by Cliff Ryder
Judy spoke up. “Kate, I’ve got Denny on another line.
Something’s gone wrong on the Hawaiian operation—our operative just landed himself in jail.”
“What? Oh, that’s great—I hope he didn’t blow his cover.
Conference me in, and let’s see what we can do.” Kate kept her gaze on the dot that was Jonas as he walked to a pair of tables in the racetrack’s restaurant. Good luck, Jonas.
Rafael Castilo rose to meet Jonas as he approached. “I understand that we have you to thank for this excellent champagne.”
“Your fine animal made me a tidy profit, and when I recognized you, I felt it was only right to share some of my good fortune.” Jonas extended his hand. “Ferdinand Heinemann.”
Castilo took it and pumped firmly three times, then let go. Up close, his dark brown eyes were even more penetrat-ing, even through the barrier of the sunglasses. Jonas felt himself being appraised, and returned the other man’s stare with a steely one of his own, friendly enough on the outside, but all business when confronted with a fellow predator in the corporate jungle.
“Rafael Castilo, and this is my wife, Javier.” He made introductions around the table, with Jonas filing the names and faces away for future reference.
Just then a waiter brought Karen to them. “Darling, you must play those hunches more often.” She handed him the folded sheaf of bills, exposing them just enough so that Castilo saw the outermost hundred.
Jonas tucked the wad in his pocket. “Now you have the chance to thank the owner of our good-luck greyhound in person, my dear.”
Castilo’s eyes lit up. “So you are the companion of this stunning woman.” He took her hand and kissed it, with Karen acting suitably charmed.
“It is my honor, yes. May I present Joanne Seneschal.
Joanne, this is Mr. Rafael Castilo, an American competitor of mine,” Jonas said with a smile.
Castilo’s eyebrows raised slightly, and he glanced toward the bathroom.
Perfect. Now he’s trying to figure out who I am, how I compete with him and where his bodyguard is with the background check on me, Jonas thought.
“Oh, Ferdinand, always thinking about work, even on vacation.” Karen’s words were playful as she turned to Javier. “It’s a pleasure. I don’t know about your husband, but I cannot get this one to talk about anything other than business for more than five minutes, I swear—”
Just like that, Karen had Castilo’s wife in the palm of her hand. She turned to the rest of the group, providing a slight but definite barrier separating them from Jonas and Castilo.
“Señora, you must join us for a glass of this excellent vintage. Carlos, two more glasses.” The waiters had already brought over two chairs and Castilo said, “Please, sit. I hope you’ll pardon my interest, but I haven’t seen you around the club, and I come most every week.”
The waiters filled the glasses now, and Castilo raised his.
“Care to do the honors?” he asked Jonas.
Jonas considered for a moment, then raised his glass, catching everyone’s eye. “Here is one from my homeland.
May bad fortune chase after you for the rest of your days—
and never catch you.”
The surprised looks on everyone’s faces dissolved into chuckles and nods and the crystal clinked in celebration.
“To answer your question,” Jonas said, “as if my accent didn’t give me away, I am on vacation from my import-export company in Munich, and am also doing a little side business, exploring the feasibility of bringing organized greyhound racing back to Germany. So I thought, what better place to begin than in Florida, where I can also work on my tan, as well?”
Castilo nodded and grinned. “You have definitely come to the right place, my friend.” His bodyguard appeared over his shoulder, leaning down to whisper into his ear.
Jonas leaned back in his chair and sipped champagne, watching for Castilo’s reaction to the report without appearing to. The Cuban didn’t even pause, just nodded and thanked his man, who resumed his position a few feet from the table.
“Please forgive the intrusion,” Castilo said politely.
Jonas held up his hand. “There is nothing to forgive.
After all, I was the one who interrupted your gathering.”
“Think nothing of it. Now, you had mentioned wanting to bring organized greyhound racing to Germany.”
