Four-and-a-half hours later, they anchored at Marina Hemingway Harbor.
Impatient to leave her rocking transport behind, Anika shifted from foot to foot while the captain lowered the motorized dinghy into the water, climbed down the ladder and gestured for her to join him. She landed lightly in the dinghy and sat on the forward bench seat, her knapsack at her feet.
They sped through the dark water, weaving around cruisers, yachts, and schooners.
As the lights from the harbor grew brighter and people’s voices grew louder, Anika’s heart picked up tempo.
Have I made the right choice? Will Cuba turn out to be a haven? Will I finally be free?
“La … Habana … Vieja?”
Anika kept her cadence slow and halting as she asked the taxi driver in the harbor area for a ride to Old Havana.
“Si, señorita.”
The young man balled up his polishing rag and ran around to the passenger side of the auto behemoth, an SUV with chromed wheel caps. He opened the door for her.
After she stepped up into the seat, he hurried back to the driver’s side, fired up the engine — with a key, not a punchcode — and started speaking to her in rapid Spanish.
“No … habla … Español,”
she replied.
“Oh, okay,” the man said. “I speak
un poco
English. You stay in Havana long? Need driver? I’m good. Better than bus.”
His eyes met hers in the rear view mirror. He looked so hopeful. And sincere. No point in refusing him right away. A friendly local might even come in handy in the days ahead.
“Maybe,” she said.
“Okay.
Bueno.
Good.” He smiled at her, turned on the radio, and tapped his fingers in time to the lively music.
The harbor area had been quiet, but as they approached historic Old Havana, the streets came alive with a coffee-and-samba, rum-and-rumba buzz. Even at this late hour, people, cars, buses, and motorized rickshaws all jostled for space on the narrow streets and even narrower sidewalks. The traffic was so unlike New Angeles where pedestrians and vehicles moved in a controlled fashion, with specific pathways dedicated to different modes of transport.
A part of Anika wanted to stop the car, get out and plunge into the crowd to soak up the vitality. But fatigue had turned her muscles to wet cement. And her brain was winding down like a clock with a dying battery.
“Hotel Europa,
señorita
. Very good hotel.” The driver stopped the car across the street from a brightly lit entrance.
“
Gra-cias
.”
“My card.” He held out a small scrap of paper with a name and number hand printed on it. “You call, please. I drive you anywhere you want.”
“Okay.” She dropped the “card” into her knapsack.
Inside the expansive lobby, more bright lights, samba beats, and jostling bodies clamored for attention. Anika stopped to fiddle with the straps of her knapsack.
She didn’t know how many passengers her driver typically picked up over a few days, or how well he remembered each one. She didn’t know, if he were asked, whether he would recall a woman fitting her description and which hotel he had driven her to. She didn’t know, but it was a risk she didn’t need to take.
She exited the lobby and backtracked four blocks to a three-story building with curved archways and black iron lanterns lit with glow sticks. A casual swivel of her head confirmed no one was paying her any notice. She strolled inside the tiled lobby.
Her passport and visa passed the scrutiny of the hotel clerk who smiled as he handed back the documents and welcomed
Señorita
Brown to the Santa Isabel Hotel.
Three floors up, she unlocked the door to her room and stepped inside a quiet sanctuary of creamy white walls and a slate gray floor. Low lights on either side of the four-poster bed offered a welcoming glow.
She dropped her knapsack next to the bed, sat, and tugged off her boots. The tile floor cooled the soles of her feet.
She had landed. Against impossible odds, she had made it, alive and relatively unscathed. Even the throbbing in her leg was only a whimper. The wound would heal and fade into a memory. The long terrifying journey was behind her and she could rest now. Put aside the stress and worry and fear of the past few days, at least for a little while.
She placed her hand on her chest and massaged the area in slow circles. The dull flatness inside, as if she had swallowed a tube of numbing gel, told her that she had reached her limit. Her muscles and lungs and heart had done everything she had demanded of them since that first terrifying beep during the solo. She had to shut down or her body would do it for her.
