Broken Odyssey

By Noël Carroll

Carl McCormic longs to see Cuba, the land of his mother’s birth. Opportunity arrives in a beautiful young woman who only recently fled the island. Anger smoldering within her, she wants him to smuggle her back in – to destroy the powerful father she left behind!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Noël Carroll
• Release date: Aug 3, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452353289

Noël Carroll

About The AuthorsFor years the husband-and-wife team, Noel Carroll*, has published novels and short stories in two genres: thrillers and science fiction. A third genre, humor/satire, permitted them moments of fun and mischief. Although unwilling to abandon fiction, they steadily gravitated toward political commentary, first in opinion editorials and then in a full-length non-fiction work (“If You Can Keep It”). All their novels, short stories and essays have received highly favorable reviews, many being awarded five-stars. They currently make their home in Ponce Inlet, Florida.(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEErCnUycaE)*a nom de plume (Noel and Carol also write under the names John Barr and N.C. Munson.)

Book preview

Broken Odyssey

"Masterfully engineered tale

First class dialogue, spine tingling action"

Book Pleasures Reviews

"Excellently crafted

Keeps you on the edge of your seat"

Simi-Gen

Also From Noel Carroll:

Novels

Circle of Distrust

Accidental Encounter

Never By Blood

Starve The Devil

The Exclusion Zone

Coming Soon: A Long Reach Back

Short Stories

(soon to be the anthology, Carroll’s Shorts)

Slipping Away

The Galapagos Incident

Silent Obsession

Recycled

The Collection

Butterflies

Stairway Through Agony

Beyond Sapiens

End of The Beginning

By Invitation Only

Humor-Satire

Hey, God; Got A Minute? (as John Barr)

Soul Food

Political

If You Can Keep It

Reviews Of Other Noel Carroll Novels

Never By Blood

Strap on your shoulder harness and get ready for a non-stop thriller

Keep(s) you guessing until its final pages

Descriptive style…fluid pace

"To all readers who enjoy fast paced action,

international intrigue and suspense, with a dash of romance."

Scribes World

All the hallmarks of a great whodunit, international thriller

A multi-layered exercise in what excellent writing is all about

A most amazing read

Midwest Book Review

An excellent out of this world romp

Chillingly believable

Gives this skeleton some meat that most mysteries don't usually take on

Sime~Gen

Nicely paced, well written

Keeps the reader guessing … well worth reading

A. A. Showcase

Starve The Devil

"Quick-witted writing style.

Keeps nails short and edges of seats warm"

eBooks NBytes

"Not sure what worries me more, that I can actually

see something like this happening in the world today, or

that I understand the president’s action and partially agree."

Roundtable Reviews

The Exclusion Zone

"Hang on to your hats, as this book will blow you away!"

"Picks up the reader from the first page"

"Non-stop action plot"

Midwest Book Review

"A fast paced thriller with a mesmerizing arc"

"Knits characters and scenarios expertly together into a woven tapestry

of an international political thriller"

eBooks NBytes

Broken Odyssey

By Noel Carroll

Published by Noel Carroll on Smashwords

ISBN: 978-1-4523-5328-9

Also available in print under ISBN: 0-9658702-3-5

or ISBN-13: 9780965870238

Copyright © 2003 by Noel Carroll

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes: This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Cover by KC Creations

Acknowledgements

Our thanks to the CIA gentleman who took the time to point out the more subtle do’s and don’ts of the intelligence community. Thanks also to Mark H. Johnson of the Abbott Bioresearch Center for his insight in understanding a complex scientific concept critical to our story.

*********

PROLOGUE

The first thing you see is the bloody fingerprints, a cover smeared with them. Flip to any page and chances are you’ll see them again—blood must have been in this guy’s face all the time he was writing the diary, blood mixed with ocean salt then baked by a tropical sun. There was artistry in how it melted into the light tan of the cover.

