Dire Straits (3 page)

Derek didn’t know what happened, but he wasn’t going to wait much longer. Then he saw movement. Across the park, he saw a figure walk out of one of the buildings and cross to a car. Juan Osorio.

Osorio talked to someone in the car. Derek saw two figures in the car, a Russian-made Lada, but couldn’t make out any details. Then Osorio did him a favor and put a cigar in his mouth and used a match to light it. The flame of the match cast just a little bit of light on the passenger in the Lada. A woman with long auburn hair.

Derek recognized her. She had been in El Floridita. He might have seen her again in one of the nightclubs, although he hadn’t been sure.

Now he was. He didn’t know who the woman was—and again, maybe because of the Lada, he got a Russian vibe off her. There were plenty of Russian military and intelligence advisers still in Cuba, despite the USSR having fallen apart last December.

And maybe she was Cuban.

It didn’t matter. Something had gone seriously wrong with the dead-drop and the meeting here. He was being set up. But why? Did the Cubans know he was with the CIA? Was Derek’s support network here compromised?

He melted back into the shadows and headed back to the hotel.

The rain began. Derek,
in the kayak, hunched forward. Drops of rain like bullets hammered his head, his shoulders, his back. Reaching under the kayak skirt, he snagged the rusty soup can and held it so it would fill with rainwater. The wind howled and waves swept over him, watery fingers trying to snatch the paddle and the can from his hands. He clung to both as if his life depended upon it. Because it did.

He no longer knew which direction he was heading. Hopefully not back to Cuba. Hopefully not too deep into the Gulf of Mexico. The wind had been coming from the east, so he was fairly confident he wasn’t heading east.

When the soup can was half full, he drank the contents, grimacing. Rust. Some salt. But hopefully not much salt water. He needed the fresh water.

Tucking the can into a fold of the kayak skirt held in place with his knees, he struggled to keep the wind to his right—his starboard—side. At the very least he would try to keep the bow into the waves and try to keep from rolling.

But battling wind and waves like this in a kayak was a brutal, grueling business. The best he could do was try not to sink or flip.

And it rained …

After a dubious night’s sleep, Derek dressed in a suit, packed his briefcase, had coffee and a roll in the hotel restaurant and waited for Coro and his driver. When Coro arrived, it was very much as if a different person had appeared. She wore flats, dark slacks, a maroon blouse, and a dark jacket. Her curly hair was pulled back in a bushy ponytail, and her makeup was significantly more subdued than it had been the evening before.

“Are you ready?” she said curtly.

“Sí,” he said, smiling at her. She didn’t return the smile.

“It was not a nice thing you did last night.”

“I was tired,” he said.

“It was rude.”

“I apologize.”

She studied him. “Come, let’s go. Señor Osorio is waiting for you.”

Oh great.
Derek followed without comment. And sure enough, waiting at the curb was a black Mercedes—a Cuban driver in dark slacks and white shirt at the wheel, and Señor Juan Osorio sitting in the back. Coro slid into the front passenger seat. Derek, not having any choice, climbed in next to Osorio, who greeted him cheerily enough.

“Did you sleep well, Señor Hamill?”

“Not bad. Yourself?”

“Like a baby.”

“You must have a clear conscience.”

Osorio seemed puzzled by this. “What does that mean?”

“It’s an expression. It means you sleep well because you have nothing to feel guilty about. It’s a joke.”

Osorio seemed to consider him for a moment. “And yourself, Señor Hamill? Do you have a clear conscience?”

Derek smiled and spread his hands. “I am a businessman.”

Osorio laughed. Coro did not. The driver was listening, but not being involved. They drove through Havana, heading west of the city. The streets were clogged with cars, some new, many old. Derek wondered if the new cars were all rented by tourists and business people from outside Cuba and the U.S.

Soon they approached a complex of buildings, the Centro de Biotecnología Cuba, the CBC. It was sprawling, probably ten buildings made of concrete and glass. Several of the glass buildings appeared to be office buildings, the CBC’s headquarters. The more utilitarian buildings were manufacturing facilities. Derek had studied satellite photographs of the facility and compared them to maps. He and his handlers in Langley had come up with ten different ways for him to get into Building 5. But overall, he was expected to improvise. Get in. Find proof. Get out.

