Читать книгу Havana Five - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

Mack Bolan studied the northwestern perimeter of Guantánamo Bay Naval Station from the cover of a hedge.

The mugginess of the evening air caused him to sweat profusely, but the inner lining of his blacksuit slicked the moisture from his skin. Bolan considered his options. Cyclone barbed wire topped the fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence. The Navy had posted motion sensors every five feet, and Bolan knew from past experience that invisible beams of light ran parallel to the fence. Any break in those beams would cause alarms to sound at the main guard facility and bring down a wave of security forces before Bolan could make egress.

The Executioner knew his escape wouldn’t be easy, but he felt his call to get off the base unofficially would raise less questions than calling down an official inquiry from Stony Man or, worse yet, the Oval Office. Bolan operated in an unofficial capacity for his government, and Brognola couldn’t afford to let the President get taken to task for authorizing covert missions on a military installation.

No, he’d have to go it alone on this one—as usual.

Bolan studied the fence another minute and considered his options. Even if he decided to risk breaking the barrier, he still had no guarantee of getting past the perimeter obstacles before the MPs managed to capture him. And he sure as hell wouldn’t fight them if he did. Long before Bolan had operated against terrorism, he’d gone solo against the Mafia, holding them personally responsible for their part in the death of his father, mother and sister. Even then he’d sworn never to drop the hammer on a law-enforcement officer—he considered them on the same side—and he wasn’t about to compromise that policy now.

However, getting off the base without being captured didn’t concern him; it’s what awaited him on the other side. In the 1980s and 1990s, the DMZ between the U.S. and Cuba had existed as one of the largest minefields in the world. An Executive Order had eventually called for the removal of the mines, but Bolan had to wonder if they got them all; that didn’t even address whether the Cuban government had ever disarmed the land they mined. Insofar as Bolan knew, escape via the DMZ posed too great a risk to life and limb. He’d have to find more conventional means.

The hedge line he’d used for cover ran along the perimeter road of the installation. The road terminated at three separate exits, two of them leading to the airfield and a third into Cuba, used only for official diplomatic purposes. That left one avenue of escape for Bolan, and he planned to fully exploit it. Several cays comprised the whole of the Guantánamo Bay region as well as the Guantánamo River, which ran north from its western feed at the mouth of the bay. Patrols ran at regular intervals along the river both day and night. The Executioner planned to use one of those boats as his outbound ticket.

Bolan made it to the boat ramp unmolested. He crawled the remainder of the fifty yards or so to the mouth of the river and quietly settled into the brackish water. Bolan moved through the river as silent and deadly as a crocodile. He reached one of the two patrol boats, slipped aboard on the blind side of the patrol station and found cover beneath a rear tarp tossed over a pair of equipment crates. Intelligence from Stony Man revealed patrols took off every thirty minutes with another thirty-minute rotation that kept two boats in port at all times. Bolan inspected the luminous dials of his watch. He’d have only seven minutes to wait.

And by the time the base personnel discovered he was missing, the Executioner would be deep in the heart of Cuba.

FOLLOWING A HURRIED DEPARTURE from the U.S., Jack Grimaldi and Rafael Encizo touched down in José Martí International Airport and submitted to inspection. Cuban customs officials subjected neither of them to more than a cursory inspection with paperwork and appearances impeccable, practically above reproach, but well-worn enough to satisfy their cover story. Once in-country, they quickly acquired transportation and headed toward their final destination in accordance with Bolan’s instructions. Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man’s ace pilot, had been a part of the Executioner’s War Everlasting from nearly the beginning.

The intense-looking man accompanying Grimaldi on the mission had quite a different history to tell. Quite a while had passed since Rafael Encizo last walked on the soil of his birth country. While Encizo had always taken pride in his Cuban heritage, he owed his life and career to Stony Man. A member of Phoenix Force, one of America’s elite antiterrorist teams, Encizo possessed deadly skills as a knife-fighter, demolitions expert and tactician in jungle warfare.

Encizo had passed on the rental car in favor of borrowing a loaner from a local contact. He told Grimaldi, “Rental plates will draw attention. Something we definitely don’t want.”

Grimaldi nodded. “It’s your show, Rafe.”

The men also retrieved the provisions left in the trunk by a Stony Man contact, which included a SIG P-239 for Grimaldi, a Glock Model 21 as favored by Encizo and a pair of MP-5 SD-6 submachine guns. They also had a second Beretta 93-R and an FN FNC carbine assault rifle for delivery to the Executioner upon their rendezvous. Stony Man had even included a satchel filled with enough C-4 to level a small house. The men donned their respective sidearms and concealed them in shoulder holsters before embarking on their journey to Matanzas.