Alex brushed his fingers over the diary’s surface as if in appreciation of the delicacy with which its contents, gruesome to say the least, must be handled. In time he moved to massage his unshaven face, a face that mirrored a private anguish that the diary’s young author, Carl McCormic, would never know.

If the contents of the diary were to become known, even to others within the Company, the shit would hit more fans then he could count. Alex was sure his younger partner knew this as well. Like himself, Noel would want the thing squelched, and if that meant squelching the author at the same time, then that’s the way it would have to be.

Who would know? Only three people in the world were aware of the diary’s existence: himself, Noel, and the Cuban who found it, a Company man who was smart enough to pocket the damn thing before anyone saw it. That diary was trouble, big trouble, and if, God forbid, the public got wind of it, tons of fingers would point to the Company and scream bloody murder—dammit, it always worked out that way! And the irony is, the United States wasn’t even involved.

Damn!

Thinking of the father—who still had to be dealt with—Alex gave a quick shrug of dismissal. Like his errant son, Pat McCormic had brought it on himself. An ex-cop, he should have known better. He’s lucky others were willing to hush it up. With a scowl that made no attempt to hide his contempt, Alex stared at the closed door beyond which sat a tired and defeated old man. Captain Pat, they called him in Philadelphia, the Pat a clumsy play on pat-ience, something the guy was supposed to know nothing about. McCormic would have to be told something, but what? How could blame be hurled at him unless he was also told what his son had done?

There was no confirmation from Cuba as yet, nothing to indicate how its aging government was reacting to all this, whether they were still in shock or planning revenge—it was this last possibility that bothered Alex most of all: The possibility of a reaction from Cuba was good argument for passing the diary along. The Company did not like to be blindsided.

Alex turned to the beginning and began to read, as if in doing so again he could change what was there. As before, he chuckled at the writing, tiny with each page being used twice. Short on paper, McCormic had turned the diary ninety degrees and had patiently written over what he recorded earlier. Smart! He used a pen in one direction and a pencil in the other, thus making each stand out, easier to read. Only thing he didn’t figure on was the seawater.

And, of course, the blood, some of which had to be hers.

Still not ready to bring in the older McCormic, Alex continued to scan the pages, seeing but not seeing, or at least not wanting to see. His brow paled with the pressure he exerted upon it as his eyes touched on the first mention of Nicola. Beautiful Nicola. Beautiful, troubled and deadly as hell.

1

THE DIARY

The delirium comes and goes, and it is not always clear to me what state I’m in, lucidity or fever. I think maybe it’s slowing down, the fever, I mean, but this isn’t all that reassuring. It could mean I’m entering a new phase, a more unpleasant one. Certainly my wound is no better; the angry red saucer that surrounds what I can see of it continues to spread, even as I cleanse it with sea water and apply what remains of our liberated antiseptic.

I worry that I won’t get all this down, that before I’m able to do so I’ll run out of either paper or life. In my current state of mind, I view the former with as much tragedy as I do the latter, since there would then be no way of telling the why of what happened, what it was that led Nicola and me to this. You see, we were driven by separate demons.

If I appear to write nonsense through any of this, or if I ramble with no apparent end in sight, please understand the conditions under which this story is being put to paper. Facing death is not the problem, I’ve gotten used to the idea, even accepted the inevitability of it. More relevant is the off-and-on delirium brought about by three days of a tropical sun, relentless tossing by unmerciful waves, and not enough food or water. I guess the gunshot wound figures in there as well.

At least I think it’s been three days. It’s not so easy to keep track of time.

A numbness has all but replaced the pain, and with it has come inner peace. My mind is no longer moved by what will soon be imposed upon it. There is no rescue effort underway; I’d be naïve to think otherwise. More likely is that no one, not Pat, not the CIA and not the Cubans, know I made it this far.

But I dwell too much on the future when what I’m aiming at is the past.

