Dead Man's Land Page 12

  “Maybe they caught Prado already.”

  “What about the kidnappers? Seems they might be high up on DHS’s most-wanted list after that stunt.”

  “They didn’t leave much of a trail to follow. They paid in cash, used fake IDs, and operated out of smaller locales where security video footage wouldn’t be likely.”

  Hampton ran his fingers through his hair. “I remember their faces. And if I ever see them again, so help me God—”

  Waller’s phone rang. “Hold that threat.” He answered. “This is Waller.” He put the call on speaker phone.

  “Waller, this is Sheila Doleman from DHS. I’m just returning your call.”

  “Thanks. We’ve been unable to get any new leads and we’re wondering if you wouldn’t mind sharing with us why this is such a high priority. It might help us do our job better.”

  She sighed. “Again, I’m not really at liberty to discuss all that, especially on speaker.”

  Waller clicked off speaker and picked up the handset. “Look, we need to know what we’re dealing with. Maybe it might give us some clue as to who these guys are. We’re just not able to track them down with what you’ve given us.”

  “I can’t divulge everything, but I can tell you that we think those men involved in the kidnapping were working for the Cuban government.”

  “So, Cuba’s sending people over here to kidnap them?”

  “Highly doubtful. We believe it was probably a situation where they hired someone stateside.”

  “Mercenaries? Here? In the U.S.? Working for the Cuban government?”

  “That’s our best guess right now based off what we know around the case.”

  “Well, I wish you’d tell us something so we could figure out what’s going on.”

  “Again, I don’t want to beat a dead horse, but I just can’t tell you.”

  Waller exhaled a long breath through his teeth. He felt just like he did when he called his cable company to complain. If he didn’t get an answer fast, he was going to lose it. “I’m not asking you to divulge everything, but just a hint of what’s going on here.”

  “Fine. I’ll send you a redacted document within the hour and you can review it for yourself and see if it will help you.”

  “Anything we can glean from those documents might help us catch the kidnappers. The best way for us to solve this is to work backward, starting with these so-called mercenaries.”

  “Okay. Have you spoken with the journalist yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, do it quickly. He’s trying to leave the country. We blocked him from getting the proper documentation to enter Cuba as a journalist, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try some other way.”

  Waller hung up and immediately dialed Cal Murphy.

  “Mr. Murphy, this is Gus Waller from the FBI.”

  “Good to hear from you. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever hear from you again after the way your boss went after my editor.”

  “That was unfortunate, but he can be a real pain sometimes.”

  “Can’t they all? So, you got anything for me?”

  Waller spun around in his chair. “Not yet, but you’ll be the first to know when we do.”

  “So, you just wanted to call and say hello?”

  “Actually, I wanted to make sure you weren’t planning on going anywhere.”

  “I can’t go anywhere? Am I under suspicion?”

  “Suspicion that you might leave the country and try to go to Cuba.”

  “It’s a free country.”

  “Cuba isn’t—and based on this current situation, it’s not advisable for you to travel over there.”

  “Well, somebody over there made sure of that by blocking me from going as a journalist.”

  Waller stood up and stretched. “It’s for your own good. Trust me.”

  “This coming from the man who’s hard at work tracking down a pair of kidnappers after you let Prado slip between your fingers. I would’ve kept him myself had I known that would happen.”

  “I’d love to tell you more about this case, but I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t? Or maybe you don’t even know.”

  “Just bear with us. We’re going to catch these guys and I promise you’ll be the first to get this story. It’ll be an exclusive.”

  “I’ve heard that promise one too many times to believe it.”

  Waller sighed. “Just believe me when I say that it’s for your own good to stay here in the U.S. Don’t break my trust, okay?”

  “You mean don’t break your trust like you already broke mine?”

  “We’re not adversaries here, Mr. Murphy. We both want the same thing.”

  “I don’t think so,” Cal said. “I want a story—and Vicente Prado back here playing for the Yakima Seafarers. I doubt that’s your same aim. I think you want information.”

  The line went dead.

  Waller hung up and slumped into his chair.

  “Problems in River City?” Hampton asked from his cubicle situated next to Waller’s.

  Waller nodded. “Cal Murphy is going to Cuba. I just know it. And I’m concerned that something bad is going to happen—to him and to us.”

  “If only we knew what impending doom was about to befall us,” Hampton said with an eye roll.

  Waller’s inbox alerted him to a new email. He clicked it open. It was from Doleman. “Well, I just might be able to figure that out now.”

  Hampton got up and rushed over to Waller’s desk. “Did she finally give you something we can work with?”

  Waller nodded. “I think so.” He scanned the document quickly, trying to fill in the blacked out sections with his imagination. He couldn’t get the full picture but he was starting to get a semblance of one.

  “What is it?” Hampton asked.

  Waller shook his head and turned his computer screen toward Hampton. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  CHAPTER 26

  MONDAY MORNING, CAL STUMBLED out of bed and tried to wake up in the shower. After he finished drying off, he found Kelly still snug beneath the covers. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “You need to get going if we’re going to catch our flight,” he said.

