Year's Best Scifi 6 Part 14

Instead, I mailed my pet hacker Ratcliffe. He responded within a minute, but I don't think he ever sleeps; he likes to work on so many jobs at once that he can cause a bytelock single-handedly, and his diet seems to consist of caffeine pills washed down with Jolt. Despite his nickname, he looks more like a racc.o.o.n than a rat, with a strong hint of squirrel. I asked him if he could confirm that Jason Davy and Tina Hill had left the country. "Do you know what airline?" he asked."Only that they supposedly flew to Sydney from the domestic terminal some time on Friday, then caught a connecting flight to LA."

"s.h.i.+t. This could take a while; can I call you back?"

"I'll be here." He mailed me the information just before ten, complete with flight numbers and-wonder of wonders-hotel reservations. "Once I had one flight, the easiest thing to do was track it back to a travel agent and see what they had for them," he said. "Little business called Galloway's Travels, with lousy security. Looks like they've gone away for Valentine's Day."

I nodded. They'd flown the whole way by jet, including Concorde from Sydney to LA, which was unusual for tourists; most preferred the zeppelin flights where first cla.s.s was more comfortable, economy much cheaper, and jet-lag minimal. They were staying in the Airport Courtesy Inn in LA, but were probably already on the shuttle back to LAX to catch a flight to Miami. From there, they were booked on another flight to Cuba, where they'd be staying in the Eldorado Hotel, room 311. They were returning to Australia by jet as well, leaving Cuba on the twenty-first. "Thanks, Rat."

"Don't mention it." I stared at the screen for a moment, then called the Hill home. Mr. Hill told me that they'd found out that Tina was safe, and would pay me for the day and my expenses if I sent them a bill. I said I'd e-mail it to them, and quickly typed up an invoice and sent it. Mrs. Hill called back five minutes later.

"What's this four thousand for finder's fee, photographic work, and travel expenses? What have you found? What photograph? Where?"

"I've found your daughter; she's in Havana, with Jason Davy."

"Havana?"

"In Cuba."

There was a long silence. "They told us she was in LA," she said, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Why would she go to Cuba?"

Actually, I knew a lot of reasons for going to Cuba (many more than I could imagine for visiting LA).

Within a few months of Castro's death, the country had reverted to a free-market economy, though "black market economy" would have been more accurate. Like Miami or Atlantic City, Havana was considered an "open city" for organised crime, with enough opportunities for a s.h.i.+tload of Mafia clans.

The Miami-based Genovese and Gambino families controlled most of the semi-legitimate rackets that appealed to tourists, while the Russian Mafia catered to-and preyed on-other local businesses. It was said you could buy anything in La Habana, from headwires to nukes, though the premier tourist attractions were gambling and prost.i.tution, as they had been in the Batista days. The brothels were reputedly able to pander to any preference or fetish imaginable, given sufficient notice, and brought in nearly as much foreign currency as cigars and rum.

Of course, Cuba's location made it a popular destination for retirees from Florida, many of them seeking what had eluded Juan Ponce de Leon. Many pharmaceutical companies had branches there, and often tested new drugs on the populace. Rejuvenation techniques, miracle cures and cosmetic surgery illegal in the US were plentiful, as were surgeons eager for a quick buck. Rumour had it that it was also the place for getting an illegal transplant-you could always say you'd blown the money at the casinos, or needed open-heart surgery after over-exerting yourself at one of the brothels-or for having yourself cloned. And, presumably, for other sorts of surgery. "I don't know," I replied.

She thought about this for a moment. "What about the photograph?"

"I'm going to have to travel to get it. I'd already booked a flight before your husband fired me, and there's no refund at this sort of notice. I can postpone, but not cancel."

"We can't pay you this much!"

"I think you can," I replied. "Both Norman and your husband said you'd cover my expenses."

Neither had specified "reasonable expenses," but Norman probably wasn't familiar with the concept. Hill might squawk but he'd cave in quickly enough; he was a loser if I'd ever met one. "He didn't tell me exactly how much he was paying you, but I gather it was a bundle. What is he doing, paying off your mortgage?" No reply. I sat there, barely breathing, hoping that I'd read Mrs. Hill correctly, that she loved her daughter even if she didn't know her. Tina deserved that much. "Did Norman speak to you, or toyour husband?"

"To Geoff," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "He makes the-the decisions about money. I'll have to check this with him. Can I call you back?"

"As long as you do it before eleven. I have to pack." I hit the disconnect key, then called the airport.

