seaweed appeared to writhe of their own volition, reaching for his fingers.
He let it grasp him, felt it communicating with him just as its dying owner had, connecting directly with his brain and making him understand what it was that he held in his hands. The power it represented was chilling. He tore his hands free and wedged the gun beneath his arm so that it wasn’t in contact with his skin.
He looked at the creature on the floor, bubbling and popping as its flesh began to lose cohesion. Whether it was natural for an Ytraxorian upon death or a delayed reaction to the effect of being blasted so far across time and space, Jack couldn’t tell.
He stuck his head around the serving hatch and grinned at Ianto and Gwen as they wrestled a ‘glandular’ lady in a plastic tiara back out of the doors and away from her precious buckets of fried bird. ‘Having fun?’ he asked, then chuckled at the expressive hand gestures they offered.
‘I have bruises,’ said Ianto, ‘on places that have never been bruised in the line of duty before.’
‘That rather depends on what you consider your duty,’ said Jack, kissing him on the cheek and waving at the large lady now stuck on the outside of the glass.
‘Never eat something that comes in a bucket!’ he shouted to her.
‘And he’s not talking about chicken,’ Ianto added.
‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Gwen. ‘Have you finished back there or what?’
‘Nearly,’ said Jack. ‘Don’t suppose either have you have seen a mop?’
Six
Mr Wynter sat in the shade of a bougainvillea bush in the central courtyard of the Hostal Moraira. He ordered a coffee which arrived just as Rex appeared on the upper balcony, having changed into a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans. First you’ll go to the docks, thought Mr Wynter, because you know they arrived by boat and someone must remember them hiring transport to ferry several packing crates as well as themselves. It was a logical first step but not one that Mr Wynter felt it necessary to duplicate. After all, he already had a good idea of where Gleason and company would be.
Once upon a time, the CIA had had a reasonable presence in Cuba. These days they preferred to concentrate efforts elsewhere and leave it to border control. Gleason had come here because it was close but also because he knew somewhere here that would suit their purpose as a temporary base. He knew somewhere big and empty enough to accommodate a handful of men and theircargo. Somewhere that was secluded so that their business would go unregarded. Somewhere that had never appeared on any official CIA paperwork – Gleason wasn’t to know that his presence in Havana was compromised, but he still wouldn’t turn up at an active CIA residence, the man was a professional. Was being the operative term, Mr Wynter thought, sipping his coffee. Now Gleason was just a dead man walking.
Mr Wynter knew of a place that fitted all the necessary requirements and a glance at Gleason’s operation history suggested he might know of it too.
Finishing his coffee, Mr Wynter went to reception and booked a room.
He dropped his holdall on the bed inside and then left the building, working his way through the streets of old Havana in search of the right sort of bar. Eventually he settled on a small place called Club Excalibur at the end of a gloomy side street. Why it deemed itself worthy of such mythological grandeur was not obvious. As Mr Wynter entered the building, he had to wave his hands in front of his face to dispel enough cigar smoke to see. The clientele was predictably questionable. Anyone found enjoying an early-afternoon drink in a dark, cancerous lung of a place like this was bound to be a member of the gutterati.
Mr Wynter pulled up a stool at the bar and ordered a Daiquiri Natural.
He was approached before the barman could even begin making his drink. Possibly this was a gentleman’s agreement so the establishmentdidn’t waste rum on customers that would
He let it grasp him, felt it communicating with him just as its dying owner had, connecting directly with his brain and making him understand what it was that he held in his hands. The power it represented was chilling. He tore his hands free and wedged the gun beneath his arm so that it wasn’t in contact with his skin.
He looked at the creature on the floor, bubbling and popping as its flesh began to lose cohesion. Whether it was natural for an Ytraxorian upon death or a delayed reaction to the effect of being blasted so far across time and space, Jack couldn’t tell.
He stuck his head around the serving hatch and grinned at Ianto and Gwen as they wrestled a ‘glandular’ lady in a plastic tiara back out of the doors and away from her precious buckets of fried bird. ‘Having fun?’ he asked, then chuckled at the expressive hand gestures they offered.
‘I have bruises,’ said Ianto, ‘on places that have never been bruised in the line of duty before.’
‘That rather depends on what you consider your duty,’ said Jack, kissing him on the cheek and waving at the large lady now stuck on the outside of the glass.
‘Never eat something that comes in a bucket!’ he shouted to her.
‘And he’s not talking about chicken,’ Ianto added.
‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Gwen. ‘Have you finished back there or what?’
‘Nearly,’ said Jack. ‘Don’t suppose either have you have seen a mop?’
Six
Mr Wynter sat in the shade of a bougainvillea bush in the central courtyard of the Hostal Moraira. He ordered a coffee which arrived just as Rex appeared on the upper balcony, having changed into a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans. First you’ll go to the docks, thought Mr Wynter, because you know they arrived by boat and someone must remember them hiring transport to ferry several packing crates as well as themselves. It was a logical first step but not one that Mr Wynter felt it necessary to duplicate. After all, he already had a good idea of where Gleason and company would be.
Once upon a time, the CIA had had a reasonable presence in Cuba. These days they preferred to concentrate efforts elsewhere and leave it to border control. Gleason had come here because it was close but also because he knew somewhere here that would suit their purpose as a temporary base. He knew somewhere big and empty enough to accommodate a handful of men and theircargo. Somewhere that was secluded so that their business would go unregarded. Somewhere that had never appeared on any official CIA paperwork – Gleason wasn’t to know that his presence in Havana was compromised, but he still wouldn’t turn up at an active CIA residence, the man was a professional. Was being the operative term, Mr Wynter thought, sipping his coffee. Now Gleason was just a dead man walking.
Mr Wynter knew of a place that fitted all the necessary requirements and a glance at Gleason’s operation history suggested he might know of it too.
Finishing his coffee, Mr Wynter went to reception and booked a room.
He dropped his holdall on the bed inside and then left the building, working his way through the streets of old Havana in search of the right sort of bar. Eventually he settled on a small place called Club Excalibur at the end of a gloomy side street. Why it deemed itself worthy of such mythological grandeur was not obvious. As Mr Wynter entered the building, he had to wave his hands in front of his face to dispel enough cigar smoke to see. The clientele was predictably questionable. Anyone found enjoying an early-afternoon drink in a dark, cancerous lung of a place like this was bound to be a member of the gutterati.
Mr Wynter pulled up a stool at the bar and ordered a Daiquiri Natural.
He was approached before the barman could even begin making his drink. Possibly this was a gentleman’s agreement so the establishmentdidn’t waste rum on customers that would
Similar Books
