Prologue

The screen lights up, revealing the vast and unyielding ocean. The sun hangs low, casting molten gold across the restless waves. In the distance, a lone man in a weathered fishing boat moves with eerie calm. The creaking of the old vessel is the only sound beyond the lapping water.

With methodical precision, he lifts something heavy from a wooden crate at his feet. His tanned hands grip the object—a severed human arm. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it into the water. The splash is swallowed by the gentle rolling tide. Dark fins break the surface, circling. Hungry. Waiting.

Chunks of flesh—unmistakably human—plummet into the depths. The man hums softly as he works, his voice almost lost to the wind. He reaches for the last piece—a head. He stares at it for a lingering moment, his expression devoid of emotion.

"Goodbye, Carlos," he murmurs. "Now we will live happily ever after."

The head disappears beneath the waves. The frenzy of feeding sharks churns the water red.

Then, suddenly, the image flickers.

The camera pulls back, revealing the gruesome scene projected onto a massive theatre screen. The title CUBAN CHUM slams onto the screen in bold, dripping red letters.

The audience murmurs, unsettled. Some exchange wide-eyed glances; others shift in their seats.

George Rain, the screenwriter, leans back in his chair, his sharp suit catching the dim theatre light. Beside him sits Graham Grant, the reserved yet charismatic crime writer whose novel inspired the film. Beatriz, poised and elegant, rests her hand lightly on Graham’s, her expression unreadable.

The audience erupts into applause.

Beatriz squeezes Graham’s hand. "If only they knew the truth," she whispers.

Graham's jaw tightens, but he says nothing. The echoes of applause fade, leaving the three of them staring at the blank screen—where the story began.

 

Chapter 1 Arrival in Havana

The heat hit Graham the moment he stepped out of the air-conditioned airport terminal. The scent of salt, diesel, and ripe fruit filled the air. Havana was alive, a mixture of crumbling colonial architecture and vibrant street life. Tourists struggled with luggage while locals stood in clusters, chatting animatedly.

Near the exit, a man held a hand-painted sign with his name: Graham Grant. He was dark-skinned and broad-shouldered, his smile easy and practiced.

Graham walked toward him and nodded.

"Mr. Grant, I am Joel, your driver."

Graham frowned. "I didn’t order a driver."

"Mr. Bobby sent me. A gift. He says you need a good ride."

Joel patted the hood of his car—a gleaming 1957 Pontiac convertible, candy-apple red against the sunlit streets.

Graham hesitated. "Bobby set this up?"

"Sí, amigo. You trust Bobby, no?" Joel grinned, his white teeth flashing.

Graham sighed, nodded, and climbed in. As they cruised through the city, Havana unfurled before him—crumbling facades, bursts of music from open doorways, and classic cars gliding down sun-drenched streets. The energy of the place was undeniable.

"You want a tour? You need a taxi, you call Joel." He handed Graham a business card and flashed another grin. "I know the best places."

"Maybe later," Graham replied. "Right now, I need a drink."

Joel nodded, maneuvering the car toward the grand entrance of the Hotel Nacional de Cuba.

Inside the hotel bar, Graham ordered a beer.

She approached, poised and confident, her dark eyes gleaming with recognition.

"I'm Beatriz. You are new here," she said, setting a cold bottle of Cristal in front of him.

"I just flew in from Canada."

She nodded. "First time in Cuba?"

"Yes. I needed a break."

A knowing smile played on her lips. "Cuba is a good place to escape."

Graham smiled. "Your English is very good."

"To work in hotel bars, we must speak more than one language. I also speak

French and a little German."

"That's amazing. Could I get another? It was a long flight."

"Sí, señor." She turned and poured another draft.

  

Chapter 2 A Friend

The streets of Havana pulsed with life as Graham made his way toward the

Hemingway Bar. The sun bore down, radiating heat off the cobblestone streets. He carried a small bag in one hand, his shirt damp with sweat. As he passed another bar, something in the window caught his eye. Without hesitation, he changed direction and stepped inside.

