Romerez called for the ambulance which arrived at exactly the same time as three of Harry’s security people came rushing through the heavy double doors, machine pistols in their hands.
Dillon and Romerez lurked in the shadows until the paramedics and security guards were all in the room and shouting at each other. Making it very easy for them to fall in behind the group now gathered around Caplin’s inert body.
Dillon pushed his way through and examined him. Standing up he spoke quickly in faultless Spanish to the guards, and explained that Mr Caplin had suffered a near fatal stroke and was now completely paralysed. His only chance of survival was to get him to the hospital in Havana as quickly as possible.
Dillon rode in the back of the ambulance with the nurse and the armed guard, who had insisted on staying with Harry. Romerez sat up front with the two paramedics as they travelled at high speed around the winding roads, the siren blaring and lights flashing. Dillon’s opportunity came as the ambulance negotiated a tight bend, the back end of the heavy vehicle lost its grip on the gravel at the edge of the road; throwing the thickset Cuban off balance. Dillon hit the guard hard in the temple with the butt of the Glock, instantly knocking him out with the blow.
They drove on to the next crossroad. The unconscious guard was tied up and left under a tree at the roadside. Dillon, one of the paramedics, and Romerez jumped back inside the ambulance, Romerez said to the others, “Boy is he going to have a mother of a headache when he wakes up. Now let’s get the hell out of here before someone back at Caplin’s place becomes suspicious and comes after us.” The nurse stood up and pulled at the all in one trouser uniform she was wearing. Velcro gave way with a ripping sound to reveal well fitting stone washed denim jeans, and a colourful loose blouse. Romerez caught Dillon staring in amazement. “Jake, let me introduce you to Sanita, Georges and Manuel they all work for me from time to time here in Cuba.”
“It’s good to meet you all, and well done back there I thought for one moment that those guards were going to rumble us. Now comes the tricky part, how to get dear old Harry here, out of Cuba. Serra will be almost certainly watching the radar for any unauthorised movement in the air, and the minute we take off, he’ll send up the Migs, of that I’ve got no doubt.”
“This isn’t a problem Mr Dillon. We’ve already thought of what that sadist Colonel Serra will do. He’s not the only one with informants you know,” Sanita said with a sneer, adding. “We’ve already fed false information to a well-known source of his, that the three of you will be making your getaway in a private jet ambulance. But in fact we’ve got a very fast power boat waiting for you up ahead at a small cove.”
Harry’s eyes flickered at the mention of the boat. Sanita continued looking directly at him.
“Ironically this type of craft is favoured by drug runners because of the large fuel tanks and exceptional speed it can achieve, even in open water.”
Five minutes later the ambulance stopped at the roadside above a small deserted beach of white sand. Sheer cliffs rose up on both sides with steps carved out of the rock, that wound there way down to a wooden jetty that stuck out thirty foot into the water.
Georges and Manuel went round to the rear of the ambulance and threw open the doors. Without delay, they lifted the gurney that Harry was still strapped to, and carried him down to the sleek, black, twenty-foot boat which gently bobbed up and down with each wave that lapped against the rickety wooden structure.
Once on board, Dillon checked the chart for that area of coast. The distance to Key West was ninety-five miles. The rain that had not relented since leaving Johnson’s Field was now all but gone. The sea as flat as glass as they nosed their way out of the small bay. Dillon opened up the throttles to maximum, keeping them there as they raced up through the Straits of Florida towards the rendezvous point. Thousands of tiny stars lit up the clear night sky, but there were no Migs or Mi-8 helicopters in the air that night, not even a sighting of the Cuban Coastguard. The false information given to Colonel Serra, had to Dillon’s surprise, worked. Romerez went below to check on Harry Caplin; returning with two cigarettes, the ends of which glowed brightly. She handed one of them to Dillon, who took it, as she slipped into the seat next to him.
As they approached the pontoon mooring at Key West, Dan Parker was there with a special team of agents ready to receive their prized guest. The still paralysed Harry Caplin was lifted off of the boat and into the back of an unmarked van. Dan Parker told the tired duo of the various events that had led up to the mechanic Fernandes being shot dead trying to escape custody.
Dillon’s thoughts were already back in London, with the nagging doubt as to whether he was still suspended from active duty. Harry Caplin had been the cause of all his recent problems, but would his part in apprehending the drug trafficker put him back on the active assignment roster? Only Edward Levenson-Jones, his boss at Ferran & Cardini International was in a position to know that.
In 1987, two dynamic men, Declan Ferran and Richard Cardini, both former high ranking intelligence men, created Ferran & Cardini International. These two enigmas soon became known simply as “the Partners.” The shadowy and elusive duo had previously roamed around the globe for MI6, brushing shoulders with criminals, terrorists and some of the most powerful and politically corrupt people in the world.
Outwardly, the company they own looks and operates just like any other legitimate corporation. But, is shrouded by extreme secrecy, and behind their elaborate façade is former M15 director of operations, Edward Levenson-Jones and the special projects team. Which unofficially handle assignments where the conventional intelligence agencies do not want to go. This department, located deep under the streets of Docklands, also undertake the setting up of information networks throughout Europe on behalf of the British Government. Ferran & Cardini owes allegiance to one person only. Former Prime Minister and the firm’s benefactor, Sir Lucius Stagg who, at the age of seventy-three, keeps his finger on the pulse of those in power. Edward Levenson-Jones has steadfastly nurtured and guided the special project team, which since its inception had seen a number of Prime Ministers of both the main political parties come and go, and had no allegiance whatsoever to any of them. His office is located under the prestigious wharf-side glass tower block. Cocooned in thousands of tons of reinforced concrete in what used to be the cellar network of the original warehouse that had stood on the site. He was still working at his desk at eight o’clock in the evening, when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” LJ was stood at the drinks cabinet; a tall rather debonair looking man in his late fifties with a thicket of fair hair.
As he poured himself a glass of single malt whisky the door opened behind him. The man who entered was in his late twenties wearing a charcoal grey pin stripe suit, pristine white shirt and sober coloured silk tie. He could have been a high flying stockbroker or even a successful business executive, but Guy Roberts was neither of these things. He was a spy. Not an ordinary one, but a spy all the same with an honours degree in criminal psychology, and after a little arm twisting, LJ had succeeded in borrowing him from M15 as his temporary personal assistant.