Far easier said than done.

Cuba had an extraordinary biotechnology and pharmaceutical industry. Fidel Castro had strange priorities in many ways, but he had shifted a great deal of Cuba’s economy to biomedical research and development. It was no secret.

The question was, had he shifted some of it to bioweapons?

The entire facility was surrounded by a tall chain-link fence with razor wire curling along the top. Not inviting, but perhaps the only difference between it and pharmaceutical and biotechnology manufacturing facilities around the rest of the world was that their headquarters weren’t situated in a glossy and manicured technology park. It did give the CBC the feel and appearance of an armed camp, though.

At the entrance, the two armed guards at the pillbox checkpoint asked all four of them to step from the vehicle. One of the guards took Derek inside the trailer next to the pillbox, frisking him efficiently and demanding that he open his briefcase for inspection. Derek was fairly sure that Coro and Osorio were not being given the same treatment.

He returned to the car and the four of them drove to a sprawling green-and-blue glass building surrounded by palm trees and tropical shrubs.

Climbing out, Osorio said, “Welcome to Centro de Biotecnología Cuba, Señor Hamill. Shall we go in? I am afraid that very few of the executives you will meet speech English fluently. Discussions will be in Spanish. Señorita Gomez will translate. Are you ready?”

“Sure,” Derek said with a nod. Into the lion’s den.

Arlo Benita was the CEO of the CBC, but he showed an uneasy deference to Juan Osorio, particularly since Osorio was being presented to Derek as merely an escort. They sat in a large conference room with windows overlooking a courtyard, date palms waving in the breeze. Arlo Benita, Juan Osorio, Coro Gomez to translate, and three other executives from the CBC sat around the conference tables.

Benita was a fat man, probably 350 pounds, a smidge over six-feet tall. His thick graying hair was wet with sweat. Benita was a sweaty guy, his collar wet and wilting, armpit stains on his white shirt. Derek wondered if it was nerves, or if Benita just wasn’t very healthy. The building was air conditioned, but not terribly well.

The company’s Chief Operating Officer, Luis Manuel, was giving a presentation on products the CBC thought might be good for distribution in Canada. Derek had begun the meeting by talking about TLM Biotechnology and the Canadian company’s distribution relationships with various other countries. He topped it off with what TLM, he, and the CIA felt would be a major carrot for CBC—a potential distribution relationship with TLM into the U.S. market, a possible way of working around the U.S.-Cuba trade embargo.

It had definitely gotten their attention. He had been instantly peppered by questions, which Coro had struggled to translate. The CBC management team wanted to know how sure he was of the feasibility of the deal, would the U.S. government prevent it, could he present numbers. He’d been forced to finally raise his hands in protest. “Gentlemen, I assure you that TLM’s lawyers have been working on this and it is entirely legal and possible. It’s the sort of thing you will have to discuss with them in detail. As you know, although I’m presenting TLM to you, I am largely a technical-business guy, so one of the principle reasons I’m here is to evaluate your technical units to determine if there’s a good technical match between our two companies. To that end, as we arranged before, I hope we can spend a significant period of time touring your facilities and meeting your technical personnel.”

It was at this gambit that Benita, glancing nervously at Osorio, began to hedge. Coro translated: “I understand, Dr. Hamill, your interest in CBC’s manufacturing facilities. You do, of course, understand that many of our technologies are …” A nervous pause while Benita met Osorio’s gaze, who spoke up to say, “Proprietary.”

“I understand,” Derek said. “However, I don’t see how we could continue much further without at least showing me some of your facilities and seeing your manufacturing processes. It’s why TLM wants this relationship, after all.”

“Of course,” Osorio interjected. “After lunch I’m sure we can begin a tour. In the meantime, I believe Señor Manuel has a presentation.”

Derek leaned forward and spoke directly to Arlo Benita. “I’m sorry. I thought Señor Osorio was my liaison.”

Benita twitched. Osorio, his oily voice losing a bit of its smoothness, said, “I’m sorry I didn’t make my role clear, Doctor Hamill. I am an advisor to the executives.”

“Legal? Technical?”

Osorio smiled. “Legal and governmental.”

