Orphans.

Chapter Seventeen.

Something about the reception that greeted him at Havana International airport alerted Da Silva that his homecoming marked a clear departure from some of the receptions he had received in the past. He had expected a chauffeured limousine to collect him from the foot of the plane, but instead he had to queue like other passengers at passport control, and the heat which he had grown unaccustomed to, mingled with the sound of children milling around, had soured his mood, and shortened his temper.

The swarthy individual who took him aside when he showed his passport had also annoyed him, by guiding him by the arm into a dingy looking room with graffiti and ordering him curtly to wait here. The man had then disappeared to God knows where?

As Da Silva glanced uneasily at his Rolex, he discovered that the wait had degenerated into a nerve racking forty-five minutes, in which each minute passed with
inexorable slowness. He wondered what it all meant? When the man returned, he was unsmiling.

"Where have you been?" Da Silva snapped.

The man muttered something about the telephone, and said: "Let's go."

He led Da Silva out into the car park and pointed out his vehicle. A battered looking range rover. Where was the stretch limo?

"What is this?" Da Silva said, a distant touch of unease reaching his brain.

As he climbed into the vehicle, he noticed a military looking vehicle fall in behind them, the soldiers fingering their carbines and eying him with hostile looks. His driver remained uncommunicative on the way into the city.

The traffic was as usual crazy. Car drivers beeped each other, and constantly cut across one another. The color of Havana always struck the senses: the crumbling art Deco houses, colorful people offering cigarros, lively jazz clubs and colorful classic cars.
The building they pulled up in front of was not known to Da Silva. It had a grey, imposing façade that did nothing to improve his mood, though he guessed it was a building owned by the Ministry of the Interior. It definitely was not colorful.

The soldiers walked along each side of him, making him feel distinctly uneasy. Their silence gave him a strange sense of foreboding. They showed him to a room where he was once again left on his own. He had a feeling they were on guard outside. He wondered had something happened he was unaware of. A coup. A military takeover. A fall of government.

When the door opened he was staring down at his shoes dismally and he barely looked up, but a voice from the past interrupted his thoughts. His immediate superior. The man's voice lacked his usual cordiality, but the bearded countenance of Felix was still the same.

Da Silva nearly shouted in joy. "Felix, what the hell is going on?" He explained how he had been treated since he had arrived home, and the tall, bearded man heard him out. His expression was grave. When he spoke his voice was only mildly apologetic. "Did you accomplish your mission?"

Da Silva grinned and indicated the attaché case. "It's all on disk."

"Open it, please." The voice was as cold as an arctic tundra.

Da Silva frowned again, but obeyed the order. His thick wrists grappled with the key and lock, and then he snapped open the case. He handed the disks over to Felix.

Felix palmed the disks and eyed him thoughtfully. When he spoke again his voice was still cold. "We sent three men to Ireland. Only one returned. How is that?"

The grin slid off Da Silva's face. Was that what this was all about? His two henchmen. "They were caught," he explained. "Nothing I could do. I was lucky to escape myself."

"You were up against tough intelligence, were you?"

Strange question, thought Da Silva. He wondered uneasily had they somehow found out about the kids. Did they know about Lir? His reply was cautious when he made it. "Yeah. Very tough."