Still, one more task awaited her before she could close her eyes and slide into blessed darkness. She refused to live with the lie one minute longer. She had to end it. Now.
Ignoring the squawk of her feet, she walked into the bathroom.
“Lights on,” she called out.
Nothing.
Her tired mind took a few seconds to remember.
Think old-style. Gas-fueled cars. Manual ignition. Window switches. Push button elevators.
Her hand slid up, then back down the wall. Found the toggle. Flipped it.
Wire-thin cracks jig sawed across the walls and a glob of lumpy plaster protruded from the far corner. But the porcelain and chrome fixtures sparkled and a scent of mint almost masked the smell of cleaning fluids.
A surveillance device had been installed in plain view above the light. Well, plain to her trained eyes. She almost laughed.
Old-style was right
. The thick clunky plastic shouted early twenty-first century. Audio only. If she wanted to muffle any conversation, all she’d have to do was run a steady stream of water and ambient noise would take care of the rest. Not that she expected to have to do that.
The
Ministerio del Interior
, the agency responsible for monitoring foreigners, had nothing to worry about from her. She was a civilian now and they could listen to any conversation they wanted. Except the one with Gianni.
She sucked in a breath, reminded of why she had come into the bathroom. She stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. Her hands shook as she turned the faucets to the left, then to the right, then left again, trying to get the water temperature just right.
The shower didn’t offer a comfortable seat, like the contoured bench in the Miami hotel. The floor would have to do. She slid to a seated position, knees bent. Her fingers skimmed her inner thighs until she found both medallion-sized implants. A third one had been inserted in her left arch. She practiced the sequence that she had been taught.
Left thigh. Count to three. Right thigh. Count to six. Left arch.
She took several slow breaths in the wet warmth.
Go ahead. Get it over with.
She hated the implants and what they had done. Forced a lie on her so that Gianni would do what she asked. Save her. And his baby.
Anika pressed her knuckles against her forehead. Except there was no baby. Had never been. Regret and guilt pummeled her like the water pouring out of the showerhead.
If only he hadn’t found the wristband covered in plus signs. If only she had refused the hormone implants. If only she had come clean about them.
But life didn’t work on “if onlys.” Gianni
had
found the band and she
had
played the lie. Now, all she could do was try to make it right.
Still, she hesitated. This was the closest she would ever come to feeling what it would be like to have a new life inside her, to create a family of her own. To being the woman Gianni wanted. Even if it was a lie, it was the best she could hope for.
The water started to cool and tiny goose bumps sprung up along her arms and legs. She searched for the implant in her left thigh and got to work. When she had finished, an orange dot flared on her arch.
The sequencing had worked. The hormones were being flushed away. The skin around the dot turned numb, like a shard of ice had frozen all feeling. Then the dot vanished along with the sensation.
The Clinic techs had told her she wouldn’t feel a difference right away. It would take a few days for her body to return to normal. But she did feel differently. The lie mixed with the water and disappeared down the drain.
When she saw Gianni in two days and confessed, all vestiges of the lie would be gone. She would be herself again. And she would have what she wanted. What she had wanted for so long. Her freedom.
Something shifted inside her. But was it lightness … or emptiness?
• • •
Twenty-eight hours later, Anika stood on the balcony of her room and took a cautious sip of
café con leche
. When her stomach didn’t rebel against the rich brew, she took a bigger swallow.
The uninterrupted hours of sleep and flushing implants had done their job. The hormones were gone. Even the breakfast eggs and sausage had slid down without a murmur. With the next few sips of coffee, she tried to flush the deep regret that made her wish she could go back in time and change what she had done. A dark weight pressed down on her and blocked the pleasant warmth of the morning sun.
In the
Plaza de Armas
across the street, two young women sat on a stone bench and watched four children playing a game of tag nearby. A straw-hatted man held a cane between his bent legs and called out greetings to passersby.
