Sam studied the drawing for another hour, searching for anything he might have missed, but there wasn’t much to offer hope. The place was a stone fortress designed to repel attempts to enter it. Even from the inside, breaching it was a tentative proposition, assuming in the wee hours there were few or no patrols for long stretches of time in the vicinity of the vault. And they’d both noted surveillance cameras in the inner passageways, although not in the vicinity of the barrier—but that meant that if they were discovered, their likenesses would be there for all to see and their chances of getting out of Cuba would be nil.
At eight-fifteen they took a taxi to the Morro Castle and mingled with the large crowd waiting for the cannon ceremony. The grass field where the cannon stood was almost completely black, any moonlight blocked by clouds. The soldiers in dress uniforms from the present and past went through the nightly ritual, to the popping of flashes and snicking of lenses. Excitement washed over the crowd as the master-at-arms yelled commands to his subordinates, who went about their assigned tasks with robotic efficiency as still more soldiers marched in formation onto the green.
The explosion was deafening and greeted with a cheer, and then the group seemed to deflate, the ceremony over, leaving everyone to find their way to the exits. Remi edged to the doors that led to the barrier at the lower level and, after glancing around to confirm that nobody was paying attention, eased one open and slid through the gap. Sam stayed in position, feigning interest in his cell phone and ignoring the policeman who walked by, whose attention was drawn more by the young women in short skirts than by Sam.
Five minutes turned into ten, and then another ten. Sam’s resolve had just about cracked when Remi reappeared.
“You had me worried,” he said, relieved.
“Nothing to worry about. If you don’t count the armed patrol I had to dodge.”
Sam studied her face. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m making a funny?”
“Not really. How did you avoid them?”
“I heard their boots and ducked into one of the jail cells down the hallway. I’m just lucky it was out of camera range.”
“So what did you discover?”
“Fortunately, the guards are sloppy and not paying attention. There’s a large iron grid over the ventilation duct, which is so badly rusted I was able to break off pieces with my fingers. Five minutes with a crowbar or bolt cutters and we’d be through, but I don’t think you’d fit. If we’re going to get through using the vents, it’s going to have to be a solo act for me. And there are still the cameras to consider.”
Sam shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
“Okay, then, I guess we can go home now?”
“I don’t like you trying this alone. There has to be another way.”
“I took a closer look at the lock on the barrier and it’s a Soviet-era padlock. Case-hardened, so I don’t think it can be cut—and that’s assuming we could wander in with a bolt cutter, and further assuming that the guards wouldn’t notice that the lock was cut off and start shooting the second they came through the barrier.”
“We’ve figured out a way in and out of trickier scenarios than this. We’ll find a way. You think you could jimmy it?”
“It looks doable, but I’ve never picked a Russian lock before and there could be a learning curve that would throw our timing out the window. And let’s not forget that any patrol would see it open if we both went in. I took a photo so we can research it online.” She paused. “I still think the air vent is the best option.”
“Out of the question. I’m not going to just stand around while you take all the risks.”
Remi’s face softened. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”
“My courage? My gentlemanly nature?”
“That you get us into a really dangerous situation and then pretend that there’s no risk for you. I’m pretty sure if I got caught, you wouldn’t be leaving the country anytime soon.”
“Yet another reason to not get caught. I wouldn’t do well in a Cuban prison.”
She put a cool hand on his face. “No, you wouldn’t. Not with that pretty face of yours.”
“You always manage to say the right thing,” Sam said, and then something attracted his attention at the end of the walkway. A man with a baseball cap pulled low over his brow quickly turned away and lit a cigarette, shielding his features from view, and moved around the corner, smoke lingering where he’d been.
“I saw that guy earlier. I think we might have picked up a tail,” Sam warned, his voice low.
“For what? We don’t even know what we’re doing here.”
“It could be nothing. I just caught a glimpse of him before and I’m trying to remember where,” Sam said, his senses on sudden alert following the man’s abrupt departure. Then his face changed. “He was on the edge of the crowd. I noticed him because he was staring at you. Let’s see if we can catch up to him. Come on.” Sam began walking briskly toward the corner. Remi matched his pace, but when they arrived at the junction, they were confronted by a sea of departing backs as the last of the cannon-firing spectators moved to the gates.
“Do you see him?” she asked.
“No . . . Wait. There. Black baseball cap. Blue short-sleeved shirt. Thirty yards up, on the right. By that shop doorway.”
The man caught Sam staring at him and stubbed out his cigarette. The crowd surged as it neared the exit, and he melted into the stream of departing pedestrians. Sam broke into a trot and Remi trailed him, wondering what her husband planned to do when he caught up with the man.
Which never happened. When they reached the main gates, there was no sign of their quarry. Sam scanned the figures walking down the hill but without success. The man had disappeared like a mosquito in a darkened room.
They spent another two hours walking the fort, returning to the lower-level doors every few minutes, trying to time the entry of the guards, and they estimated that the patrol would enter the passageway every thirty minutes. By eleven-thirty, the rush of people had thinned to a trickle, and other than a few late-night revelers leaving the restaurants, Sam and Remi were the only civilians in the fort. Even the street vendors selling curios had packed up their trade for the evening.
