Big Smoke

by R. F. Blackstone

  Christine followed the path of mewling turistas. All were on their stomachs in the dirt. It would’ve been funny, if not for the AK-47s ringing loud and clear. If only she knew how many were left. She could plan and do it right, not running in half-cocked guns all a-blazing.

  Two of the masked thugs were dragging a veguero into the field of green. A quick scan and Christine was satisfied that these were the last ones, she hoped. Going into a dense vegetative growth with minimal field of view was definitely folly.

  But she had to.

  She slowed to a snail’s pace. Each step had to be carefully chosen less she alerted them to her presence. She brushed against a stalk and as it swayed, the leaves brushed against another. And another. They moved one after another in a domino effect. She cursed herself.

  “¿Qué fue eso?” she heard one say. They were to her right. Good. Now she had a general direction to go.

  “¡Cállate!” the second said. It was followed by a smack and the veguero whimpered.

  With as little noise as she could make, Christine raised the automatic rifle in her hands. She guessed where the thugs’ heads were and then dropped the barrel two inches below that. Better safe than sorry, she thought.

  Her finger twitched slightly on top of the trigger. She had to mentally focus her breathing. It was rapid and made the gun bounce ever-so-slightly. Christine closed her eyes and prayed that the veguero was short. Slowly, her trigger finger wrapped itself around the metal piece and then started to squeeze it.

  There were screams of agony and pain as bullets rained from the sky. A helicopter was descending rapidly and from either side came the sounds of tracer rounds.

  Christine ducked and covered her head. It better not be the goddamn gringos, she thought. If so, then the operation would be fucked. They would evacuate the president and Jeremiah Banks would be lost again, possibly forever. And she could not allow that.

  It seemed an eternity for the rain of gunfire to cease. There would be a high chance that the tobacco in the area was lost, shredded and contaminated by the blood, flesh, muscle, sinew, and bone matter. Such a waste.

  Slowly, Christine stood up.

  The helicopter had landed, crushing stalks and bending others at ugly angles. There were men dressed in military garb and they all held small Uzis. Christine watched as some went over to the masked thugs and roughly checked the bullet-ridden bodies for any evidence. Cuban paramilitary, she thought, hoping for the best.

  “Oye!” a familiar voice called to her from the helicopter. Juan de Dios waved at her. “Climb aboard, señora! I believe a lift is in order, eh?” He smiled and winked at her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “What the fuck was that?”

  The helicopter had just taken off and Christine stared daggers at Juan. Far below them, more Cuban Intelligence agents had entered the area. They were taking care of the turistas and the reporters, making sure that no unwanted stories escaped into the Internet. That would be the last thing Cuba needed.

  “Perdon?” Juan said distractedly. He was fiddling with the handle of his cane, twirling it this way then twisting it that. He seemed calm, completely at ease with the situation. It infuriated Christine more.

  “You heard me, old man. That! Where was the team?”

  “What team? I got no clearance to have any men there.”

  Christine’s jaw dropped open. “No clearance? You’re the fucking head of CI!”

  “And?” he said matter of factly. “Just like you Christine, I too have a boss. It doesn’t matter if I think a situation needs my attention. If our presidente says no, then no it will be. So it is written, so it shall be.”

  They both sat there in sullen silence. Christine looked out at the vast field of tobacco. It was beautiful and made her feel slightly better. Then her eyes spotted something and she squinted.

  It was the army. They had cleared a circle in the middle of the tobacco, dug a mass grave, and then she watched as they started to dump the bodies into it. “Juan, what are they doing?”

  The old man shrugged nonchalantly. “What the army does best. Clean up messes.”

  Christine sighed in frustration. The old man’s attitude was beginning to annoy her more and more. Her eyes went back to the disappearing fields and she gasped. Large plumes of black smoke were billowing up from the hole. The army had obviously used flamethrowers to burn the dead.

  “Why…?”

