by Ben English
Seeing them together, he noticed the mesh of capabilities. Previously he’d thought of Alonzo as the planner and Flynn as the operator, but now he realized they were both dangerous. And there was something in Flynn’s movements tonight, something extra, an edge that hadn’t been there when they’d fought in London.
The Importance of a Good Meal
“He’s fighting hot, like he’s angry,” Alonzo said to Nicole as the two of them unloaded takeout bags in the dining room adjoining the crow’s nest. “That’s the best way I can explain it. Jack’s always been a pretty steady guy, and you know how he is in a tight situation. Just gets colder and colder.”
“Tonight was different?” she asked.
“No kidding. He’s acting like a midshipman on first leave. There was a lot of violence there, Nicole. No balance. Extra motion. Not much, but enough to put him off his game. Has he rested at all since L.A.?”
“He said he slept on the plane.”
They were joined by the major. “Thought you said you were fetching meat pies for supper tonight?” She began to pluck at the food.
Ian and Steve, drawn by the smell of rice and pulled pork, joined them. “Where’s Jack?” asked Ian.
Alonzo shrugged. “Last I saw, in women’s underwear.” He frowned absently. “I mean, in lingerie. Running through the middle of the market.” All eyes were on him. “You know what I mean. I need to eat something, right now. Crazy-low blood sugar.”
Nicole smiled brightly. “Eat up, everybody. “Vern and Mack are taking chow on base tonight, so there’s plenty for us.” She started to make up a plate for Jack, but he appeared at her elbow a few seconds later.
“Great night for a run,” he said. “Plenty of police out tonight, keeping all us tourists safe.”
No one wandered back to the table in the main conference room. Either they pulled chairs in or propped themselves against the wall. Nicole sat cross-legged on the floor where she could observe everyone but still enjoy her food.
She liked dinner with the team best of all. It was pretty much the only down-time their schedule allowed. The new woman, the major, was getting along famously with the team, though Nicole gathered there had been something of a rocky start in Paris. And the major went out of her way to pull a chair near Alonzo, she noticed.
Jack waited until everyone else was settled before approaching the table. He barely had time to take a place before someone asked, “So, Jack, what do you think of this?”
Nicole smiled to herself. That’s how it started. So much for family dinner. Back to the family business.
Ian spoke first. “The money trail is hot. I contacted half a dozen bank officers in Zurich with histories of financing construction deals for shell companies owned by Raines. All in all, he’s ready to swing over a billion dollars toward deals in North America and Europe, and that’s just quick-start/no-bid money. “
“What’s that mean?” asked Alonzo.
“If something catastrophic happens, like another 9/11, then critical infrastructure has to be replaced immediately—think water supplies, freeways, airports—and governments can’t wait around for the lowest bid to come in. They’re going to have contracts ready to go, to rebuild as soon as possible. Raines has positioned himself to sail in and save the day. ”
Jack thought about that a moment. “Keep digging. There’s going to be a government angle. Check any current congressional appropriations bills in the U.S. that have emergency construction funds earmarked for any of his companies. So he’s ready to rebuild; makes him look like a model citizen.”
He looked for something to drink. “What about the man himself? Anything today that we didn’t already know?”
Nicole let the others work on their food. “Where do you want us to start? According to his publicist, this past week he presided over a board meeting in Dubai, where he was seen by over three hundred people.”
“What about as a kid? What was he like?”
Nicole brought up a series of scrolling images on the wall display, showing the age progression of Alex Raines.
“After his parents were granted asylum, young Aleks had a few problems adjusting to life in the States. Originally they put him in a public school, but there was a language barrier; he was also physically smaller than his classmates. Didn’t stop him from getting into a lot of physical confrontations.”
“He was a fighter,” said Alonzo. “A little guy. Didn’t want to get picked on.”
