It rained.
The anticipated downpour beat against shutters of the old buildings like a demon seeking entrance and sent torrents of water boiling down the streets’ open gutters. Even the coquí were silenced by the intensity of the deluge Jason knew would last half an hour at best.
Covered by a recently purchased poncho, Jason reached the point where the old city’s fortifications began a steep rise above the street. He was thankful to note that the cuts in the razor wire from the previous night had not been detected. He stopped in shadows to reach under his rain gear to make sure the three pots from the garden store were dry. Then he looked through the curtain of rain at the row of rooftops. The deluge had chased their nocturnal occupants inside, at least for the moment.
But they would be back shortly after the rain stopped.
On the street below, a blond in a black dress entered the bodega across from Calle Luna 23. Used to a familiar clientele, the chubby, white-haired proprietor, owner, sole waiter, and, most importantly, cashier was surprised to see her. Surprised and delighted. She was by far the most attractive customer he had enjoyed for some time. In fact, he thought she might have been with a tour group that had briefly visited his establishment yesterday. It was unlikely he would forget the blond hair, the full figure. And the eyes, pools of green that reminded him of the water just off the island’s coast before the sandy bottom fell away. It was enough to make a man weep that he was not twenty years younger.
He wiped his hands on an apron, smiled, and indicated one of the two tables that had hastily been moved in from the street and now crowded the bistro’s already-small space, which included a tiny kitchen visible in the rear. She had seemed interested by some feature of the house across the street, but she turned, sat, unslung her purse from her shoulder, and ordered a Caribe, sipping the local beer as she studied the menu.
Was she dining alone, the owner asked?
As a matter of fact, she was.
He tried not to show his surprise. Only an unromantic gringo would miss the opportunity to dine with such a magnificent creature.
An angry rattle of cookware from the rear told him his wife, the cook, was tuned in to the conversation.
Under the scowling eyes of his spouse, the owner apologized that most of his customers were locals and, therefore, he had not had the bill of fare printed in English. Perhaps she would allow him to translate some of the house’s specialties?
He did so, leaning over her shoulder to point out each entree. His enthusiasm might have been attributed to the view down the front of her dress. He took the extra time to tell her the cocina criolla, the local cuisine, was a blend of Spanish, Taino Indian, and American cooking. Only an angry explosion of Spanish from the kitchen put an end to his explanation.
She ordered the chicken and rice soup, grilled fish with a mojo isleño sauce, and a side of plantains fried with rum. She deferred a choice of dessert but did order another Caribe.
As he turned to hand her order to the chef, he noted the customer was again looking intently at the building across the street. He was tempted to explain what strange neighbors lived there and their peculiar comings and goings, but an admonition from the kitchen to tend to his business dismissed the thought.
“Cabra viejo!” his wife snorted as he reluctantly turned his attention to arriving customers.
On the rooftop, Jason’s BlackBerry vibrated. He removed it from a pocket. “Check” was the only word he spoke. Judith was in place.
Holding the penlight in his teeth, he fumbled with the front plate of the air-conditioning unit on the first house. It came free with a clatter Jason could only hope was covered by the drum of rain on the flat roof. Careful to shield the clay pot from the downpour, he inserted it into the mechanism’s housing, making certain it was close to the fan that sucked fresh air into the unit.
Leaving the front plate leaning against the unit, he moved to the next two roofs, Number 23 and the one beyond, and repeated the procedure. At the last, he produced a cheap cigarette lighter and touched the flame to his improvised fuse. He made sure it was lit before moving back to Number 23, setting that fuse alight and then the next.
Then he returned to Number 23 and waited in the shadows cast by the housing of the stairwell to wait.