Clive Cussler - The Eye of Heaven

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.”

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.