Читать книгу Escape to Havana - Nick Wilkshire - Страница 10

Charlie tried to concentrate on the consular file in front of him, but it was no use. He pushed aside his third coffee of the morning, the first two having done little more than increase his anxiety since bumping into the embassy’s head of security. Gord Connors was a big man, but his even manner had a very calming effect, most of the time. The sight of him at the front gate this morning though, had sent Charlie into such a panic that he had barely been able to respond to Connors’s friendly greeting, let alone look him in the eye. Charlie could only think one thing: Maybe he knows.

Charlie toyed with the idea of spilling the beans, but decided against it after an internal debate that lasted as long as it took him to walk from the front gate to his office door. At best, Charlie would look like an imbecile, and at worst, a liar. He was also concerned about Teddy, who had finally crashed out at about 3:00 a.m., and was still sleeping soundly when Charlie left for work. He had checked the dog’s breathing before he left and he seemed fine, but he wasn’t exactly a veterinarian. What if Teddy had permanent damage from ingesting God only knew how much cocaine, heroin, or whatever it was that Charlie had stumbled onto? He’d had two phone calls so far from the housekeeper, complaining about Teddy’s apparent inability to control his bladder or bowels. And this was her first day. Worse yet, what would the ambassador do if he found out? Or Mrs. Stewart?

“We still on for that consular visit this afternoon?”

Charlie looked up to see Landon standing there, looking fresh. “Yeah, I thought we’d leave around eleven,” he said, with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel for the two-hour drive to the prison in Pinar del Rio.

“You feeling okay?”

“Sure,” Charlie replied, realizing he must look as exhausted as he felt and searching Landon’s eyes for confirmation. “Just a little tired, that’s all.” He looked at his watch. Despite the file being open in front of him for the past two hours, he hadn’t really digested any of the information. He had to stop worrying about things he couldn’t control.

“Say, Drew. What do you know about the guy who used to live in my house?”

Landon scratched his top lip with a finger. “Nothing much. Why?”

It was a perfectly reasonable counter-inquiry, for which Charlie was unprepared. “Just curious,” he began, wishing he hadn’t asked. “I found some … personal items.”

“Anything interesting?” Landon was grinning.

“Not really. Just wondering how to get in touch with him, or her.”

“I can find out.”

“Don’t bother,” Charlie said quickly as his assistant appeared at the door and Landon withdrew. “See you out front at eleven.”

Charlie sat in the interview room sweating, trying to ignore the shouts from down the hall and the stench of body odour that permeated the stifling air. The idea of being detained in a place like this was troubling enough, but Charlie found it even more unsettling on the heels of his late-night discovery under his bedroom floor and he was trying not to let his mind wander over the possible ramifications as he sat in these inhospitable surroundings. Even Landon, who had no such worries and who had chatted throughout the drive west from Havana out to the prison, seemed subdued by the environment as they waited in silence. Prison Santa Ana was a minimum security facility, but from what Charlie had seen of the place so far, he hoped he never had to set foot inside a maximum security institution in this country.

Both men jumped as the heavy metal door squeaked open. A middle-aged man was led to the other side of the table by a burly guard. After directing his prisoner into the chair, the guard secured the handcuffs to a thick iron ring welded onto the tabletop. The guard muttered something in Spanish and left the room.

“Mr. Martin?” Charlie said, comparing the man across the table with the information from the file in front of him. He looked a decade older than his actual age, and as a successful hotelier, Charlie had pictured Tate Martin in a suit — or a nice polo and crisp chinos, at least — not the sweat-stained, light blue prison garb he was wearing.

“You’re from the embassy?”

“Charlie Hillier. And this is Drew Landon.” He slid his card across the table as Landon did the same.

“Thank God,” Martin said with a sigh as he scanned the cards. “You’ve got to get me out of this hellhole.”

Charlie saw the desperation in the man’s eyes and wanted to help.

“Are you being mistreated?”

Martin shrugged. “Isn’t everyone here? Look around.”

“Why don’t we start with how you got here,” Charlie said, taking Martin’s answer as a qualified no. “We’ve read your file, but maybe you could expand a bit.”