Encizo took the wheel, given his familiarity with the country. Grimaldi settled into his role as shotgun and soon the two were out of Havana on a secondary road to Matanzas. Encizo gave Grimaldi a highlighted route on a comprehensive map supplied by Stony Man computers, and the pilot navigated for his comrade. Once they were away from Havana, Grimaldi rolled down the window and broke out a Cuban cigar he’d purchased at the airport. He lit the stogie, pulled it from his mouth with an admiring look and then gazed at Encizo.

“How long is it to Matanzas?”

Encizo shrugged, appeared to give it some thought, then said, “Well, I decided to take the back roads, so it’ll be about two-and-a-half to three hours.”

Grimaldi nodded. “I really got scant information from Hal and Barb on this mission,” he commented. “What’s the deal?”

The Cuban chuckled. “Join the club. From what little they said to me at the Farm, I don’t think they’ve got a whole lot to go on. Apparently they sent Striker to Gitmo to question some Cuban national about an ELN terrorist training camp somewhere inside Cuba, and then someone killed the informant and tried to punch Striker’s ticket, as well.”

Grimaldi let out a low whistle. “Sounds about like the kind of situation the Sarge would get himself into.”

“Yeah,” Encizo said with another easy laugh. “And us, too.”

“So do we know where we’re going to meet him?”

“Well, he told the Farm he’d manage on his own getting off the base. Apparently he didn’t want to raise eyebrows with official paperwork. His only lead is some jail on the outskirts of Matanzas. Since he wasn’t all that familiar with the area, he said he’d call once he got there and then the Farm would contact us.”

The beeps of a phone filled the interior of the small car, demanding attention.

“Speaking of which…” Grimaldi said. He reached to his belt and withdrew the phone.

Using a dedicated NSA satellite, Kurtzman’s team had arranged an effective communications system. Not only could they use it to track their team members—Price had arranged the installation of a microchip beneath the skin over the left shoulder blade of every member—but all voice and video communications took place through the bursting of encrypted digital data under a 448-bit cipher.

“Eagle, here,” Grimaldi said into the phone.

“How goes it?” Barbara Price replied.

“We’re in-country,” Grimaldi said. “Everything’s gone pretty smoothly so far. We’re on our way to the meeting place now.”

“Good. Striker called and we have a rendezvous point for you. It’s a place in the southern end of Matanzas called Las Cocinitas. It’s apparently a cantina or something. He said he’ll be waiting for you.”

Grimaldi repeated the name to Encizo, asked if he knew it, and the Cuban nodded with a comment that he knew the general area. “Okay, we’ll find it,” the pilot said. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Price said. “He also said to tell you guys to watch yourselves, since whoever’s onto him may very well be onto you, also.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We’ll keep our eyes open.”

“Good luck, guys.”

Grimaldi broke the connection and replaced the phone. He took another puff from the cigar and said, “Barb says the Sarge is concerned we could be compromised since he’s already had hostile contact.”

“It’s a strong possibility,” Encizo said. “I’ve learned Striker’s intuition on these things is almost uncanny. If he says we should stay vigilant, I’d listen to him.”

MACK BOLAN COULD HARDLY say he felt in his element.

The din of Cuban music blaring from the antiquated jukebox and shouts of drunken men ogling the dayshift of house girls had left him with a slight headache. He’d reached Matanzas very early in the morning and had the good fortune to find a local clothing shop along a deserted street. Bolan paid three times the asking price for a change of clothes—he and the shopkeeper both knowing part of the exorbitant sum would buy the man’s silence about seeing a North American inside Cuba—and then he changed in an alley.

Nobody in the cantina had spared him a second glance. Bolan used his limited knowledge of Spanish to order a meal of beans over a tortilla topped with red and green chilies and rice. He also purchased bottled water, not unusual in Cuba, even for the locals, and coffee.

Bolan left for a time and found a pay phone. He contacted Stony Man, gave them a cryptic message about the cantina Las Cocinitas, and then spent the remainder of the morning walking the streets before returning to the rendezvous point an hour or two later. The big American kept his head down and his body hunched to detract from his height. He was nursing his second bottle of beer when two men entered the cantina.

Bolan made a barely imperceptible gesture, but one the pair recognized; they walked casually to his table. The place seemed pretty crowded with very few seats, so Encizo asked politely to join him. Bolan nodded and they sat. A waitress came a few minutes later, took their drink and food orders without any apparent real interest in them, and was gone again in minutes.

Encizo leaned in so only Bolan and Grimaldi could hear and asked, “You okay?”

Bolan nodded. “I’m fine. Thanks for showing up.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Grimaldi replied with a grin.

“Where are things at?” Encizo asked.

“Not here,” Bolan said. “You brought wheels?”