  She shot up. “What time is it? Did we miss our flight? Where’s Maddie?”

  Cal laughed. “Maddie’s with your mother and we’ve got about forty-five minutes before we need to leave in order to make it there on time.”

  She squinted at him, her eyes struggling to adjust to the light beaming from the bathroom.

  He tossed a t-shirt at her. “Don’t forget to wear this.”

  She held up the Puget Sound Free Methodist mission trip t-shirt. “Pura Vida,” she read as she looked at the back. “Isn’t that what they say in Costa Rica?”

  Cal shrugged. “Maybe they say it in Cuba too. I don’t know since I’ve never been.”

  She sighed and her feet hit the floor with a thud. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

  “Yes, but we’re gonna be in Cuba.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Why are you so happy anyway? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before eight in the morning.”

  “Going to forbidden lands has a way of doing that to me—especially when we’re skirting the feds on this one.”

  She entered the shower and shouted above the water pouring over her. “We’ll probably be on some no-fly list and I’ll just be ticked I lost out on a good night of sleep.”

  “I’ll make you some coffee. Hustle up,” Cal said before shutting the door.

  ***

  AT THE AIRPORT, Cal and Kelly met their mission teammates, who eyed them cautiously. They were happy to have the couple tag along with them, but they seemed leery about being used in such a way.

  “Look, we really appreciate you guys letting us come with you. It was the only way for us to get into the country,” Cal said. “The result of this story is going to have a major impact on several people’s lives.”

  “In a
good way, I hope,” one of the men said.

  Cal nodded. “Mostly good, but for some people who are defying the law, it won’t be so good.”

  “Gordon Hammermill,” the man said as he offered his hand.

  Cal shook it and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hammermill. I’m Cal and this is my wife, Kelly.”

  Hammermill waved him off. “Nice to meet you, too, but, please, call me Gordon. I could probably be your father but not your grandfather. I’m not too comfortable with such a formal title.”

  Cal slapped him on the back. “Well, Gordon, I’ll call you whatever you like. Now, since we’re going to be traveling together, I’d like to learn a little bit more about you. What do you do?”

  He shook his head. “Is this how you start out all of your conversations with the athletes you interview?”

  Taken aback, Cal cocked his head to one side. “You’ve read my stuff in the paper?”

  “I know who you are. And you’re a good writer. I just find it puzzling that you would begin a conversation with a person you’ve never met with a question about what they do. I bet you didn’t ask Russell Wilson that the first time you met him.”

  Cal shrugged. “I guess I already knew what he did and—”

  “Oh, I’m just messin’ with ya, mostly because I hate telling people what I do since they stop talking to me almost the minute I tell them.”

  Cal’s eyes widened. “That scandalous, eh?”

  Hammermill shook his head. “No. I’m the founding pastor of this church. And most of the time when I tell people that, they run in the other direction.”

  “Considering that we’re about to board a plane, I won’t get very far.”

  “Everybody thinks we’re going to send a report to God about your behavior, so I either get fake conversations from people who start to list all their philanthropic efforts or ways they’re helping in their community—or they put their head phones on and don’t utter another word.”

  “And pastors are people, too.”

  “Darn right, we are. I like reading about the Seahawks and the Sounders, just like anyone else.”

  “You like reading about the Mariners too, right?”

  “Like I said, I’m like most people in this town.”

  Cal smiled at the reverend’s subtle dig on the city’s baseball team. “Good point.” He leaned in and spoke softly, saying, “And these days, they’re not a lot of fun to write about either.”

  Hammermill laughed. “I’ll be sure to let God know that you’re looking for another assignment. Who knows? Maybe you’ll just want to stay behind in Cuba.”

  Cal shook his head. “Doubtful, but you never know what’s going to happen, right?”

  ***

  AFTER A LONG FLIGHT to Cancun, Mexico, it didn’t take more than two hours to reach Havana. Cal informed Hammermill that they would reconnect with them later at some point, but they had some urgent matters they needed to attend to on Isla de la Juventud.

  “Be careful,” Hammermill said. “And if you get a chance, go watch Seattle Prep play baseball. I read about them sending a team to Cuba this week.”

  “Will do. Should be a lot of fun,” Cal said.

  Kelly put her arm around Cal. “So, now what, Mr. International Man of Mystery? Do I just pull out my camera and start taking pictures?”

  “If you don’t want anyone to look at us funny, it might be a good idea. Let’s play up the tourist part.”

  Kelly wasted no time in following Cal’s suggestion. She didn’t miss an opportunity to capture any portion of the new cultural experiences exploding around her.

  “I hope you brought several memory cards because from the looks of things, you’re going to need them,” he said.

  She smiled and winked at him. “Just doing my job, boss.”

  Cal was excited about getting something to eat, though he didn’t quite understand the price discrepancy once he tried to pay for his food.

  “The sign says five pesos for each of these meals,” he said. “I gave you a hundred pesos.”

  “It’s two hundred pesos for you—you’re a tourist.”

  Cal wrinkled his nose and forked over the money.