“A psychologist at the school didn’t make a specific diagnosis, but noted that he adapted quickly, learned English without a tutor, and didn’t really display any evidence of the slightest conscience or sense of regret. The same psychologist, the only report I found, mentioned that in the beginning his behavior was marked by a complete lack of empathy, and that he exhibited both antisocial and narcissistic personality disorders.
“She suspected that young Aleks perceived himself as abandoned, although his parents obviously spent time with him and loved him very much.
“At the end of his first semester at the school, he really seemed to turn the corner. Grades were up, English was fluent, and he’d even gathered a group of friends around himself.”
Nicole paused. “This is where the report gets a little odd. At the end of the semester, three children the same age as Aleks were murdered. The odds are they knew each other. The victims were bullies in the school, but there is no record of them crossing disciplinary paths with Aleks. Another child in Aleks’ class was held responsible, but the juvenile records are sealed and no soft copy exists.”
Steve spoke up. “What do you want to bet that no hard copy exists either, what with all the closet-cleaning this guy’s been doing lately?”
Nicole nodded. “We can only infer that he was involved, but it looks that way. The following semester, his parents relocated to the San Francisco Bay area, and Aleks was enrolled in a very expensive boarding school. Where he was very popular. Student body president during both junior and senior years, president of science club, captain of rugby team.”
“A fighter,” repeated Alonzo.
“Did he ever exhibit a pattern,” asked Jack, “at such an early age, of controlling others through charm and manipulation?”
“You’re asking if he fits a sociopathic profile,” stated Ian. “He does.”
Jack looked at Steve. “Any luck on finding his tech angle?”
“Well, I know for sure what it’s not. I know for sure he hasn’t built a giant photovoltaic cell anywhere in the city, like the Illuminatus Tower. For one thing, the power grid won’t support it.”
“You’re right.” Jack leaned back. “I keep thinking about something Raines’ own father used to say, ‘Think big, then think little’. What if Raines is executing his plans in the same way? The next attack might be—”
“Wait, what?” said Alonzo. “That’s actually on record? ‘Think big, then think little’?”
“It’s in there someplace. I’ll show you in a bit. Just trying to get inside this guy’s head.” Jack took a bite of food. “What else do we know about him?”
Silence. Then Nicole said, “He’s a foodie.”
“What?” Ian blinked. “I missed that in the profile.”
Jack looked surprised, so she continued. “He loves to cook. All his offices have a full kitchen, and when he finds an ingredient he likes he imports it to the different offices he works out of, all over the world. Doesn’t matter where it’s from. His idea of a vacation is whipping up breakfast or lunch for his executive staff. Most of the internal events at his companies involve food—team building, let’s-cook-an-omelet-together stuff.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Alonzo.
“That’s not in any of his files,” said Ian. “Where’d you get it?”
“Don’t you guys read People magazine?”
Ian started to roll his eyes, but Jack said, “That’s not bad. And you say he imports his favorite ingredients to all his offices?”
“He sends th
e food wherever he’s staying.”
Jack thought a moment. “Let’s get a copy of the incoming inspection invoices for his kitchen in the Illuminatus Tower.”
Steve snapped his fingers. “Cross-reference it with shipments of exotic ingredients to his other offices. You know, Cuba keeps all its shipping records online now. Super vulnerable to hacking.”
“Hooray for progress.”
Major Griffin wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. “But why is Raines even in Cuba? Any specific grudge against the Cuban President? Any reason in his past personal or business history for an attack here?”
Alonzo agreed. “It’s not like he’s Armando Lopez. You don’t see Raines setting up drug labs out in the hills near Santiago.”
Nicole was watching Jack closely, and saw it there, just for a moment. A flare of anger, a blink-quick tightening around his eyes and a frown. Then the microexpression was gone.
“We need to verify that intel fast,” he said, gesturing with his fork. “If Lopez has set up a new processing plant, he’s on the islands, or close. Wouldn’t be beyond him to try something during the inauguration. You’re right, he hates Espinosa.”
