Page 42 of The Witness

I cursed under my breath. Time to find Sabrina and Gunter.

The main bar was dead center in the room under a five-tiered crystal chandelier. The best lighting in the whole cavernous room. Not helpful other than for finding Gunter.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

Obviously at home behind a bar, Gunter spun a silver shaker in his palm twice before cracking it open on the edge of the bar top and pouring two martinis into icy glasses. He added theolives and lemon twists with an artful flick of his wrist and slid the finished drinks to a waiting couple.

“Slinging drinks and making friends. What can I get you?” Gunter paused and dried his hands on a bar rag draped over his shoulder.

“Mojito.”

Gunter wrinkled his nose. “Tourist. Rum, good rum should be savored, allowed to shine, not covered up with sugar and mint.”

He took a cut crystal rocks glass from the back bar and, standing on his tiptoes, plucked a tall smooth stoppered bottle of golden-brown liquor from a top shelf with a flourish. “This is Havana Club Máximo, one the finest rums in the world.” He presented the bottle like a waiter would a fine vintage wine. “Only a thousand bottles a year are produced. Your only choice, Mr. Dumas, is neat or on the rocks?”

With great restraint, I stopped myself from rolling my eyes or choking him while I demanded to know where Sabrina was. I had a role to play. “Neat.”

“Excellent.” Gunter popped the stopper and poured me a healthy shot of the expensive rum. The scents of dark chocolate and vanilla wafted from the glass with an undercurrent of nitromethane strength alcohol.

As I took the heavy glass from the bar, Gunter cast a meaningful look over my shoulder and I turned, hoping I’d find Sabrina.

“An American with good taste in rum. Interesting,” said a middle-aged man in heavily accented English. He and a younger man had joined me at the main bar. Both wore cheap, ill-fitting suits and had the air of a bureaucrat about them.

They had to be the two Policía Nacional Revolucionaria officers Gunter had promised would help us take down Sandoval. I figured the expensive rum was their signal to introduce themselves to me. Classic spy games.

I held out my hand. “I’m Michael Dumas.”

As I shook hands with the men, I took their measure. Firm grips and hard eyes. These guys had seen some shit. I rated the older man, Agent Acosta, a seven out of ten on the trustworthy scale. He had intelligent eyes that scanned the room, not missing a thing. The younger guy, Mora, didn’t give me a good feeling. After working security of all kinds for so many years, I’d learned to trust my gut when it came to people. And something about his eager, rat-like face set me on edge.

Meeting the two agents who would be my backup didn’t change my opinion of the plan. It still sucked.

I’d never missed Derek Sawyer and Noah Kennedy so much in my life. The team at the Smith Agency worked in perfect harmony. No way this ad hoc partnership would go as well.

“Do you prefer English or Spanish?” I asked. It was apparent the PNR agents weren’t fluent in English, and living in Miami, I used my Spanish almost daily.

“Español por favor,” Acosta answered with a grateful smile. “My English is still a work in progress.”

“Not a problem.”

“How do you like Cuba?” Mora asked.

“Sadly, I’ve hardly left the hotel.”

“That is a shame. Cuba is a beautiful place. She is enjoying a renaissance. Tourism and economic growth are both at all-time highs. Our nation is reclaiming her place in the world.” Mora’s eyes glittered with the righteous fire of a patriotic zealot.

“Don’t get carried away, Mora.” Acosta paired his cynical chuckle with a pat on the younger man’s back. I had fifty bucks that said any nationalistic fervor Acosta had for his country died before the first Castro. “But my partner is right about the rising tourism. It is the reason this problem needs to be handled carefully and quickly.”

“Understandable.” I nodded and took my turn scanning the room as Mora continued to explain the changes coming to Cuba and list the most important of the tourist spots I should try to visit. I didn’t think Mora would have been writing my trip’s itinerary if he knew I was in Cuba illegally.

I focused on the waitstaff, my gaze bouncing from one uniformed person to the next faster than a pinball in an arcade game. A young man pouring a bottle of wine. No. An older woman carrying a tray of drinks. No. I turned left, then right, and still didn’t see Sabrina. Tension stiffened my spine, and I clutched my crystal glass so tight it cut into my hand. I longed for the Smith Agency’s resources. Simon’s high tech surveillance gadgets and the cool, calm voice of Quinn running coms in my ear.

Mora paused in his praise of Cuba’s economic redevelopment and the two PNR agents looked at me expectantly. Shit. I’d not been paying attention. Way to piss off my only allies. I nodded, smiled, and took a careful sip of the rum to cover my gaff.

A blur of movement from in the darkest corner of the ballroom caught my eye. At last, I’d found Sabrina. Tray held high, she sailed across the room, bobbing and weaving from one tangle of party guests to the next. She stopped and offered the food to a group of men in dark suits. My breath caught when she lingered, leaning close to a man in a navy jacket. A second later, her shoulders drooped, and she turned away from the men.

Like she could sense my eyes on her, she spun around, and our gazes collided. The sip of rum I’d taken burned fire down my throat as I watched her approach. Sabrina, like the strong booze, was intoxicating. Images of her naked, soft and yielding in my arms, flashed in my memory. Once more, I had to squash the urge to grab her and whisk her far away from this place. My head was a mess tonight, and I needed to get it on straight. Sex or no sex. I had a job to do for her and Smith.

The two PNR agents turned to see what had caught my attention.

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