

  79

  The taxi drew alongside Bar Cabana. Carlos paid the driver and stepped outside, reaching down to help Melissa as she followed him. It was late but still hot; the air was humid, with a warm dampness that made it thick and heavy. Melissa wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and looked around: the street was typically down-at-heel, with buildings in need of repair and fresh paint to rejuvenate the greens, pinks and blues that had been blasted by the sun and the salty air. The restaurant and bar were busy, with diners sitting out at tables that spilled across the sidewalk.

  Carlos waited for a truck to roll past and, checking both ways carefully, led the way across the road. They were headed toward the Malecón, the broad esplanade that followed the coast for five miles from the mouth of the harbour until it came to an end in the Vedado district. There were plenty of locals gathered beneath the trees on the other side, the scene lit by the glow of an ornate lamp. Melissa felt self-conscious as they walked, aware that some of them were watching.

  The Atatürk monument was nothing special: a bust of the Turkish leader sat atop a marble plinth with wreaths deposited around it. Carlos walked up to it, looking left and right.

  “Who are we waiting for?”
/>   “Logan,” Carlos said.

  Melissa couldn’t see anyone and was starting to feel the first stirrings of disquiet when she heard a car approaching from behind. She stopped, turned, and saw an old green Soviet-era Lada roll up alongside.

  The driver reached over and opened the passenger door. He was in his early to mid-fifties, with a messy thatch of blond hair that was plastered to his forehead with sweat.

  “Get in,” he said.

  Carlos held the door for her as she slid inside. He got in next to her.

  The driver pulled away again, turning the car in a sharp circle and heading back toward the main road.

  “All clear?” the driver asked Carlos.

  “We’re black,” he replied.

  The driver adjusted the mirror so that he could look back at Melissa. “Good evening,” the man said. “My name is Logan. Thank you for your patience today.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Outside the city,” he said. “We’ll be driving for an hour.”

  “And then?”

  “Well,” he said, “if your father’s friend is as good as her word, you’ll be with him in the next two or three hours.”

  “They’ve been picked up,” Harker radioed. “Heading south on Carlos Manuel Céspedes.”

  Navarro adjusted the mirror so that he could see the Lada as it approached him and drove by. “Did you see who picked her up?”

  Harker went by, too. “William Logan,” he responded. “Definite ID.”

  Fucking Logan. Navarro nodded in satisfaction. He had known it.

  Navarro indicated and pulled out, allowing a sensible distance between his car and the Lada. They were heading due south, following the curve of the coast. They approached the ferry terminal and he found himself wondering if that was where they would conduct the meet with PROSPERO tonight—on board a boat on the way to Regla—but they kept driving.

  “Millman,” he said, “where are you?”

  “Just coming up to the train station,” Millman responded. “I’ll take them from here.”

  Navarro could have been nervous—he didn’t know where they were going, and he knew that he couldn’t afford to screw this up—but he wasn’t. He had been doing this for forty years, with hundreds of jobs just like this under his belt, and he had eight veteran agents who each had the scent of the quarry. He just had to be patient. Logan would lead him to PROSPERO, and then Navarro would take them both out. Lincoln had made it plain that Nakamura was not to make it out of Cuba alive and had given him the green light to move on Logan, too.

  The night was about to get interesting.

  80

  Beatrix raced along the Autopista and arrived in Mariel at eleven, an hour before the time of the rendezvous. She had no idea how many agents Logan had at his disposal, but she had to assume that he would have people in place to provide coverage of the meet. They would surely have recording equipment set up and would be taking video and photographs. Logan was not their ally, and she was not prepared to let him get a clear look at her face. She had been operating on the edge as Caprice—she knew that an expert would see through the distractions of the disguise that she wore when she was in character—and she was not about to take unnecessary chances now. She would leave the helmet on and the visor down.

  Beatrix followed the road through the town until she spotted the red-tiled spire of the church. She slowed as she turned onto the road that ran alongside it, checking left and right for any sign of surveillance. She couldn’t see anything, but there were plenty of neighbouring buildings in which it was possible for an observer to hide.

  She took her time assessing the surrounding streets, gauging possible vantage points, bottlenecks, and potential kill boxes.

  This felt dangerous, and she didn’t feel as if she was well prepared.

  She was anxious.

  She checked the time: eleven twenty.

  She opened the throttle a little and pulled away, turning sharp left and descending the hill toward the town’s port. She would make another pass in twenty minutes before returning again at midnight.

  There was a car waiting outside the church when Beatrix returned at a minute after midnight. She slowed as she approached, her hand ready on the throttle in the event that she might need to get away quickly. It was an old Soviet-era Lada and it was empty, but, as she rolled ahead, she saw that there were three people waiting beneath the tall archway at the foot of the steps that led up to the church.

