“How’s the leg?”
“It hurts sometimes,” he said as they sat in the booth. “Only when it is cold. So, luckily never.” He laughed as the bartender brought him a daiquiri.
“This is truly a wonderful place,” she commented as they drank.
Juan nodded his thanks as the band finished the song. They took the applause with due modesty then started playing an original piece. His eyes looked at the cigar in her hand. “Do you still like them?”
Christine smiled. “You know me too well, Juan. How long have you had…?” she gestured at the surroundings.
“Long enough to regret not having it earlier,” the man said with a slight sorrowful smile. He sipped at his cocktail then furrowed his brow. “Christine, why are you here?”
She blinked. Out of all the questions, that was the one she was not, nor could ever have been, prepared for. “Station Master sent me. The Festival? The presidents?”
“Ah,” he nodded, “the old man did say he was going to send someone.” He shook his head slightly, dislodging strands of hair. “I would have thought he’d send someone else.” His hand moved of its own accord to fix the hair. “You must have done something really impressive to get back into his good graces.”
Christine was smiling, though it was forced, as her mind screamed at her to get out of the country. But she couldn’t. So she didn’t. Instead, “I need information.”
“That could have been arranged through Rafael.” Juan de Dios waved his hand, like shooing smoke away from his face. “What do you really want?”
“I told you. Information. Everything about the festival this year. Why President Sanderson is really here? Are the rumors true?”
“Rumors?” the old spy master chuckled. “My dear señora. All I have are rumors. Which one are you interested in? The one about President Sanderson trying to beat Clinton’s record for interns? Or, how about the Mexicans trying to buy land here? No?” He frowned slightly, his mind racing. Christine new how to play this: keep silent and let the man do all the work. She didn’t have to wait long. “Ah!” Juan said with a snap of the fingers. “I know! The rumors about what lies under Guantanamo Bay.”
“Juan,” she said with fake sorrow, “you know me to well. Please.”
“Well,” he began, after smiling at all in the room smugly, “the gringos have owned the Bay for years, bought originally to have a base in the Caribbean. Not good enough to have Puerto Rico, eh?”
“Spill it, old man.”
“Forgive me, por favor. What happened was that for a brief time during the Cold War, the Russians did something incredibly smart. Or stupid. Depending on who you ask.”
Christine had heard this before. Just before she had been exiled by Station Master, a drunkard at La Bodeguita had told her, trying to impress her. She didn’t have time for this. “The nuclear base under the Bay? Really Juan? That’s the big rumor you have?”
The old man looked cut by her tone of voice. “It’s my personal favorite. And, I must say, I tell it exceedingly well.” He slumped into the cushioned seat and drank sullenly.
“I’m sorry, dear friend,” Christine said. “I’m behind everything here. A day late and talks of an assassination attempt. Your contact has set up an operation but… I don’t trust her.”
“Her?”
Christine nodded. Juan looked concerned. “I don’t know of any operation. But,” here he laughed harshly, “there is much I no longer know.”
“What? Aren’t you the head of CI?”
“My abuela had a saying,” he said. “Just because you are the head, doesn’t mean you have the brain. There is much they don’t tell me. Bureaucracy at its finest.”
“Damn. I need to know one thing. Just tell me one thing, Juan.”
“If I can.”
“Is Jeremiah Banks back?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Christine didn’t wait for the old man to finish talking. The moment she had mentioned Jeremiah Banks’ name, Juan forgot how to speak in any language. Five minutes of him babbling on about how he acquired the new Buena Vista was all she could take. “Excuse me,” she had said curtly, stood up then left without another word.
She found herself wondering the streets. The cigar still lit, hung loosely from her lips. Getting a glimpse of herself in a window made her feel stupid. Her hand went up and removed the cigar. Her feet kept moving of their own accord, turning here and there.
Christine told herself the most important survival rule for being in Havana: if you get lost, just walk towards the sound of the sea. From the Malecón, it’s easy to get where you want to go, which was where she seemed to be heading towards as the crashing of waves grew louder and louder.