I suppose it began with my college graduation. Getting to that point had made me a coiled spring ready to burst through to a world not found in books. I wanted to experience life, the best and the worst of it, and I wanted it now. It was more than the restlessness of youth, it was my mother’s death in an automobile accident four months earlier, and what that did to me.

My mother kept me in college by her gentle and persuasive will. In return, as my conscience is not shy to remind me, I gave her abuse. She was Cuban, and she had come to the United States as a result of Castro’s revolution in the late fifties—I grew up with Spanish as a second language, and Castro as a first hate. My mother’s desire to show me her—and thus my—past wore on me, and I guess this showed in how little I paid attention. This was the United States; I was about to burst forth upon opportunities that even in pre-Castro days could not be found in the old country. She was first generation; I was second; she didn’t understand. Then she died before I was old enough or man enough to tell her I was wrong.

So much did I love and miss her that all things Cuban began to take on a new meaning to me. Suddenly I wanted to go there, to see where she lived, to see how she lived if that were still possible. Pat, my father, was dead set against any of it, his way of dealing with the same loss—they were wired, those two.

My father is a retired Philadelphia police captain, and he’s a friend as well as a father, a good friend. He’s big—at six-four and two hundred thirty pounds, he beats me by three inches and fifty pounds. To me, however, he’s always been a pushover. Oh, I had to watch my step while growing up, but most of the time I could lick him with words before he would even think of putting his enormous hands to work. He’s pushing sixty-two and age has given him a paunch, but his massive upper body commands as much respect now as it did during his thirty-seven years on the streets of Philadelphia.

I get the feeling sometimes that he was on the streets too long, the way he talks, I mean, but he’s still one of the smartest men I know. He even looks smart; his dark bushy hair shows just enough white above the ears to import a sense of distinction. If dressed properly, which doesn’t often happen with Pat, he could pass as the head of a large corporation.

Pat was retired less than a year when my mother died, and keenly aware of how unlikely I was to take any kind of career seriously at the moment, he threw out this idea that we take a year off and go on a sailing odyssey. To me, it was a no-brainer. I jumped at the chance, and soon, using his money, we took possession of a used sailboat, a forty-one foot Morgan sloop. We christened it the "Mary Lou," my mother’s Anglicized name. The grand plan was to sail to Florida then island hop all the way down to Venezuela. I argued for including Cuba as one of our stops, but got only angry looks from Pat. I dropped it then, but Pat knew it was still very much on my mind.

We picked up the boat in Annapolis then took off down the Intracoastal Waterway to Florida, an easy trip with nothing worse to show for it than sore muscles and a hangover or two. After a week of sampling the pleasures of Florida’s Gold Coast, we jumped across the Gulf Stream then worked our way through sun and emerald sea to Nassau. Nassau was where we met Nicola and where our odyssey began to fall apart.

2

What the hell?

I couldn’t believe it either. Two middle-aged men of medium height but heavy build, were manhandling the prettiest little thing I had ever seen, and in plain sight of a dozen only slightly curious gawkers. The men were struggling to get her to where a third stood by the open door of a large, black Mercedes, clean but well past its prime. According to Pat, who was more trained in observation than I, it had official tags.

There’s no way those guys are cops!

I agreed. They were barely presentable, each wearing a soiled T-shirt under faded green fatigues and each sporting at least a day’s beard. And they looked anything but professional in the way they were handling their victim. One was trying to grab her flailing legs while the other had such a tight grip on her hair that, in spite of the woman’s obvious determination, she cried out as much in pain as in protest. Still, she was determined that her attackers would suffer at least as much as she. Her small fists flew in all directions, and she belted out her rage using every foul Spanish word I knew—my mother was rarely shy about airing her emotions. She looked like a little girl, angry and indignant at not being allowed to have her way.

I was instantly attracted to this woman, so much so that for a moment I could do nothing but stare. She was a dark-haired, Latin beauty, her face a cross between classic and cute and her large eyes as dangerously inviting as some mythical siren. Her mouth turned downward at each end and seemed a small step away from falling into a pout. What finally got me moving was the tone of her voice. She was frightened as well as angry. This stinks, Pat!

