He turned back to me. “I need to take you up a level, Jack. I know you think you’re not committed to the Goodbye mission yet. But you will be.” He dropped his voice from a conversational level to a notch below that. “We’re not supporting Castro taking over Mexico. Even the Pygmy isn’t that stupid.”
“But I asked you about Castro.”
“And I didn’t deny it. But I also didn’t confirm it. I needed to get you a bit deeper in the morass. Did you know that’s not pronounced more-ass? A subtle difference but—”
“Gearheardt—”
“Okay. The thing is that we’re going to work with the Cubans in Miami. The good Cubans. They need a country. Mexico needs somebody with some leadership ability and a decent work ethic. Who isn’t crooked. And some other stuff. I forget the whole speech. But you can see where we’re headed.”
The plan had a ring of legitimacy. I had heard rumors that the agency was still working with the Cuban populations in Florida. After the decade-old Bay of Pigs fiasco, there was a still a great deal of mutual mistrust. Maybe we were taking steps to get something started again. That didn’t explain all of Gearheardt’s supposed mission. Such as the assassination of the Mexican President. But I knew there were significant gaps in the information that Gearheardt was sharing with me. I made a decision to move slightly ahead with my involvement.
“Crenshaw is down here supposedly to work on a very hush hush mission. Do you have any idea what that might be?” I asked Gearheardt.
“No. And I would give your right nut to find out, Jack. See what you can do. He’s going to need you. Play along, but just keep me informed.” He smiled. “That’s my boy. We’re a great team, Jack. That’s why we were chosen to stop the Vietnam War.”
“Which turned into a fiasco of epic proportions, Gearheardt.”
“If you say so, Jack. I like to think positively about things. I think history is on our side.”
I didn’t respond and Gearheardt held out his hand which I shook warmly. After all, he was my best friend. “Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?” I asked.
“Not really,” he admitted readily. “I think I read it somewhere. Maybe Churchill or Stalin.”
“How do I get in touch with you? What’s the next step?”
Gearheardt took a bottle of beer from my refrigerator and opened it. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything, Jack. You can just go about your normal routine. Try to keep in touch with the duty officer at the embassy if you’re not in the office for any length of time. But let me handle things.”
I looked toward the door. “And Marta? What do you expect me to do with her?”
Gearheardt bit his lip in thought. “Don’t screw her. We may have to kill her later, and I don’t want you having any attachments.”
“Damn it, Gearheardt—”
He laughed. “I was just shitting you, Jack. She has her orders. She’s just on loan to me now, but she’s going to infiltrate you into the Cuban network here in Mexico City. Be careful.”
The door was swinging behind him before I could gather my wits to ask him a number of questions. I heard him say goodbye to Marta. When I went back into the living room, the lamp was off again, and Marta was making herself comfortable on my couch, dressed in her thigh holster.
CHAPTER SIX
IS THIS A BREAST I SEE BEFORE ME?
I was putting breakfast on the table when Marta entered the kitchen, rubbing her wet hair with my towel.
“Marta, you can’t run around without clothes all the time,” I said, trying not to stare.
“Why not, Jack?” she said. She hung the towel over the back of a chair and sat down at the table.
“It just isn’t done. I mean, it’s not right.” I was searching for a good answer. “Look, I’m just a regular guy, you know what I mean. It’s … uncomfortable for me to have you … looking like that.” This was the best I could do.
Marta put jelly on her toast and munched loudly. “This is burned, Jack. Can you not make toast that is not burned? Do you want me to cook for you?”
She put the toast carefully on the plate, then brushed her hands vigorously, throwing delicate crumbs on her breasts. I wondered how I could make it through this.
“Jack, when I was a young woman in Cuba, my body was already an adult. Men would say things to me that I did not understand. I was feeling ashamed. My mother tried to tell me, ‘Why should you feel ashamed? The men should feel ashamed.’ So now that I am older I do not feel ashamed. If men want to look, they look. In America, I like the nudist camp. On the street, I am … okay. But in the house, I feel uncomfortable in clothing.”
