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Ten minutes later Jim Pace sat alone in his borrowed windowless office, his cell phone back in his possession. He’d already told Travers to get his team ready to hit a freighter sailing into port this evening; they were all downstairs talking to operations personnel so they could acquire the equipment they’d need, so Jim unlocked his phone, opened his Signal app, and dialed a number.
Several seconds later it was answered. “Hanley.”
“Hey, Matt. It’s Jim. I need to talk to Gentry.”
There was a pause, then Hanley said, “I can give you his number, but I’m not sure he’d answer if you called. I can reach out, he’ll recognize my number.”
“That’ll work. If he’s still in Colombia, I need him to bust ass up here and help me out.”
After a moment, Hanley sniffed. “Buddy, you might be the luckiest son of a bitch I know.”
“Meaning?”
“Last I heard he was thinking about heading up to Cuba. I told him Zack was working for Hinton, and he said he might go up to watch his back.”
“Wait…he’s here?”
“Could be.”
Pace whistled. “Hot damn. Something big is going down tomorrow a.m. Having him here, assuming he’s on our side, that is, would be a comfort. I remember what that guy could do.”
“He’s even better now. And yes, he’s on our side. I’ll call him now, try to put you guys in touch.”
“Excellent.”
“Hey,” Hanley said, “any trouble getting that intel to Watkins without my name coming up?”
Pace chuckled at this. “He seems very uninterested in where the intelligence came from.”
Hanley said, “He’s covering his ass, which covers mine, thankfully.” Hanley added, “Good luck with whatever’s happening. Wish I could be there to help.”
“You’ve helped more than you know, Matt, and if you land me Gentry by tonight, you might just be a lifesaver.”
FORTY-FIVE
Chris Travers sat on a worn wooden bus stop bench on Avenida Septima, facing a dusty street and the Mount Barreto Ecological Park beyond it. The park was occupied by dozens of kids playing baseball, along with clusters of families enjoying cookouts. Couples walked together and dogs ran off leash as the sun began to set into thick low clouds hanging to the west behind Travers’s back.
Between his knees, Travers held a simple gray canvas knapsack of some weight. With his brown beard, sunglasses, and ball cap, he could have been mistaken for a local, unless of course someone spoke to him, because he did not speak any Spanish, much less Spanish with a Cuban accent.
A few other people waited around for the bus, but none were close by the bench, and for this he was glad.
He checked his watch, then heard footsteps scuffing the dry ground of a vacant lot behind him. The steps continued approaching, but Travers didn’t turn around to look.
Finally a man appeared on his right and sat down, and Travers sat up straighter, stretching his back in the process, and he snuck a quick glance at the new arrival to the bench.
A bearded man a little smaller than himself sat there, his hands empty, flat on his knees, his khaki pants old and worn. He wore a blue Yankees ball cap, his white linen shirt was sweat stained, his sunglasses were cheap Ray-Ban knock-offs. His cheeks were sunburned. The man paid him no attention, he just gazed out over the road, over the park, seemingly disinterested in everything.
Softly, Chris said, “Long time, no see.”
“It’s been a while,” Court Gentry replied. “You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”
Travers gave a little sigh. “Gotta admit, it’s weird. One minute the suits want you dead, want us to do it, the next minute we’re coming to you on bended knee for help.
“The question is,” Travers said, “are you one of the good guys, or not?”
“That’s kind of an existential question, isn’t it?”