I agree; let’s go. With that my oversized father took off on the run, his fists already forming what I knew would be a serious problem for anyone dumb enough to get in their way. It took me a few seconds to catch up.

Pat rarely wastes time in situations such as this. As soon as he was within range, he drove a fist into the stomach of the man holding the girl by her hair—he gasped for air and sank to the ground, releasing his grip on the way. The girl, rather than run for cover, spun around and kicked out with the unmistakable intent of eliminating any chance that creep had of producing children.

I saw the second attacker reach into his clothes, the bulge under his armpit telling me he was not going for identification. I reached him just as the gun came into view, and with the sight of it adding desperation to my anger, I rammed a fist into the center of his face. The gun dropped faster than he, but I kicked out at his falling body, wanting to make sure he stayed down—there was still a third man to deal with. I spun around to see where he was.

Pat’s boxing partner was down and in obvious pain, but Pat was not following up. In fact, he was not moving at all. He and the guy holding the car door were staring past me to something in the distance, an uncertain look on their faces. I followed their gaze and saw two policemen coming up fast, both of them neat and trim in the white and black uniforms so admired by tourists. One was a female almost as young as the woman we were in the process of rescuing.

It signaled the end of the fight, or at least the end of round one. Just the appearance of those uniforms sobered everyone, including Pat and me who were now fighting thoughts of official retribution.

With all parties in full cooperation and acting like children caught misbehaving, the unarmed policepersons attempted to sort out what happened. We claimed ourselves to be good Samaritans responding to a damsel in distress—orally flashing Pat’s background with the law added credibility to this plea, as did the stubborn refusal of our adversaries to give anything other than their names. The girl’s corroborating story backed us up, but I could see that she was anything but pleased to see the police. Curiously, she seemed to fear them as much as she did the trio who were molesting her.

According to her she was an innocent bystander attacked by evil men. In softly delivered testimony, she hinted that they were lecherous as well—seeing a face and a body that would tempt strong-willed men into instant infidelity, even the female policeman found that easy to believe. They decided our gun-toting friends were the ones to cart off to jail while we should be sent on our way.

The three of us, Pat, the girl and I, moved away as quickly as good manners allowed—for the moment, there was no question of her remaining with us. Although in no way buying the innocent tourist role she played to the police, I was warmed by her presence. And by the look of her as she struggled to keep up with Pat’s massive strides.

My guess at nineteen later proved to be correct, but she’d obviously been around long enough to know the effect she had on others, men in particular. She walked with her head high and her look defiant, and her stride was sensual and without hesitation. I saw her as about five feet, six and a bit on the thin side, but it was the right kind of thin; it helped promote that classical look. Her clothes were more young than classical, but they were arranged by a master artist who knew exactly what his audience wanted to see. She wore a soft yellow blouse with no sleeves and a black, patent leather belt that purported to hold up jeans that were already well supported by unblemished flesh. Sandals with one-inch heels gently encased her slender, heavily-tanned feet. The memory of this is mine forever, for I repeated that examination many times during our short retreat through the streets of downtown Nassau.

In silence and still burdened by doubt, we wound our way through back alleys to the Green Shutters, an attractive and well-attended restaurant down Parliament street on the south side of Nassau. We entered quickly then charmed a reluctant waitress out of a table in the rear. While waiting for drinks to arrive, my diplomatic, policeman father decided to go for answers.

Would you mind telling me what the fuck that was all about?

His words pierced the bubble I was creating for myself. For Christ’s sake, Pat, we haven’t even been introduced and already you’re swearing at the lady!

He gave me that burdened look that fathers often show their children then said, My apologies. I’m Peter McCormic; Pat to you. And that’s my son Carl. He paused and inclined his head in such a way that made it clear he expected her to respond in kind.

