Abandoning the topic of Carlos and his whereabouts, Jorge pursued a new line of inquiry. “Technology is not so pervasive in Cuba as elsewhere in the world. But that’s part of my native country’s appeal for you, is it not?” He smiled, but his eyes watched her with razor-sharp intensity.
She was confident Jorge didn’t know she was an operative on the run. She hadn’t shared her plans with anyone, certainly not with Carlos. Jorge was fishing for information. In his business, information was merchandise. Sometimes, it could be sold right away. Other times, it could be held in storage until the right buyer was found.
“Actually, Cuba’s appeal lies in its many beautiful beaches. I’m going there to work on my tan, the old-fashioned way.”
Jorge laughed out loud, a deep low sound. “There is one other item I can offer you.”
Anika suppressed a sigh. He just wouldn’t stop trying. “What is it and how much?”
“A souvenir video. It will add credibility to your identity. We can make one for you.”
“No, you can’t.” Her tone was cool, dismissive. “You can’t fake a souvenir video. That technology doesn’t exist.”
“You’re partially correct. The images wouldn’t be fake. We have to film those with you playing yourself. Or rather, you as Jane Brown. We have stage sets and staff — professionally trained of course — ready to improvise any number of scenes. Teaching your students, or having coffee with a friend, or if you prefer, something more intimate.”
“With the time-date indicator for all the scenes the same? I don’t think that would be very convincing.”
“Quite right.” Jorge registered no offense. “That’s why we use ‘patching’ technology. It superimposes a patch of your cover name, with the desired time, date, and place, over the real information. Though quite new,” he added in a smug voice, “the technology is fool-proof. I stake my reputation on it.”
Anika felt as stunned as if she had been hit by a laser.
Patching technology
. If Jorge had it, then U.N.I.T. certainly did. She thought back to the sickening moments in Command’s office, the sight of Jewel’s wet naked body and satisfied smile on screen. Although the images had been real, the time and date were not.
She
had
been watching part of a prep session for the honeymoon mission after all. A session that had occurred
before
the mission was canceled. She was sure of it now.
Her hands fisted in her lap. She barely heard Jorge, still trying to sell her on a video. How could she have been so stupid, so ready to believe Second? She shook her head to clear it.
Jorge saw the movement and a spark of anger shot through his eyes. Then he smoothed back his hair and re-folded his hands on the desk. “Very well.” His lips thinned. “You have six hours until the boat leaves. You may wait in a room upstairs. Ramon will take you.”
That got her attention. If the room looked anything like the lobby, she’d wait somewhere else. She started to refuse, but Jorge stopped her with a lift of his hand.
“The room is nothing like the lobby. You’ll be quite comfortable.”
She did a quick calculation. One hour and thirty-eight minutes had passed since she had contacted Gianni. That meant the new private channel would be operational in roughly three hours. Time enough before the midnight departure for the marina.
“Fine.” She stood and tried not to wince from her stiff muscles.
“I suggest you rest up.” Jorge’s eyes gleamed as if he had just recalled some private joke. “The crossing can get a little … rough.”
“I don’t get seasick.” She drew herself up to her full height.
“That’s not what I meant.” He motioned for Ramon to give her back the gun. “You’ll want to keep that close by.”
“Water on. Jets at maximum.” Anika stretched out on the contoured bench inside the shower. Hints of lavender and eucalyptus scented the air. True to Jorge’s word, the room with its king-size bed, thick carpet, and marble-and-chrome bath offered a welcome improvement over the hotel lobby. She closed her eyes and let the pulsing water massage her tired muscles.
Though she tried to empty her mind, images from the past twenty-eight hours streaked across the back of her eyelids: the green numbers of the detonator; the black all-terrain driving up to the diner; purple clouds billowing from the truck; the dark shadows of the safehouse operatives.
But it was knowing that she had been deceived about the souvenir video that most haunted Anika. That knowledge and the fact that it didn’t change anything. It didn’t change the truth about how different her profile was from Gianni’s. About what mattered most to him. Family. Every homemade Italian meal, every story from his childhood reinforced that difference, that distance between them. She knew nothing about family life, about being part of a family. And Gianni had said it himself.