Rough hands grabbed her, two pairs, and she was dragged into an alley. Christine didn’t scream. There was no need to. Her training was rusty, but men are easy to take down, especially drunk beasts.
“Yum yum!” the one with the lazy-eye said as he licked his lips. They had thrown Christine against the wall and had surrounded her. There were four of them. Lazy-eye was the ring leader. The bald one had a large machete in his hand and was flicking the blade with his thumb. The third one looked normal, just a rapist in training. The last one was big. He had had training at some point.
“Why don’t you go with one of your boyfriends here?” Christine said as she took a long draw on the cigar.
Lazy-eye took a step closer to her. “Careful, my sweet. You wouldn’t want to lose that perfect tongue… Just yet.” He laughed then looked at his friends. They all laughed except for Mr. Training. He leaned against the other wall with his arms crossed, looking completely unimpressed.
“Run away, little maricas,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’m too busy and you all need a bath.”
“I’ll have a bath, with your tongue,” Baldy said with a sneer as he reached out to her.
“Don’t kill her,” Lazy-eye said. “Just have some fun.”
“Honey,” Christine said without a care, “you wouldn’t know fun. Except for goats and pigs.”
“Bring me her tongue!”
Baldy was the first to lunge at her. Christine spun on her foot, whipping the other into the air. The Cuban ducked but as he came up, he got a cigar in the eye for his trouble. He screamed, clutching at the stub that was lodged in his socket. Blood seeped out and down his face. Christine slammed her foot into his chest, sending him backwards into Normal. They both collapsed.
The machete came down hard and fast. Luckily, Christine saw the glint of the blade and side-stepped it casually. The blade whistled past her, grazing her left arm. Christine cursed then with two moves had the machete in her hands. She kicked Lazy-eye in the crotch then as he sank to his knees, the machete found itself buried into his head. His good eye hung from its socket as blood squirted high into the air and splattered the wall.
Christine flinched and groaned as Normal landed a one-two punch on her kidneys. His hands gripped her shoulders and as he spun her, he launched her into the air. Christine collided with the wall. Her face bled as she slid down the rough surface. The wind was knocked from her and she clawed to get to her feet.
Baldy was upon her now, kicking her in the chest and sides. Christine lashed out as best she could, but her blows landed on the ground.
Normal and Baldy stood over her, laughing as she coughed blood. “Let’s have some real fun,” Normal said as his hands started at his belt.
“No,” Mr. Training said finally. He hadn’t moved from his spot at all.
“¿Que?” Baldy said. He fidgeted with the cigar but whimpered and dropped his hand.
“You heard me. Beat her all you want. But. Do. Not. Fuck. Her.” The big man took a step towards the other two men. Normal was eyeballing the machete.
“Why not?” he asked with a sneer.
“Orders are orders.”
“Fuck orders,” Normal said as he dived for the blade.
As he landed, his face froze in surprise as Christine swiped at his neck.
She had crawled over during the small discussion then had waited. The rusty knife got stuck in the artery and Normal clutched and gurgled as the life faded from his eyes.
She rolled onto her back, breathing heavily then looked at Mr. Training who had Baldy in a headlock and was swinging him around, crashing the thug into the walls, trash cans, and mounds of garbage. Then the man spun quickly, let go, and watched as Baldy came to a stop in a pile of garbage. The sound of glass shattering and shredding clothes made the big thug laugh. Christine watched as he went over to the pile, reached in, felt around then pulled up Baldy. He was cut and bruised but still ready for a fight.
“Go fuck your mother,” he spat.
“Already did. Lousy lay,” Mr. Training said and with a casual movement, he snapped Baldy’s neck. The vertebrae popped out at a hideous angle.
“Fucking amateurs,” Mr. Training said to himself as the limp body crumpled to the ground. He wiped his hands on the dirt clothes, making sure there was no trace of blood. Then he stood and looked around. He sighed, happy.