“I think you’ve taken it to the extreme, Marta.” I started out of the kitchen, trying in vain to avoid the close-up that came when I passed her chair. “Look, I’ve got to get to the embassy. If Gearheardt says you’re to stay here, you can stay here. When I’m in the apartment, I would like you to wear some clothes. How’s that?”
“Whatever you say, Jack. I am sorry that you are ashamed.”
“I’m not ashamed, Marta. That isn’t what—” I sighed, telling myself that I had to just get used to this and that it was a noble sacrifice on my part. “How long have you known Gearheardt?”
“I have known Gearheardt many times,” she answered.
I decided to not try to deconstruct that reply. After all, English was not her first language.
“I’m going to the embassy. I suppose I’ll see you later.”
“Tonight, we go dancing,” Marta said.
The look on my face must have been easily readable.
“It is business, Jack.” She walked to the sink and deposited the dishes, bending over to reach the trash can. At least she was wearing the Beretta.
In my office it was business as usual as soon as I sat down at my desk. On the top of my message pile was a message from Rodrigo, my Colombian project contact. ‘Meet me at ten o’clock. There is something that is urgent to tell you. R.’
I had about an hour before I needed to leave so I called security and asked them to change my safe combination and sweep my office. Just as they left and I was putting my files back in place, Major Crenshaw appeared in the door.
“Jack, didn’t you get the message to come to my office?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. I was just getting ready to—”
“Do I need to write ‘immediately’ on every message I send you, Jack?”
“No, sir. I’ll come right down.”
“No need. We can talk here.” He closed the door. Before he sat down in front of my desk he surveyed the room silently. He frowned and made me wonder what he didn’t like. Or maybe he was thinking about taking over my office. It was on the side of the embassy and had a choice view of the embassy garden and the tree-lined street beyond. But he took a chair without comment and sat down. He straightened the crease in his trousers.
“I need to fill you in just a bit, Jack. It goes without saying that you cannot repeat what I am about to tell you.”
I was fidgeting with my stack of messages and he stared at my hands until I dropped them and sat back in my chair.
“Every successful mission must have excellent support. You know that. You will support me and your efforts will be excellent. That way, my mission can be successful.”
I nodded my head and tried to look as if I had heard something profound.
“As you know, Cinco de Mayo is in a couple of days. Officially, the Agency is not tasked with any significant role in that ceremony.”
“You mean the speech of the President, Major?”
“Exactly. Obviously the State Department people,” he made them sound like scabrous lepers, “will be involved in the ceremony. The Ambassador specifically asked me to be, let us say, unseen. But I did get his agreement that I could provide one officer as a security representative. That officer will be authorized to be armed, the only one who has that honor. That officer will be you, Jack.”
A small generator of conflicting
and dangerous thoughts kicked off in my head. Did Gearheardt know that I was to be an armed security representative at the introduction of the Mexican president? How could he, if Crenshaw had just made the selection after his conversation with the Ambassador? And why did Crenshaw want me armed and present anyway? For just a moment, I also wondered what Marta was doing back in my apartment.
“Am I keeping you from your day dreams, Jack? Is this a bad time?” The man had no humor but had sarcasm down perfectly.
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. It’s just that I need to meet someone in a few minutes.”
“Someone?”
“Rodrigo.”
I watched to see if he would give away the fact that he had probably read my Colombian file.
“Sounds like a local.” He stood and went to the door. “I don’t want any jacking around on this Cinco de Mayo assignment. And that’s not a pun. See me when you get back.” He opened the door and then turned back. “You do know how to use a pistol, don’t you, Jack? As in shooting someone? If you had to?”
“I can shoot people, Major. Sometimes even if I don’t have to.”
“Hmmm,” he said and left. Leaving my door open.
“Pepe is for you, Señor Armstrong,” Ms. Sanchez said on my intercom.