  Kelly rubbed his back. “That was still only three dollars apiece for that meal. Besides, isn’t this on your expense account?”

  “I don’t care. I just didn’t understand.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be the last time while we’re here. I read about the dual prices for Cuban citizens and tourists. Just don’t be so uptight.”

  An hour later, they took a short drive to Surgidero de Batabanó where they boarded a ferry to Isla de la Juventud. The plan was to learn as much as they could about what was going on there—and see if they could get any official to talk about Vicente Prado. It wasn’t likely to happen, but Cal said they’d never know if they didn’t try.

  The ferry bumped along the choppy waters of the Gulf of Batabanó, but it was the only thing that could detract from an otherwise perfect setting. The sun started to dip on the horizon, while a cool breeze forced Kelly to sidle up to him.

  “You think we’re in for another wild adventure?” Kelly asked.

  A man bumped into Cal. “Discúlpeme,” he said before continuing on.

  “Está bien,” Cal said as he nodded at the man. He returned his gaze to the port, growing closer with each passing second. “No, this is a total fact-finding mission. Besides, it can’t be any more adventurous than the time I just had with Prado in the U.S.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” she said.

  Cal dug his hand into his pocket and felt something that he didn’t remember putting there. It was a small piece of paper folded up.

  “This is strange,” Cal said as he pulled it out of his pocket. “I don’t remember this being here before.”

  He opened the note and read it.

  Be careful and tread lightly—or you may never leave.

  Kelly looked at Cal. “What? Where did this come from?”

  “That guy who bumped me.”

  “Where is he?” Kelly asked. “Let’s track him down.”

  They searched the ferry, which was packed with workers and tourists, none of whom seemed interested in allowing Cal and Kelly to pass and search for the mystery man.

  For the next ten minutes, they scoured the boat, trying to catch a glimpse of the man they’d both seen, but they didn’t see him. Then the boat docked and everyone pushed toward the gate until it crashed down onto the dock and the passengers exited.

  “People are getting off of here so fast, you’d think this ship was going down,” Cal said. He and Kelly took the opposite tact, hustling up the stairs so they could look down and hopefully catch a glimpse of the man. They stood there for several minutes. Nothing.

  “It’s like he just disappeared into thin air,” Kelly said.

  Cal shook his head. “Okay. Let’s go before we attract any unwarranted attention.”

  He pulled the note out again and read it. A shiver raced down his spine.

  This was going to be anything but a fact-finding mission.

  CHAPTER 27

  PRADO REMAINED IN SOLITARY CONFINEMENT for a couple of days before a pair of Cuban prison guards returned him to an interrogation room, this time with a plethora of recording devices and video cameras. Until Prado saw a copy of Granma, the country’s national newspaper, lying on the table, he didn’t even know it was Tuesday. And based on the headlines, it was business as usual for those pesky neighbors to the north trying to subvert the government, this time through infiltrating the Cuban hip-hop movement.

  After spending the better part of three months in the United States, he couldn’t imagine its government cared about Cuba. The news he always saw on television or read about in the papers consisted of intense interest surrounding glamorous people or the latest gadget to make a person’s life easier or five ways to be happier. If anyone cared about what the Cuban government was doing, it certainly wasn’t a concern shared by any American he’d m
et.

  He sat in the room waiting for his interrogator to arrive. Sanchez had taken down his original statement, but then told him he wanted him to get rested up and think about it some more. Sanchez suggested that perhaps he was missing a few details. Prado was certain he told him everything—everything that he ever planned on telling anybody. Based on this new meeting with an interrogator, Prado deduced some officials weren’t convinced he’d divulged everything.

  After a few minutes, General Raul Machado entered the room. Prado didn’t immediately recognize him by his face, but his nameplate jogged his memory. Machado was often seen on the news talking about Cuba’s new international business partners as well as the country’s security measures. Machado was also personal friends with his uncle. And depending on how much his uncle Ramon Lopez told Machado, it could either be to his advantage or disadvantage.

  “General Machado,” Prado said, nodding to him.

  Machado said nothing. He grabbed a chair across the table from Prado and scooted it back, the metal legs screeching against the concrete floor at a painfully slow pace. Prado winced at the sound. Machado sat down and propped his feet up on the table. He opened a file folder in front of him and began to peruse it.

  “What else do you want to know, General?” Prado said, trying to break the awkward silence and establish a rapport with his new interrogator.

  Machado remained silent, instead picking his teeth with his thumbnail while he read the file.

  After five long minutes, Machado put his feet down and slid up to the table. “So, Vicente, I see you were finally willing to talk and tell us about what you saw before you left our country and became a traitor.” Machado slammed his fist onto the table. “I hope you cooperate because I have little time for lies—or traitors.”

  “I’m not a traitor. I was trying to make a better life for my family.”

  “Do we not give you all you need here in our country? You have a nice place to stay, plenty of food, and you get to play baseball as your job. What more could you ask for?”

  Prado sighed. “It’s not that as much as I wanted to see what I could do against the best in the world—and I wanted more than just enough for my daughter. I want the best for her.”