Dire Straits Read Online Free

the park, he saw a figure walk out of one of the buildings and cross to a car. Juan Osorio.
    Osorio talked to someone in the car. Derek saw two figures in the car, a Russian-made Lada, but couldn’t make out any details. Then Osorio did him a favor and put a cigar in his mouth and used a match to light it. The flame of the match cast just a little bit of light on the passenger in the Lada. A woman with long auburn hair.
    Derek recognized her. She had been in El Floridita. He might have seen her again in one of the nightclubs, although he hadn’t been sure.
    Now he was. He didn’t know who the woman was—and again, maybe because of the Lada, he got a Russian vibe off her. There were plenty of Russian military and intelligence advisers still in Cuba, despite the USSR having fallen apart last December.
    And maybe she was Cuban.
    It didn’t matter. Something had gone seriously wrong with the dead-drop and the meeting here. He was being set up. But why? Did the Cubans know he was with the CIA? Was Derek’s support network here compromised?
    He melted back into the shadows and headed back to the hotel.

4
    The rain began. Derek, in the kayak, hunched forward. Drops of rain like bullets hammered his head, his shoulders, his back. Reaching under the kayak skirt, he snagged the rusty soup can and held it so it would fill with rainwater. The wind howled and waves swept over him, watery fingers trying to snatch the paddle and the can from his hands. He clung to both as if his life depended upon it. Because it did.
    He no longer knew which direction he was heading. Hopefully not back to Cuba. Hopefully not too deep into the Gulf of Mexico. The wind had been coming from the east, so he was fairly confident he wasn’t heading east.
    When the soup can was half full, he drank the contents, grimacing. Rust. Some salt. But hopefully not much salt water. He needed the fresh water.
    Tucking the can into a fold of the kayak skirt held in place with his knees, he struggled to keep the wind to his right—his starboard—side. At the very least he would try to keep the bow into the waves and try to keep from rolling.
    But battling wind and waves like this in a kayak was a brutal, grueling business. The best he could do was try not to sink or flip.
    And it rained …
    After a dubious night’s sleep, Derek dressed in a suit, packed his briefcase, had coffee and a roll in the hotel restaurant and waited for Coro and his driver. When Coro arrived, it was very much as if a different person had appeared. She wore flats, dark slacks, a maroon blouse, and a dark jacket. Her curly hair was pulled back in a bushy ponytail, and her makeup was significantly more subdued than it had been the evening before.
    “Are you ready?” she said curtly.
    “Sí,” he said, smiling at her. She didn’t return the smile.
    “It was not a nice thing you did last night.”
    “I was tired,” he said.
    “It was rude.”
    “I apologize.”
    She studied him. “Come, let’s go. Señor Osorio is waiting for you.”
    Oh great. Derek followed without comment. And sure enough, waiting at the curb was a black Mercedes—a Cuban driver in dark slacks and white shirt at the wheel, and Señor Juan Osorio sitting in the back. Coro slid into the front passenger seat. Derek, not having any choice, climbed in next to Osorio, who greeted him cheerily enough.
    “Did you sleep well, Señor Hamill?”
    “Not bad. Yourself?”
    “Like a baby.”
    “You must have a clear conscience.”
    Osorio seemed puzzled by this. “What does that mean?”
    “It’s an expression. It means you sleep well because you have nothing to feel guilty about. It’s a joke.”
    Osorio seemed to consider him for a moment. “And yourself, Señor Hamill? Do you have a clear conscience?”
    Derek smiled and spread his hands. “I am a businessman.”
    Osorio laughed. Coro did not. The driver was listening, but not being involved. They drove through Havana, heading west of the city. The streets were