I got up and shut my door. I had only a few minutes leeway to get through the traffic to Rodrigo, but I needed to ask Gearheardt a few questions.
“Gearheardt, where are you? We need to talk.”
“Watch out for Crenshaw, Jack. He thinks he knows more than he knows.”
I let that sink in.
“Gearheardt, you rotten bastard, do you have a bug in my office? What the hell do you know about Crenshaw?” I was genuinely upset. Bugging someone’s office was … well we did it all the time, but Gearheardt was supposed to be my pal.
“Believe me, Jack. It’s for your own good.”
“I just had the office swept this morning, Gearheardt. How could you possibly get a bug back in here?”
“Let’s talk about important things. Not why Hector and Billy might have missed a bug in your office.” Hector and Billy happened to be the embassy security people who had changed the combination on my safe and swept my office. “First, Marta will take you to a Cuban nightclub tonight. Be careful, but trust her. She will introduce you to some people it will be good for you to know. And she’s a hell of a dancer. You aren’t supposed to know anything, so just let whatever happens happen. They’ll try to approach you if they get comfortable.”
I was trying to calm down and understand what Gearheardt was telling me. “So these are some of your Cubans?”
“Uh, no. Not exactly. These are the opposition. Mean little bastards too. But just take it easy. You’re there dancing with Marta. Don’t wear your gun. I gotta go, Jack. I’ll talk to you later. And congratulations on the security guard job. You’re perfect.” He hung up.
Rodrigo was in a sweat by the time I got to our meeting place. He met me at the door of the small cantina, and took my arm. “Let’s go, Jack. I have my car here. I will tell you on the way.” His car was a red 1969 Chevrolet convertible. Fairly obtrusive for a private detective in Mexico City, but that was none of my business.
On the periferico, the freeway that encircled the city, Rodrigo wove in and out of traffic at speeds up to eighty miles per hour. The first few times I had ridden with him, I assumed that all of the Mexican traffic police knew the car and left him alone. A former police officer himself, he had gotten mixed up or crosswise with the vice boys and ended up a civilian. I didn’t know the whole story.
We exited on the road to Puebla before he spoke again. “Thees Colombian guy, he is full of bombs in his car. My friends will stop him until we get to there. He will tell us the students that take the bombs to America.” He smiled at me. “He will sing like the bird.”
“Rodrigo, I am just interested in finding out who supplies the explosives, the bombs, and where the money comes from. I know that you don’t like it that he recruits the Mexican kids, but we’re more interested in the source. We think the Russians are behind this.” I had explained this to Rodrigo more than once, probably telling him too much.
“Then he will sing a Russian song.” He laughed and looked at me, expecting me to laugh too. I tried.
We swung off the blacktop and followed a dusty road for another two or three miles. The town we entered was Calixtua. More than a village but hardly a city. One-story pueblo-style buildings in the ‘suburbs’ and a mixture of American fast food knockoffs and open-front appliance stores on Main Street. All glued together with small cantinas and cafés. Rodrigo turned down a narrow street and after two blocks pulled tightly against the side of a building and stopped.
“From here we walk,” he said, not noticing that I was struggling to open my door against the adobe wall. “My friend’s garage is not far. The Colombian is there to get his car fixed.” He stopped at the corner and turned. “You are armed, Jack?”
I was, but before I could answer, a blast we both felt and heard captured all of our attention. Rodrigo took off running and I followed, instinctively pulling my pistol from its shoulder holster.
Down two blocks and around another corner we ran and then slowed at the sight that awaited us. A car was burning in front of what had been an auto mechanic’s garage. The front of the garage was missing. The windows on the adjacent buildings were shattered and shards were still falling to the ground. Two young Mexican men were sitting on the ground, their hands covering their faces, blood showing between their fingers. Alongside the burning car, another man lay prone and motionless. From the corner of my eye, I saw a man twenty yards away on his hands and knees.
