Escape to Havana. Nick Wilkshire

in a place like this was troubling enough, but Charlie found it even more unsettling on the heels of his late-night discovery under his bedroom floor and he was trying not to let his mind wander over the possible ramifications as he sat in these inhospitable surroundings. Even Landon, who had no such worries and who had chatted throughout the drive west from Havana out to the prison, seemed subdued by the environment as they waited in silence. Prison Santa Ana was a minimum security facility, but from what Charlie had seen of the place so far, he hoped he never had to set foot inside a maximum security institution in this country.

      Both men jumped as the heavy metal door squeaked open. A middle-aged man was led to the other side of the table by a burly guard. After directing his prisoner into the chair, the guard secured the handcuffs to a thick iron ring welded onto the tabletop. The guard muttered something in Spanish and left the room.

      “Mr. Martin?” Charlie said, comparing the man across the table with the information from the file in front of him. He looked a decade older than his actual age, and as a successful hotelier, Charlie had pictured Tate Martin in a suit — or a nice polo and crisp chinos, at least — not the sweat-stained, light blue prison garb he was wearing.

      “You’re from the embassy?”

      “Charlie Hillier. And this is Drew Landon.” He slid his card across the table as Landon did the same.

      “Thank God,” Martin said with a sigh as he scanned the cards. “You’ve got to get me out of this hellhole.”

      Charlie saw the desperation in the man’s eyes and wanted to help.

      “Are you being mistreated?”

      Martin shrugged. “Isn’t everyone here? Look around.”

      “Why don’t we start with how you got here,” Charlie said, taking Martin’s answer as a qualified no. “We’ve read your file, but maybe you could expand a bit.”