Beatriz was there, sitting at a small wooden table with a rum and Coke. Her dark eyes met his as she leaned back, seemingly amused by his arrival.

"Bonjour," Graham greeted with a tired smile.

"Hola," she responded, tilting her head slightly. "You look tired." "It’s hot," he admitted, wiping the back of his neck.

Beatriz laughed lightly. "This isn’t hot. Would you like a beer?"

Before he could answer, she called the bartender. "Cerveza."

Graham dropped into the chair across from her, exhaling heavily. "I was surprised to see you here."

"I live close by. It’s my day off," she explained. "Where have you been?"

"I spent a lot of time at San Francisco Square, going around in circles," Graham said, shaking his head. "I couldn’t believe there was a Bank of Nova Scotia there. I finally plotted my way here."

The bartender set a cold beer in front of Graham. He took a long, refreshing sip before Beatriz gestured toward the bag in his hand.

"Buying souvenirs?" she asked.

Graham pulled out a book, The History of Cuba, and set it on the table. "Light reading. When in Rome..."

Beatriz smirked. "What’s next on your agenda?"

"I’m going to Cueva de Saturno tomorrow. Have you been there?"

"No," she admitted. "You’ll have to tell me about it."

"Are you from Havana?" he asked, shifting the conversation.

"No," she replied. "A small town about forty kilometres from here."

"How did you end up in Havana?"

A brief silence settled between them before she answered. "My husband brought me here."

Graham hesitated. "Is he meeting you?"

A shadow passed over her face, but she met his eyes without flinching. "No. He died almost two years ago."

Graham softened. "I’m sorry."

Beatriz waved off the sentiment with a small shrug. "And you? Do you have a wife?"

He nodded slowly. "We have that in common. My wife died too. That’s part of the reason I’m here—to get away."

Beatriz studied him, then offered a faint smile. "Aren’t we an unusual pair?"

Graham set his empty bottle down. "Would you let me take you to dinner tonight?"

She tilted her head, considering. "Maybe... Another drink?"

Graham chuckled, finishing his beer. "Why not? Maybe we can turn the ‘maybe’ into a ‘yes.’"

Beatriz spoke quickly to the bartender in Spanish before standing. Graham raised an eyebrow.

"I thought we were having another drink."

She smiled. "We are. But at the Hemingway Bar. We’ll get that off your list."

Together, they stepped out onto the Havana street.

Later that evening, Graham entered the restaurant Beatriz had chosen. The dim lighting cast a golden glow over the wooden tables and tiled floor. In the corner, Beatriz was already seated, waiting for him.

"You found the place," she said as he approached.

"I did," he replied, sliding into the seat across from her.

She studied his expression. "You don’t look impressed."

He glanced around. "I was expecting something more elegant."

Beatriz smirked. "Elegant doesn’t mean good food. Trust me."

"Alright," he conceded. "You order the food, I’ll order the wine." The waiter arrived, handing them menus. Beatriz barely glanced at hers.

"Rum and Coke for me," she said without hesitation.

"I’ll wait for the wine," Graham said.

"Suit yourself. I’m a good Cuban girl, I like rum."

Graham gestured to the waiter. "A bottle of Casillero del Diablo."

Beatriz lifted an eyebrow, amused. "The Devil’s wine. Are you a devil, Graham?

Because I’m not some poor Cuban girl you can seduce on the first date." Graham sighed, shaking his head. "No, I didn’t mean…" He exhaled and looked at her sincerely. "I’m alone, and I want company. You’re the first woman I’ve been out with since my wife passed away."

A quiet moment passed between them. Beatriz stirred the ice in her glass before speaking.

"Yes, death changes us. When Carlos died, I was sad, but not heartbroken. He was never really there for me. When he died, he was squashed like a bug—a wall fell on him. They only knew it was him because of his wallet and his wedding ring."

