The rain had stopped but the mistiness and the humidity had not. The asphalt driveway below her feet was slippery, as she had been warned. Everywhere around her was the incessant ticking of wet leaves dripping on one another. A squadron of bugs flocked around one of the outdoor lamps. A pair of mosquitoes buzzed Alex almost as soon as she drew her first breath of air, right in front of her eyes. She waved them away.
“We’ll get a little rest here maybe and something to eat if you like,” Guarneri said. “We can unwind for a couple of hours.”
“Got it,” Alex said. She looked at her watch. It was 5:00 p.m. She wanted to shower because she had no idea when she would be able to again. And the push-off in the morning would be obscenely early. Sneaking into one of the world’s few remaining communist countries was, she reasoned, never an easy thing.
Paul gave her a soft pat on the back, showing the way, which was a flagstone path to the house. She walked as directed. Beyond the house she could see a pier and beyond that, water. Well, they were on a small narrow island after all, so why wouldn’t there be water? At the end of the pier she saw two vessels. One was a small skiff, lashed to the pier. The other, moored in the water a few dozen yards beyond the pier, was a small Cessna seaplane. She felt a surge within her, anxiety combined with dread, mixed with, she hated to admit it, a rush of adrenalin over what she was about to do. She fingered the small cross at her neck, again without realizing. Anastacio saw her do it and smiled.
“Good idea,” he said.
They all went into the house. The inside of the building was modern and nicely air conditioned. A small, stunningly pretty dark-haired woman presided. Anastacio introduced her as his wife, LaReina. She was a foot shorter than he was, maybe two hundred pounds lighter, and ten years younger. She wore denim shorts and a light green Paulina Rubio Gran City Pop tank top. She had a floral tattoo a few inches above her right breast. It never ceased to amaze Alex how mismatched couples like this ended up together.
“Welcome,” LaReina said in perfect English. “You won’t be here long, but our home is yours for the next few hours. Come with me.” Alex took her to be a Cuban-American who had probably never been to Cuba.
LaReina was like a dormitory housemother, officious, generous, and proprietary. She led Alex to the kitchen, where she displayed a spread of food for sandwiches on the counter. She indicated an array of drinks – beer, water, sodas – in the refrigerator. Then she led Alex up a short series of back stairs. They passed a votive to the Virgin of Guadalupe on the steps. A small flame burned.
“The Virgin Mary once visited this house,” LaReina said matter-of-factly. “It was in 1976 when the previous owners were here. So we keep the votive going.”
“Nice idea,” Alex said.
“I’d love it if La Virgen reappeared,” LaReina said. “How cool would that be?”
“Very,” Alex said.
At the top of the steps, LaReina led Alex into a cozy small bedroom, perfect for a short rest. Equally, Alex observed, it would have been perfect for a short vacation. There was a window that overlooked the pier and the seaplane. Looking out the window, Alex also noticed that two chain-link barriers led far into the water, marking the property, protecting the pier, making access difficult. She also saw that there was a huge Doberman chained behind the house, sleeping comfortably on a small blanketed den on the sand.
LaReina pointed out a bathroom across the hall from Alex’s room and said it was reserved for female guests, in this case Alex. Then LaReina left Alex alone.
Alex showered comfortably and, refreshed from washing, changed into a robe that was left for her use. She rechecked her plastic travel packs, the ones that she would strap to her leg or ankle: the gun, the money, the passport. She would put the gun on the right side and the documents and money on the left, she decided.
She opened her small duffel bag, checked its contents for the umpteenth time, and pulled out the clothes she would wear for the flight and the boat entry into Cuba: a heavy T-shirt, a pair of dark hiking slacks that could unzip into shorts, and some canvas hiking shoes. She repacked that day’s clothes and closed the duffel. She dressed in the next day’s clothes and went back downstairs to the kitchen. She found the men in conversation at a large kitchen table.
Paul Guarneri was talking American football to Anastacio, who changed the subject when Alex came into the room. He informed her that the plane was fueled up and ready to go. “It’s down at the end of the dock,” Anastacio said. “Did you see it?”
“I did,” Alex said. “Cessna of some sort, right?”
“Cessna Caravan,” he said. “1986. Fine plane.”
Alex nodded. “I think Jimmy Buffett used to fly one of those,” she said. “He tipped one over on Nantucket Sound in Massachusetts several years ago.”
“Did it sink?” Anastacio asked.
“Not that I remember.”
“That’s what I mean. Fine plane.”
She laughed. The tension eased a little.
“Sit down, Alex,” Paul said. “Relax and join us.”
He gave her hand a squeeze, let it go, and pulled out a chair for her. She sat and slid into the place at the table next to Paul. There were sandwiches. Alex grabbed half of one and a water.
“You like Jimmy Buffett?” Anastacio asked her.
“Seriously, yes. He’s great. I’ve seen him in concert twice.”
“He plays Miami a lot,” Anastacio said. “My daughters love him. Me?” he made a equivocating gesture with his heavy palm. “I guess he sings better than he flies. That reminds me. Your pilot will arrive here at 3:00 a.m. His name’s Pierre. He’s a Dominican-Haitian. Black as the ace of spades, and he’s got a heart of gold. Pierre is a good man, un hombre bueno.”
He went on to explain that Pierre, who had a lot of experience, had already filed a flight plane from Key West to the Bahamas, without mentioning any stop along the way. “You’ll like flying with him,” Anastacio said.
“I’m sure,” said Alex, although she wasn’t. “This doesn’t strike anyone at Key West airport as suspicious?” Alex asked.
“Why would it?” Guarneri asked.
“Pierre runs an overnight air courier service. Completely legit,” Anastacio said. “He flies from here to Grand Bahama and Andros Bahamas five times a week. That’s why we use him for special drops.”
“But anyone looking at the flight records is going to see a disparity in the flying times,” Alex said. “What’s the normal time to Grand Bahama from Key West? Maybe ninety minutes?”
“About that. Give or take,” Anastacio said.
“So Pierre’s going to need an extra hour at least to divert to the north shore of Cuba,” she said, sipping water. “Anyone checking the flying time later is going to spot that. It’s probably not a problem, but I’m just saying …”
Anastacio smiled. “Your girl here is smart,” he said, looking to Guarneri. “That part gets taken care of,” Anastacio he answered, looking back to Alex.
“Friendly folks at Key West?” she asked.
“Better,” Anastacio said. “We have two radios. Pierre takes off low, stays under two hundred feet until he’s six miles out into the Straits of Florida, stays under the radar most of the way. After he makes his drop off the north shore of Cuba, he radios back here, and we coordinate a call to coincide with that take-off. That way he arrives in Grand Bahama right on time.”
“But he’s in air space he shouldn’t be in,” she said.
“Yeah, and in a few hours you’re going to be on a beach you shouldn’t be on. Around here, this part of the ocean, people know better than to ask too many questions. So who’s going to know? Who’s going to do something?”