And with that, the conversation turned to dogs, organized gambling, the exporting trade, with Castilo and Jonas each recounting tales of strange shipments and dicey situa-tions that had the table roaring with laughter. Briefly, they talked politics. Karen kept her side of the table abuzz with celebrity sightings in South Beach and other tidbits of gos-sip. As she regaled the table with an involved story about a well-known Miami drag queen, his resemblance to a current Hollywood hunk and an embarrassing mix-up at a Palm Beach hotel, Jonas caught Castilo eyeing him more than once. Then the businessman leaned over.
“The message the waiter delivered with the champagne said that it was from a gentleman who also possessed a love of freedom.”
“Yes, I must confess that I recognized you as soon as I walked in. I have followed your success in our industry for the past several years, and in doing so, I have learned something of your background, as well,” Jonas said.
“Keeping your friends close and your enemies closer?”
Castilo’s grin didn’t come close to his eyes.
“It may have begun as something like that, but the more I learned, the more I admired what you have done. You are a true success story, in America, Germany or any other country.
Besides, with both of us taking it on the chin from the Chinese, why waste time fighting over scraps from their table, eh?”
Castilo frowned. “Perhaps Europe is knuckling under the Asian invasion, but we here in the Western Hemisphere do not intend to surrender without a fight.”
“Well spoken, indeed. When I realized I had a chance to meet you, I didn’t hesitate.”
Castilo leaned back and sipped his champagne. “Fortune favors the bold.”
“Perhaps, but I think chance has as much to say in determining success or failure in any enterprise. If I had not come here today, or if you had not, then neither of us would be sitting here drinking this excellent vintage.”
“Also true, but you still have not answered my question.”
Jonas drained his own glass. “True enough. During my research, I learned of your beginnings in America—the exile from Cuba and the rest.”
To his credit, Castilo scarcely flinched at the mention of his homeland. Anyone else would have thought he was just shifting in his seat.
Jonas continued, “I know what it is like to live under oppression, to grow up not even knowing what freedom is. You and I, growing up in Cuba and East Germany, could not have been that different. Some people, they bow to the autocratic state, reveal their necks and live lives of quiet desperation.
But men like you and me, we seek something more, to make a better life for ourselves and, if time and resources permit, a better life for others through our work.”
Castilo burst out laughing, making everyone else at the table look over. “Mr. Heinemann, you certainly had me going for a moment. I escaped Cuba, indeed, left behind that Communist bastion for a new life in America, where I could control my own destiny, true. But that was solely to become a wealthy businessman. Others may mock and insult this country, but for me it truly was paved with gold, and I am enjoying it as much as I can, every day.”
Jonas was taken aback for a moment. The ebullient businessman before him didn’t seem anything like a devoted freedom fighter. But perhaps that is what he wants me to think—at least in public.
Castilo rose, and the rest of the table rose with him. “This has been an interesting conversation, my friend, and one that I would enjoy continuing another time. But I’m afraid that business calls, and while you’re enjoying yourself here in our fair state, I should be maximizing my
advantage in your own country.” He laughed, and Jonas chuckled with him.
The rest of the party headed for the door, Karen still chattering with Javier. She caught his eye and raised her eyebrow.
Jonas motioned with his chin at the door, indicating she should leave. He walked out into the humid summer day with Castilo, who paused at the door. “Tell me, Ferdinand, do you enjoy a good cigar?”
“I indulge on occasion, but have not yet sampled the variety here,” Jonas said.
“Then please, before we part, I insist that you join me.
I’m afraid that we could not do so in the club, since they have banned smoking inside, more’s the pity. Besides, knowing my wife, she will most likely be talking with your lovely companion for the rest of the day if we are not careful.” Castilo’s knowing expression made it clear that he understood Karen was not Jonas’s wife.
