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on grille was little more than rust. It took less than half a minute to create a gap he could squeeze through. Chunks of iron dropped down the sheer wall outside and struck the rocks below. Sam flipped around and followed them down forty-five feet to a slim outcropping, where waves struck it and exploded in bursts of spray before retreating back into the black of night. The rope above him vibrated as Remi descended quickly; the clump of her rubber-soled boots landing on the rocks filled him with relief.
“Be careful! These boulders are slippery, and the barnacles will cut like razors if you slip,” he called, pulling out the earplugs and pocketing them as he eyed the dark castle wall above. “We need to hurry. They’ll be through soon enough, and if we’re not gone by the time they figure out how we escaped, we’ll be trying to outrun bullets and radios.”
Cautiously they began inching along the shoreline, going as fast as they dared. Remi slipped once and Sam caught her arm and steadied her. Five minutes later, the castle was behind them and they were jogging east on a rocky beach.
“How much farther?” Remi asked, easily keeping up with Sam.
“Should be no more than a hundred yards,” Sam said. “Lucky for us they never sealed up the toilet chutes . . .”
“Please. I’m already going to have to take ten showers just to get the feel of the mold off me. I don’t need any reminders about what the last things down the chute were.”
“They haven’t been used for years—probably at least twenty. Thank goodness for indoor plumbing, right?”
“If you say so.”
They continued loping down the beach, anxious to put distance between themselves and the castle.
“How did it go?” he asked as he slowed, eyes roving over the coastline, seeking their objective.
“I got shots of everything, including the manuscript. It practically disintegrated in my hands when I unrolled it. A shame nobody cared enough to store it under better conditions.”
“We’re fortunate there was anything left. Could you make out the writing and illustrations?”
“I did. But I’d say right now that’s not our biggest problem,” she said as flashlight beams glimmered from the castle base. “Our pursuers just figured it out. I sure hope Selma was good to her word or our troubles have just begun.”
“Look. There it is,” Sam said, pointing at a line tethered to a rock on the shore. He ran to it and pulled as hard as he could, and an ancient black inflatable boat came bouncing through the mild surf.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Remi said.
“Hey, it’s Cuba. What do you want? This is probably pretty modern for here,” he said as the dinghy washed up onto the beach. He snapped open his Swiss Army knife, severed the line from the rock, and coiled it up and tossed it into the tired little craft.
“Get in and I’ll push it out until we’re clear of the breakers,” Sam said.
Remi checked her backpack again to make sure that it was sealed tight, the camera safe in the waterproof bag, before helping push the boat a few feet into the water and climbing in.
Sam waited until another wave surged in and heaved the tender away from the sand, turning his back to the incoming surf as it broke over him. Lights from shore swept the beach as soldiers followed their path along the rocks. The bottom fell away from Sam’s feet and he climbed aboard and, after a concerned look at the pre-1960s outboard, jerked the cord to start the engine.
Nothing.
He tried again and was rewarded with a feeble cough and puff of exhaust.
“Remi. Grab the oars and row us farther out. This might take a while.”
As she complied, he didn’t need to turn to face her to read her expression. Instead, he focused on the outboard, which finally sputtered to noisy life on the eighth try.
“There. Told you it wouldn’t be a problem.”
The moonlight glinted off the gold scarab hanging from Remi’s neck as she peered into the gloom, where she could barely make out the sound of men yelling to one another. “I’d put it into gear because we’re still in range . . . and will be until we can’t see the shore.”
As if to underscore her point, slugs splashed into the water behind them, followed by the sharp report of automatic rifle fire.
“Let’s hope nobody’s got a night vision scope. Keep your head down,” he said, and then goosed the throttle. He was rewarded by a groan as the motor almost died; then it revved and the boat surged forward over the small waves. More gunfire slapped into the sea around them, frustrated volleys rather than well aimed, and soon the noise of the gunfire receded as the little craft bounced its way north.
“How far?” Remi asked.
Sam pulled a small waterproof GPS from his backpack, powered it on, and squinted at the screen.
“Mile and a half due north. Now we’ll be racing the Cubans’ ability to get a helicopter into the air. If they’re as mañana about that as about other things, we should make it. It’s almost one a.m. on a weekday, and we shouldn’t show up on radar. I like our odds.”