“Not too crazy about us, either,” added Alonzo. “Major, the last time we visited Cuba we, ah, revoked Mr. Lopez’s visa and nuked his passport.”
“He’s deeply embedded in the United Kingdom, as well,” she replied. “More than half the illegal narcotics entering the country use his couriers.”
“So what’s your plan?” Jack asked Ian.
The bespectacled man worked his mouth around a pulled pork sandwich. “I’ll cross-ref everything from our previous mission here with the intel that the Bureau has worked up on the internal drug trade in Cuba. Might have to play a round of golf with the Head of the National Police tomorrow, after the inaguration.” His eyes twinkled.
Jack grinned back. “Perfect, but make it a round of miniature golf.” Time was not their friend. “But we all need some kind of break,” he said, half to himself, half to Nicole. Before she could take the conversation in that direction, he looked back at Ian. “Pete will be here tonight, get him on it. Have him check on the mob’s progress in rebuilding their base here in the islands, he can work that angle.
“But stay focused. This goes for everyone: dig at your leads, gather intel, but stay focused on finding Alex Raines. There aren’t enough of us to walk every old lady across every street in Havana.”
Alonzo got a second plate of food. “What about the syringe of blood we got tonight? I don’t know what else was in that needle—might have corrupted whatever we pulled, but is it worth a look?”
Jack thought for a moment. “You put it in a cooldown box? Good. We need to start examining it before the serum fully separates.” He looked at Ian. “Does the FBI have a mobile lab set up yet?”
“Of course. With the Vice President and other VIPs in town for the inauguration? It’s in the American Interests Section, in the new building. We can get access to the full lab any time, but the techs won’t know what they’re looking for without full disclosure from us, and frankly, we’re not sure what to look for. We need someone who’s already dealt with this. To be honest with you, there’s nobody in-country that we can trust, who’s seen this before.”
“You think we need Irene Archer.”
Ian nodded. “We need Irene Archer. She’s already sent us copies of her preliminary reports, including her lab work, but none of us really know how to read it well enough to draw conclusions.”
“If we use the QSST to fly her in, she can be here by 2 AM. If she takes a commercial flight –”
Steve was quickest with the numbers. “Noon tomorrow, Jack. Earliest arrival, if she flies out of LAX or Orange.”
Alonzo grinned. “She’s going to like the QSST.”
Both men spoke at once. “I’ll call her,” they said.
The major snapped her fingers. “That reminds me,” she said to Alonzo, “The woman you had me add to the persons of interest list, she went through security at LAX this morning. Her plane is due to land in…thirty minutes.”
“Where’s she staying?” asked Alonzo.
“All the way out in Varadero, because everything in the city is booked. She’s going to have some difficulty when she gets there; her passport uses her married name, Weston, but all her credit cards have her as Mercedes Adams. The airport already cancelled her car rental, and she probably has no idea.”
Nicole watched Jack all through this exchange.
“Did she use an online agent?” he asked, intent on his food. At the major’s affirmation, he continued. “Okay, let’s take advantage of our anonymity. Upgrade her to the Hotel Nacional, and send a limo to pick her up at the airport.”
“Jack’s right,” Alonzo said. “No rental car. We need to curtail her movements, keep her observable.”
Steve was confused. “Wait, who are we talking about?”
“A lot of that research data I brought back from L.A. came from her,” Jack began, and finished his food. “Raines had men in her house two nights ago to eliminate her and tie up his research trail. There may be some connection between this woman and Raines, we just haven’t figured that out yet.
“Also,” he added, “Keep your distance. She’s a freelance photographer.” Ah, that explained it. Everyone knew the rule limiting media contact.
But Nicole had seen enough to read him right. Alonzo might have picked it up as well. Jack was hell to play poker with. He had no giveaways; no secrets, no flicker of concealment. He was smooth, blank, and unconcerned, which is exactly what tipped her off. Jack was a reasonably competent actor, but at that particular moment his complete lack of expression was as natural and believable as a rhinoceros trying to squeeze into a champagne flute.
