The Eye of Heaven

18

Three days later, Sam and Remi checked out, leaving their suitcases with Raphael for safekeeping. They’d traded them for a pair of black backpacks, their valuables tucked away in watertight bags in inner compartments, and each carried only a change of clothes and travel documents. It had taken forty-eight hours for Kendra to arrange for everything they’d requested, and the plan was for Raphael to send their bags on to them with the next person he knew flying to Mexico.

They slipped out the back door of the hotel, anxious to lose the shadow that they were now convinced they’d picked up. As far as they could tell, it was a three-person team — two men and a woman — who rotated, changing their appearances for each new shift. Remi had persuaded Sam to favor evasion over confrontation, to exchange his normal hard-charging approach for one with more subtlety.

After switching taxis twice to ensure they weren’t being tailed, they took a third to the castle. This time, they ate a late dinner after the cannon ceremony at one of the restaurants on the castle grounds, taking their time to linger over the meal, waiting for the spectators to clear the area.

When they finished dinner, they browsed along the battlements, keeping a sharp eye out for the armed patrols. At midnight, they made their move into the building, inching the outer door open and listening for any signs of life before hurrying down to the barrier one level below. They passed a single security camera, but there was no way to avoid it and, because the area they were in was open to the public, they hoped it wouldn’t trigger an alarm.

Remi stood sentry while Sam retrieved from his pocket the two pieces of an aluminum cola can he’d carefully cut and formed earlier. He slipped one rounded stub over the padlock post and slid it down until the tab was fully inserted, gave a twist, and was rewarded with a small click. He repeated the exercise on the other post and pulled the lock open.

“Showtime,” he whispered. Remi moved to his side as he squirted oil on the rusty hinges and clasp.

“Ready?” she asked, lifting the clasp.

“Always.”

She pushed the lever to the side, which squeaked like a wounded animal in spite of the lubricant, and then ducked inside. Sam listened for any hint of a patrol but didn’t hear anything, and then felt his phone vibrate as Remi called from inside.

“Not good. There’s a cam here in the hallway by the door, so I’m busted. Time to engage Plan B. Lock it up and get out of there. We’ll rendezvous as we agreed.”

“Nope. Change of plans. I’m coming with you.”

“Sam, they’ve got me on camera. Any second now, there will be soldiers on their way. I don’t have time to argue.”

“Then don’t. Is there a way to lock the barrier from the inside?”

A moment of silence greeted him, and then Remi’s hushed voice from his phone: “Yes. A clasp. Like on your side.”

“See you in a second. You better get moving on the vault door. I’m hoping all your lock-picking practice will pay off.”

Sam pulled the door open and edged through. He closed it again quickly and slid the padlock into the clasp, snapping it shut. With any luck, it would hold the guards for a little while — the barrier looked strong even if it had been designed only to keep tourists out rather than fortify the corridor. And, as with all security doors, it opened outward, so you’d have to kick the whole frame in, not just the door. He guessed the Cubans wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to shoot their way through it because of the danger of ricocheting bullets.

The hallway was gloomy, a single incandescent bulb in a caged fixture providing dim illumination. Sam hurried to where Remi was on her knees in front of the vault door. He moved past her and stopped beneath the ceiling camera, fishing in his backpack until he found a can of black spray paint. After peering at the mirrored globe, he popped the top off and hit the camera with a burst.

“They’re blind now. How’s it coming?”

“It’s not as complicated as I thought. Should have it open in a second,” Remi answered. They heard running boots at the far end of the corridor on the opposite side of the barrier, followed by a crashing from the heavy iron slab as the guards tried to demolish it.

“Now might be a really good time to open the door, Remi.”

“I’m almost there,” she whispered between gritted teeth, and brushed the first makeshift pick lightly against the posts inside the lock as she applied pressure with the second pick she’d fashioned from a bobby pin. Sam had been dubious of the simple tools she’d created until she’d demonstrated her abilities with them by opening their locked hotel door in fifteen seconds, at which point he’d decided that it was time for a little more faith in his wife’s talents.

“We’re in,” Remi whispered as the dead bolt clicked open with a twist, and she stood. “Ready?”