About a day and a half later-early morning, Cuban time-I staggered off an Airbus packed with senior citizens into Jose Marti International Airport, destination of Christ knows how many hijackers over the years. Unlike Tina, I hadn't been lucky enough to take the Concorde, or travel business cla.s.s (my credit rating didn't stretch that far; I would have flown Garuda to save a few extra bucks, if all of their remaining planes hadn't been commandeered as troop carriers for the duration), and I'd flown straight through to make up for their lead. Qantas did their best to make the trans-Pacific flight bearable, including making the food edible and the tea hot and strong, but I was still badly jet-lagged by the time I arrived at LAX. I devoted as much time as I could to reading Tina's diary and the mail Jason had sent her; both were so carefully worded that they might as well have been ciphered, with no mention of Cuba or even of travel. I also studied a Lonely Planet travel survival kit and Spanish phrase-book, only watching the in-flight movies when I could no longer focus on the print. The movies didn't seem to make any sense, but whether that was because they were cut or because I fell asleep during pivotal scenes or whether they were just dumb movies, I have no idea. I spent less than an hour in Miami, just time enough to buy some US cash; flights to Cuba were almost as frequent as buses.

The taxi that took me to the hotel was an old Lada Riva, driven by a skinny Rastafarian who looked to be in his late forties. "Hey, ya don't want to go there, mon," he said, when I told him my destination.

"That's for old folks. I can take ya someplace better, lots of empty rooms. Why ya come here, anyway?"

"I'm meeting a friend," I replied. "At the Eldorado."

"Long way to come to meet a friend. Ya English?"

"Australian. And I thought I might do a little shopping while I was here."

He grinned. His jagged nicotine-stained teeth looked like modern art. "I dig, mon. Well, whatever ya want, I can take ya where ya can get the best price."

"I hoped you could. What if I needed a gun?"

"Easy, mon. How big and how many?"

"Just a handgun, a small one. And a stunstick, too, if you know someone who sells those." I'd thought of bringing both with me, but there was the risk that US Customs would ask to search my luggage. In the end, I just brought an overnight bag small enough for hand luggage, with a few books, a few changes of clothes, a camera, a pair of adjustable shades, a penlight, and a Swiss Army knife.

The driver shrugged. We were making slow progress, stuck behind a '51 Oldsmobile held together with wire, poster paint and santeria symbols; I could see push-bikes that were making better time. The taxi wasn't air-conditioned-it didn't even have power steering-and it smelled of dust and cigar smoke and scorched plastic, though the weather was pleasantly cool compared to a Perth summer. "I'll take ya to a place I know," he said. "Anything else?"

"What about a hospital?"

He looked at me in the rear-view mirror, curiosity plain despite his shades. "Why a hospital, mon?"

"I was thinking of getting my head wired," I replied. He stared, and then burst out laughing, nearly sending us into the rear of the Oldsmobile. He calmed down a few seconds later, and shook his head.

"s.h.i.+t, mon, if ya want a souvenir, why don't ya just get a tattoo? Ya think they sell headwires to anyone who just walk off the street?" I said nothing. "Folks who have they heads wired have habits," he continued. "They have the wire, they don't need c.o.ke or smack or ice or hyper or any other that s.h.i.+t.

Now the same families sell the headwires as sell the s.h.i.+t. Ya see the problem?"

"I think so." This hadn't occurred to me before, but it wasn't hard to work out. "They'd rather have a customer who keeps paying."

"Right. So they only do that headwire s.h.i.+t if they think ya can do them some big favour sometime. Ya a writer, mon?"

"Why?" "Ya ask a lot of questions, but ya don't know the answers. Ya want a guide or a guardian, call me."

He handed me a card, with his name-Raphael-and a phone number. "I know this island, lived here for years, and ya don't know it at all." He drove me through the international district, the Vedado, where the grand old hotels were towered over by gla.s.s and metal and poured concrete boxes identical to those in almost any other city in the world. There were no posters or billboards commemorating Castro or Che any more, and few Cuban flags; all of the signs I saw were in English, and most bore familiar logos and slogans. The Malecon was emptier than the guidebook had led me to expect, and I glanced at my watch: 7:43, Sunday morning, February 14th. I wondered who the santeria equivalent of St. Valentine was, and decided I didn't need to know. Raphael drove me to a hockshop where I bought a Grendel P-12 with a spare clip, an ankle holster, a Hyundai telescoping stunstick, a wrist spring rig for the stick, a roll of gaffer tape, a few small tracking tags, and a signal locator. "Ya want a vest, too, mon?"