Back at the hotel, Sam was still concerned by their brush with the tail. Remi suggested that they duck around the block and soothe Sam’s brutalized psyche at another Hemingway haunt: El Floridita, the birthplace of the frozen daiquiri.
They sat at the bar and ordered, Sam with a watchful eye on the door, and it wasn’t until his drink was almost drained that he seemed to relax.
“Sam, I’m not saying that the man didn’t stare at me. If you say he did, I believe you. I just can’t figure out why anyone would be following us. Maybe he was a pickpocket? Looking for some easy tourist targets?”
“That could be. I mean, who knows we’re here? Nobody. And even if they did, what would be the point? It’s not like we’ve located a gold-laden galleon off the coast.”
“Exactly. I think we’re so sensitive to being followed that we notice things that would be lost on others. Which isn’t a bad thing.”
“Maybe. Besides, all anyone following us would learn is that we’re interested in historical sites and where to get the best drinks in Havana. Not exactly priceless information.”
Remi smiled. “No, it actually seems pretty innocent, put that way.” She finished her drink and sighed contentedly. “Since you’ve been so good today, I’ll escort you back to the hotel. We’ve got to figure out how to deal with our little fort problem or the whole trip will have been for nothing.”
Three days later, Sam and Remi checked out, leaving their suitcases with Raphael for safekeeping. They’d traded them for a pair of black backpacks, their valuables tucked away in watertight bags in inner compartments, and each carried only a change of clothes and travel documents. It had taken forty-eight hours for Kendra to arrange for everything they’d requested, and the plan was
for Raphael to send their bags on to them with the next person he knew flying to Mexico.
They slipped out the back door of the hotel, anxious to lose the shadow that they were now convinced they’d picked up. As far as they could tell, it was a three-person team—two men and a woman—who rotated, changing their appearances for each new shift. Remi had persuaded Sam to favor evasion over confrontation, to exchange his normal hard-charging approach for one with more subtlety.
After switching taxis twice to ensure they weren’t being tailed, they took a third to the castle. This time, they ate a late dinner after the cannon ceremony at one of the restaurants on the castle grounds, taking their time to linger over the meal, waiting for the spectators to clear the area.
When they finished dinner, they browsed along the battlements, keeping a sharp eye out for the armed patrols. At midnight, they made their move into the building, inching the outer door open and listening for any signs of life before hurrying down to the barrier one level below. They passed a single security camera, but there was no way to avoid it and, because the area they were in was open to the public, they hoped it wouldn’t trigger an alarm.
Remi stood sentry while Sam retrieved from his pocket the two pieces of an aluminum cola can he’d carefully cut and formed earlier. He slipped one rounded stub over the padlock post and slid it down until the tab was fully inserted, gave a twist, and was rewarded with a small click. He repeated the exercise on the other post and pulled the lock open.
“Showtime,” he whispered. Remi moved to his side as he squirted oil on the rusty hinges and clasp.
“Ready?” she asked, lifting the clasp.
“Always.”
She pushed the lever to the side, which squeaked like a wounded animal in spite of the lubricant, and then ducked inside. Sam listened for any hint of a patrol but didn’t hear anything, and then felt his phone vibrate as Remi called from inside.
“Not good. There’s a cam here in the hallway by the door, so I’m busted. Time to engage Plan B. Lock it up and get out of there. We’ll rendezvous as we agreed.”
“Nope. Change of plans. I’m coming with you.”
“Sam, they’ve got me on camera. Any second now, there will be soldiers on their way. I don’t have time to argue.”
“Then don’t. Is there a way to lock the barrier from the inside?”
A moment of silence greeted him, and then Remi’s hushed voice from his phone: “Yes. A clasp. Like on your side.”
“See you in a second. You better get moving on the vault door. I’m hoping all your lock-picking practice will pay off.”
Sam pulled the door open and edged through. He closed it again quickly and slid the padlock into the clasp, snapping it shut. With any luck, it would hold the guards for a little while—the barrier looked strong even if it had been designed only to keep tourists out rather than fortify the corridor. And, as with all security doors, it opened outward, so you’d have to kick the whole frame in, not just the door. He guessed the Cubans wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to shoot their way through it because of the danger of ricocheting bullets.
The hallway was gloomy, a single incandescent bulb in a caged fixture providing dim illumination. Sam hurried to where Remi was on her knees in front of the vault door. He moved past her and stopped beneath the ceiling camera, fishing in his backpack until he found a can of black spray paint. After peering at the mirrored globe, he popped the top off and hit the camera with a burst.
“They’re blind now. How’s it coming?”
“It’s not as complicated as I thought. Should have it open in a second,” Remi answered. They heard running boots at the far end of the corridor on the opposite side of the barrier, followed by a crashing from the heavy iron slab as the guards tried to demolish it.
“Now might be a really good time to open the door, Remi.”
