making sure he wasn’t being watched. When he was confident he wasn’t, he circled close to buildings near the ocean, and made his way to the beach. In the dark, he jogged down the waterline until he came to the safe house, which was quiet and unlit.
He crouched in the sand and watched the house for a while. Still nothing.
He entered through the rear door to the garage and made a quick search of the house in the dark using night vision goggles stored in the garage. Standing in the front room, he peered out the windows at the street and the apartment building, scanning each window for any indication someone was watching the house. After a methodical scan, he decided he was probably safe.
In a back room was a computer. Next to the computer was a CD-ROM in a jewel case. Booting up the computer, Derek slid the CD into the drive. The CD-ROM apparently contained a few dozen photographs. A scan through them showed them to be shots of Havana—the beach, historical buildings, the Marecón.
Derek double-clicked on Photo 04, of the Marecón, waves crashing over the breakwall.
He typed: 8X3_$/>Fgi and pressed Enter.
The screen went blank except for a small square requiring an entry code.
Derek typed: CCcF*^@Zy+. But didn’t hit Enter. Enter would cause the DVD to be erased.
The photograph of the Marecón reappeared, then pixels slowly faded out until a message was visible.
DS.
Network blown. Exfil ASAP. Exfil 3 suggested.
Derek glanced at his watch. The Agency had sent him out with three contingency plans for leaving the country. One was to simply go to the airport and fly out as fast as he could. The second was to get to the Swiss Embassy. From there a route out of the country would be set in place.
Exfiltration #3 was more complicated. He was to get to a spot on the Cuba coast northwest of Havana on any given night by 2:45 AM. There was an exactly 15-minute window when a small boat would be available to get him off the island to a larger vessel waiting several miles off the coast.
There were other contingency plans, but getting all the way across the island to Guantanamo Bay was only useful if you were close to Guantanamo Bay.
Derek looked at his watch. It was just past midnight. Time to get moving. He typed in a set of figures that caused the CD to be deleted as well as cleaning the computer’s cache and ROM. He didn’t completely understand how the tech wizards at Langley and Meade made it work, but he’d take their word for it.
Sliding into the garage, he started packing for the trip out.
With some gear in a backpack, he rode the motorcycle out of the safe house and headed toward the countryside. He drove along the highway toward La Boca, something of a tourist destination for Cubans. He’d been told in his briefing that it wasn’t really a spot tourists outside of Cuba visited that much—too rustic. In the off-season it was pretty quiet.
Leaving Havana behind, he found the suburban areas stretched out, leaving more smaller homes, farms, and what could probably be described as wilderness areas—Derek was hesitant about calling it jungle, although Cuba had its share of mountains and rain forests.
Half an hour outside Havana, Derek spied a long line of cars backing up. He eased up on the throttle. A half a mile ahead or so he thought he saw flashing lights. An accident? Or some sort of roadblock? Heart hammering in his chest, he wondered if it was a roadblock.
He pulled to the side of the road and pulled out the small map of Cuba he had found in the safe house. Glancing at his watch, he saw that time was running out for meeting his exfil deadline.
Wheeling the bike around, he turned around and took a right at the first road. The next thirty minutes was a blur of gravel and dirt roads winding through foothills and forest and suburbs, before he finally worked his way back into La Boca, which was a sleepy village, although there were many beautiful colonial-era homes.
Derek drove to a wooded area near the
He crouched in the sand and watched the house for a while. Still nothing.
He entered through the rear door to the garage and made a quick search of the house in the dark using night vision goggles stored in the garage. Standing in the front room, he peered out the windows at the street and the apartment building, scanning each window for any indication someone was watching the house. After a methodical scan, he decided he was probably safe.
In a back room was a computer. Next to the computer was a CD-ROM in a jewel case. Booting up the computer, Derek slid the CD into the drive. The CD-ROM apparently contained a few dozen photographs. A scan through them showed them to be shots of Havana—the beach, historical buildings, the Marecón.
Derek double-clicked on Photo 04, of the Marecón, waves crashing over the breakwall.
He typed: 8X3_$/>Fgi and pressed Enter.
The screen went blank except for a small square requiring an entry code.
Derek typed: CCcF*^@Zy+. But didn’t hit Enter. Enter would cause the DVD to be erased.
The photograph of the Marecón reappeared, then pixels slowly faded out until a message was visible.
DS.
Network blown. Exfil ASAP. Exfil 3 suggested.
Derek glanced at his watch. The Agency had sent him out with three contingency plans for leaving the country. One was to simply go to the airport and fly out as fast as he could. The second was to get to the Swiss Embassy. From there a route out of the country would be set in place.
Exfiltration #3 was more complicated. He was to get to a spot on the Cuba coast northwest of Havana on any given night by 2:45 AM. There was an exactly 15-minute window when a small boat would be available to get him off the island to a larger vessel waiting several miles off the coast.
There were other contingency plans, but getting all the way across the island to Guantanamo Bay was only useful if you were close to Guantanamo Bay.
Derek looked at his watch. It was just past midnight. Time to get moving. He typed in a set of figures that caused the CD to be deleted as well as cleaning the computer’s cache and ROM. He didn’t completely understand how the tech wizards at Langley and Meade made it work, but he’d take their word for it.
Sliding into the garage, he started packing for the trip out.
With some gear in a backpack, he rode the motorcycle out of the safe house and headed toward the countryside. He drove along the highway toward La Boca, something of a tourist destination for Cubans. He’d been told in his briefing that it wasn’t really a spot tourists outside of Cuba visited that much—too rustic. In the off-season it was pretty quiet.
Leaving Havana behind, he found the suburban areas stretched out, leaving more smaller homes, farms, and what could probably be described as wilderness areas—Derek was hesitant about calling it jungle, although Cuba had its share of mountains and rain forests.
Half an hour outside Havana, Derek spied a long line of cars backing up. He eased up on the throttle. A half a mile ahead or so he thought he saw flashing lights. An accident? Or some sort of roadblock? Heart hammering in his chest, he wondered if it was a roadblock.
He pulled to the side of the road and pulled out the small map of Cuba he had found in the safe house. Glancing at his watch, he saw that time was running out for meeting his exfil deadline.
Wheeling the bike around, he turned around and took a right at the first road. The next thirty minutes was a blur of gravel and dirt roads winding through foothills and forest and suburbs, before he finally worked his way back into La Boca, which was a sleepy village, although there were many beautiful colonial-era homes.
Derek drove to a wooded area near the
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