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Dr. Lagarde removed his hat and fanned himself with it for a moment. “The fort was designed by an Italian engineer, Juan Bautista Antonelli, who was rather well known at the time. His design was approved by the Spanish and construction started in 1589. Up until then, the hill only had a few cannons, and a stone hut for the guards, which was inadequate to protect the town as it grew from a small village to the main Spanish trading hub for the New World. There were constant threats by pirates, and after building the first lighthouse, the governor appealed to the Crown to build a proper fortification. It took forty years to build the
fort, which was armed with sixty-four cannons.”
“But the British took it at some point, didn’t they?” Sam asked.
“Indeed they did. In 1762. They held Havana for a year and it was returned to Spain as part of an end to the Seven Years’ War. Immediately after that, construction began on La Cabaña, which is the larger fort you can see just past the point. That took ten years to build, and, together with Morro Castle, it made Havana impervious to attack.”
“There are certainly a lot of people wandering the grounds,” Remi noted, gazing at the crowd.
“It’s one of the more popular destinations in Havana. Iconic. Even more so at nine every night when the symbolic firing of the cannon takes place. Originally, it signaled that the gates of the city were being closed. Now it’s just one of those traditions that we’ve kept from Spanish times.”
Remi pointed at a doorway surrounded by a throng. “What’s that?”
“A museum. It features weapons and nautical relics from the castle’s past.”
“Can we go inside the dungeons?”
“Of course. There are only a few sections at the lowest levels that are closed to the public. Old vaults, I believe.”
“Really? You’ll have to show us the entire complex. I find it fascinating,” Remi said.
They spent the day walking the grounds and had lunch at one of the two restaurants, where a trio played salsa music for the patrons’ entertainment. Sam sampled several beers, including the lighter Crystal and the amber Bucanero. When they returned to their hotel at four, they were both sunburned and tired but agreed that they wanted to go back to the castle that night for the nine o’clock cannon ceremony—a convenient pretext for observing how quickly the crowds thinned out so they could plot how to best access the vaults below. The blueprint Rube had sent showed crude air ducts from the vaults to the upper levels for ventilation—a possible entry point if they couldn’t breach the doors.
Security was lax, but there were still soldiers and police patrolling the grounds—and it would only take one of them to sound the alarm and Sam and Remi would be in deep trouble. The wing that housed the vaults was closed off, a heavy rusting-iron barrier sealing off the stone hallway leading into the castle’s depths.
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?”
