‘I… I understand.’ Though Candaret wasn’t sure any more that he did. He felt that twinge in his stomach bite deeper as he thought about what would happen if a journalist or Senate committee now uncovered the source of his funding; but, again, if Roche was now raising it as some sort of background threat or pressure, why hadn’t he done that earlier?
‘And that’s also why I didn’t tell you about my involvement in that funding until now. So that you wouldn’t misread it and see it as somehow connected with Durrant, feel unduly pressured. You could accept it with the good and honest grace with which it is intended: you have a good friend out there who would like nothing more than to see you in the White House.’
‘Why… why, thank you. I… I don’t know what to say.’ The first truth to pass Candaret’s lips since they’d started talking. He didn’t. His thoughts were still in turmoil with Roche’s revelation, in particular the timing.
And after a minute more of mutual fawning and treacly niceties as they said their goodbyes, in contrast to Candaret’s still bemused expression as he hung up, Roche beamed broadly.
He’d got exactly what he wanted from the conversation. Even if Ayliss did manage to crack Truelle and phoned at the eleventh hour, it was going to take a hell of a lot now to convince Candaret. Kiss goodbye to the White House and a truckload of regulatory problems one side; an elaborate, hard-to-believe story, the other. No contest.
Don’t pick up any hitch-hikers. Watch out for potholes. Street-lighting is poor or non-existent. And there’s a lack of signposts — particularly beyond Havana.
It was the same road all the way, but at a couple of angled junctions where the continuation was ambiguous, car-rental cautions one and four became at odds, because as soon as Jac stopped to clarify directions, he was asked for a lift. With only one in thirty owning a car and infrequent buses, it seemed that half of Cuba was waiting at street-corners and junctions for the next passing car to catch a lift.
‘Pardone, no possible… problema urgente.’ One hand lifted apologetically as he sped away. And at the one stop he made thirty kilometres before Cienfuegos — to use the toilet and for a hastily grabbed coffee, Coke and ham roll — two dusty workmen looking for a lift took a step back when he had to be more insistent, shouting at them that a man could die unless he hurried. His bastardized Spanish scream of ‘Muerte… muerte!’ making them worry for a second that he was threatening to kill them.
When he’d earlier tried Bob Stratton — twice at ten minute intervals — and there was no signal or dialling tone on his cell-phone, he realized that there were patches of poor reception on the open road. He finally got hold of him as he approached Cienfuegos, but it was mixed news: while Stratton had managed to get the internet cafe girl to pick out two possibles, one wasn’t at his last known address and the other, as soon as he opened his door in Long Beach, Stratton knew wasn’t the same man as on the internet cam.
‘So the only option left is to try and track down the first guy gone AWOL from his last known — Roland Cole. If I can find a credit card linked to Cole’s last address, then trace it to a new address, I might get lucky. But, you know, with only the few hours we got left now?’
‘I know.’ Crystal clear: tall order, don’t hold your breath. ‘Phone me if you get a break, or I’ll phone you. I’m suffering some connectivity problems here.’
Palms, sugar-cane, towering tobacco plants with fronds as high as two-storey houses — the scenery was spectacular, but most of it sped by in a patchwork blur as Jac’s speedo needle crept over 130 k.p.h. on every clear, flat stretch where he could get away with it, one eye peeled for traffic police.
But as the miles rolled by, Jac felt the waves of tiredness come back. As if the caffeine could only keep him going for so long — his hands shaking increasingly on the steering wheel, combined with the high-speed vibrations of the car on the often rough road surface, starting to set off tremors through his entire body. That shaking, along with the wild adrenalin rush of the past days and hours, all that was keeping him going — and when that fever-pitch hit overload and he finally burnt out, the rest would come crashing back in: the tension, the lack of sleep, the emotional drain, the dog-tired exhaustion — mental and physical — the feeling at times that he could hardly make it another yard, let alone hundreds of miles.
And as the caffeine and his body’s nervous tension lost its last grip, he’d fall asleep. The snap of a finger, blink of an eye as he sped along.
Twice already he’d pulled himself sharply back awake, a shudder running through him as he realized that sleep had grabbed him for a second, maybe two; and as it mugged him for a third time, forty-five kilometres before Trinidad, he was suddenly reminded of caution two, potholes, with a bang.
As Jac’s eyes snapped sharply open, he thought for a second that he’d swerved into a ditch or side-shoulder — but then he saw the truck coming straight towards him. The pothole had jolted him into the oncoming lane! Jac swung sharply back again, braking, the truck also braking then and missing him by only a couple of yards, its horn blaring hard as it swept past.
Jac kept going — the truck had slowed to almost a stop as Jac looked in his mirror — and a mile further on, when it was safely out of sight, he pulled over, closing his eyes as he waited for his wild trembling to settle. Madness! Madness!
But it was hardly any better after almost two minutes of slow, deep breaths, and Jac feared that if he kept his eyes closed any longer, he might fall asleep. And so he pulled out again, turned the radio up loud so that hopefully Perez Prado and Benny More could keep him awake, grabbed a coffee at the first stop seven kilometres up the road, then stopped again 80k beyond Trinidad for another to keep him going.
Fuelled by that mix of caffeine, mambo-rhythms and adrenalin-staved exhaustion, his eyes red-rimmed, nerves ragged, he finally ran up the steps of the Sancti Spiritus post office at 12.53 p.m.
The man he approached at the counter ahead had limited English, but when Jac showed him the mailbox number, he pointed to a side counter. ‘Amparo… she do correos apartados.’
Thankfully, Amparo’s English was far better, but as Jac explained what he wanted, she started to frown.
‘I’m sorry, senor. I’m not allowed to give out the addresses of people holding boxes — apartados. It’s against regulations.’
‘But, please. This is very important. I’m an American lawyer,’ Jac slid Ayliss’s card across the counter, ‘and a man’s life depends on this information. It’s vital that I locate the holder of this mailbox urgently.’
‘I understand, senor. But it really is difficult… impossible for me to give that information.’ Amparo inclined her head in apology as she said it. A striking woman in her late forties, with soft brown eyes and the first tinge of salt in her black hair, Jac could imagine that twenty years ago she’d been stunning.
Plan two. But as Jac turned his palm on the counter to reveal two fifty-dollar bills, he knew instantly it was a mistake. Her eyes hardened again; she looked genuinely offended.
‘That… that won’t do any good. The regulations are very strict.’ This time as she said it, her eyes glanced to one side, as if unseen eyes might be watching them.
Jac closed his eyes for a second. Oh God! For it all to end here with soft-eyed, hard-eyed Amparo.
‘There is one thing I could suggest,’ Amparo said, a more hopeful tone as she flicked a page in a leather-bound register to one side. ‘I notice there’s a package arrived for that apartado today — which means the postman will put a notification through their door tomorrow. If you want to leave a message here, I can make sure they get it when they pick up the package in a day or two.’