his body bathed in sweat, his heart pounding in his ears and his hands clasped around his crotch. It was several seconds before he recognized his surroundings and began to breathe again. He got out of bed and padded to the mini-bar, squinting at the interior light as he fumbled for a bottle of water. He gulped at the cold liquid in the dark until the bottle was empty, his nerves still jangling from the nightmare.
Stepping out onto the balcony, Charlie took in a lungful of the musty, salty air and leaned on the railing. Though he could see nothing but inky blackness past the lights of the pool below, he could hear the waves crashing along the ragged shoreline beyond the grounds of the hotel. A few stray notes of Spanish guitar rose above the sound of the swell, though it seemed too late for the hotel bar to be open. He peered over the rail at the still waters of the enormous pool, with its lagoons and swim-up bar, and thought of the happy couple on the plane. Perhaps they were somewhere in this very hotel, resting naked in each other’s arms, their only concern whether to tour the old city or hit the beach in the morning.
Charlie tried to put them out of his mind as he stared out into the starless night and listened to the waves, until the ghost of a chill on the onshore breeze sent him back inside.
Chapter 3
Charlie sipped his lukewarm coffee and tried to find a comfortable seated position. The newish chair he had found behind his desk when he came in was a definite upgrade over the relic from the day before. In fact, the whole office had undergone a transformation, with the windows, floor, and furniture having been scrubbed clean and the dead plants removed. After getting his pass and access code from the security officer, Charlie had been visited by the resident IT expert, who set up his computer account and got him ready for his first real day of work. He was reading an email summary of his first consular case — a tourist from Moose Jaw who had lost his passport on what appeared to be a drunken junket into Old Havana from Varadero — when Landon appeared at his doorway.
“Ready?”
Charlie hopped out of his chair and searched his desk for a pad of paper. Michael Stewart was a career diplomat on his fourth posting, his second as head of mission, and he was unanimously described as decent and down to earth. Still, there was something unnerving about having an ambassador as your boss. Finding a pad and donning his jacket, Charlie followed Landon over to the main building, through the secure entrance and up the stairs to the ambassador’s reception area.
“You can go right in, gentlemen,” Martine said, barely looking up from her computer.
The ambassador was seated at his massive desk, poring over a report of some kind when they entered. He looked up and took off his glasses. “Come on in,” he said, coming out from behind the desk and shaking Charlie’s hand first. “I guess you’re our new MCO?”
“Yes, sir. Charlie Hillier.”
“Call me Michael, please. Welcome to Havana,” he said, as they arranged themselves on facing sofas. Charlie knew from reading his bio that Stewart was in his late fifties, but there was something about the man, perhaps an aura of confidence, that defied age. While Charlie straightened his tie and sat ramrod straight, Stewart crossed his long legs and assumed a leisurely pose, his tan linen suit a second skin. “What kind of housing have we got lined up for Charlie?” Stewart was looking at Landon and his top leg began to swing gently up and down, showing off a highly polished brown Oxford.
“We’re putting him into the new one. It should be ready this weekend.” Landon looked at Charlie and added. “We hope.”
“The one around the corner from the residence? Oh, well. You’ll be very comfortable there,” Stewart said. “I wish I could credit that one to your diligent efforts, Drew,” he added, grinning at Landon, “but I think it had more to do with that aid package we announced last month.”
“And here I thought someone at ImCub must really like me,” Landon joked. “ImCub’s the arm of the Cuban government responsible for leasing property to diplomatic tenants,” he added, turning to Charlie.
“Well, let’s hope we have as much luck with a new embassy site,” Stewart said, clapping his hands together.
Charlie had been briefed on the situation before leaving Ottawa. The current embassy was too small, and in need of a major retrofit. The Cubans had floated the possibility of selling land to Canada for a new building, something they generally didn’t do but seemed willing to consider for some of their diplomatic tenants. Charlie had heard that Stewart was keen on the idea, and on making it happen within the two years left on his own posting.
“I’ve been reviewing the property file,” Charlie said, wanting to appear just as keen.
“Then you know we need a new building.” Stewart became more serious. “We’re bursting at the seams here, and if the changes people are talking about come to fruition,” he said, stroking his fingers over an imaginary beard — a gesture that Charlie knew was the universal reference to Castro, “well, you can imagine. I’ve invited the president of ImCub to this weekend’s reception. You can meet him yourself.” Landon had already told Charlie about the reception to be held on Saturday night at the official residence. “I understand you spent some time in property management in Ottawa?”
“Yes,” Charlie replied, momentarily distracted by a five-by-seven portrait of a Labrador retriever in a gilt-edged frame on the side table. He hadn’t noticed it when he had scanned the office from the doorway the day before, and it seemed out of place in the otherwise formal setting. “I was mostly on the finance side,” he said, looking away from the picture and concentrating on embellishing his property credentials. “But I was involved in some major greenfield projects.” He hoped Stewart wouldn’t ask for much in the way of details. Charlie had authorized a lot of payments to contractors, but he hadn’t exactly been close to, let alone in charge of, the actual projects. A critical path to him could just as easily mean a well-worn trail to the building site’s porta-potty as a key project management term.
“Well, that’s excellent news,” Stewart said, leaning forward on the sofa and gesturing with a manicured hand, “because I intend to make this a reality, and I’ll need your help to keep Ottawa on side.”
“Of course.”
Stewart spent ten minutes on other priorities, none of which seemed even remotely as significant to him as securing a new embassy site, before returning to the property file. Charlie kept his reservations about having the whole thing built in two years to himself, and the meeting concluded with a personal invitation to attend the weekend reception at the official residence.
“He seems like a decent guy,” Charlie said, as he and Landon made their way back to the administration building after the meeting.
“I told you.”
“What’s with the picture of the dog?”
“That’s Teddy.” Landon laughed, but only briefly. “The ambassador’s a serious animal lover — so is Mrs. Stewart. The last gardener got the boot because they didn’t like the way he talked to the dog.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for Saturday night.”
As they reached the secure door and Charlie punched in his code, he turned to Landon. “You said you hoped I’d be in my house by the weekend. I thought you tracked down that electrician.”
“I did.” Landon sighed as they went into Charlie’s office and sat down. “And he swore he’d be there on Saturday morning, but you just never know when it comes