  She recognised Logan. A man and a woman stood next to him.

  Beatrix turned the bike around and came to a stop next to the kerb. She left the engine running and dismounted. She took off her gloves, left them on the seat and unzipped the jacket enough so that she could get to the Makarov should she need it.

  The men and the woman stayed where they were. Beatrix walked toward them.

  Logan stepped out of the shadows.

  “Caprice,” he said.

  Logan gestured for the woman to step up, and she did. She was in her forties, with a lot of hair, and very nervous.

  “Hello, Melissa,” Beatrix said. “I’ve been working with your father.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s fine,” Beatrix said. “Looking forward to meeting you.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him, too,” she said.

  “Who’s this?” Beatrix said, nodding at the second man.

  “He works with me,” Logan said. “He brought Melissa here.”

  Beatrix nodded.

  “Ready?” Logan asked.

  “Shall we make sure that we’re all on the same page first?” She reached into her pocket and took out the phone that she had been given. “Your father would like to talk to you. I’ve never met you before. He needs to tell me that you are who Mr. Logan says you are.”

  “Come on,” Logan said, but, when Beatrix left her hand outstretched, the phone ready, he nodded.

  Beatrix selected the number of Danny’s burner phone and pressed the button to connect the call.

  She put the phone on speaker. Danny picked up at once. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” she said. “I’ve got Melissa here. Say hello to her.”

  She handed the phone to Melissa and watched as the woman’s face broke into a wide, happy smile.

  Navarro could only just see the meeting. There had been no time to source equipment—he would have given a lot for night-vision goggles—so they would have to make do as best they could. He could see four people: he recognised Logan, de Gea and MIRANDA. He couldn’t identify the fourth person; he could see that she was female from the shape of her tight-fitting leathers, but she was wearing a motorcycle helmet and her face was hidden.

  It had to have been the woman who had jumped Morley and Farrow in Jimmy Wang’s house.

  Who is she?

  He felt the familiar buzz: adrenaline and nervous energy.

  He reached down for the microphone and adjusted it. “Where’s PROSPERO?”

  “No sign,” Harker responded.

  “Same,” said Millman.

  “Nothing from here,” said Morley.

  “They haven’t brought him,” Navarro said.

  Dammit.

  “What do you want us to do?” Millman said.

  What are they doing?

  “Hold your positions,” he said.

  Navarro watched as the four gathered closer and conversed. The woman in the leathers handed a phone to MIRANDA.

  “She’s calling someone,” Morley said.

  “The woman on the bike,” Navarro said. “Does anyone have an angle on her?”

  “Partial,” Morley said.

  “Is it her? From Hong Kong?”

  “Could be.”

  “We need to know who she is.”

  “She’s got her helmet on.”

  “Can you get closer?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Do it.”

  “Copy that.”

  MIRANDA’s face broke into a smi
le. Navarro could guess what was happening: she was calling her father, who would then confirm her identity. It was infuriating; PROSPERO was so close.

  81

  Melissa finished the call and gave the phone back to Beatrix.

  The phone was still on speaker. “Danny?” Beatrix said.

  “It’s her,” he replied. She could hear the happiness in his voice.

  “Thank you,” she said, ending the call before he could say anything else. She slid the phone back into her pocket.

  “All good?” Logan said.

  “Yes,” Beatrix replied, then frowned. She thought she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head and squinted into the darkness at the edge of the street. The gloom was deep, with only a little light from the moon to ameliorate it. Beatrix couldn’t see anything.

  “Happy?” Logan asked her.

  “I am.”

  “Do you have the tape?”

  Keeping one eye on the street, Beatrix reached her hand into the inside pocket of the jacket, took out the cassette and held it up. Then she leaned over and took the second helmet from the bike’s top box. “Melissa,” she said, “I’m going to take you back to Havana now. You’re going to ride on the back of the bike with me. Is that going to be okay?”

  “I’ve never ridden on a bike before,” she said.

  Beatrix handed her the helmet. “Just put that on, get onto the back and grab on to me,” Beatrix said. “Piece of cake.”

  Navarro watched through the windshield as the woman on the bike reached into her pocket and took something else out.

  “What’s going on?”

  She then took a second helmet from the top box on the back of her bike and handed it to MIRANDA.

  “Looks like an exchange,” Morley said.

  Navarro clenched his fists. It was a swap. Logan had brought MIRANDA to Cuba and now he was going to exchange her for the tapes. He knew that he was going to have to act. PROSPERO’s evidence would be enough to hole Lincoln’s career below the waterline, and if Lincoln went down, Navarro and the rest of the squad would go down with him.