“How could I refuse?” Jonas allowed himself to be led to the pearl-gray-and-black Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow stretch limousine. They stepped into the air-conditioned interior, and Jonas made himself comfortable on the soft leather seat, near a small wet bar. Castilo faced him, with one of the ever present bodyguards, a broad, stone-faced man with short blond hair, sliding in next to him.
“Although I did confess that I left Cuba behind, there are some things from my former homeland that I still treasure.”
Castilo opened a panel in the bar, revealing a small humidor.
“Cohiba Piramides Millennium Reserve. You will not find its like anywhere else.”
Jonas accepted the thick, slightly conical cigar, along with a proffered cutter. He snipped off the tip of the head and then, holding the foot just above the flame, rolled it until it lit satisfactorily. He drew slightly, then released the aromatic smoke to the side. “This is incredible.”
“I thought a man of your tastes would enjoy it.” Castilo lit one of his own. “And now that we have talked and are enjoying these fine Cohibas, perhaps you would care to tell me—”
Jonas couldn’t help but notice the black semiautomatic pistol the bodyguard had drawn from his holster and set on his crossed leg.
Castilo released smoke from his mouth. “Why have you, a man accused of international arms dealing, really sought me out, Mr. Heinemann?”
“You sure that’s where you want to go?” the motorcyclist asked.
“I have come to Havana to hear the men of our government speak,” Marcus replied, his tone taking on the slightly awed reverence of a stolid, rural Communist. “If you cannot take me there, then I will find someone who can.”
“All right, all right, just relax, I can get you there.” He jerked a thumb at the empty seat behind him. “Get on.”
Marcus hopped on the back of the Harley and held on to the fender, knowing the man would be insulted if he held on to him. He just hoped that no rocks would fly up and cut his fingers. The man revved the choppy engine and released the brake, taking them away from the bus station, down Havana’s streets and toward Revolution Plaza.
They crossed out of Old Havana and into the plaza proper. Even from a distance, Marcus saw the iron face of the Guevara on the Ministry of the Interior Building. Across from that was the white, fourteen-story monument to Cuba’s national hero José Martí, the nineteenth-century author, statesman, poet and freedom fighter, with a white marble statue of the man himself in front of it.
His research had revealed that there were speeches in the plaza every Wednesday, and he was pleased to see that this day was no exception. Thousands of people had already assembled in the square, and addressing them was an aged man with glasses and salt-and-pepper hair. Marcus recognized him instantly. The man’s brother himself. I wonder what’s brought Raul out to speak today?
Marcus made his way through the crowd in the plaza, en-tertaining a brief fantasy of taking the elevator to the top of the Martí monument and taking aim at the speaker through the scope of a Weatherby Mark V rifle. It would be fitting to end his life from the monument of Cuba’s greatest true hero, he thought.
Marcus took out a pair of sunglasses and put them on.
Activating the tiny built-in camera, he recorded Raul Castro speaking, and slowly looked from left to right at the other military personnel near the infamous chair where the senior Castro usually gave his long-winded speeches. Raul wasn’t nearly as charismatic a speechmaker as his brother. It sounded as if he was already winding down, exhorting the assembled people to do more for their country, that Cuba would prevail against all enemies and other such standard propaganda.
Marcus spotted his man in the row of military officers standing behind Castro, matched him with the grainy photograph he had received, just to make sure. It wasn’t difficult to spot him, since he stood several inches above the rest of the soldiers all listening intently to their commander. Marcus ac- tivated the camera’s zoom, making sure to get a good picture of the man’s face. Normally he would have tried to follow the man in order to make contact with him, but with no immediate transportation available, that wasn’t going to happen.
Marcus also didn’t think he could get close enough to bug the man with a tiny transmitter, so that he could track him down later.
I wonder if he’s listed in the phone book. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve found targets that way, he thought.
At one end of the plaza, a small commotion attracted Marcus’s attention, along with other nearby watchers. A small contingent of what looked to be anti-Castro protesters were marching toward the space, holding signs and ban-ners and chanting loudly. At first the throngs in the square didn’t seem to take sides with or against the marchers. Many simply stepped aside to let them through. Marcus watched people of all ages, from young men and women—obviously students—to middle-aged and older people, all of whom lent their voices to the cry for freedom.