More slamming echoed from the metal door, accompanied by shouts and the blow of rifle stocks against it.

“You go. I’ll wait out here and deal with the light. I don’t want them getting any ideas about shooting down the corridor if they can punch a hole in the iron.”

As she pushed the door open, a Klaxon siren blared. They’d discussed the possibility of an alarm, either silent or audible, but it was still jarring. Sam stuffed foam earplugs in place as he hurried to the lamp. When he was directly beneath it, he took the paint again and sprayed the bulb and soon the hallway was pitch-black, the only light coming from a distant ventilation slit in the ten-foot-thick walls.

A gunshot exploded from the barrier, followed by a scream and yelled instructions. Apparently, the soft lead bullet hadn’t penetrated; judging by the commotion on the other side, it had hit one of the guards, which would hopefully dampen their enthusiasm for more gunfire.

The crashing resumed within ten seconds, this time steel on steel. Sam’s guess that the fire axes he’d seen in cases around the fort would come into play had been a good one. He had no illusions that the door would be able to stand up to a sustained assault. He crept along the passage back to the vault.

“Are you done?” Sam shouted through the vault doorway, momentarily blinded by the flash of Remi’s digital camera.

“Almost! Three more shots and we’re out of here,” she yelled back at him, the siren drowning out her voice as she continued to take pictures.

A beam of light appeared from the barrier. They’d pierced it. It would be only a matter of seconds until the shooting started.

“They’re through. Let’s go. Now!” Sam called. Remi didn’t hesitate. They sprinted for the far end of the passageway, where they knew from the blueprint there would be a curve and then a junction. He prayed that the diagram was accurate and that a bright mind hadn’t decided to seal their escape route at some point over the last forty years — that could ruin their night.

Sam reached the junction just as gunfire erupted behind them. Slugs whistled through the air, whining as they glanced off the stone walls and ricocheted in every direction. Both he and Remi dropped and crawled the remaining five feet, setting a new record for military-style scrambling. The gunfire continued until the shooter exhausted his clip.

Sam pointed at a dark chamber fifteen feet away and inched toward it, sticking to the floor in the event of a stray bullet bouncing off the rock walls. After what seemed like forever, they reached the doorway. The air was a bouquet of rot and decay, but also the most welcome odor in the world — salt air. From the far side of the room the crash of waves breaking against the rocks below the castle’s foundation greeted them and they both leapt to their feet and felt their way toward the sound.

There, at floor level, were three chutes that opened out onto the sea, barely large enough to accommodate a human body. The iron bars imbedded in the stone had been mostly eaten away by the elements. Sam pulled a penlight from his pocket and then reached into his bag and extracted a tire iron and rope. He swung the beam around the room in search of anything to tie the line to. There — a stone sink sat at the far end of the small space, attached to the wall. He quickly wound the end of the rope around it several times before fashioning a climber’s knot and giving it a firm pull.

“Let me break the bars, and, when I’m through, follow me down,” Sam instructed. He lowered himself to the cold stone floor, the surface slick from condensation and mold, and slid down the chute, arms first, playing out rope with his left hand, the crowbar gripped in his right.

The iron grille was little more than rust. It took less than half a minute to create a gap he could squeeze through. Chunks of iron dropped down the sheer wall outside and struck the rocks below. Sam flipped around and followed them down forty-five feet to a slim outcropping, where waves struck it and exploded in bursts of spray before retreating back into the black of night. The rope above him vibrated as Remi descended quickly; the clump of her rubber-soled boots landing on the rocks filled him with relief.

“Be careful! These boulders are slippery, and the barnacles will cut like razors if you slip,” he called, pulling out the earplugs and pocketing them as he eyed the dark castle wall above. “We need to hurry. They’ll be through soon enough, and if we’re not gone by the time they figure out how we escaped, we’ll be trying to outrun bullets and radios.”

Cautiously they began inching along the shoreline, going as fast as they dared. Remi slipped once and Sam caught her arm and steadied her. Five minutes later, the castle was behind them and they were jogging east on a rocky beach.

“How much farther?” Remi asked, easily keeping up with Sam.