“But you do appreciate that although I am interested in the business relationship with CBC, I’m here to perform technical due diligence, as well as to set things up for further discussions. Surely, your government would approve of a distribution deal of this potential magnitude with Canada and TLM’s other partners worldwide.”

“Of course, of course. But Señor Manuel will continue with his presentation.”

And so it went. They ate a pleasant lunch where Derek primarily talked baseball, the Toronto Blue Jays, and boats—Benita owned a cabin cruiser he docked at the Marina Hemingway. Finally Osorio, Coro, and Manuel led him on a tour, starting with the vaccine research laboratories in Building 1. Derek noted the building’s security—a barcode reader that read the badge, a uniformed and security guard sitting behind a desk just inside the door. Both surmountable, if it should be necessary.

But he was most interested in a building deeper in the complex. Toward the end of the day, having only seen two buildings—but interviewed dozens of people—he had pointed to a more utilitarian building. Concrete, very few windows, a more complicated entrance that suggested higher levels of security. “What’s that building?”

Manuel, a short, thin man with receding black hair and thick glasses, a beak of a nose and a carefully groomed and greased mustache he seemed very proud of, hesitated before saying, “A vaccine manufacturing facility.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Osorio said. “I believe it’s time to go.”

Derek shook hands and was escorted out of the complex. Coro was very quiet. Osorio, dropping him off at the hotel, said, “Tomorrow morning, Doctor Hamill. Have a good night.”

Coro looked up, as if remembering that she had a job to do. “Dinner?”

“I’m really tired tonight,” Derek said with a smile. “I think I’ll just have something light here at the hotel, write up a draft of my report, and get some sleep.”

She looked almost relieved. Osorio didn’t look pleased, however. They said their goodbyes and Derek went in, bypassing going up to his room and instead went to the hotel bar, set his briefcase down beside him and ordered a beer. The bartender was a blonde woman in her twenties.

He said, “There was a bartender here yesterday. I think her name was María. When does she come on duty?”

The young woman’s eyes grew round and she glanced nervously around. Shaking her head, she said, “She’s not here anymore.” And then, for the first time since being in Cuba, he saw someone make a gesture he had been warned about—she raised a hand to her chin and pulled the hand down, as if she was stroking a beard. In being briefed for this mission, he had been told that many everyday Cubans did not like to mention Fidel Castro’s name aloud, so they used the hand-to-beard gesture to signify his—or the government’s—presence. Usually in a Big Brother Is Watching kind of way.

She gave him his beer and hurried away, as if just asking about María had been in some way contaminating or dangerous.

The kayak slipped and
slithered in and around huge waves, Derek struggling to keep the small craft from rolling. He was beyond worrying about the direction, of whether he was being blown into gulf or even back to Cuba. This was about survival, a deeply primitive instinct. Beneath all his military training and preparedness crouched the Neanderthal in the storm hoping not to die.

Rain spiked down from the heavens, so thick and hard he could barely see, not that there was much to see. Blackness lit up by the occasional flash of lightning showing a roiling mass of waves.

Derek was not much of a religious man, despite having been raised by missionary physicians. He believed in some sort of God and in some kind of afterlife, but studying disease and being a soldier and being in battle had not convinced him that God was actively involved in the world. A disease like malaria or Yellow fever or African trypanosomiasis was not evil. It just was, and he was not inclined to think that a human-loving God intended for some innocent child to die from Lassa fever or schistosomiasis.

And from what he had seen of war and terrorism, there were plenty of evil people in the world. You could blame their behavior on the devil or on environment, but mostly he thought they made choices and those choices had evil outcomes. If there was a God, he sometimes thought he or she placed humans on the same value level as black-eyed Susans, Labrador retrievers, and cockroaches.

And thinking of what he had seen in Iraq recently, he wasn’t so sure God would value human beings higher than cockroaches. Sometimes they were indistinguishable.

So it was with some self-awareness that Derek cast a prayer to the heavens to whoever might be listening to save his ass.

A lightning bolt stabbed across the sky, followed almost immediately by a monstrous roll of thunder. In the brief illumination Derek saw a huge wave, thirty or forty feet tall, looming above him.

He had just a second to try and turn the kayak’s bow into the wave.