She stared into the distance, lost in thought.

"I had him cremated," she continued. "I spread his ashes in the harbour because he always said he wished he were a pirate. There were many pirates in these harbours, you know."

Graham leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "In that way, we are different. I still miss her."

The waiter arrived with the wine, pouring each of them a glass. Graham took a long sip, nearly finishing half of his. Beatriz ignored hers, opting instead for another drink of her rum and Coke.

Graham sighed. "I have trouble talking about it. Car accidents happen every day, but you never think it will happen to someone close to you. I withdraw into myself. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, and now I’m here."

Beatriz studied him for a long moment before lifting her glass.

"We are a sad pair, Graham."

They clinked their glasses, a quiet understanding passing between them, as the evening in Havana stretched on, filled with the unspoken weight of the past and the quiet possibility of something new.

  

Chapter 3: Secrets in Havana

Graham walked through the bustling hotel lobby, weaving through clusters of uniformed policemen and soldiers gathered near the entrance.

Something had happened, but he didn’t stop to ask. Instead, he headed straight for the bar, craving a drink and a moment of calm.

He sat on a stool at the polished counter, the scent of citrus and rum filling the air. Beatriz approached, setting a cold beer in front of him before he could even ask.

"What’s going on out there?" he asked, nodding toward the crowded lobby.

Beatriz leaned against the bar, keeping her voice low. "Someone died in one of the rooms. They don’t like tourists dying in Cuba."

Graham frowned, taking a sip of his beer. "What happened?"

"An older woman," she said. "Probably a heart attack. Her husband found her, so nothing suspicious. But the police come anyway, and the army, well, they’re always here."

She smirked. "Now, if Detective Livingston were here, it would probably be foul play."

Graham laughed. "You know about Detective Livingston?"

"Oh yes. I looked him up last night."

He raised an eyebrow, amused. "And?"

Beatriz shrugged. "He’s clever. But I think you are more interesting."

Graham smiled, pleased by the compliment. "The caves were fantastic, by the way. Maybe on your day off, you could come with me. Joel is a good driver and guide."

"Yes, Joel is good," Beatriz nodded.

"You know him?"

"Of course. He drives for a lot of people here."

Before Graham could respond, two soldiers entered the bar. Beatriz excused herself to serve them, her voice light and teasing as she exchanged pleasantries in Spanish. Graham watched as she laughed at one of their jokes.

When she returned to his side, he lifted his empty glass, and without a word, she replaced it with a fresh beer.

"Jealous?" she teased.

"No," he said with a smirk. "I just needed another beer. Would you like to have supper tonight?"

Beatriz sighed. "I’m still feeling a little rough from last night. Must’ve been the wine. Rum doesn’t do that to me. I finish at eight."

She gave him a playful smile before returning to her conversation with the soldiers, leaving Graham to his drink.

Graham left the bar and went to his room to shower after his day’s adventure.

Dinner twice in a row. This certainly wasn’t him.

The next day, when he entered the bar, Beatriz greeted him with a teasing smile.

"And the great explorer returns," she said. "What adventures did you have today?"

He chuckled. "I never left my room. I got the writing bug. It’s been so long since I felt that way. The story was in my head; I had to get it out. Murder in Room 606." Beatriz raised an eyebrow. "How did you know it was that room?" "Busboy," he admitted.

"I can’t believe how fast the time has flown since I’ve been here."

She smirked. "You only have a few days left."

Graham smiled. "Would you like to go away for the weekend?"

"It’s not technically the weekend," she said. "But my day off is coming. Maybe I can get an extra day."

Graham leaned in. "Where do you want to go?"

Beatriz tilted her head, grinning. "Where are you taking me?"

"It’s a surprise."

"In other words, you have no idea."

He laughed. "It’s a surprise."

She shook her head, amused. "I’ll try… no promises."

As she walked away, she pulled out her cell phone, already making arrangements.

Graham leaned forward in his seat as they drove through Havana’s sunlit streets.