“Should be no more than a hundred yards,” Sam said. “Lucky for us they never sealed up the toilet chutes …”

“Please. I’m already going to have to take ten showers just to get the feel of the mold off me. I don’t need any reminders about what the last things down the chute were.”

“They haven’t been used for years — probably at least twenty. Thank goodness for indoor plumbing, right?”

“If you say so.”

They continued loping down the beach, anxious to put distance between themselves and the castle.

“How did it go?” he asked as he slowed, eyes roving over the coastline, seeking their objective.

“I got shots of everything, including the manuscript. It practically disintegrated in my hands when I unrolled it. A shame nobody cared enough to store it under better conditions.”

“We’re fortunate there was anything left. Could you make out the writing and illustrations?”

“I did. But I’d say right now that’s not our biggest problem,” she said as flashlight beams glimmered from the castle base. “Our pursuers just figured it out. I sure hope Selma was good to her word or our troubles have just begun.”

“Look. There it is,” Sam said, pointing at a line tethered to a rock on the shore. He ran to it and pulled as hard as he could, and an ancient black inflatable boat came bouncing through the mild surf.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Remi said.

“Hey, it’s Cuba. What do you want? This is probably pretty modern for here,” he said as the dinghy washed up onto the beach. He snapped open his Swiss Army knife, severed the line from the rock, and coiled it up and tossed it into the tired little craft.

“Get in and I’ll push it out until we’re clear of the breakers,” Sam said.

Remi checked her backpack again to make sure that it was sealed tight, the camera safe in the waterproof bag, before helping push the boat a few feet into the water and climbing in.

Sam waited until another wave surged in and heaved the tender away from the sand, turning his back to the incoming surf as it broke over him. Lights from shore swept the beach as soldiers followed their path along the rocks. The bottom fell away from Sam’s feet and he climbed aboard and, after a concerned look at the pre-1960s outboard, jerked the cord to start the engine.

Nothing.

He tried again and was rewarded with a feeble cough and puff of exhaust.

“Remi. Grab the oars and row us farther out. This might take a while.”

As she complied, he didn’t need to turn to face her to read her expression. Instead, he focused on the outboard, which finally sputtered to noisy life on the eighth try.

“There. Told you it wouldn’t be a problem.”

The moonlight glinted off the gold scarab hanging from Remi’s neck as she peered into the gloom, where she could barely make out the sound of men yelling to one another. “I’d put it into gear because we’re still in range … and will be until we can’t see the shore.”

As if to underscore her point, slugs splashed into the water behind them, followed by the sharp report of automatic rifle fire.

“Let’s hope nobody’s got a night vision scope. Keep your head down,” he said, and then goosed the throttle. He was rewarded by a groan as the motor almost died; then it revved and the boat surged forward over the small waves. More gunfire slapped into the sea around them, frustrated volleys rather than well aimed, and soon the noise of the gunfire receded as the little craft bounced its way north.

“How far?” Remi asked.

Sam pulled a small waterproof GPS from his backpack, powered it on, and squinted at the screen.

“Mile and a half due north. Now we’ll be racing the Cubans’ ability to get a helicopter into the air. If they’re as mañana about that as about other things, we should make it. It’s almost one a.m. on a weekday, and we shouldn’t show up on radar. I like our odds.”

“What about the rendezvous boat?”

“Once we’re aboard, we’ll be in international waters soon enough. It’ll do an honest fifty knots on fairly flat seas like these, and in a pinch, can top out at over a hundred. Besides, I don’t think the Cubans are going to cause an international incident over thrill seekers breaking into some old storage room. We didn’t even take anything, which a quick inventory will show. Let’s hope they lose interest when they figure that out.”

“Lots of hoping going on. I don’t need to remind you that’s not a great strategy,” Remi chided.

“The fastest craft the Cubans have tops out at thirty-six knots, assuming everything’s operating perfectly, so we’ve got an advantage if there’s a chase. They’d never even get close.”

“But their rockets might. It would be nice if we knew where the nearest Cuban ship was.”

“Our boat should have radar.”

“‘Should’? Back to hope, are we?”

“So far, so good.”