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“It looks doable, but I’ve never picked a Russian lock before and there could be a learning curve that would throw our timing out the window. And let’s not forget that any patrol would see it open if we both went in. I took a photo so we can research it online.” She paused. “I still think the air vent is the best option.”
“Out of the question. I’m not going to just stand around while you take all the risks.”
Remi’s face softened. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”
“My courage? My gentlemanly nature?”
“That you get us into a really dangerous situation and then pretend that there’s no risk for you. I’m pretty sure if I got caught, you wouldn’t be leaving the country anytime soon.”
“Yet another reason to not get caught. I wouldn’t do well in a Cuban prison.”
She put a cool hand on his face. “No, you wouldn’t. Not with that pretty face of yours.”
“You always manage to say the right thing,” Sam said, and then something attracted his attention at the end of the walkway. A man with a baseball cap pulled low over his brow quickly turned away and lit a cigarette, shielding his features from view, and moved around the corner, smoke lingering where he’d been.
“I saw that guy earlier. I think we might have picked up a tail,” Sam warned, his voice low.
“For what? We don’t even know what we’re doing here.”
“It could be nothing. I just caught a glimpse of him before and I’m trying to remember where,” Sam said, his senses on sudden alert following the man’s abrupt departure. Then his face changed. “He was on the edge of the crowd. I noticed him because he was staring at you. Let’s see if we can catch up to him. Come on.” Sam began walking briskly toward the corner. Remi matched his pace, but when they arrived at the junction, they were confronted by a sea of departing backs as the last of the cannon-firing spectators moved to the gates.
“Do you see him?” she asked.
“No . . . Wait. There. Black baseball cap. Blue short-sleeved shirt. Thirty yards up, on the right. By that shop doorway.”
The man caught Sam staring at him and stubbed out his cigarette. The crowd surged as it neared the exit, and he melted into the stream of departing pedestrians. Sam broke into a trot and Remi trailed him, wondering what her husband planned to do when he caught up with the man.
Which never happened. When they reached the main gates, there was no sign of their quarry. Sam scanned the figures walking down the hill but without success. The man had disappeared like a mosquito in a darkened room.
They spent another two hours walking the fort, returning to the lower-level doors every few minutes, trying to time the entry of the guards, and they estimated that the patrol would enter the passageway every thirty minutes. By eleven-thirty, the rush of people had thinned to a trickle, and other than a few late-night revelers leaving the restaurants, Sam and Remi were the only civilians in the fort. Even the street vendors selling curios had packed up their trade for the evening.
Back at the hotel, Sam was still concerned by their brush with the tail. Remi suggested that they duck around the block and soothe Sam’s brutalized psyche at another Hemingway haunt: El Floridita, the birthplace of the frozen daiquiri.
They sat at the bar and ordered, Sam with a watchful eye on the door, and it wasn’t until his drink was almost drained that he seemed to relax.
“Sam, I’m not saying that the man didn’t stare at me. If you say he did, I believe you. I just can’t figure out why anyone would be following us. Maybe he was a pickpocket? Looking for some easy tourist targets?”
“That could be. I mean, who knows we’re here? Nobody. And even if they did, what would be the point? It’s not like we’ve located a gold-laden galleon off the coast.”
“Exactly. I think we’re so sensitive to being followed that we notice things that would be lost on others. Which isn’t a bad thing.”
“Maybe. Besides, all anyone following us would learn is that we’re interested in historical sites and where to get the best drinks in Havana. Not exactly priceless information.”
Remi smiled. “No, it actually seems pretty innocent, put that way.” She finished her drink and sighed contentedly. “Since you’ve been so good today, I’ll escort you back to the hotel. We’ve got to figure out how to deal with our little fort problem or the whole trip will have been for nothing.”
Three days later, Sam and Remi checked out, leaving their suitcases with Raphael for safekeeping. They’d traded them for a pair of black backpacks, their valuables tucked away in watertight bags in inner compartments, and each carried only a change of clothes and travel documents. It had taken forty-eight hours for Kendra to arrange for everything they’d requested, and the plan was
for Raphael to send their bags on to them with the next person he knew flying to Mexico.
They slipped out the back door of the hotel, anxious to lose the shadow that they were now convinced they’d picked up. As far as they could tell, it was a three-person team—two men and a woman—who rotated, changing their appearances for each new shift. Remi had persuaded Sam to favor evasion over confrontation, to exchange his normal hard-charging approach for one with more subtlety.
After switching taxis twice to ensure they weren’t being tailed, they took a third to the castle. This time, they ate a late dinner after the cannon ceremony at one of the restaurants on the castle grounds, taking their time to linger over the meal, waiting for the spectators to clear the area.
When they finished dinner, they browsed along the battlements, keeping a sharp eye out for the armed patrols. At midnight, they made their move into the building, inching the outer door open and listening for any signs of life before hurrying down to the barrier one level below. They passed a single security camera, but there was no way to avoid it and, because the area they were in was open to the public, they hoped it wouldn’t trigger an alarm.
Remi stood sentry while Sam retrieved from his pocket the two pieces of an aluminum cola can he’d carefully cut and formed earlier. He slipped one rounded stub over the padlock post and slid it down until the tab was fully inserted, gave a twist, and was rewarded with a small click. He repeated the exercise on the other post and pulled the lock open.
“Showtime,” he whispered. Remi moved to his side as he squirted oil on the rusty hinges and clasp.
