Havana Five. Don Pendleton

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      MACK BOLAN COULD HARDLY say he felt in his element.

      The din of Cuban music blaring from the antiquated jukebox and shouts of drunken men ogling the dayshift of house girls had left him with a slight headache. He’d reached Matanzas very early in the morning and had the good fortune to find a local clothing shop along a deserted street. Bolan paid three times the asking price for a change of clothes—he and the shopkeeper both knowing part of the exorbitant sum would buy the man’s silence about seeing a North American inside Cuba—and then he changed in an alley.

      Nobody in the cantina had spared him a second glance. Bolan used his limited knowledge of Spanish to order a meal of beans over a tortilla topped with red and green chilies and rice. He also purchased bottled water, not unusual in Cuba, even for the locals, and coffee.

      Bolan left for a time and found a pay phone. He contacted Stony Man, gave them a cryptic message about the cantina Las Cocinitas, and then spent the remainder of the morning walking the streets before returning to the rendezvous point an hour or two later. The big American kept his head down and his body hunched to detract from his height. He was nursing his second bottle of beer when two men entered the cantina.

      Bolan made a barely imperceptible gesture, but one the pair recognized; they walked casually to his table. The place seemed pretty crowded with very few seats, so Encizo asked politely to join him. Bolan nodded and they sat. A waitress came a few minutes later, took their drink and food orders without any apparent real interest in them, and was gone again in minutes.

      Encizo leaned in so only Bolan and Grimaldi could hear and asked, “You okay?”

      Bolan nodded. “I’m fine. Thanks for showing up.”

      “Wouldn’t have missed it,” Grimaldi replied with a grin.

      “Where are things at?” Encizo asked.

      “Not here,” Bolan said. “You brought wheels?”

      Encizo and Grimaldi nodded. “Finish your lunch, then leave before me and pull around back. We shouldn’t leave together.”

      The food and drinks came. Encizo and Grimaldi ate mechanically and didn’t say another word to Bolan. Within twenty minutes of their arrival, they paid their tab and left. The place had really filled up with the afternoon crowds who were obviously looking to escape the heat. Bolan even spotted some European tourists. Nobody paid attention to him, and he waited a full ten minutes before leaving. Grimaldi and Encizo waited in a two-door sedan that ran parallel to the alleyway. The pilot sat in back and Bolan took shotgun.

      Encizo put the stick shift in gear and sped down the alleyway. He maneuvered the car onto the street, followed that road for two short blocks, then turned onto another street. For the next few minutes Encizo made a series of different turns, twice even pulling to the curb. All three men studied the mirrors and looked out windows to see if anyone appeared to be taking an unusual interest in them. After they were satisfied the coast was clear, Encizo headed toward the southernmost end of Matanzas.

      Bolan filled them in on what he’d learned so far, then asked Encizo, “Any idea what jail this might have been?”

      Encizo shook his head. “I know it may come as a surprise, but the crime rate in Cuba really isn’t that high. In fact, a crime is only classified as an act they call socialimente peligrosa, dangerous or harmful to society. Felonies are basically the same here as they are in the States. Armed robbery, rape, felonious assault and murder. What’s always staggered me is there are approximately sixty robberies for every hundred thousand citizens per capita. Their biggest problems are drugs, which usually stems from the sex trade.”

      Prostitution was the oldest profession on Earth. It had continued to be a mainstay of the criminal underworld across the board. Sex for money also led to other things like strong-arm robbery, drugs, black market sales and extortion. Cuba wasn’t immune to it any more than any other country, although the heavy-handedness of Cuba’s police officials and stiff penalties imposed by its courts acted effectively as an unspoken policy of no tolerance.

      “My point in that little lesson on Cuba’s judicial system,” Encizo continued, “was that Cuban citizens like Melendez getting arrested and tossed in the clink for a few days wouldn’t exactly have been headline news. But two Americans getting locked up, yeah, that would’ve announced like the premier of Russia making a State visit.”

      “That’s what I thought,” Bolan replied. “I wonder why they kept it quiet.”

      “Maybe they didn’t,” Grimaldi interjected. “Maybe someone kept it quiet for them?”

      “Like who?” Encizo asked.

      “I’m betting Havana Five,” Bolan said. “There has to be some reason Melendez brought it up. He didn’t pull their name out of a hat.”

      “That doesn’t make any sense,” Encizo replied. “Why would they want to keep the arrest of two Americans secret?”

      “I’ve asked myself the same question a hundred СКАЧАТЬ