"I need to find a nice, quiet resort. Somewhere it’s okay to bring a friend."

Joel, his hands firm on the wheel, nodded knowingly. "A Cuban friend? I know a place called Breezes. Small. Quiet."

Graham smiled. "That sounds perfect."

"It’s about a 40-minute drive. Are you okay with that?"

"Just far enough where no one can bug her."

Arriving at the resort, Joel headed toward the bar while Graham approached the front desk.

The clerk, a young man with dark hair and sharp eyes, studied him with recognition.

"Are you Graham Grant?" he asked.

Graham blinked. "Yes."

The clerk grinned, reaching beneath the counter and pulling out a book, The Girl with Purple Hair. Graham’s photo was on the back cover.

"I thought I recognized you," the clerk said. "I read books people leave behind. I like yours. Detective Livingston is so smart."

Graham chuckled, taking the book and pen from the counter. He glanced at the clerk’s name tag before signing.

"To Fernando, your friend, Graham Grant."

"I’d like a room for two nights," he said.

"For when?"

"Wednesday and Thursday."

The clerk tapped at the computer. "Ocean view room. I can reserve it. Will you have company?"

"Yes, a friend."

"Do they have a passport?"

Graham hesitated. "No. Can we work around that?"

The clerk lowered his voice. "I’m not supposed to, but for you…" He slid Graham two yellow wristbands. "Put them on before you arrive. Security only looks at the bands."

Graham nodded, filling out the paperwork. The clerk processed his card and handed over the key.

"You will be in Block 15 on the beach. Room 1212."

The convertible sped toward the resort, the top down.

Beatriz chatted animatedly with Joel in Spanish while Graham listened, relaxed.

"What was that all about?" he asked.

Beatriz grinned. "He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, but he said there was free rum, so it must be good."

Graham laughed, pulling the yellow wristbands from his pocket. He fastened one around his wrist, then gently slipped the other onto hers.

"B, are you having second thoughts?"

She met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "No. Are you?"

Graham hesitated. "I’ve had second thoughts ever since I made the reservation."

A slow smile spread across her lips. "I think this might be good for both of us."

He nodded. "You’re right."

As the car pulled up in front of the resort, Graham and Beatriz stepped out with their overnight bags, walking toward the entrance together.

Beatriz stood at the open balcony doors, gazing at the ocean.

"This is nice," she murmured.

Graham came up behind her. "Nothing but the best for you."

She turned, kissed him softly, then moved to her bag, pulling out a sheer negligee.

"And this is for you," she teased.

Graham’s brows lifted. "Wow… I thought things like that were hard to get here."

She smirked. "If you know where to look and have money, you can get anything."

"The black market?"

"I prefer to call it the grey market. The black market is for drugs."

Graham chuckled. "Want to take a walk?"

Beatriz pulled him toward her, a playful glint in her eye. "Who said we’re ever leaving this room?"

And with that, she kissed him again, the sound of the waves crashing in the distance.

The dimly lit restaurant buzzed with the soft hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the gentle strains of live music.

Beatriz and Graham sat at an intimate corner table, a half-empty bottle of red wine and the remnants of a sumptuous meal before them.

Graham leaned back, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "I seem to have worked up quite an appetite."

Beatriz chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. "Eat up; you must build your energy."

A shadow crossed Graham's face as he swirled the wine in his glass. "I'll be leaving soon."

Beatriz’s gaze dropped to her plate, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to think about that."

He reached across the table, gently lifting her chin until their eyes met. "When can you come to Canada to see me?"

She sighed, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. "It's not easy. First, I have to get a passport, and that can be difficult."

Graham’s grip tightened slightly around his glass. "I have to go back. But I'll return as soon as I finish my business."

Beatriz forced a smile, though her eyes betrayed her sadness. "If you say so...

Do you like the music?"

She picked up her wine, raising it in a small salute to the keyboard player.

