“I thought no one knew what he looked like,” Carter said.
“He wasn’t actually seen. One of the. Company boys working in the Soviet embassy overheard mention that he was there. That’s it. Nothing more substantial than that to go on.”
An alarm bell rang in Carter’s head. It was a mistake, perhaps? But Ganin was a man with the reputation of never making a mistake. Or was there something else to it?
“Thank you again, sir. We’ll be on our guard here.”
“Say hello to Sigourney for me, and enjoy the rest of your vacation,” Hawk said, and he clicked off.
Carter put down the handset and flipped the switch. He turned. Sigourney had come to the door. She was looking at him.
“Trouble?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Carter said. Quickly he told her what Hawk had said. When he was finished she shivered.
“Do you think he’ll come here? Could he know you’re here?”
“I don’t know, Sigourney. I just don’t know. But it’s damned coincidental that he’d be in Cuba the same time as we’re here.”
“What are you going to do, Nick?”
“Nothing much,” he said. “We’ll just keep our eyes and ears open. I’ll talk to the staff in the morning. If anyone approaches the island, they can sound the alarm. We’ll be all right.”
Sigourney was silent for several long seconds, but then she beckoned. “There’s some unfinished business out here,” she said, smiling.
“I’ll be right there,” Carter said, and abruptly he turned and went into the back bedroom where his suitcase with his street clothes and other things was stored.
She followed him inside and stood at the doorway as he opened the suitcase and pulled out his weapons, checking each to make sure it was ready for instant action should the need arise.
Wilhelmina, his perfectly balanced 9mm Luger. Hugo, his thin, razor-sharp stiletto in its chamois sheath. And Pierre, an AXE-designed gas bomb, about the size of a large marble, that could permanently incapacitate a room filled with people within seconds. Old friends, all of them. Companions who never failed him and who had saved his life on countless occasions. But old friends, nevertheless, that were and would continue to be well bloodied.
Carter levered a round into the Luger’s firing chamber, made sure the safety was on, and stuffed the weapon into the waistband of his shorts.
“Let’s go for a little walk,” he said, taking Sigourney’s hand and leading her outside to the veranda and then down the short path to the beach.
Away from the house they could see the glow of the lights from the town on the big island. There was only a light breeze, the tiny wavelets lapping softly on the white beach. Something jumped out in the water.
“Should I be frightened, Nick?” Sigourney asked, her voice hushed.
Carter looked at her and smiled. “I don’t think so. We’ll watch what’s happening, but I don’t think there’s really anything to worry about.”
For a long time they stared out across the water. Then Sigourney shrugged. “The coffee by now is certainly cold,” she said.
“Screw the coffee,” Carter replied, and laughing, they went hand in hand back to the house.
It was after eleven o’clock. The night was very warm and humid. The steady chop of the slowly spinning rotors of the big Sikorsky helicopter warming up on the pad was nearly deafening.
Seven men, all of them dressed in black, their faces and hands darkened, stood in a rigid line at attention. Each carried a small but heavy pack that contained explosives as well as their own personal ammunition. Uzi submachine guns were slung over their shoulders. Chaikin thought using the Israeli weapon was somehow a fitting touch.
The embassy limousine pulled up, and Ganin, also dressed in black and carrying a bag and an Uzi, jumped out. A moment later Chaikin followed.
“The pilot has his orders,” Chaikin was saying. “They’ve all been briefed. Nothing should go wrong.”
“I don’t suspect it will, Viktor,” Ganin said, a hard edge to his voice. In the middle of an assignment he never had time for chatter.
He strode across the tarmac toward the waiting helicopter where the seven men were lined up. One by one he inspected them, their weapons, and their kits, making sure everything was in order. When he was finished he stepped back.
“You all understand your orders?” he shouted in Spanish. Ganin was fluent in ten languages.
“Si, señor,” all seven replied in unison.
Chaikin had come up from the car. Ganin turned to him.
“They are ready?” the KGB rezident asked.
Ganin nodded. Another car had come onto the tarmac. Ganin glanced toward it. “What is his name?”
“Ortega,” Chaikin said, following his gaze. “He works in Translation.”
“You’re sure he’s the one?”
“Absolutely. He was set up. There is no doubt he heard that you were coming.”
“He passed on the word?”
“His case officer is Charles Knell. We photographed their meeting.”
“But you didn’t interfere with it?”
“No, Arkadi, of that you have my complete assurance. Ortega knew you were coming, he passed on the information to his case officer, and then he returned to us.”
“What has he been told about tonight?”
“He understands he was to come here to help interrogate a few Mexicans. That’s all,” Chaikin said. He waved toward the car.
“Fine,” Ganin said.
“But, Arkadi, I think it is a very dangerous thing to have brought him here. He may see you, provide a description. We cannot be sure he won’t slip away from us.”
Ganin smiled grimly. “Oh, yes, we can be sure, Viktor. Very sure.” Ganin reached inside his black jump suit, withdrew a 9mm Beretta automatic, and concealing it at his side, he quickly strode across the parking ramp to where the car was waiting.
Viktor Chaikin started after him but then thought better of it. The seven troops remained stiffly at attention.
At the car Ganin tapped on the opaque window, which was powered down. A man of about thirty-five, his eyes wide, looked out.
“We know about Charles Knell,” Ganin said, and he raised the Beretta and fired two shots in quick order, the first catching Ortega in the face just to the right of his nose, and the second blowing the top of the man’s forehead off, blood, bits of bone, and white matter flying across the inside of the car, Ortega’s body driven back against the opposite door.
Ganin made sure the Beretta’s safety was on, holstered the weapon, then searched for and found the two spent shell casings, which he pocketed.
He went back to Chaikin, who had paled.
“I want his body held until three o’clock, and then I want it flown down to the U.S. naval station at Guantanamo Bay, where I want it dumped on their doorstep.”
Chaikin swallowed hard.
“Do you understand my simple instructions, Viktor?”
Chaikin nodded. “There will be a lot of trouble over this, Arkadi.”
“Yes, there will be,” Ganin agreed. “Perhaps we will have some vodka together when I return in the morning. That would be nice.”
Again Chaikin swallowed hard and nodded.
Ganin motioned for the troops to board the helicopter, and when they were safely strapped in, he climbed up with the pilot and copilot and gave them the thumbs-up sign to take off.
The big helicopter shuddered, then rose up into the night sky, countless stars twinkling overhead, the lights of the airport and Havana spread along the coast below, and the dark Caribbean Sea toward Florida to the north.
Ganin had donned a helmet with built-in headset and microphone. The copilot showed him where it plugged in, and suddenly he could hear the Havana control tower operators chattering. They were a commercial flight, supposedly on their way down to Santiago de Cuba, the major city on the far southeastern end of the island.