It all looked quite innocent. Perfect for a stakeout. If it were up to her, Anika mused, she would replace the mothers and kids with young lovers. Couples kissing and hugging each other made the best decoys. They could linger for hours without suspicion, and if the need arose, could create an instant diversion by faking a quarrel.
Anika braked and mentally shook herself. This wasn’t a stakeout. She turned away from the scene. Those days were in her past. Her future held different days. Better ones.
She refilled her cup and settled into the wrought iron chair. Her first order of business was a shopping expedition. She needed props that would shore up the cover Jorge had created for her as an art teacher on sabbatical. She might even do some drawing in public. Although she hadn’t sketched with any regularity since high school, she was sure she could still wield a charcoal pencil with passing skill.
A strong cover would also help smooth the meet-up with Gianni. They could appear to be tourists striking up a conversation over one of her drawings. Anika reached for the chain around her neck and pulled the links between her fingers. She stopped on the St. Jude medal and rubbed her thumb against the nick along the edge.
She had been so relieved when she had seen Gianni’s response on the computer at The Paradiso. But that relief was days ago, when she had plenty of time to figure out what she would say to him. Time to find the words that would help him understand why she had taken the offer, the hormones, the way out. Words that would convince him not to … . She dropped the medal as if it were white-hot.
What can I possibly say that will keep him from hating me?
She walked back into the room. The walls seemed to shrink in on her, closing off air and space. She shoved her feet into her boots that felt too tight. She wished she could kick them off and go barefoot. But her training wouldn’t let her. Bare feet were vulnerable feet.
Even though she wanted to believe that she was no longer an operative, that the solo had turned her back into a civilian, she couldn’t quite let go of the rules and cautions that she carried inside. Like the ones that forced her to stay in this room a few minutes longer and complete her visual survey, memorizing the angle of the bathroom door, the folds of the bed cover, the tilt of the lampshade, the distance between the chair legs and the settee. So she would know if anyone had entered her room while she was gone.
Down in the lobby, she approached the concierge’s desk where a dark-haired young woman sat.
“
Buenos días, señorita
.” The concierge flashed a bright smile.
“Good morning,” she replied.
Switching to English, the concierge said, “You’re just in time to join the tour. A group of Americans. Your countrymen, no?”
“No.” Anika shook her head. “I’m Canadian. And I won’t be sightseeing until this afternoon. I need to do some shopping first.”
“For souvenirs? The tour includes several of our finest shops.”
“I’m sure it does. But I was hoping to get clothes. Something more … ” Anika paused to glance down at her all-black outfit. More civilian. More innocuous. “More local,” she said. “And art supplies. Can you recommend a place?”
“Of course.” The woman glanced over at the group that had started to move out of the lobby. “But are you sure you don’t want to go with them? I know the guide. I could ask him to include other shops on the tour.”
Anika wondered if the woman was working on some type of commission with the tour guide. She turned to study the group. Two men, in matching ball caps and cheap athletic gear, were staring at her. One of them winked. Anika turned back.
“I’d rather sightsee on my own,” she said.
“As you wish.” The concierge pulled out a paper map. “But you’ll draw more attention from our
policía
as a single tourist. A single
female
tourist.”
“What kind of attention?”
“They’ll ask to see your travel documents, detain you with a few questions. They’re a nuisance more than anything.” The woman spread out the map and made some marks on it. “In the beach towns, they’re not as bad. But here in Havana, they get bored standing around all day. I’ve circled the streets that have what you’re looking for.”
“Thanks.” Anika slipped the map inside her knapsack. “I think I’ll join the group after all.”
The woman perked up. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.”
Yeah, commission.
Fifteen minutes into the tour, ten of which she spent sidestepping the matching ball-capped men, Anika slipped away. On her own, she picked up speed and shouldered past
Cubanos
and visitors alike. A few startled glances and bumped shopping bags later, she realized her pace was drawing unwanted attention. A policeman on the far corner stared in her direction.