Graham nodded appreciatively. "He's good... Do you sing?"

Beatriz laughed, a light, melodic sound. "I think not. Well, maybe in the shower."

Graham’s eyes twinkled with mischief. "So, if I don't hear you tonight, I will hear you in the morning."

They both laughed, the tension between them easing. Graham leaned in, capturing Beatriz’s lips in a tender kiss before they rose and left the restaurant hand in hand.

The golden morning sun filtered through the partially open patio doors, casting warm light across the room.

The gentle rustle of the curtains swayed in the breeze.

Beatriz and Graham lay entwined under the rumpled white sheets, the remnants of the weekend evident in the dishevelled state of the room,an open rum bottle, a pair of heels carelessly discarded near the door.

Beatriz traced lazy circles on Graham's chest as they lay close, the intimacy between them palpable.

"Where did the weekend go?" she murmured.

Graham smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Most of it is right here."

He kissed her forehead again, his voice playful but tinged with sincerity. "We'll have to do this again..."

"Sure..." Beatriz’s smile faded slightly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face.

Graham noticed but didn’t call attention to it. "I told you, I'll be back. We can talk online when I'm gone."

"That only works sometimes..."

He leaned in, kissing her deeply before slipping out of bed.

Graham walked toward the bathroom, unabashedly nude, his confidence casual. The sunlight danced across his back, and Beatriz watched him with a mixture of amusement and longing.

"If you're feeling bold, I'm headed for the shower."

He paused at the door, turning back with a mischievous grin. "Cheeky enough? If you want to join me for that duet."

Beatriz raised an eyebrow, a sly smile curving her lips. "Was that an invitation, or did you want to sing?"

Graham chuckled, disappearing into the bathroom as the sound of water began to run.

Beatriz lingered in bed for a moment, her expression shifting as the humour gave way to quiet reflection. She glanced at the open patio doors, the breeze tugging at the curtains, and sighed.

Then, finally, she got up and headed for the shower. 

 

 