"Already wearing one." It was synthetic spider silk with inserts, supposedly proof against any handgun except a needler; my mother brought it back from the US and gave it to me when I made detective. "How much do I owe you?"

It was about twice what I would've paid in Miami, including Raphael's kickback, but without any paperwork or waiting period. "Where to now?"

"The Eldorado."

Raphael was right about the Eldorado; the resemblance to a retirement village social club was alarming, right down to a faintly antiseptic smell almost as bad as the faint stink of sweat and decay in the streets outside, but I could see why Jason had chosen it. The whole place had obviously been designed for wheelchair access, with not a staircase or escalator or steep ramp in sight. I checked in, looked around the lobby, and saw a cafe to one side with a great view of the lifts and the doorway. I went up to my room, which looked like a clone of a few dozen other hotel rooms I'd stayed in except for the view of the slums. I took a quick shower, changed my chinos and sweater for a suit and tie, then returned to the cafe. They kept a rack of US, Canadian and European newspapers; I borrowed a hardcopy of The Times, ordered a Continental breakfast and a Cuban coffee, and sat where I could watch the lobby without being conspicuous. I took out my compad and e-mailed Ratcliffe, asking if he could access the hotel's computer and confirm that Tina and Jason had checked in. I looked business-like enough that the staff left me alone, except to refresh my muddy coffee. I read the paper in the vain hope of finding some news from Australia, then browsed for a while, checking out the Cuban private hospitals (the public hospital system, I was pleased to see, had survived Castro's death) and the amputee fetish websites.

There were ads for new hardcore videos, offering a wide variety of women-mostly African or Asian, probable landmine victims, but there were also a few Caucasians, including the promise of a "double amputee special" scheduled for release later in the year. It was probably only a coincidence, but it left a bad taste that no amount of coffee could mask.

Ratcliffe sent me mail confirming that Tina and Jason had checked in to room 311 just before noon yesterday, and had ordered a room service breakfast for eight thirty this morning. He had no way of knowing whether they were still in the room unless they watched some of the pay TV stations or used the phone, which they hadn't. I waited, watching people come and go. It was a measure of how respectable the Eldorado was that I was interrupted less than once per hour, and offered nothing more illegal than Peruvian cocaine. Tina and Jason emerged from the elevator at three minutes before one am, and he pushed her chair towards the restaurant. I palmed my camera and took a few photos, then put the paper back on the rack and followed them.

The photos I'd seen of Tina hadn't quite done her justice, though they'd come close. Maybe it was just that her smile was a little more genuine now than it had been then-excitement making her eyes sparkle a little more intensely- though she was obviously still nervous about something. My table wasn't close enough to theirs for me to follow the conversation-even using the mike in my compad-and I never have learnt to lip-read, but there was no indication that she wasn't there voluntarily; in fact, they looked like honeymooners. I could've left-I had the photos to show Mrs. Hill, and Tina certainly seemed safe-but something still didn't seem right. No one jets from Perth to Havana with honourableintentions; that'd be like going to Casablanca for the waters. Even with Bali ruled out by the civil wars in Indonesia, there were many other places they could've gone for a romantic island holiday.

I watched them eat, then followed them as he pushed her chair down 23rd Street, la Rampa, to the Malecon. Shadowing them was made easier by Jason's constant, "Dispenseme, excuse me, excuse me,"

as he tried to steer the wheelchair over the uneven paving and through the crowd. There were plenty of tourists and locals to hide behind; the tourists looked better-fed, the locals better-dressed, and none of them seemed to be in any hurry.

Jason and Tina spent a few hours sight-seeing along the Malecon and in Centro Habana, admiring the art-deco and pre-baroque houses, the stained gla.s.s and the faded beauty of the old facades, the street musicians, the santeria shrines, and the swimmers in their tiny swimsuits, then returned to the hotel. I followed them, wondering whether I should keep waiting (for what?), confront them, or call it quits and see what else Havana had to offer. I had a feeling that I was wasting my own time and gambling a lot of money on a not-very-reliable gut instinct. When he wheeled her into the lift, I called for them to hold it. I left at the third floor, and offered to help get her wheelchair through the door. "You're from Australia?"

she asked, while Jason fumed.

I hadn't thought my accent was that distinct. "Yes. Perth."

She laughed. "That's amazing! My first time overseas, and the first person I meet is from home. I'm Tina."

"Nick."

Jason blinked, but Tina didn't seem to notice anything odd. "What brings you here to Cuba?

Business?"

"Yes. You?"

She hesitated, and looked at Jason, who shook his head very slightly. "Just a holiday," she said, soberly.

"Well, are you free for dinner?" I asked. "It's been too long since I've seen anyone from home."

