The Eye of Heaven

17

The next morning Dr. Lagarde was waiting for them in the hotel atrium lobby. A short, paunchy man in his sixties, with a dense gray beard and round spectacles, he wore a white tropical-weight linen suit and a pale blue button-down shirt, a seemingly mandatory panama hat perched on his head.

“I’m honored to meet you,” Lagarde said, shaking first Remi’s hand and then Sam’s.

“Thanks for taking the time out to play tour guide,” Sam said.

“Please, you’re on my island. It’s the least I can do for guests.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Remi said.

“Bueno. So what would you like to see first? There is much of interest here, depending upon your tastes.”

“We’re really here to study Morro Castle, Doctor.”

“Please, call me Raphael.”

“And we’re Sam and Remi. Can you tell us about the castle?”

“Of course. It’s a national treasure. Everyone in Havana knows its history and most have been there a hundred times. In the old days, it was free — for the people.” Raphael sighed and shook his head. “Like so much, that, too, has changed and we must now pay to see our own history.”

“Can we go there and have you show us around?”

“Absolutely. My car is parked around the corner. Although we may want to take a taxi because parking there will be a problem.”

Remi nodded. “Whatever you think is best.”

Seven minutes later, the cab dropped them off at the base of the hill. The fort loomed above them, the ugly black snouts of cannons jutting over the walls, pointed at the channel that any invaders would have to pass through. Raphael led them through the gates, where Sam dutifully paid their entry fee.

Like so much of Havana, the fort’s walls were crumbling, their surfaces marred by centuries of storms and blistering sun.

Dr. Lagarde removed his hat and fanned himself with it for a moment. “The fort was designed by an Italian engineer, Juan Bautista Antonelli, who was rather well known at the time. His design was approved by the Spanish and construction started in 1589. Up until then, the hill only had a few cannons, and a stone hut for the guards, which was inadequate to protect the town as it grew from a small village to the main Spanish trading hub for the New World. There were constant threats by pirates, and after building the first lighthouse, the governor appealed to the Crown to build a proper fortification. It took forty years to build the fort, which was armed with sixty-four cannons.”

“But the British took it at some point, didn’t they?” Sam asked.

“Indeed they did. In 1762. They held Havana for a year and it was returned to Spain as part of an end to the Seven Years’ War. Immediately after that, construction began on La Cabaña, which is the larger fort you can see just past the point. That took ten years to build, and, together with Morro Castle, it made Havana impervious to attack.”

“There are certainly a lot of people wandering the grounds,” Remi noted, gazing at the crowd.

“It’s one of the more popular destinations in Havana. Iconic. Even more so at nine every night when the symbolic firing of the cannon takes place. Originally, it signaled that the gates of the city were being closed. Now it’s just one of those traditions that we’ve kept from Spanish times.”

Remi pointed at a doorway surrounded by a throng. “What’s that?”

“A museum. It features weapons and nautical relics from the castle’s past.”

“Can we go inside the dungeons?”

“Of course. There are only a few sections at the lowest levels that are closed to the public. Old vaults, I believe.”

“Really? You’ll have to show us the entire complex. I find it fascinating,” Remi said.

They spent the day walking the grounds and had lunch at one of the two restaurants, where a trio played salsa music for the patrons’ entertainment. Sam sampled several beers, including the lighter Crystal and the amber Bucanero. When they returned to their hotel at four, they were both sunburned and tired but agreed that they wanted to go back to the castle that night for the nine o’clock cannon ceremony — a convenient pretext for observing how quickly the crowds thinned out so they could plot how to best access the vaults below. The blueprint Rube had sent showed crude air ducts from the vaults to the upper levels for ventilation — a possible entry point if they couldn’t breach the doors.

Security was lax, but there were still soldiers and police patrolling the grounds — and it would only take one of them to sound the alarm and Sam and Remi would be in deep trouble. The wing that housed the vaults was closed off, a heavy rusting-iron barrier sealing off the stone hallway leading into the castle’s depths.

Sam studied the drawing for another hour, searching for anything he might have missed, but there wasn’t much to offer hope. The place was a stone fortress designed to repel attempts to enter it. Even from the inside, breaching it was a tentative proposition, assuming in the wee hours there were few or no patrols for long stretches of time in the vicinity of the vault. And they’d both noted surveillance cameras in the inner passageways, although not in the vicinity of the barrier — but that meant that if they were discovered, their likenesses would be there for all to see and their chances of getting out of Cuba would be nil.

At eight-fifteen they took a taxi to the Morro Castle and mingled with the large crowd waiting for the cannon ceremony. The grass field where the cannon stood was almost completely black, any moonlight blocked by clouds. The soldiers in dress uniforms from the present and past went through the nightly ritual, to the popping of flashes and snicking of lenses. Excitement washed over the crowd as the master-at-arms yelled commands to his subordinates, who went about their assigned tasks with robotic efficiency as still more soldiers marched in formation onto the green.

The explosion was deafening and greeted with a cheer, and then the group seemed to deflate, the ceremony over, leaving everyone to find their way to the exits. Remi edged to the doors that led to the barrier at the lower level and, after glancing around to confirm that nobody was paying attention, eased one open and slid through the gap. Sam stayed in position, feigning interest in his cell phone and ignoring the policeman who walked by, whose attention was drawn more by the young women in short skirts than by Sam.

Five minutes turned into ten, and then another ten. Sam’s resolve had just about cracked when Remi reappeared.

“You had me worried,” he said, relieved.

“Nothing to worry about. If you don’t count the armed patrol I had to dodge.”

Sam studied her face. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m making a funny?”

“Not really. How did you avoid them?”

“I heard their boots and ducked into one of the jail cells down the hallway. I’m just lucky it was out of camera range.”

“So what did you discover?”

“Fortunately, the guards are sloppy and not paying attention. There’s a large iron grid over the ventilation duct, which is so badly rusted I was able to break off pieces with my fingers. Five minutes with a crowbar or bolt cutters and we’d be through, but I don’t think you’d fit. If we’re going to get through using the vents, it’s going to have to be a solo act for me. And there are still the cameras to consider.”

Sam shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Okay, then, I guess we can go home now?”

“I don’t like you trying this alone. There has to be another way.”

“I took a closer look at the lock on the barrier and it’s a Soviet-era padlock. Case-hardened, so I don’t think it can be cut — and that’s assuming we could wander in with a bolt cutter, and further assuming that the guards wouldn’t notice that the lock was cut off and start shooting the second they came through the barrier.”

“We’ve figured out a way in and out of trickier scenarios than this. We’ll find a way. You think you could jimmy it?”

“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.”