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“Jack Tudor? He was—”
“Your boss doesn’t tell you shit, does he? You need to go to him and I need to see one point five mil U.S. put into my account before I raise a finger today. The rest upon completion. You know as well as I do that this target warrants that amount.”
The director fumbled for words for a moment, but finally he said, “I’ll get back to you.”
Kincaid ended the call and then went to re-dress the wound to his ribs and find some clothes. If Gama wanted this man dead bad enough to sneak him and a drone operator into fucking Cuba, then they would damn well pay up for it.
•••
Court Gentry sat alone on the concrete second-floor balcony overlooking the harbor, just five hundred yards from the artisans’ market and the abandoned apartment above it where Jim Pace had set up his overwatch. A tin roof hanging over half the balcony protected him from the storm, and through the rain he was just able to see the west side of Pace’s building, but he was unable to make out the cargo ship Travers should be hitting any minute now.
If the weather cleared he might be able to get a glimpse of it, and when the ship came to the quay at the container terminal it would be right in front of him.
But he didn’t plan on sitting here that long.
Zoya stepped out of the little room behind him, a pair of mugs of cheap coffee in her hands. She sat down next to him on the concrete—this balcony had no furniture—and she leaned her body against his, her head on his shoulder, and they watched the rain in silence.
After a moment she said, “You needed this.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah. Now that we’re operational you’re happier, more relaxed.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
She shook her head. “It’s not. Deny it if you must, my dear, but you live for this shit.”
Court wasn’t in the mood to argue, nor was he in the mood to self-analyze this morning. Instead, he just sipped coffee a moment, then said, “When the weather clears and cafés in the neighborhood begin filling up with people, we’ll go mobile.”
“Wouldn’t make sense to be standing down there in the rain.”
“Right.” He looked up. “It will pass, but I’m glad about this cover. Chris should be hitting right now.”
Zoya sipped her coffee, then sniffed. “You’re so jealous.”
He shook his head. “I hate bottom-ups.”
Her head turned to him in surprise. “You hate what?”
“Bottom-ups. Boarding ships from the water. It’s a total pain in the ass.” He looked to her. “I’ll leave that to Travers, and you and I can go down to the street to get a café con leche as soon as the rain passes.”
Zoya leaned her head back against his shoulders. “Here’s hoping it rains all day.”
“Yeah,” Court said, but he was thinking about Travers and his team.
•••
Ten feet below the rain-swept surface of Havana Harbor, Japanese American and Ground Branch officer Joe “Hash” Takahashi shifted his body from a horizontal to a vertical position, and then he gently kicked his fins once to propel himself slowly upwards. A few seconds later his head broke the surface, thick black hair indistinguishable from the surrounding black water if anyone had been looking in his direction, something he seriously doubted.
The rain seemed as strong as it had been when he’d last been above the waterline, and his confidence that no one could see him from here was strong enough that he put a little air into his buoyancy control device, maintaining his position at the surface without the need to continue kicking his fins.
He found himself exactly where he needed to be: close enough to the Panamax cargo ship to reach out and touch the hull, just slightly aft on the port side, opposite the container terminal with its bright lights three hundred meters distant. On this side of the ship it was all but dark, so he raised his mask to see better, and then he did a slow 360-degree scan, careful not to make noise or waves. Only when he was back facing the red hull did he stop and touch it with a gloved hand, helping him hold his position steady here in the harbor current.
Over the next thirty seconds, five more heads broke the surface around him. Masks were raised, and even in the rain Takahashi could make out Chris Travers about ten feet away on his left.
Three minutes later, Hash, Victor Two, and Chris Travers, Victor One, raised their heads above the gangway rail, one level below the main deck, their HK MP7 Personal Defense Weapons at their shoulders. Their scuba gear had been lashed just below the waterline, and they wore packs full of gear on their backs.
The gangway was well lit but devoid of any activity at the moment, so they stepped over the railing and down onto the deck with their wet scuba boots, and they covered both directions with their weapons as the other four men followed suit.