Christine started to crawl away, hoping to find a weapon, but at each movement, she groaned loudly. The noise brought Mr. Training back to the situation. He walked over to her.
“Forgive the poor attitude of my compatriots,” he said casually. “My, my, my,” he continued, “you don’t look so good. We must get you to a doctor, post haste!”
Christine tried to kick at him but as he bent down, she lost consciousness.
#
Christine’s eyes fluttered open. She moaned slightly, her arm moving up to her face instinctively. Halfway up, it stopped. Her eyes focused on the restraint wrapped around her right arm. She slowly turned her head, fighting fear, and looked at her left arm. There it was in its own restraint and a bandage wrapped tightly around her wound.
“Oh good,” said a sardonic voice, “you’re awake.”
The voice belonged to a young man. A doctor most likely, Christine thought. But, where was she?
“You’re somewhere safe,” the doctor continued. “Lucky someone found you in that alley. You had lost quite a lot of blood. Not to mention your wounds and what you did to those men. How did you pop a vertebrae out of the neck? I mean, I’ve seen some gruesome accidents in my time. But that?” He whistled. “The restraints? Well, those were for my protection. They brought you in and the moment I started to work on you, you tried to bite my face. Kicking and punching anything you could. So, I had to give you a small sedative to make my life easier. And do I get a thank you for all my hard work? Not even a peso. And there’s the chance that the police will be coming a-knocking on my door in the next day or so. I don’t know what’s happening to the world.” He took a sip of water from a bottle. “Don’t try to talk. I had to bandage your face and jaw. Nothing permanent but better safe than sorry. Scars? No need to worry. All the cuts and grazes are superficial. Keep in bed for the next day or two and you’ll be right as rain.” Another sip and he started for the door. Christine moaned after him.
“Sorry?” he said, turning back. “Only five hours. It’s almost eight in the morning. Well. Good luck.”
And with that, Christine was left alone. She laid her head back onto the pillow and closed her eyes. Ignoring the pain, she focused on what happened after the fight. Mr. Training had said something about apologies and that it was necessary to send a message. Christine had rolled over onto her back, so as to see what was happening. But the man had covered her eyes as he said… Damn, Christine thought. She couldn’t hear him for the blood filling her ears. Only two words had stuck in her mind: WMDs and the Bay.
As the door clicked open, so did her eyes. She couldn’t move to see who had entered the room but the footsteps were light. Not heavy like a man’s. The air was filled with perfume. Lavender. Fuck me, Christine thought. It had to be Adriana.
“What did you do?” Adriana said as she stared, jaw open at Christine.
All Christine could do was mumble a response and try to wave her hands.
“Never mind,” Adriana said as she sat next to the bed. “Listen. You were found surrounded by dead men. That must’ve been one hell of a fight. Do you remember anything? Oh, my sweet, what did they do to your face?” She reached out and slowly undid the bandages.
The blood-stained dressings fell to the floor and Christine flexed her jaw. “Who…who found me?”
“Some drunk looking for a place to piss,” Adriana replied as she studied the grazed face. “He called Juan who called me. You’re back at the Nacional. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be okay.” She spoke gently, like one does to a dangerous animal. “In a couple of hours, I’ll contact The Station and you’ll be back home getting the proper care.”
“No fucking way,” Christine said, struggling with her bonds. “There’s more at stake here than just the gringo president’s life…will you help me!”
Adriana undid the restraints and watched as Christine rubbed her wrists. “What do you mean?”
Christine stood up and walked into the main room and straight over to the bar. She poured herself a tall rum then drank deeply from it. “One of the attackers said something just before I passed out. I think it’s a long shot but you never know.” She took another drink as Adriana watched from the doorway.
“Go on.”
“Guantanamo. There are WMDs there.”
“Puta madre!”
Christine nodded her head. “You know what this means? Jeremiah Banks isn’t going to kill Sanderson. He’s going to kidnap him and use him to get the launch codes.” She finished her drink then went over to the balcony. Her eyes gazed at the sun. A deep sigh escaped her.