  Juan sighed. “To stop the spread of the disease. That is the only way to make sure the entire island is safe.”

  Christine’s mind raced. The disease? Is it linked to what I saw earlier? “What disease? Should I be worried?”

  Juan de Dios shook his head. “That’s classified.”

  That was it. Christine had had enough. “Classified my ass, Juan! You are the head of CI. You decide what is and is not classified.”

  “Used to,” he said with an air of defeat.

  The situation in Cuba had changed more than Christine knew. “What happened?” she asked. “You were completely separate. Now you need permission to have surveillance? Por favor!”

  The old spy master laughed dryly. “Since President Sanderson, the government has wanted to show the gringos that they can play by their rules. So everything has slowly become like them. Government bodies were the first.”

  “I thought CI was outside the government,” she said.

  Another laugh from the Cuban. “Was. Shortly after Sanderson started talking to Esposito, the mandate came down that our budget would be slashed if we didn’t agree to certain new…ways of doing things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Answering to a government liaison. That’s just one of the problems we face now.”

  “Puta madre,” she exclaimed.

  Juan nodded as the helicopter continued its flight. “It doesn’t help that the liaison is a real marica.” He held a cigar in his hand, pondering if it was worth lighting. It wasn’t. “She came recommended by the gringo ambassador, which I thought was funny. But, she seems to be working out okay.”

  “You’ve lost your huevos!” Christine said. “Back in the old days—”

  “The old days are dead and gone,” he retorted, “and if you’re not careful, you will be too.”

  The helicopter bounced up and down from turbulence. Christine held tightly to the seat. “What does that mean?”

  “¿En serio? Come on, Christine! There’s only one reason Station Master would send someone like you here and it’s not to complete a mission.”

  “Fuck you, Juan.”

  Juan de Dios shook his head sadly. “Always blinded by duty, my dear. One day, it will get you killed.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not. Maybe fuck you and anyone dumb enough to try.”

  She looked out at the countryside. It was beautiful and always had been. “At least tell me something, Juan.”

  “Anything.”

  “Why didn’t you have any people at Pinar del Rio today? You knew that Sanderson would be there. If it had been me, that’s where I would have done the deed.”

  “The liaison said it would have too many witnesses and that there are more likely targets that we should check out,” Juan said after a moment. “Plus, there was a big agent. Called himself Don, I think. He said he would have the president covered… I didn’t see him.”

  Christine tried to look innocent, but came off looking smug. “We had some unfinished business. I needed to balance the books.”

  “Hijo de puta!” Juan spat. “He was the go-to agent for us! What have you done?”

  Temper rising, Christine had to bite her tongue. “My job is to protect the president of the United States from any threat. That man was a threat when I first met him. He will always be a threat to me. If you have a problem with that, then you can go to hell!”

  “You are a silly girl. That’s why you got your agents killed,” Juan said calmly. “You let your emotions lead you, not your mind. Think, Christine! Be rational. That is the skill we have.
Our minds are our greatest weapon. That is why you will never be like Station Master or myself.”

  They sat in silence. All that could be heard was the rotor blades cutting through the air. Juan looked as if he had given a sermon upon the mount while Christine had the expression of a child. Havana was fast approaching them.

  “Maybe,” she said as the helicopter started to descend, “I don’t want to be anything like you. Maybe, I want my own life at some point.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have gotten involved in this life.”

  “Maybe you should…” she stopped herself. “What can you tell me about the attackers?”

  Juan sighed. “Finally,” he said. “Dominicans and Haitians most likely. They pop up here periodically when dirty deeds need to be done, though it’s odd that they would be working together.”

  “But why? It was so slap-shot and uncoordinated.”

  He nodded his head. “Indeed. Not credible at all. But, what’s interesting are the weapons.”

  “Goat horns, I know,” she said, using the old nickname for AK-47s. “Where would they have gotten them?”