Family is everything.
She pressed her hands against her eyelids and forced back tears. She was beyond tired. No wonder her emotions were so close to the surface. Or maybe the pregnancy hormones were to blame.
“Hotter.” She repeated the instruction until the water temperature rose to just below scalding and steam swallowed up the room.
Warm to the bone, she wrapped herself in a towel, left her clothes soaking, and returned to the main room. The light beside the door indicated a tray had been left outside. Before she had finished the generous portions of rib steak, baked potato, and wilted spinach, her shoulders sagged like deflated balloons and her eyelids kept sliding shut.
She wished she could contact Gianni from here. The corner desk-console contained an inset monitor and controls every bit as up-to-date as she had seen outside of U.N.I.T. But based on the equipment in the elevator and hallway, she suspected this room was well outfitted with surveillance. Probably built right into the bed frame, the console, even the 3-D artwork on the walls.
It wouldn’t be smart to give Jorge more intel about her situation. An Internet café, though less convenient, was a safer choice.
She had two hours before it was time to leave for the café. Two hours to sleep and recharge. That sounded like a lifetime right now. She programmed the voice alarm and curled up under the covers. This time, when she closed her eyes, no disturbing images appeared. Her mind, and her body, shut down.
Pounding on the door jerked her upright just as the alarm went off. “Good evening,” a female voice crooned. “The time is twenty-thirty hours.” The alarm kept repeating itself as the door began to vibrate from the blows on the other side.
Anika checked the privacy monitor. Ramon’s head and fist filled the screen.
“Good evening. The temperature outsi — ”
“Computer
off
.” She lunged over the end of the bed and grabbed a fresh set of clothes from her knapsack. Yanked on the pants and strode to the door. “What?” she demanded through the intercom.
“Time to go,” Ramon snapped back.
“You’re early.”
“Boat’s leaving. Jorge wrote you a note.” Ramon held up an envelope.
She slipped on her top and pulled open the door.
The thick sheet of paper inside the cream envelope displayed a strong scrawl of blue ink.
The Department of Aquatic Security has compelled a change in our schedule. My apologies. Should you require assistance while abroad, please do not hesitate to contact me. Jorge.
Underneath his name, he had written out his personal contact information.
“What about the next boat?”
“Not for two weeks.” Ramon clamped his hand around her arm.
She jerked free. “I’m not ready. I have … I have to contact a friend.”
“No.” Ramon stood, arms crossed over his chest.
She took a breath. “Give me twenty,” she began, then changed when Ramon shook his head. “Okay, okay, twelve minutes.” She prayed Gianni would be early. She curved her lips into her best sweetheart-mission smile. “Please? I really need to get hold of my friend. It’s important.”
Ramon relaxed a fraction.
She placed her hand on his forearm, her fingers reaching only partway around its muscled circumference. “Have some wine while you wait.”
She hurried over to the desk-console and activated the computer while Ramon ordered up an aeroball game on the viewscreen. She typed in the code for the new private channel. While she waited for a response, she thought about what she could say that wouldn’t give Jorge, whom she was certain was monitoring all communication, any information that could be used against her. With each passing minute, the knot in her stomach tightened.
The screen lit up. “I’m here.”
Ramon stood. “Time to go.” He drained the glass of wine and powered down the viewscreen.
“Can’t talk,” Anika typed. “Transport waiting. Meet me in Havana?”
“Are you safe?” The words whipped across the screen. The emotion behind them caught at her heart.
“Yes. Can’t say more now. Can you — ”
Ramon hoisted her up.
“Wait!” She hooked her leg around the desk.
“Two days.” The words glowed on the monitor. She let go and shot sideways, stopping hard against Ramon’s chest.
Without releasing her, he snagged her boots and knapsack in one hand.
“I’ve got clothes soaking in the bathroom.”
Ramon didn’t break stride.
“Computer off,” she called out, as the bodyguard half dragged, half carried her out of the room.