“A free Cuba now!”
“Allow the people to speak!”
The chants were clear, demanding that Cuba be freed from its decades-long oppression, and that the people be allowed free speech, a choice of government and the right for individuals to own businesses.
However, another group was swiftly organizing into what looked like a mob to challenge the protesters. Shouts reverberated throughout the plaza. The two groups squared off on one side. Marcus glanced toward the chair where Raul Castro had been just a moment ago, only to find that he had disappeared, along with the majority of the military personnel. In their place, however, nondescript trucks had pulled up to the square, disgorging several dozen plainclothes men.
Although Marcus thought the activists were possibly crazy to challenge the Cuban lions in their den, he also admired their guts for coming to this bastion of the government to demonstrate for what they believed in. As he watched the government supporters distract the protesters by hurling insults, letting the new arrivals organize, he realized what was about to happen.
They’re going to get their asses stomped, he thought, looking around for police to intervene. Not surprisingly, there were none in the area. Marcus knew that this was a common tactic. “Ordinary people” would break up the protests, so no one could claim that the police were brutalizing civilians.
Although Room 59 directives explicitly forbade operatives from getting involved in matters of civil strife or unrest, Marcus couldn’t simply stand by and watch innocent people get beaten for trying to gain their freedom. He also knew that he couldn’t jeopardize his mission by assisting the protesters. If he was arrested in a country already isolated, no one from Room 59 would help him. He’d be completely on his own.
The protest-breakers had assembled, and the progovernment crowd let them swell their ranks. The large group walked forward, outnumbering the freedom protesters by at least three to one. The demonstrators refused to be intimidated, however, and linked their arms together, chanting even louder.
As one, the front row of the government men rushed the protesters, surging into them with flying fists and feet. The protesters tried to hold together, but broke apart unde
r the onslaught. People started fleeing the plaza, running every which way. Marcus dodged several of them while trying to still keep an eye on what was happening. The protesters weren’t fighting back, only defending themselves. However, the government men weren’t under any such restriction, and were kicking and punching people—protesters and innocent bystanders alike—with abandon.
Intent on the confrontation, Marcus hadn’t noticed that the conflict was coming perilously close to him. But when a stocky man dressed in a sleeveless flannel shirt and stained jeans shoved a woman who had to be at least fifty years old to the ground and was about to kick her in the ribs, he couldn’t stand by any longer.
In two steps Marcus moved right behind the attacker.
Grabbing his cocked foot in one hand, he swept the man’s other foot out from under him with a low kick to his ankle. The thug howled and dropped to the ground.
Marcus followed up with another kick behind the ear, bouncing the man’s head against the pavement and knocking him out.
His actions had been noticed by a pair of government thugs, both of whom moved to intercept him. Marcus saw them coming at the same time that two of the protesters bent down to help the woman. Placing himself between her and the attackers, he met them head-on.
The two men didn’t circle or feint, but charged in together. One of the men was slightly ahead of his comrade, and threw a straight punch at Marcus’s face. Ducking the blow, Marcus responded with a straight shot to the man’s abdomen. The man gasped and staggered off balance. Marcus side-stepped and landed another shot to the man’s right kidney, making him drop to one knee, clutching his gut.
While Marcus dealt with the first thug, his uninjured partner had drawn a knife and slashed at Marcus’s chest. He drew back in time to see the man reverse direction and come after him again with a backhanded sweep at his ribs, leaning over his buddy, who wisely dropped to the ground. This time the point snagged in Marcus’s shirt, ripping it open.
The ex-Ranger knew he faced an experienced knife fighter, and had to finish it before anyone came to his attacker’s assistance. The knife fighter feinted high, then lunged forward, aiming for Marcus’s stomach.