Rodrigo and I ran to the motionless man and began dragging him away from the car. As we deposited him on the concrete floor of the garage and rolled him on to his back, he moaned and opened his eyes. Rodrigo began talking to him in rapid Spanish that I couldn’t follow. I did hear “Colombiano” two or three times.
I walked to where the two young men now had their shirts off and sat wiping blood and dirt from their faces. They didn’t appear to be seriously injured. I became aware of noise for the first time since we had heard the explosion. Turning, I saw a small crowd of people gathering in front of the shop. Some men were throwing buckets of water on the still smoldering car. A baby was screaming from somewhere in the crowd or one of the adjacent houses.
One of the ‘fireman’ stopped and looked at me. He pointed down the street. “Colombiano,” he said.
The man who had been on his hands and knees was now on his feet, supporting himself with one hand against an adobe wall. As I started toward him he looked back and began moving more swiftly. I broke into a run as he disappeared around the corner. I rounded the same corner moments later and crashed into a small wooden cart that evidently had been pulled into my path by the fleeing Colombian. With one knee hurting like hell, I started back after him. Down a pot-holed alley. Then into a small square. Five or so street carts and a small crowd of Mexicans. An overcrowded bus was departing from the other side of the square and I saw the Colombian clinging to the back door. He saw me and gave me the finger.
Back at the garage, Rodrigo had everything under control. No one had been killed, but the two garage workers had been taken to the hospital. His friend sat in a chair brought from one of the surrounding homes. Dust and smoke still hung in the air. A woman stood in what had been the office of the garage, holding a rag to her mouth and crying. A small girl clung to her legs, her eyes following me as I moved around.
“What happened?” I asked Rodrigo.
“My friend says your Colombiano came to his shop to get his car fixed yesterday. My friend knew that I was looking for a Colombiano with thees car so he tell him to come back today and he call me.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“It is no matter, Jack.” He was not looking at me. “Then my friend told the Colombiano that it would take maybe one hour. The Colombiano left and walked to the pla
za just there,” he pointed in the direction I had chased the other man, “and when he return he was angry that the car was not fixed. My friend had the keys to the car so the man could not leave and the Colombiano threw a small bomb into the window and then … BOOM. And this is what my friend said happened.”
In my less than perfect Spanish, I asked the garage owner if he was okay.
Rodrigo answered for the man. “My friend was once in the Mexican army. When he saw the small bomb, he knew he should not try to run away. He fell to the ground very flat.” Rodrigo slapped the man on the shoulder, congratulating him for his quick thinking. The blast had simply blown up and out, sparing, for the most part, the garage owner flat beneath the ‘cone’ of energy and car parts.
I nodded toward the crying woman and small girl. “His family?”
“Si, Jack. Those boys at the hospital are his two sons.”
A wave of emotion came over me that I had not expected. I saw a village in Vietnam that we had entered after a friendly artillery shell fell in its center. Only the small children would look at me as I walked through checking the damages. The image was so vivid for a moment that I wondered if I were having a ‘flashback.’ I had heard vets talk about them, but never thought I experienced anything other than a few bad dreams and some occasional discomforting memories.
“Jack, the local police are coming. I need to speak to them and then we’ll go.”
“Tell your friend that we will pay to have his garage repaired, Rodrigo.” I didn’t trust my flimsy Spanish under the circumstances. “Tell him I am sorry that this happened and we will also pay for the doctor bills.”
As Rodrigo finished speaking to his friend, whose expression didn’t change, two Mexican Policemen, their brown uniforms sweat stained and unpressed, came up to us.
“Buenos dias, amigos,” the older one said. He began a long conversation with Rodrigo.
After a few minutes, Rodrigo took me by the arm and led me through the small crowd of on-lookers, heading back to his car. “We will need some money for the police also, Jack. It will cost them extra for security now that they know we have dangerous operations taking place in Calixtua. Maybe five hundred U.S. dollars.”
Goodbye Mexico Page 5