The Investigator

Chapter 1
Roberto Sánchez sat in the dim light of his
cramped, one-bedroom apartment, the safe
house, Margarita had so generously arranged
for him. The morning air was crisp, seeping
through the thin walls, and though the
television murmured in the background, its
Presence was nothing more than white noise.
His thoughts spun relentlessly. What happens
next?
The knock at the door came sharp and
deliberate. His pulse quickened. Only one
person knew where he was.
Sánchez pushed himself off the worn-out
couch and unlatched the door. Margarita
stood before him, two steaming cups of coffee
in her hands, her breath curling in the cold air.
She stepped inside without waiting for an
invitation, offering him one of the cups as she
settled onto the couch with practiced ease.
“How have you been holding up?” she asked,
her tone casual but her eyes scanning him for
signs of wear.
Sánchez took a slow sip of the coffee. “I’m
bored, I’m cold, and I’ve got about five
thousand things running through my head,”
Margarita smirked. “So, tell me, Kiki, where do
we go from here? How much money do you
have?”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“About a thousand dollars. Graham said he’d
Help me out, and Susan mentioned I could
move up to Montreal with her.”
Margarita took a sip of her own coffee, then
leaned back, one leg crossed over the other.
“Look at the bright side—at least you’re in the
country legally. That fancy passport of yours
gives you diplomatic immunity, so you don’t
have to worry about visas. And I don’t think
anyone’s trying to kill you here.”
Sánchez scoffed. “What good is this
passport?”
Margretta shrugged, “Canada still has good
relations with Cuba, and yours hasn’t been
cancelled. That means they have to honour it.
Millions of Canadian tourists visit Cuba every
year; no way they’d risk jeopardizing that over
your disappearance. And even if they did
cancel it, you could always apply for refugee
status.”
He bristled at the suggestion. “I’m no refugee.”
“Maybe not,” Margarita conceded, swirling her
coffee absently, “but you can’t go back to
Cuba. Not unless you have a death wish.”
Sánchez said nothing. He took another sip,
The warmth of the coffee fails to thaw the
cold pit in his stomach. Restless, he stood up
and switched off the television, as if silencing
The noise might still his thoughts.
Margarita didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve arranged for
you to stay here as long as you need. Also,
my boss’s boss wants a meeting with you
tomorrow morning. If you’re available.”
A dry laugh escaped him. “What else would I
be doing?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “He’s the head of
CSIS. He’ll have a lot of questions.”
Sánchez smirked. “Well, I guess we’ll see if I
feel like answering them.”
Chapter 2
Sanchez was escorted into a small
conference room, his guide motioning toward
the corner where a table was set with coffee
and pastries.
"Help yourself," the man said. "The director
will be here in a few minutes."
Sanchez poured himself a black coffee,
grabbed an apple fritter, and took a seat at the
conference table. His eyes drifted across the
walls, bare and undecorated, almost clinical in
their design. The texture reminded him of a
honeycomb, as did the ceiling. He chuckled to
himself, shaking his head.
Is this what a queen bee feels like? He mused.
Or am I the king bee?
He was halfway through his coffee when the
director finally walked in. The man offered a
brief apology, poured himself a coffee, and
brought the pot over to top off Sanchez’s cup.
"How are you holding up?" the director asked,
settling into a chair across from him.
Sanchez sighed, leaning back. "I’m cold, I’m
bored. I’m wondering if I should’ve even left."
The director studied him for a moment. "Why
did you leave? By the way, that was a rather
unique getaway plan you had."
Sanchez chuckled. "I figured it all out at the
last minute. I’ve been threatened a lot in my
career, and I know there are people higher up
on the food chain who don’t like me because I
do my job. But when the president tells me I
should leave... Well, I took the hint."
The director's brow lifted. "The president told
you to leave?"
"Not in those exact words," Sanchez admitted,
taking a slow sip of coffee. "But he strongly
indicated that I should lay low, that Cuba
wasn’t safe for me right now."
The director nodded thoughtfully. "Well, as far
as we're concerned, you're still a diplomat. No
one’s revoked your passport, no one's even
mentioned that you're gone, and you're
welcome to stay in that apartment as long as
you need it. Unfortunately, I realize you might
have financial concerns. You can’t work in
Canada, but I might have something for you, if
you're interested."
Sanchez raised an eyebrow. "What would that
be? If you want me to start spilling Cuba’s
secrets? Because that's not going to happen."
The director smirked. "No, nothing to do with
Cuba. This is about something that happened
in Montreal. I could use an unbiased observer.
And while we couldn’t pay you a salary, we
could offer an honorarium."
Sanchez hesitated, glancing around the room
before leaning forward. "Before I answer, do
these walls have ears?"
The director let out a short laugh. "This is
probably the safest room in the world. If you