Nicola. Nicola Valente. It was said softly and with a hint of Spanish in her English. I could feel the spell deepening.

Okay. Now would you mind telling me what the fuck that was all about?

She laughed. I did too, in spite of myself.

Those men were trying to kidnap me.

"That much is obvious. Why were they trying to kidnap you?"

Her expression saddened as if Pat reminded her of something she would rather forget. You would not like to know.

Maybe not, but I think we earned the right to decide that for ourselves.

Her answer was evasive. I really thank you, both of you, for what you did. If it had not been for you, God knows where I would be right now.

Would they have hurt you? I finally joined the conversation.

She frowned, and her face turned bitter. Those people enjoy giving pain. They would kill me in an instant if they thought they could get away with it.

I could see Pat’s impatience growing. Why would they want to kill you?

She shook her head. Maybe later. I am too upset now. Seeing Pat about to object, she added in something close to a whisper, Please do not press me.

With that appeal, delivered with such compelling tenderness, we had little choice but to back off. Even so, we decided over lunch to go back to the police, ostensibly to volunteer ourselves as material witnesses. The truth, of course, was that Pat and I needed to know more about Nicola’s attackers, specifically, where they would be when the sun went down.

Why do you have to do this? The pleading tone reappeared in her voice.

Pat was not deterred. Those men are vicious, they have to be tucked away, for our sake if not yours.

In this part of the world, it is not wise to get involved. You are Americans; you do not understand. You expect everything to be cut up and dried.

Cut and dry. This was another of my brilliant attempts to join the conversation.

She stared at me with her mouth partly opened trying to decide whether I had just insulted her. I saw in that face an innocent child in need of protection. My protection.

What I mean is, down here you cannot expect people to act the way they do in the United States, especially not the police. We got away with our skins still attached to our bodies, and it is stupid to give them an opportunity to have at us again.

This time I did not correct her mangled try at an American expression, preferring instead to state what I thought was the obvious: But they’re in custody.

I meant the police! How do you know they have not changed their minds. They might at this very moment be looking for the three of us.

That got a frown out of my father. Frankly, that prospect doesn’t make me any less inclined to go back. The last thing I want is for Carl and me to become fugitives.

We could not convince Nicola, but at least she agreed to come along with us to the station. I guess I should have questioned her willingness to do so; she had no reason to follow us around, and she’d already made it clear how she felt about getting too close to the police. But had she not followed us, I might have followed her.

It turned out that Nicola was right; the police had gone through a change of heart. Not that we were about to be tossed into jail in place of the thugs; it was more that they were pissed that we had gotten them involved.

The three attackers had been released at the personal intervention of the Cuban ambassador. When Pat and I heard this we were aghast—Nicola did not seem surprised. We had fallen into something involving the Cuban government, armed agents of which had attempted to kidnap our lovely but mysterious friend. What we did not know was whether these thugs were acting officially or as everyday rapists—the latter, I could understand.

Another good question was why we were still in town after learning of the ambassadorial-level intervention. It was time to haul ass out of there before our battered friends remembered how much we screwed up their day. Anyone for heading back to the boat?

Pat agreed, and invited Nicola to come with us. To him she was a woman in need with us the only help available. I felt equally as noble, even if I did permit myself a stray thought about sleeping arrangements.

3

Anchored fifty yards from shore on the far side of the Nassau River, we were effectively alone. There were neighboring boats in the well-used anchorage but none close enough to present a threat. Tucked up against Paradise Island, it was, under normal circumstances, a pleasant place to be. Pat, Nicola and I were silhouetted against the soft white of the Mary Lou’s front deck, staring across the water at downtown Nassau.

My clothes are at the hotel. The way Nicola said this suggested a permanent loss. A casual shrug punctuated the statement. Pat had just recommended she camp aboard until we sorted things out.

They’re probably watching your room. I matched Nicola’s tone of finality, not much liking the thought of going back to town.