“Wait. Aren’t they supposed to be Russian?” Adriana said as she wrapped her arms around Christine’s waist.
“The story goes,” she said as she removed the arms from around her body, “that after the Missile Crisis, the Russians sold the codes to the gringos; make some cash and use it as a show of good faith. Why do you think that base is so state-of-the-art?”
Adriana stepped aside as Christine went for another drink. “You’ve got a plan. Right?”
Christine smiled slightly. “Yep. Today is the Pinar del Rio tour, yeah? So one of us should be there in case an attack happens. It should be you. You and Juan can coordinate the area better than I. While you do that, I’ll pay a visit to the Bay. I can pose as a citizen looking for asylum and have a lookie-look.”
As she drank, Adriana shook her head.
“What?”
“I’ve got a contact at the Bay. It’ll be easier for me to get in.”
“How…you…what?”
Adriana smiled. “When you got it, flaunt it.”
“I remember,” Christine said as she finished her third drink. “So, while you have fun playing Nancy Drew, I’ll be tip-toeing through the tulips?”
“I never understood those idioms. But, yes. I’ll let Juan know to expect you so he can alert his men.”
Christine went over to the door, opened it, and waited. “Go on. It’s a long drive to the Bay.”
Adriana followed her and stood on the threshold. “How about a kiss for luck?”
The door gave her a gentle kiss as it closed.
CHAPTER NINE
Christine’s body ached and her face was sore, but the graze was not noticeable. She hadn’t slept much, tossing and turning, trying to get the image of Adriana naked and wanting her out of her mind. Rum helped with that. Before the sun rose, she had gotten out of bed, examined herself thoroughly and, happy with the results, showered, dressed then left for Pinar del Rio.
The two-hour bus ride hadn’t been completely unpleasant. Christine had talked her way onto one of the buses, found a seat next to a skinny old reporter then waited. The reporter didn’t say a word to her. He was busy writing in a little notebook. Christine casually glanced at the scribbling.
“You writing about cigars?”
“No,” the man was blunt and his manner said it all. Leave me alone.
“Really? I
love cigars, don’cha know,” she said, doing her best Katherine Hepburn impression. The reporter didn’t look up. “Always have. Daddy got me into it. Wanted a son, instead got me! I had to learn to smoke them otherwise Daddy wouldn’t have paid me any attention, don’cha know.” She elbowed the older man conspiratorially.
He closed the notebook, fixed his glasses then looked at her. “What do you want?”
The bus roared to life and started the one hundred and eighty-eight-kilometer journey. The other passengers talked loudly, singing songs, drinking rums and cokes while enjoying cigars. Christine tried to look shocked at such a question. “I was only curious. No need to jump down my throat. It’s a long trip and I thought you might enjoy some…stimulating conversation.” She pouted then looked out the window.
The reporter sighed, adjusting his glasses. “I’m sorry, miss. It’s a dull flight here and, well, I hate cigars.”
Christine turned. “Really? Then why,” she drew out the syllable, sounding like Blanche in Streetcar, “why are you here? Didn’t anyone tell you that there is a cigar festival happening?”
The older man couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, but, I’m here for the political agenda.”
“Political? Cigars aren’t political.”
“They can be,” he said. “Why else would the United States president come here?”
“Hmmmmm, for the cigars!”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He opened the notebook and started scribbling in it. Christine looked; he wasn’t writing in words but in symbols. Short-hand. Clever boy, she thought to herself.
“Well, maybe he is but, I can tell you something,” she said, her tone changing to that of a person with authority over everyone. “He isn’t here because of Guantanamo.”
That did the trick!
“Really? Why would you say that? The president is allowed to pay a visit.”
Christine laughed and gently caressed the hand. Her eyes skimmed the page.
Sanderson won’t make any deals where terrorists could make a base on Cuba.
The Apocalypse Virus Trilogy_Book 1_Big Smoke Page 5
