don’t think they’re incompetent because the Russians are gone and just about every governmental agency is broke. They’ve got a good coastal navy, and some damned effective radar installations.”
“You’re taking a bigger risk than I am.”
“Acceptable, given the mission.”
McGarvey didn’t ask what the man understood the mission to be.
Ruiz pulled a chart out of the plane and illuminated it with a small red flashlight. “Raúl says that you need to get somewhere in the vicinity of Cojimar, which is just east of Havana. Not so many people there, but the navy will be active, especially if they have an idea that you’re on the way, specifically to that spot on the beach.”
“They know I’m coming,” McGarvey said. “And the DI knows exactly where.”
“In that case, they probably won’t start shooting until you’re safely ashore.”
“Getting out might be a different story,” Martínez suggested.
“Might be interesting,” Ruiz said without hesitation. He turned back to the chart. “We’ll fly down to Big Pine Key, about three quarters of the way to Key West, then head a little west of south, low and fast. Fifty miles to Big Pine and from there a hundred miles to Cojimar.”
It was just midnight.
“Should set down just outside the surf line a little before two. You can take the rubber raft, so by the time you’re ashore, I’ll back in international waters.”
“Wait for us at Newfound Harbor,” Martínez said. It was south of Big Pine Key. “I’m going ashore with him.”
It was about what McGarvey had expected. “You’re a high-value target.”
“And you’re a gringo, so somebody has to hold your hand.”
Ruiz laughed out loud. “I think I like crazy people better than sane people, because I feel that I’m among friends.”
* * *
Heading southwest, they flew at an altitude of about five hundred feet, high enough for them to see twenty-five miles in any direction, the keys an irregular necklace of lights like jewels on a black velvet backdrop. The moon had set, and in the distance they spotted the rotating beacon of an airfield.
“That’s the airstrip at Marathon on Key Vaca,” Ruiz told them.
They wore headsets so they wouldn’t have to shout. McGarvey and Martínez were in back, where the two middle seats had been removed, leaving space for the small inflatable boat in a bright yellow soft valise.
About fifteen minutes later, they spotted what looked like a barrage balloon, a large Goodyear-type blimp, at a much higher altitude than they were flying, tethered on Cudjoe Key behind the harbor.
“ Fat Albert, ” Ruiz explained. “Aerostat radar system. Watching for illegal traffic coming across the strait.”
“Will it cause trouble for you when you fly back?” McGarvey asked.
“They know who I am.”
Just past the surveillance blimp, Ruiz banked to the southwest and headed down to fifty feet above the wave tops. The sea was fairly calm, five- to six-foot swells, and after ten minutes he eased the small plane even lower, and looking out the side windows McGarvey got the impression that they were hurtling along like a speedboat, actually leaving a wake behind them. The slightest downdraft, the least little mistake, and they would crash.
Martínez looked at him. “Ernesto has done this before.”
“Glad to hear it,” McGarvey said. “Now, tell me everything you know about Colonel León’s house, and who’s likely to be there.”
Martínez gave him the general layout of what in effect was a smallish beach house once owned by the daughter of a pre-Castro sugar baron who’d sent her to Cojimar in exile for some indiscretion that no one remembered. The state had given it to María when she returned from Moscow and took up her DI duties as department chief in signals intelligence in the late 1990s. Since then, she’d put a fair amount of money into remodeling and furnishing the house and grounds, adding a west wing, the pool, and a small
“You’re taking a bigger risk than I am.”
“Acceptable, given the mission.”
McGarvey didn’t ask what the man understood the mission to be.
Ruiz pulled a chart out of the plane and illuminated it with a small red flashlight. “Raúl says that you need to get somewhere in the vicinity of Cojimar, which is just east of Havana. Not so many people there, but the navy will be active, especially if they have an idea that you’re on the way, specifically to that spot on the beach.”
“They know I’m coming,” McGarvey said. “And the DI knows exactly where.”
“In that case, they probably won’t start shooting until you’re safely ashore.”
“Getting out might be a different story,” Martínez suggested.
“Might be interesting,” Ruiz said without hesitation. He turned back to the chart. “We’ll fly down to Big Pine Key, about three quarters of the way to Key West, then head a little west of south, low and fast. Fifty miles to Big Pine and from there a hundred miles to Cojimar.”
It was just midnight.
“Should set down just outside the surf line a little before two. You can take the rubber raft, so by the time you’re ashore, I’ll back in international waters.”
“Wait for us at Newfound Harbor,” Martínez said. It was south of Big Pine Key. “I’m going ashore with him.”
It was about what McGarvey had expected. “You’re a high-value target.”
“And you’re a gringo, so somebody has to hold your hand.”
Ruiz laughed out loud. “I think I like crazy people better than sane people, because I feel that I’m among friends.”
* * *
Heading southwest, they flew at an altitude of about five hundred feet, high enough for them to see twenty-five miles in any direction, the keys an irregular necklace of lights like jewels on a black velvet backdrop. The moon had set, and in the distance they spotted the rotating beacon of an airfield.
“That’s the airstrip at Marathon on Key Vaca,” Ruiz told them.
They wore headsets so they wouldn’t have to shout. McGarvey and Martínez were in back, where the two middle seats had been removed, leaving space for the small inflatable boat in a bright yellow soft valise.
About fifteen minutes later, they spotted what looked like a barrage balloon, a large Goodyear-type blimp, at a much higher altitude than they were flying, tethered on Cudjoe Key behind the harbor.
“ Fat Albert, ” Ruiz explained. “Aerostat radar system. Watching for illegal traffic coming across the strait.”
“Will it cause trouble for you when you fly back?” McGarvey asked.
“They know who I am.”
Just past the surveillance blimp, Ruiz banked to the southwest and headed down to fifty feet above the wave tops. The sea was fairly calm, five- to six-foot swells, and after ten minutes he eased the small plane even lower, and looking out the side windows McGarvey got the impression that they were hurtling along like a speedboat, actually leaving a wake behind them. The slightest downdraft, the least little mistake, and they would crash.
Martínez looked at him. “Ernesto has done this before.”
“Glad to hear it,” McGarvey said. “Now, tell me everything you know about Colonel León’s house, and who’s likely to be there.”
Martínez gave him the general layout of what in effect was a smallish beach house once owned by the daughter of a pre-Castro sugar baron who’d sent her to Cojimar in exile for some indiscretion that no one remembered. The state had given it to María when she returned from Moscow and took up her DI duties as department chief in signals intelligence in the late 1990s. Since then, she’d put a fair amount of money into remodeling and furnishing the house and grounds, adding a west wing, the pool, and a small
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