Cast No Shadow, Peter Sharp [books to get back into reading txt] 📗

he had failed to gain any meaningful information, but it was difficult to see how he could gain more without being too obvious. He was packing away his sundry items and had one eye on a young student who had been circling the group for some time, a tall athletic looking young man with mousy hair, possibly Argentinean in extraction.

He had made several forays to the table to look at catalogues, but it was clear he was not really paying attention to the documentation. At last, he approached the table.

“You are a socialist, yes?” Kelly was immediately alert; he decided to take a chance.

“Yes, how did you know?” he asked.

“In England, all students and lecturers are socialists,” the boy replied. Not entirely true, thought Kelly, but there was something in that logic.

“Also, I heard you asking about the Russians.” Damn! thought Kelly, was I that obvious?

Outwardly he said, “I’m just interested in the opposition. I think they may have equipment salesmen on the Island.”

“Of course.” The young man didn’t sound entirely unconvinced. “If you want to meet with the comrades you will need to go south, to the college at Santiago.” With that he picked up a free pen and walked slowly away.

Kelly picked up his key from the reception desk at the Hotel Sevilla Biltmore on the Paseo del Prado and walked up one flight of stairs to his room on the first floor. After taking a shower he slipped on a light towelling dressing gown and moved out onto the balcony with a small Cuban white rum.

The last encounter had removed any remaining doubt from his mind. The action, if there was any, was in the south; he needed to get to Santiago de Cuba. He was due in any case to travel there three days hence after visiting a number of schools in Havana, but the latter activity seemed pointless and time wasting. He would travel to Santiago first thing in the morning.

In the meantime, there were a few things to do. He called reception and asked for an outside line. After several failed attempts and what seemed like an eternity, he reached the secretary to the Chief Education Officer for Schools. He was effuse in his apologies for the change of plans, but could he now delay his visits to the schools for one week. The woman’s English was almost as bad as Kelly’s Spanish but between them he felt he had made the point and successfully postponed his school visits.

Then he contacted the hotel in Santiago and brought his reservation forward three days. The receptionist spoke perfect English, so Kelly took the opportunity to request a hire car be available on his arrival. It was an expensive gesture, unbecoming a schools’ equipment salesman, but he felt he needed the extra mobility this would provide.

Finally, he dressed in casual clothing, made his way downstairs and out into the streets. He turned left out of the hotel and crossed the Prado and onto the Trocadero. He strode purposefully down the street, then stopped outside a side door near a drug store and rang the bell. Not waiting for a reply, he tried the door and found it open. He stepped inside and closed it behind him.

Facing him was a flight of stairs, the walls on either side stained and grimy. Kelly felt a momentary sense of deja vu as he remembered Norway. After waiting a moment until his eyes accustomed to the dim lighting, the contrast with the sunshine outside accentuating the effect, he started up the stairs. A figure appeared at the top and said something in Spanish that Kelly didn’t understand. He replied in English, “Hello, my name is Shepherd. I need to speak to someone from the Barrio import export agency.”

“Ah Mr Shepherd,” replied the Cuban, switching effortlessly to English. “I’ve been expecting you, please follow me.” So saying, he disappeared off to the right. When Kelly reached the top of the stairs, the man was waiting for him. He smiled, turned on his heel and walked down the corridor, Kelly following.

The corridor couldn’t have been more different to the stairs; it was clean, simply but nicely decorated and well lit. At the very end of the corridor the man slipped a key into a lock, opened an office door, and stepped inside. Kelly followed him in.

The office was small but well equipped, giving it a crowded look. It was also clean and boasted an air conditioning unit, which gave the room a slight chill. The Cuban held out his hand, which Kelly took. “Manuel Barrio,” he said by way of introduction. “Welcome to Cuba, Mr Kelly. May I call you Dragan?”

“Please call me Dan,” answered Kelly as he surveyed Manuel Barrio, the local G Man. He was small and slight with the almost obligatory moustache and thick black wavy hair. He wore a colourful shirt and a white cotton suit, badly crumpled, but clean. Apart from his physical size he was almost indistinguishable from thousands of other Cuban men.

“Where is she?” asked Kelly lowering himself into the chair indicated by the Cuban.

“I don’t know, Dan. She stopped contacting me two weeks ago. Frankly, I’m worried.” He certainly looked worried.

“You must have some ideas?” persisted Kelly.

“I know she was keen to travel south. She mentioned Santiago de Cuba; it’s a hot bed of communism down there. I counselled her against it. It’s difficult for an oil company representative to justify their presence in that area.” He shrugged. “She is hot headed, this one. I don’t think she was listening. My guess is she has gone south.”

“Is she likely to find her Soviets in that area?” asked Kelly.

“If all CS wants is to know whether or not there are Soviets operating in Cuba, then the answer is yes. I could have told them that. If they want to know what they’re doing then Peregrine is right, you need to be in the South. That seems to be their main base.” There was an