“I’m almost there,” she whispered between gritted teeth, and brushed the first makeshift pick lightly against the posts inside the lock as she applied pressure with the second pick she’d fashioned from a bobby pin. Sam had been dubious of the simple tools she’d created until she’d demonstrated her abilities with them by opening their locked hotel door in fifteen seconds, at which point he’d decided that it was time for a little more faith in his wife’s talents.
“We’re in,” Remi whispered as the dead bolt clicked open with a twist, and she stood. “Ready?”
More slamming echoed from the metal door, accompanied by shouts and the blow of rifle stocks against it.
“You go. I’ll wait out here and deal with the light. I don’t want them getting any ideas about shooting down the corridor if they can punch a hole in the iron.”
As she pushed the door open, a Klaxon siren blared. They’d discussed the possibility of an alarm, either silent or audible, but it was still jarring. Sam stuffed foam earplugs in place as he hurried to the lamp. When he was directly beneath it, he took the paint again and sprayed the bulb and soon the hallway was pitch-black, the only light coming from a distant ventilation slit in the ten-foot-thick walls.
A gunshot exploded from the barrier, followed by a scream and yelled instructions. Apparently, the soft lead bullet hadn’t penetrated; judging by the commotion on the other side, it had hit one of the guards, which would hopefully dampen their enthusiasm for more gunfire.
The crashing resumed within ten seconds, this time steel on steel. Sam’s guess that the fire axes he’d seen in cases around the fort would come into play had been a good one. He had no illusions that the door would be able to stand up to a sustained assault. He crept along the passage back to the vault.
“Are you done?” Sam shouted through the vault doorway, momentarily blinded by the flash of Remi’s digital camera.
“Almost! Three more shots and we’re out of here,” she yelled back at him, the siren drowning out her voice as she continued to take pictures.
A beam of light appeared from the barrier. They’d pierced it. It would be only a matter of seconds until the shooting started.
“They’re through. Let’s go. Now!” Sam called. Remi didn’t hesitate. They sprinted for the far end of the passageway, where they knew from the blueprint there would be a curve and then a junction. He prayed that the diagram was accurate and that a bright mind hadn’t decided to seal their escape route at some point over the last forty years—that could ruin their night.
Sam reached the junction just as gunfire erupted behind them. Slugs whistled through the air, whining as they glanced off the stone walls and ricocheted in every direction. Both he and Remi dropped and crawled the remaining five feet, setting a new record for military-style scrambling. The gunfire continued until the shooter exhausted his clip.
Sam pointed at a dark chamber fifteen feet away and inched toward it, sticking to the floor in the event of a stray bullet bouncing off the rock walls. After what seemed like forever, they reached the doorway. The air was a bouquet of rot and decay, but also the most welcome odor in the world—salt air. From the far side of the room the crash of waves breaking against the rocks below the castle’s foundation greeted them and they both leapt to their feet and felt their way toward the sound.
There, at floor level, were three chutes that opened out onto the sea, barely large enough to accommodate a human body. The iron bars imbedded in the stone had been mostly eaten away by the elements. Sam pulled a penlight from his pocket and then reached into his bag and extracted a tire iron and rope. He swung the beam around the room in search of anything to tie the line to. There—a stone sink sat at the far end of the small space, attached to the wall. He quickly wound the end of the rope around it several times before fashioning a climber’s knot and giving it a firm pull.
“Let me break the bars, and, when I’m through, follow me down,” Sam instructed. He lowered himself to the cold stone floor, the surface slick from condensation and mold, and slid down the chute, arms first, playing out rope with his left hand, the crowbar gripped in his right.
The ir
on grille was little more than rust. It took less than half a minute to create a gap he could squeeze through. Chunks of iron dropped down the sheer wall outside and struck the rocks below. Sam flipped around and followed them down forty-five feet to a slim outcropping, where waves struck it and exploded in bursts of spray before retreating back into the black of night. The rope above him vibrated as Remi descended quickly; the clump of her rubber-soled boots landing on the rocks filled him with relief.
“Be careful! These boulders are slippery, and the barnacles will cut like razors if you slip,” he called, pulling out the earplugs and pocketing them as he eyed the dark castle wall above. “We need to hurry. They’ll be through soon enough, and if we’re not gone by the time they figure out how we escaped, we’ll be trying to outrun bullets and radios.”
Cautiously they began inching along the shoreline, going as fast as they dared. Remi slipped once and Sam caught her arm and steadied her. Five minutes later, the castle was behind them and they were jogging east on a rocky beach.
“How much farther?” Remi asked, easily keeping up with Sam.
“Should be no more than a hundred yards,” Sam said. “Lucky for us they never sealed up the toilet chutes . . .”
“Please. I’m already going to have to take ten showers just to get the feel of the mold off me. I don’t need any reminders about what the last things down the chute were.”
“They haven’t been used for years—probably at least twenty. Thank goodness for indoor plumbing, right?”
“If you say so.”
They continued loping down the beach, anxious to put distance between themselves and the castle.
“How did it go?” he asked as he slowed, eyes roving over the coastline, seeking their objective.
“I got shots of everything, including the manuscript. It practically disintegrated in my hands when I unrolled it. A shame nobody cared enough to store it under better conditions.”