Twenty minutes later, she stood on the dock of the Miami Beach Marina and studied the transport Jorge had arranged.
The streamlined twenty-one-meter cruiser looked seaworthy enough, its hull and decks worn but clean, free of peeling paint and visible cracks. The captain, a compact grizzled man, had told her that the trip would take four hours, assuming no detours to avoid border patrols.
Three crewmen were loading the cabins and galley with boxes of contraband. The markings on the boxes indicated music, movie, and book discs, as well as the newest models of computers, widescreens, and handhelds. Due to the latest sanctions imposed by the United States, Cuba’s black market for foreign entertainment and technology was thriving.
Jorge had been partly correct when he guessed that Anika had chosen Cuba because of its less-developed technology, a backwardness that would give her an edge in keeping her true identity hidden. More importantly, as the last remaining communist nation in the world, Cuba had retained its long-standing mistrust of all developed countries. It hadn’t joined U.N.I.T. and didn’t maintain relations or legal reciprocity with the organization’s member nations. Although it flirted on occasion with independent terrorist groups, the Gonzalez government remained more or less a neutral player in international terrorist activities. U.N.I.T. monitored the country from a disinterested distance.
The captain stood next to her and kept a hawk-like watch on his crew as they scurried back and forth between the boat and the large boxes at the end of the dock. Once they completed the loading, he started the engine and guided them out of the marina toward the open sea.
Anika sat portside on the bench that ran the length of the cockpit and looked back at the shoreline. With each passing minute, each shrinking light, U.N.I.T.’s hold over her loosened. She would be safer living in Cuba, out of sight of the agency’s electronic eyes and ears, than in any other country. It might not provide a permanent hiding place, but it was a start.
The boat danced across the water in a smooth gliding motion. When the shore lights shrank to pinpoints, she turned and faced forward. The weight of anxiety and tension lightened.
He’s safe.
She hugged her arms to her chest as if holding a precious gift. And he was coming to her. She would see him again in only two more days. What happened after that, well, she would deal with it.
One of the crewmen took a seat opposite Anika. His gaze roamed over her.
She remembered Jorge’s warning about a rough crossing.
So you’re what he meant.
Though the man was shorter than she, with a slight build, she had watched him carry large boxes of the contraband onto the boat with ease. He was strong and quick. She would have to be quicker.
He started by offering her a cigarette.
Boris’s nicotine-stained smile flashed through her mind and her muscles tensed. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.
He shrugged and lit the cigarette for himself. After a few quick puffs, he moved closer to her, his leg almost touching her knee.
The other two crewmen hadn’t budged from their forward posts and the captain still stood at the helm, his hands resting on the wheel.
She squeezed her arm against the side of her waist to confirm the position of the Glock. She walked to the other side of the cockpit. The steak-and-potato dinner sloshed in her stomach.
Uh-oh.
The boat reared up on a wave then dropped back down. Her stomach heaved. She grabbed the railing and held on.
The man came up behind her and snaked his arm around her waist.
She whirled to face him. Grabbed his shirt. Hooked her leg behind his knee. Pitched forward and forced him down.
They hit the boat’s wooden planks with a thud, his body cushioning her fall.
She released her hold and went for the gun. But the nausea hit first. Her stomach lurched and she spewed her undigested dinner all over the man’s face and chest.
It wasn’t a technique U.N.I.T. taught, but it proved just as effective in ending the attack.
The man scrambled on all fours toward the back of the boat, his curses spiking the air. He dragged his shirt over his head and wiped off the vomit. The other crewmen were standing now. Anika tensed for more attacks, but they remained at the front of the boat. When they realized what had happened, they hooted at their mate’s misfortune, clapping their hands and stomping their feet in child-like delight.
Anika stood on shaky legs.
The captain reached for something at his feet.
Her muscles coiled and she prepared for a reprisal.
Instead of a laser or a knife, he held a peace offering — a tube of sparkling water.
For the rest of the voyage, her attacker stayed as far away from her as possible, scowling at his mates who continued their heckling. She hadn’t heard such teasing since her teenage years at the orphanage.