"I'm afraid not." We'd reached the door of 311 by now. "We're going to-well, we have other plans."

"Tomorrow night?"

"No, we-" Jason opened the door and I wheeled Tina inside, taking the opportunity to stick a small tracking tag under the arm of the chair. He kept the door open, obviously expecting me to leave. "I'm sorry," he said. "Our schedule is pretty full."

"Pity."

Tina smiled. "It was nice meeting you, Nick."

"And you," I said, just as sincerely. "Can you do me a small favour?"

"What?" asked Jason, before she could answer. I didn't look at him. "Call your mother," I said to Tina. "Tell her you're okay, and explain to her why you came here without telling her. She's worried about you." There was a long silence, then Jason took a step towards me, his fists clenched. I smiled, and flicked my wrist so that the stunstick slid into my hand and open, with the "On" switch under my thumb and the tip a handbreadth from his face. "Back off, and shut the door," I said, softly. "Then tell me what you're doing here, and I'll go."

Jason took a step back from the stick, and shut the door behind him. "It's very simple," he said, stiffly. "Not that it's any of your G.o.dd.a.m.n business, but we're here for a transplant. A laboratory here has cloned a new leg for Tina."

"You can't clone a leg."

He shrugged. "Actually, you can, but only as part of a more or less complete body, minus most of the brain. I know, this is illegal in Australia, but I don't see any difficulty in getting back home if the operation was done here. It's not as though we're importing spare parts, or anything. We couldn't tell her parents because my father wouldn't trust them to keep it a secret; they might have tried to stop us if they'd known where we were going. This way, it's a-" He blanked for a moment.

"Fait accompli?" I suggested. Nice to know that university Latin can be of some use.

"Exactly." "This must have been expensive."

He shrugged. "It was a present from my father. Now, will you get the f.u.c.k out of our room?"

I stared at him, unable to think of anything to say, and feeling incredibly foolish. I still didn't trust him or like him, but it seemed clear that I'd misjudged him; I couldn't have asked for a better sign that he cared more about Tina than about her amputation. I didn't really have an opinion on cloning human bodies for spare parts; I'd never needed one before, nor ever expected to. I looked at Tina instead; she looked more innocent than an eighteen-year-old should, but I guess she'd had a sheltered life. She certainly didn't seem to be under any duress, or in any danger, and she was obviously more scared of me than she was of him. I switched the stunstick off, and telescoped it down. "Sure," I said, "but do me a favor? Call your mother, as soon as you can?"

"I'm not going home," she said, with astonis.h.i.+ng calm. "To Perth, yes, but not..." She reached out and grabbed Jason's hand. I nodded.

"Good luck," I said. "Sorry I disturbed you." I walked back to my room, called Mrs. Hill, told her Tina was okay, and mailed her the photos. Then I pulled up the airline sites and booked myself on the cheapest available flights back to Perth. That, it turned out, meant leaving Havana on Monday afternoon, which I was happy to do.

I was still too jet-lagged to sleep, so I decided to see some more of the city while I had the chance. I caught a crowded local bus, or guagua, to Habana Vieja, and walked back towards the beach, just looking around. The feeling of history, of great events, of a love of beauty, of a certain exasperated but not extinguished pride, was exactly unlike the feeling I always get from Perth or Melbourne. The sun was setting by the time I reached the Malecon; people were deserting the beach, but the boulevard was still crowded. I noticed an attractive young woman, a teenaged girl and a baby standing by a poster advertising the Sans Souci casino while they waited for the guagua. The baby was about a year old, and had obviously only recently learnt to walk. The girl looked about thirteen, and wore a sloppy joe over her tiny swimsuit; her legs were nearly as long as those of the scantily-clad woman depicted on the poster, but she lacked the come-hither look. The woman-her sister?-looked more appraising, but I smiled politely and walked past them. I've nothing against s.e.x workers, but glamour doesn't work on me any more; once I know I'm being lied to, I- Something went click in my brain, very faintly, like a small thing suddenly dying. I turned around and looked back at the poster, the girl, and the baby. Then I whispered, "Oh, s.h.i.+t," and reached for my phone.

I called the Eldorado, and asked to be put through to room 311. No reply. I asked the receptionist when they'd left, telling her I'd arranged to meet them for dinner and was running late. Their taxi had arrived at six, she said. Did she know where they'd gone? We hadn't agreed on a restaurant beforehand.

No, she didn't know. I thanked her, hit the disconnect b.u.t.ton, and wondered what to do next. It took me more than a minute to remember the tracking tag on Tina's chair; unfortunately, the signal locator was back in my room. I called Raphael and asked him if he could pick me up.