And the universe exploded in a wet fury around him. The kayak rolled. The paddle was ripped from his fingers.

Derek was torn from the kayak and crushed under a ton of raging water.

Finishing his drink, Derek returned to his room. He had a decision to make. Whether Fidel’s people had arrested his hotel contact or not—and it seemed likely—it was now completely clear that his network was blown. The Cubans suspected he was an agent for someone and were delicately trying to prove it—hence last night’s surveillance at the dead drop.

The only reason he could come up with for why they hadn’t arrested him, thrown him into an underground cell and attached a car battery to his testicles was the possibility that he
wasn’t
an agent and he actually could bring an international distribution deal to the CDC. But it meant they were really keeping an eye on him, which made his job that much more difficult.

Changing out of his suit, he sat down at the desk to write up a report. He spent several hours doing that, taking a break to eat a room service meal, then finishing up his report. He imagined that the Cubans would try to get a copy of it, and he hoped it was a very boring read. He also hoped that if they did read it and paid any attention to it, they would loosen their grip on him a bit, because one of his points in the report was his concern that the CDC executives weren’t being transparent about their technical manufacturing capabilities.

Maybe it would be a goad.

Finally, around eleven o’clock, he turned the TV on and changed into dark clothes. Once again he snuck out of the hotel. Then he began a series of short cab drives around Havana, finally getting dropped off about eight blocks from the ocean northwest of Havana.

He walked toward the beach, keeping to the shadows. Eventually he came across a series of beach houses. Many of them were rental homes, although some were owned by the elites of Cuban business and government.

Derek watched one of the houses for a very long time. It appeared abandoned. That gave him hope that the Agency’s backup plans hadn’t been blown like his initial network had been.

Moving out of the shadows, he approached the garage of the house and punched in a security code. A green light came on and the garage door rolled open. He slid under and got the garage door back down.

He flicked on a light.

Inside was a motorcycle, a Volkswagen, and several cases of equipment. He took a moment to do a quick search of the house to make sure no one was there. It was empty. Looking out a wall of windows, standing in the dark, he saw that the neighbors probably weren’t home either. It was a nice beach, though. White sand. A beach cabana. Propped on the neighbor’s dock were two kayaks.

Back in the garage, he opened up the containers. One of them held climbing gear and burglar tools. Another held recon gear—a night vision monocular, infrared camera, a small parabolic microphone, bugs.

A third contained weapons. He selected a Beretta 9mm, slammed in a magazine, and pocketed an extra.

Tonight was just recon. He took the night vision gear and the camera, fired up the motorcycle, and headed toward the CBC.

Derek struggled upward, spinning wildly in the crashing waves. His lungs burned, adrenaline coursed through him, burning like acid in his veins. Another wave spun him in circles. Then he was free. He sucked in air just before another wave crashed over him.

He struggled up again and was struck on the shoulder by something. Flailing out, he grabbed it.

It was his paddle. Thank God!

Clinging to it, he stared around in the inky black. Another wave crashed over him. Coughing, sputtering, he struggled to pull out his tiny flashlight. Raising it above his head as best he could, he flashed it around.

Way off in the distance he thought he saw the kayak. Clinging to the paddle, he started to swim in that direction. Derek was a strong swimmer. Only recently discharged from the U.S. Army with the brand new rank of Colonel, he was U.S. Special Forces. He was in peak condition. But swimming in a storm like this wasn’t about swimming. It was madness. It was about survival.

There was no straight line.

He caught a wave and surfed atop it, crashing deep, almost losing his grip on the paddle, which made swimming almost impossible.

And then he saw it. The kayak.

For certain. A good fifty feet away.

He thrashed toward it, the strength in his arms seeping away. It seemed the harder he swam the further away it grew.

Derek caught another wave, rose high, then found himself somersaulting through the air, crashing into a trough. He clung to the paddle. It was his lifeline. His only hope.

And the kayak smashed into him. The bow slammed into his head. Pain exploded and he felt consciousness start to slip away. With strength born of desperation he jammed the paddle into the cockpit and snagged one hand in the carry-rope on the bow.

A wave caught the kayak and sent it spinning again. Pain shuddered through his wrist and shoulder as the kayak hit him again. He gripped the rope with both hands and held on.