Dead Man's Land by Jack Patterson (digital e reader .txt) 📕

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 met.

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