I think they are closer than that. I think they are out there right at this very moment, waiting to jump on top of us if we go ashore. Nicola’s face fell into a pout as she added, Especially since they know the police will do nothing to stop them.

Pat jumped in, and there was a smile on his face that I found myself resenting. We’ll be with you, Nicola. I don’t think they’ll pull anything with us around.

Nicola returned the smile. She had picked up on Pat’s attention, which, unlike myself, she correctly interpreted as fatherly. She was even warmed by it. It wasn’t until much later that I came to understand why.

I do not know if it is worth the risk.

Well, if you don’t get your suitcase, what are you going to wear? You’re too small to fit into anything Carl or I have, and too pretty to walk around naked.

Still thinking of my father as some kind of competition, I did not appreciate the comment. But Nicola took it well, even blushed a little through her well-tanned skin. I smothered my annoyance as I said, If we’re going to do it, we should wait until morning. Roaming around Nassau at night isn’t good for your health, even if you don’t have three thugs waiting in the shadows. I had been scanning the shore with the ship’s binoculars, seeing nothing more menacing than an occasional man or woman moving along the street. But having been taught by Pat, I knew the danger in what we could not see.

Pat agreed. Okay, morning it is. In the meantime you can fill us in—I don't like the idea of flying blind. He motioned us to join him in the cockpit, where he leaned against a cockpit cushion then made a show of resting his feet on the ship’s wheel, the position letting Nicola know he was ready for a long talk. I took a seat across from him, leaving Nicola between the two of us.

Pat’s right, Nicola. If, as you say, they’re still out there, we need to know more about them.

She hesitated, but you could see she wanted to confide in someone. The girl had a burden; something heavy. I guess I should have been alert to how desperate this could make her, but her looks made it difficult to be objective.

I am a Cuban national. She hesitated after blurting that out, her eyes searching ours for a reaction.

Although I had already suspected as much, my interest deepened at this mention of her nationality. I came close to giving Pat a look, one that would have triggered another round in my battle to visit my mother’s homeland. Did the gods understand this need of mine better than Pat? Thus distracted, I did not give thought to the question I threw at her. And you’re in the US. illegally?

Pat's smile was not flattering. Carl, this is the Bahamas; remember?

Now it was my turn to blush. Our pretty little visitor was turning me into an adolescent.

I was warmed by her attempt to ease my embarrassment. "Actually, I am in the Bahamas illegally. I escaped from Cuba; smuggled myself out on..." Then she paused.

On what?

On a government plane. She tossed out the words carelessly, as if we should have known.

Pat looked skeptical. How did you manage to wangle a ride on a government plane?

She looked into Pat’s eyes then turned to do the same to me. The doubt and mistrust were evident. My…father works for these people. I took advantage of that.

Her expression turned to fear, probably that we would now invite her to leave. Although I did not want that, I was far from happy. Taking on a hostile government was not part of our cruising plans. Then there was the chilling thought that the government controlling the area where we sat at anchor was more interested in pleasing the thugs than their victims.

Who is your father? Pat had been searching his memory for a Cuban official with the last name of Valente, one powerful enough to sway the Bahamian police. His question proved the search was unsuccessful.

Nicola was conspicuously evasive. I am not proud of my father. And to answer your real question, I do not have the legal use of his last name. He never made marriage with my mother. It would hurt his career, he said.

But, who is he?

Instead of answering she returned to that pout, which I now recognized was to make us feel we had crossed the bounds of privacy. As with every movement Nicola made, this appealed to me, and I found myself paying more attention to her than to what she said. Were it not for Pat, we would have learned nothing that night.

Finally aware of how little Pat was buying this, she changed her tactics. Please, you would know little of this man. And for me to reveal myself as his illegitimate child would only make him more difficult to deal with. Do you understand what I am saying?