  Juan shrugged. “Plenty of the old guard would have some stashed away. Why, my mother has four under her mattress. I keep saying to her, ‘Mama they are why your back is crooked.’ And she says ‘Si, niño, but at least I sleep well.’” He laughed. “My mother is a wise lady.”

  “Aren’t all mothers,” Christine asked.

  “Indeed. But, they had been serviced recently, which leads this old man to believe that there is someone in Havana that wants to cause problems.”

  Christine stared at the man; her expression said it all: No shit.

  “I know, my dear, but, we must be thorough. I’ve already started a list of the usual suspects.”

  “Is Jeremiah Banks on that list?”

  Juan coughed as the helicopter landed.

  “I thought so. Why isn’t anyone taking him seriously?”

  “We are and have. But he is a—”

  “Ghost now. Si, everyone’s been saying that.”

  They clambered out of the vehicle. Christine had to help Juan down. “How am I supposed to get back to the Nacional?”

  #

  The Cadillac Coup Deville raced along the dirt roads. Juan looked younger driving it while Christine had to hold on for dear life. They had landed somewhere outside of Havana. For security, she had been told, and now they were in Juan’s pride and joy. He had said that he would be more than glad to give her a lift.

  “I do love driving. The fresh air. The scenery. It makes me feel alive,” Juan was saying with glee. “At my age, there isn’t much that can do that.”

  Christine chuckled, more to make him feel better than because he was being witty. “Can you get Jeremiah Banks? Arrest him or detain him.”

  The car swerved to miss an old man and his son walking along the road. “Why do you keep bringing him up? Leave the past in the past.”

  “This isn’t about then. Station Master’s intel said that Banks was behind this.”

  They entered the city, driving through New New Havana, where some gringo money had already started to build modern monstrosities. “Pinche gringos,” Juan said. “They come here with their money claiming to want to keep Havana pure and look at these!”

  “Don’t change the subject,” Christine said as the car sped up. They passed through New New Havana quickly then into New Havana. The moment they had crossed the imaginary border, Juan breathed again.

  “Perdóname,” he said, “what were you saying?”

  “Intel. The Station’s intel said that Jeremiah Banks is the one behind this. Can you get him for me?”

  Juan chuckled. “The Station’s intel? Show me this intel, Christine. Here in Cuba, we have heard no word of Señor Banks in a very long time. You’ll have a better chance of finding WMDs at the Bay than him.”

  Christine sunk into her chair slightly at that. This was the second time that someone had mentioned WMDs at Guantanamo. Adriana had better come back with news or heaven help her, she thought. This better not be some wild goose chase Station Master was sending her on. So far, there had be no concrete evidence that Jeremiah Banks was involved. If that was the case, then this was a suicide mission.

  “…who can say what intel is legitimate and what isn’t, eh?” Juan was saying. “With the Internet and modern technology, everyone can have a say. Now, I’m not saying that Station Master is wrong. But the Station’s reputation has been sullied. What? You thought we didn’t know. First Havana. Then there was that episode in Australia. Serbia. Egypt. What next?”

  “We all make mistakes, Juan.”

  “But that many in such a short time? No, my dear. After a while, the mind goes. Station Master is old. It was bound to happen. This is most likely a last-ditch attempt at saving face. I wouldn’t be surprised if the only people trying to kill Sanderson are the Muslims again.”

  He hummed happily as they sped along the Malecón. Christine was furious. Damn both old men for their cocky ways. She’d show them. Christine Moore was not a mere child. She knew things and didn’t have to just rely on her gut.

  As the Nacional’s cupolas came into view, Christine had an idea, “Do you know where Sanderson is going to be tonight?”

  “The Saratoga. The pendejo thought the Nacional was too old fashioned,” he spat out the window.

  “Thanks, Juan. One more question.”

  The car had stopped in front of the Nacional. Christine felt more calm being back at the hotel. “Tomorrow, what’s his agenda?”