A Little Less Lent, a Little More Mardi Gras
She rose early, for some reason. Whether by force of habit, a desire to see pre-dawn, tourist-free Havana, or operating subconsciously on an ill-defined, insanely misplaced theory that the only way to beat jetlag was to one-up it, Mercedes found herself running sprint intervals southward on the Avenue De Italia.
It had rained during the night, and everything in the quiet, warm dark glistened, cleanly. It was a very pretty city, she reflected. Had once been even more beautiful, and would be again, one day soon. Her thinnest digital camera rode in a sheath on her bicep, and from time to time she’d stop, make a dozen pictures, and then continue before her heart rate dropped.
The snaps were mostly for fun. She didn’t have much time today, but if the pictures of the inauguration went well, she’d be back later in the week for a Goodwill Games shoot, and she’d have time to visit the Avenue de Italia again. It always helped to have practice shots of a place. Never hurt to be prepared, and her library of possible shoot locations needed to be fed. Mercedes had never been to Cuba.
One of the best ways to get to know a city (or to find oneself mugged) is to jog through it in the middle of the night or the irritatingly early morning.
She circled left and buttonhooked around the Capitolio building, stretching as she watched several crews of workers crawling over and around the giant dome with spotlights, either searching for terrorists or arguing about how to best illuminate the imposing structure, even though the actual inauguration would take place under a noon sun. Which hadn’t quite risen, although as Mercedes ran north on the Paseo de Marti, the grey dome shifted a shade or two towards white against the growing pearly shine of the sky. The stars were gone.
Even more carpenters, workmen, and security teams cluttered the broad stone stairs leading to the entrance. A somewhat hasty-looking podium had been erected overnight, looking very Presidential even as the paint dried. Hopefully Espinosa would remember not to lean against it as he spoke. Rumor had it the construction went up at the last minute, under intense scrutiny, to avoid some kind of bomb or sabotage or something.
She made several practice photos, smiled at a team of men wearing FBI summerwear, and tried to decide where the sun
would be during the speech, and where she could set up for a good shot. The flight from L.A. was long enough for her to watch a few of Espinosa’s previous public speeches on her computer, to get a feel for his rhythm and style. He spoke in threes. He favored looking toward his lower left. Espinosa often tilted his head before smiling and posing rhetorical questions, and he always picked someone in the audience that he felt he had to personally convince; this person would get the full benefit of his expectant, canny look: I-know-what-you’re-thinking-and-let-me-help-you-further-understand. Very Reagan.
The Paseo de Marti took her north, through the center of the Prado colonial quarter, with its filigreed balconies and fully restored, lush coloring. These buildings had character, and yet felt very connected and part of a greater picture. By the time she was halfway to the bay, she’d stopped so many times to shoot that her heart rate had dropped completely out of the run zone. She made several shots of the red façade covering the Hotel Parque Central (should stay there, next time) and forced herself to stow the camera and get back to the serious business of running.
The clouds took shape overhead, lent a golden definition and a keen scarlet edge by the dawn. By the time the actual sun showed up, Mercedes was running west again, along the Malecón, back towards her own hotel. She had to physically resist the urge to remove her camera and make pictures of the bay, the curly-que lampposts, and the Cuban people beginning to move along the edge of their city.
It wasn’t too difficult to break a clean sweat, even with a breeze off the bay, and by the time she neared the Cascade Fountain near the Hotel Nacional, she was dripping. A spontaneous-looking flower market was coming together at the base of the fountain near the sidewalk, and Mercedes made several pictures of the women and occasional man setting up their canopies and spreading their wares. One shot in particular had a bit of promise: an elderly woman filling vase after vase with water from the pool at the base of the limestone cascade. Dozens of miniature streams and cataracts coursed down the natural fingers of the fountain, framed and held by ivy in full bloom.
