Page 32 of The Witness

My fears about how normal the Smith Agency people appeared waned rapidly.

“What I’m saying is—”

Gunter interrupted. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, yes, yes, she gets it. You’ve gone down the rabbit hole, Alice, and the world is way more complicated than you can imagine. And I’m the Cheshire Cat.” He had the smile for the role, that was for sure.

I sat back against the white leather bench seat, his words sinking in as the scenery rolled past.

The route to Havana wound through a few small towns and lots of farms. Most of the roads were paved, some better than others. Gunter played tour guide, waxing poetic about the tobacco farms and a ruined rum distillery we passed. I listened with half an ear. His reference to Alice in Wonderland had made me very nervous. I didn’t want to be Alice, doing as I was told and not asking questions. Drink me. Eat me.Fuck me. I envisioned falling down a very deep hole, crashing out of control toward my fate.

“I’m here to ID Sandoval, then go home, right?” I’d cut Gunter off in the middle of a lecture about the Cuban identity crisis now that Fidel was gone.

“Unfortunately, Alice, it’s not that simple.” He tapped a long, elegant finger on the oversized steering wheel, his buffed and shaped nails were better manicured than my ragged chef’s hands.

“How complicated?” Michael, who’d been quiet letting Gunter prattle on as we drove, sounded pissed. Good, me too.

“Sandoval is nuclear. Almost no country wants to arrest him or incarcerate him. But the Cubans see him and his organization as a blight on their country. The members of his criminal syndicate like to hide from American authorities in Havana, zipping across the Florida Straits on go-fast boats carrying guns, drugs, and American dollars. It’s embarrassing Cuba. They want it to stop, making the Cubans the only government that has the stomach for locking him away and forgetting where they put the key.” Gunter explained the situation in the same tone as he’d pointed out the sights on our drive.

“But…” Michael twisted in his seat to look from me to Gunter and back.

“The Cubans only know Sandoval’s people. His thugs that deal drugs, sell black market goods, and generally do things that scare the European and Canadian tourists away from Havana.”

“It’s the same problem as in Miami. There are too many scumbags and no leader,” Michael added, his head cocked as he considered the information Gunter supplied.

Apparently, the need-to-know system of management that John Smith used didn’t extend to Gunter. This car trip was enlightening.

“Yes, that’s Sandoval’s appeal for these criminals. His reputation protects them and grants them access to his criminal network, and he only calls in a favor when he needs it. The restof the time they run wild, growing Sandoval’s power. Cuba wants to cut the head off the hydra and see what happens.”

“A power vacuum.” Michael nodded.

“It had to be Cuba or Mexico. The FBI in South Florida is corrupt and Sandoval never, ever comes ashore in America. Think about it.” Gunter caught my eye, turning over his shoulder to ensure I was following his explanation. “The woman you saw murdered was a Mexican national. On a boat in international waters. The USA would never do much.” Gunter shrugged and turned back to face the road.

“Fucking Smith.” Michael rubbed his face and muttered a few more choice curses about his boss sending him in unprepared.

“You think Smith knew all this?” I asked the men.

They turned and shared a look across the wide bench. They both chuckled cynically. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

“Knew it? Ha, Smith may have recommended you for the catering job that landed you on the Jabberwocky. He’s that good.” Gunter reached forward and flicked on the radio, fiddling with the knob until the plaintive strains ofBésame Muchopoured from the speakers.

I closed my eyes as the song and Gunter’s words wove around me. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and it felt like I was falling down Alice’s rabbit hole.

Fuck me.

Chapter 15

Sabrina

The Hotel Internacional reminded me of a hothouse rose a day or two past its prime. Once she was the belle of the ball, but now the gilt had tarnished, and the velvet frayed. The building inside and out was reminiscent of the iconic Palm Beach hotel The Breakers, including the twin spires topped with orange Spanish tile that towered over the Mediterranean-style building.

The interior of the hotel was impressive even if the tapestries on the walls were threadbare and the tall windows needed a good cleaning. I’d attended a wedding at The Breakers a few years ago, and the opulence of the old-world hotel had been more sumptuous than the bride’s massive tulle ball gown—the Internacional had most of the same grandeur, only dulled by time and wear.

We skirted the busy lobby and check-in desk, Gunter leading us toward the hotel’s bar. I was grateful for Michael’s hand resting protectively on the small of my back as we traversed the expansive colonnade. My head was still fuzzy from the revelations in the car, and I was operating on autopilot.

The dimly lit walnut-paneled bar was a stark contrast to the sun-drenched ride in the convertible. My eyes and throbbing head welcomed the shadows. I slid Gigi’s sunglasses up on top of my head.

A bleach blonde with brassy undertones waved to Gunter with her cocktail. We joined her at a four top littered with empty glasses, condensation rings, and damp paper napkins.

The soon-to-be-restauranteur in me longed to wave a server over to clean up the mess. But that was almost as ridiculous as teaching someone how to properly poach an egg while waiting for witness protection. Then again, that had saved my life.

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