I did, or I sure as hell wanted to. Pat was not so easily put aside, but at least he kept his voice low as he said, Look, little lady, if there’s a chance that we’re going to bump into those people in the morning, we’ve got to know more about them.

They will be afraid to do anything with both of you present. You said that already. She pointed at Pat.

Her confidence in us was flattering but I still had my doubts. It’s three against two, and that assumes they haven’t sent for reinforcements.

Three against three.

Our laugh was involuntary, but rather than show resentment, Nicola cocked her head to one side and raised her eyebrows as if to say, I know something you don’t know. I began to wonder if she were armed. If so I couldn’t imagine how a weapon could escape detection in that body paint she called jeans.

Okay, you take on those three guys while Carl and I run upstairs and snatch your suitcase. Just let us know when it’s safe to come down.

She maintained the haughty look as she responded with, I think I could show you the trick or two.

Like you did this afternoon?

The look now included a blush. That was different. They caught me by surprise. Besides, there were too many of them.

Well, let’s hope there won’t be more than three in the morning. Pat still held a smile on his face, but his eyes no longer joined in. Remembering that the three we knew about carried guns, I understood.

We put aside the matter of Nicola’s father, figuring that in time she would trust us enough to volunteer the answer. We also did not discuss what would happen after her suitcase was in hand. It was simply understood that she would come back to the boat. All three of us were pleased with that prospect.

Although the possibility of danger lurking on shore was difficult to ignore, we made the best of an uncomfortable situation and had a mini-party. Nicola jumped in as much as we, which made me marvel at her ability to so quickly brush aside what had to be a shitty day for her. Within minutes she was dominating the conversation with an unending stream of stories about life in Cuba. Although I loved hearing it, she struck me as being too good, too practiced, too intent on diverting us from what she feared we might ask should she pause for more than a breath of air. But I was powerless to resist either the stories or her charms, and instead of guiding her toward what Pat and I needed to know, I encouraged her with smiles and the occasional nod to keep it going.

The party ended on a sober note, a comment from Pat that we would have to keep watch during the night. Nicola offered to take a shift, but Pat declined, adding a smile to take away the suggestion that it was a matter of trust—which, of course, it was. Pat volunteered for the late shift.

The Mary Lou has two private cabins, a large one in the rear, which was Pat’s, and a smaller one in the front. Since it was too soon to suggest sharing

Reviews for Broken Odyssey

[writinghigh · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I doubt I’ll ever take a trip to Cuba, but the author team of Noel Carroll made me feel I were there in their thrilling new novel, Broken Odyssey.Carl McCormic, recent college grad, and his father, Pat, a retired Philadelphia police captain, decide to take a year off and go sailing. Both men needed time to mend. Carl’s mother, a Cuban immigrant, had recently passed away.Broken Odyssey is told in a first person narrative through Carl’s diary, written as he drifted alone at sea. He writes about the events that led to meeting Nicola, how he and Pat rescued her from Cuban thugs, and his unplanned trip into his mother’s homeland. He would help Nicola rescue her mother from her politically connected father.Carl is the reason I enjoyed this book. His voice makes me see and feel an island nation Americans are banned to visit. I got a flavor of Cuban life, its vibrant people, and the poverty so many of them endures as a backdrop to this political thriller.The novel is filled with interesting characters. Alex, the CIA agent is in charge of the McCormic case. His comments throughout the book give us some insight into the cat and mouse game Americans play with our Cuban neighbors. His Cuban counterpart, Tomas, shows us a man respectful of power while avoiding the trappings of abuse. Then there’s the enchantress. The author writes, “Nicola has had a difficult life, not in a material sense, but emotionally.” She’s beautiful on the surface, but beneath the beauty bubbled a troubled soul.Broken Odyssey is a page-turner. The author team goes to great lengths to delve into the minds of their characters and describe a Cuba most of us will never see. Like their previous book, Never by Blood, the reader is blessed with a thriller that can’t be resisted. I highly recommend Broken Odyssey.