  “A tour of the old Partagas factory… Christine, tell me you are not planning to do anything stupid?”

  Christine got out of the car and smiled at the old Cuban. “Ask your contact.”

  She went up and entered the hotel, ignoring Juan’s calls.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Back in her hotel room, Christine is furious, even though she has an idea. How Adriana and Juan have been treating her, acting as if they have nothing to do with each other; talking to Christine as if she was nothing more than a new agent fresh from training. Fuck them in the ass, she thought. And damn Don too! No way Station Master would recruit him, right?

  No, it didn’t matter. She had a job to do. Stop a presidential assassination and capture Jeremiah Banks. One was easy. The other so far was proving nigh on impossible.

  “Remember what Station Master said,” she talked to herself as she went through her small collection of clothes, “break everything down into steps. Easy to do steps.” She nodded as she picked out an elegant night dress with red and blue colors. “Step one, stop the assassination. Easy.”

  Christine laid out the dress on the bed then caught a look at herself in the mirror. She was sweaty, dirty, and in need of a shower.

  “Rafael? It’s Christine. Please tell me there is hot water available” she asked into the phone.

  “Si, Christine. Planning a night out, eh?”

  She giggled slightly. “Just a visit to the Saratoga.”

  “Oh,” the voice was sullen, “not betraying our lady, I trust?”

  “Good lord no! Just working.”

  “Ah, well then. Enjoy yourself and happy hunting!”

  She hung up then went to the shower. She stared at herself in the mirror as the water ran, waiting for it to heat up sufficiently. She admired her muscles and skin tones. She had always liked her boobs and the curves and naturalness of them. The scars on the other hand, they reminded her of all the mistakes of the past. The small scar just above her hip, the Istanbul job. The screen door on her thigh, Mombasa. The scar that caused the most pain was the one that ran down between her breasts. That was the reminder of Cuba. What happens when you let your heart lead. It was long and ugly looking, like a snake had been carved into her and it was a darker shade.

  Whenever she had to be intimate during a job, this was always something she had been worried about. The rest of the scars were fine. But this? Granted, she thought, there hadn’t been many assignme
nts where she had to get naked. But the worry was still there. A great ass, pretty eyes, and acrobatic skills in the bedroom would only get her so far.

  She tried putting the thoughts out of her mind as she slipped into the shower, letting the warm water wash over her, cleansing her of the day’s sins. God, she needed this. It didn’t take long for her to clean up. Her hair took the longest. She had to look perfect after all, if she wanted a meeting with President Sanderson.

  After the shower, a quick dry and she had slipped into the dress, Christine took a moment to admire herself. It was form fitting and hugged her in all the right places. Her hair she did in a lovely ponytail. A silver hair band placed in it was the finishing touch. “That’ll do, pig,” she said to herself.

  #

  The Hotel Saratoga sits across the Capitol Building and is one of those classic hotels one must see at some point. It has been there since 1933 when it moved from Monte Street. Sporting a classic art deco exterior, this is one of the key hotels for local bands to play and for dignitaries to visit, if they are after a slightly more modern feel. There is some debate as to whether the Nacional is better. For some it is. Traditionalists always say so.

  Christine paid the driver as she got out of the taxi. It sped away quickly, looking for the next fare. She wiped her dress, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. The men in the immediate area tried to be subtle while checking her out. They failed. The women on the other hand were more successful, but Christine knew this was going to happen. She pulled her dress up so the tail wouldn’t be dragged through the dirt, and she started walking up the steps to the entrance.

  As she got nearer, Christine slowed her pace and cursed herself for being stupid. There were security checkpoints at all the entrances. Metal detectors, body scanners, and armed Federal agents were checking everyone who entered. Of course they would have these, she scolded herself. There wouldn’t be any chance of getting into the hotel, let alone the penthouse suite. She watched as a fat Brazilian with a hooker on his arm try to talk his way into the foyer and then was promptly thrown out.