The tag was an active transponder with limited battery power; I was able to activate it with the locator, and we followed the signal towards the airport. "Do you know any hospitals out this way?"

Raphael shrugged. "No, mon. It the warehouse district."

"Anything else?"

"Clubs and brothels," he said, after a moment's hesitation. "Private, members only."

"Fetishes?" He looked blank, and the word wasn't in my guidebook. "Kink? Weird s.h.i.+t?"

"I don't know, mon. I never been inside."

By triangulating the signals, we managed to pinpoint the source to an anonymous house in a suspiciously empty palm-lined street: no cars, no bicycles, not even kids playing stickball. There was a large wooden door, a portale, set into a whitewashed stone wall, with balconies above it but no windows on the ground floor. There was a smaller door in the portale, and a hatch at eye level inside this small door. There was no sign on or near the door-only a small plaque bearing the number 88-and thearchways on either side had been bricked up.

I thanked Raphael, asked him to park the taxi a block away and wait, paid him, and stepped out into the street under the cover of the palms.

I walked slowly around the block, hoping to find a back door. I didn't unless the house immediately behind number 88 was connected, which seemed likely; the doors and plaques seemed almost identical.

Both were apparently new, and probably impregnable to anything short of a tank. The walls were too smooth for me to climb up to the balconies. I watched Number 88 for about half an hour, feeling an utter fool, when suddenly the smaller door opened and a heavily-built man stepped out and lit a cigarro.

Whatever this place was, they didn't allow smoking inside. He was wearing drabpale green coveralls, a hospital orderly's uniform if I ever saw one. I watched him for a few seconds, then crossed the street and walked towards him from his blind side. He turned and looked at me, a little suspiciously, when I was about four metres away. I reached for my wallet, and said, "Hey. How much to go inside?"

He peered at me, and blew smoke into the street. "You got the wrong door. It's on the other side."

"I'm sorry. Isn't this the hospital?"

"Yeah, but-What're you after?"

I pulled a $50 bill from my pocket with my left hand, and took a step closer. "Just for a few minutes."

The bill disappeared into his huge hand. "Not even a few seconds, if you don't tell me what you want," he said, and frowned. "You a reporter?"

"No, of course not," I snapped. "I just want-" I tried to think. What the h.e.l.l was there in a hospital that someone might want? "Five minutes in the drug storeroom. That's all."

He rolled his eyes. "This isn't a market. I can maybe get you what you want if you tell me, but you'll have to come back in a couple hours, say nine o'clock."

"Okay. How much hyper will this buy me?" I produced another two bills, and took another step closer. Americans seem to believe that the Const.i.tution, if not the Old Testament, decrees that all their banknotes must be the same size and colour, so you have to study the d.a.m.n things to tell one dollar from a hundred. The orderly was still staring at the bills in my left hand when I slid my stunstick out of my right sleeve and hit him in the temple. He fell against the door, then slid to the ground. As quickly as I could, I slid the stick back into my sleeve, hauled the orderly across the street, stripped him of his uniform, and retrieved my money. He was a few centimeters shorter than I was, but the uniform was loose enough that it didn't much matter. Shoes were more of a problem; his were too small for me, and mine were the wrong color. There wasn't much I could do about my complexion or hair, either-nondescript by Australian or European standards, but unusually pale for Cuba. The stun would wear off in a few minutes, so I taped his mouth, feet and hands, then dashed across the street and closed the door behind me.

I found myself in a courtyard-an empty one, fortunately-with smooth concrete tracks laid over its cobbles, decorative tilework at the tops of the walls, and an elevator at the far end. I couldn't see any cameras, and I didn't waste time looking. I listened at the nearest door. The clattering suggested a busy kitchen, so I crossed the courtyard, and tried again. Silence. I opened the door, and stepped into an unoccupied office. Again, no visible cameras, except the one over the monitor on the desktop. The locator told me that Tina was above me and to the northwest-or that her wheel-chair was, anyway-and that the battery in the tag was running low. The far door was hinged to open inwards; I listened at that, heard more silence. I opened it, and saw the corridor I'd hoped for, leading to a staircase. I was almost there when a door opened behind me. I kept walking, hoping not to be noticed. It didn't work. A man called something in Spanish. I kept walking. "Hey," said the same voice, about four meters behind me. "Stop." I kept walking. "Security, a.s.shole!" he said. Maybe I imagined the comma; maybe that was his t.i.tle. There was a faint metallic click, and I turned around.