Encizo and Grimaldi nodded. “Finish your lunch, then leave before me and pull around back. We shouldn’t leave together.”

The food and drinks came. Encizo and Grimaldi ate mechanically and didn’t say another word to Bolan. Within twenty minutes of their arrival, they paid their tab and left. The place had really filled up with the afternoon crowds who were obviously looking to escape the heat. Bolan even spotted some European tourists. Nobody paid attention to him, and he waited a full ten minutes before leaving. Grimaldi and Encizo waited in a two-door sedan that ran parallel to the alleyway. The pilot sat in back and Bolan took shotgun.

Encizo put the stick shift in gear and sped down the alleyway. He maneuvered the car onto the street, followed that road for two short blocks, then turned onto another street. For the next few minutes Encizo made a series of different turns, twice even pulling to the curb. All three men studied the mirrors and looked out windows to see if anyone appeared to be taking an unusual interest in them. After they were satisfied the coast was clear, Encizo headed toward the southernmost end of Matanzas.

Bolan filled them in on what he’d learned so far, then asked Encizo, “Any idea what jail this might have been?”

Encizo shook his head. “I know it may come as a surprise, but the crime rate in Cuba really isn’t that high. In fact, a crime is only classified as an act they call socialimente peligrosa, dangerous or harmful to society. Felonies are basically the same here as they are in the States. Armed robbery, rape, felonious assault and murder. What’s always staggered me is there are approximately sixty robberies for every hundred thousand citizens per capita. Their biggest problems are drugs, which usually stems from the sex trade.”

Prostitution was the oldest profession on Earth. It had continued to be a mainstay of the criminal underworld across the board. Sex for money also led to other things like strong-arm robbery, drugs, black market sales and extortion. Cuba wasn’t immune to it any more than any other country, although the heavy-handedness of Cuba’s police officials and stiff penalties imposed by its courts acted effectively as an unspoken policy of no tolerance.

“My point in that little lesson on Cuba’s judicial system,” Encizo continued, “was that Cuban citizens like Melendez getting arrested and tossed in the clink for a few days wouldn’t exactly have been headline news. But two Americans getting locked up, yeah, that would’ve announced like the premier of Russia making a State visit.”

“That’s what I thought,” Bolan replied. “I wonder why they kept it quiet.”

“Maybe they didn’t,” Grimaldi interjected. “Maybe someone kept it quiet for them?”

“Like who?” Encizo asked.

“I’m betting Havana Five,” Bolan said. “There has to be some reason Melendez brought it up. He didn’t pull their name out of a hat.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Encizo replied. “Why would they want to keep the arrest of two Americans secret?”

“I’ve asked myself the same question a hundred times, and I keep getting the same answer. Melendez said the two Americans talked about killing Waterston. I’m pretty confident those two men are Stein and Crosse.”

“The missing DIA agents,” Grimaldi added.

“Right,” Bolan said. “Seeing as Waterston was charged with finding this alleged ELN training camp, I’m betting someone in Havana Five cut a deal with Stein and Crosse, then backed out at the last minute.”

“But why kill Colonel Waterston?” Encizo asked.

“I think Stein and Crosse panicked. I think they killed Waterston to keep him from disclosing their deal with a Cuban criminal organization, one that would clearly violate half a dozen laws if it went public, and they killed him to prevent that from happening.”

“I see where you’re going,” Encizo said. “Then Havana Five scrubs the deal and now Stein and Crosse are running for their lives. So, if we find our two DIA boys, they should lead us to the head of the operation.”

Bolan nodded. “Right.”

“Pretty sharp, Sarge,” Grimaldi said.

Encizo turned down an unpaved, nondescript street and pulled up in front of a single-story, adobe-style building. Roof support poles of rough, unfinished wood protruded from the front of the building. Visible cracks cut spiderweb patterns through the front facade, which was painted brown and olive drab. The faded outline of a shield filled with blue, red and yellow markings—the symbol of the Cuban police—covered the windowless front of the building.

Bolan looked at Encizo. “Police station?”

“Substation, actually,” Encizo said. “I spotted a sign on the main road back there and decided to take my chances. There aren’t that many fully equipped jails in the area. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Better we should wait out here?” Grimaldi asked.

“Yeah. It’ll look much less suspicious if I’m alone.”

As Encizo started to get out of the car, Bolan said, “Watch your back, Rafe.”

He nodded, asked for five minutes, then got out. The Cuban straightened his clothes and ran his fingers through his freshly greased hair as he climbed the three steps. He looked back at Bolan and Grimaldi with a wink before he pushed through the flimsy screen door. Bolan watched as he entered and then turned his attention to keeping vigil on the street, with instructions to Grimaldi to do the same.

If trouble came knocking, they would be ready.