pull out your phone, you’ll notice it won’t work.
The shape of these walls stops any signals
from coming in or going out. You could yell,
scream… I could even torture you, and no one
outside that door would ever know."
He grinned. "So, to answer your question, no,
these walls don’t have ears."
Chapter 3
Sanchez parked his car on a quiet side street
in front of a modest building on the outskirts of
Montreal. The cold air bit at his skin as he
stepped out, his breath visible in the evening
light. He approached the entrance and
pressed the button for Susan’s apartment.
A moment later, her voice came through the
speaker. "Who’s there?"
Sanchez said. “It’s me."
There was a brief pause before she
responded. "Take the elevator up to the fourth
floor."
Sanchez entered the building and spotted the
elevator immediately. But his eyes drifted to
the right, where a stairwell led upward. With a
small smirk, he chose the stairs.
When he reached the fourth floor, Sue was
standing by the elevator, arms crossed,
watching him with amusement. She laughed,
shaking her head. "Why didn’t you take the
elevator?"
He shrugged. "I could use the exercise."
Without another word, she ran into his arms,
holding him tightly.
Inside her apartment, she closed the door,
locked it, and turned to face him. Her gaze
was intense, her voice softer now.
"Before we talk, before anything else, there’s
something I want to do."
Taking him by the hand, she led him into the
bedroom.
Their passion ignited instantly, wild,
unrestrained, making up for lost time. When it
was over, neither moved. They lay together,
wrapped in each other’s warmth, staring at the
ceiling, their breathing still heavy.
Sue turned her head, her eyes locking onto
his. "I never thought I’d see you again," she
murmured. "Now, tell me, what are you doing
in Montreal?"
Sanchez exhaled and smirked. "Do you have
a beer?"
She nodded, slipping out of bed.
"Let’s go to the living room. We have a lot to
talk about."
They sat on Sue’s couch, only half-dressed,
drinking beer. The quiet hum of the city filtered
in through the window, a stark contrast to the
storm of thoughts swirling between them.
Sanchez reached into his pocket and pulled
out a mini cigar. "Do you mind?"
Sue shook her head. "Go ahead."
He lit the cigar, exhaling a slow stream of
smoke before turning to her. "Have you ever
heard of Tiptoe Systems?"
Sue furrowed her brows. "I think it’s some
tech company here in Montreal."
Sanchez sighed. "Whatever you brought to
Cuba—that’s where it came from."
She shrugged. "I don’t know anything about
that. I was just hired as a bodyguard to look
after Carl."
Sanchez studied her for a beat before asking,
"Whatever happened to Jean-Claude and
Billy?"
"When they got back to Canada, Jean-Claude
headed up to Northern Quebec. He had about
ten grand tucked away and was afraid he’d be
arrested, so he went into hiding," Sue
explained. "Billy was pretty much the same—
he went out to British Columbia. He’s working
for a security company now. But the strange
thing is… nobody came after us. Nobody even
questioned us."
Sanchez took a slow sip of his beer. "Probably
because they just wanted to sweep it under
the rug. Pretend it never happened. What do
you know about Carl?"
Sue leaned back. "From the little time I spent
with him, he was a pothead. But a damn smart
one. At first, I thought that was what got him
killed in Cuba, but when I found that little
device in the room safe, I figured it had to be
something bigger."
Sue smirked. "He never even knew I took it. I
just felt it was safer with me than with him, or
in the hotel safe."
Sanchez nodded approvingly. "That was
probably a wise move. Hiding it in the bodega
was even smarter." He took another drag from
his cigar, staring off. "Weird how, in the end,
nobody got it."
Sue’s expression darkened. "Are you sure
about that?"
Sanchez pondered his answer for a moment,
then spoke bluntly. "I’m ninety-five percent
sure. If it was on that plane, if not, no one
knows where it is—or even what it is. Maybe
someday it’ll turn up, but I doubt it."
Sue let that sink in, then changed the subject.
"How was the drive up from Ottawa?"
Sanchez chuckled. "They drive just as crazy
here as they do in Havana. What are you
doing here? She asked. I’m an observer, he
said.
Sue scratched her head. "And what exactly
are you observing?"
Sanchez shook his head. "I’m not exactly
sure. I have an appointment at Tiptoe
Systems tomorrow to go through their
operations and security systems. Gordon
thinks a fresh pair of eyes might be what they
need, because their people never found a
thing."
Sue narrowed her eyes. "And what do they
think you’re there for?"
"They’ve only been told that I’m reviewing
their systems so we can consider using them
back home," Sanchez smirked. "Gordon must
have some serious pull to get a foreigner
inside that company."
Sue studied him for a long moment before
shifting the conversation. "Are you staying
here with me?"
Sanchez sighed. "They don’t want me to, so
I’ll be staying in a hotel downtown—for
appearances. You know, because I’m a
diplomat." He chuckled, setting his beer down.
"But let’s be honest, I’ll probably be here
more than in that hotel room."
Sue grinned, leaning closer. "That’s what I had hoped to hear>