by Noel Hynd
“None at all,” Alex said with a sigh. “I get where you’re coming from.” She reached forward and accepted the files, and with them the assignment in Havana. “Okay,” she said. “I don’t like it, but okay.”
“That’s kind of my attitude every morning in this place,” Fajardie said. “Why should you be living a different life than I am?”
“No reason I should,” she said. They missed her sarcasm.
Fajardie turned to Sloane and Menendez. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. They rose and were out the door in another minute. Alex would have followed, but she felt Fajardie’s hand on her wrist. Then he released. He glanced back to the table and indicated she should sit again.
“A final detail or two, Alex,” he said. He moved to the door and closed it.
It was obvious to Alex that Fajardie had something significant to add. She sat.
“A couple of creeps those guys,” he muttered of the duo that had just left.
“Imagine that in this agency,” she said.
“Yeah, right,” he agreed. “And now I’m going to be one too.”
“Want to spit it out?” she asked.
“I’m going to tell you your real assignment in Cuba.”
Alex stiffened slightly.
“There’s a larger issue there,” Fajardie said. “Potentially a huge one. It will most likely develop on your visit, but it’s absolutely at the top level at this moment. Well beyond the purview of those two clowns who just left.”
“Wait a minute,” Alex asked. “Is the Violette operation genuine or not?”
“Absolutely,” Fajardie said, “and it’s the perfect cover within the agency for your second task in Cuba. There is, in fact, a second defector, a much more important one, who is holding a top-drawer bag of goodies for us. ‘Figaro,’ we’re supposed to call him, until we learn more. I am not even sure who he is, but the package he’s selling is quite impressive. Potentially a first-rate defector with two eyes on the future, whereas Brother Violette is of the third-rate variety with one bleary eye on the past. Follow?”
“Vaguely. This Figaro — is that his cover name or one our side gave him?”
“His, I believe. Why?”
“A theory of mine,” she said, warming to the subject, “which has been borne out in recent times. The more one conceals an identity the more one reveals it.”
“And what does ‘Figaro’ tell you?”
“Well, what are the associations? The original Figaro was a character in a pair of eighteenth-century French plays, who then became a character in an opera by Mozart and an opera by Rossini. Figaro was a barber — the “barber of Seville” — who was a subversive against the ruling class. If a Cuban took the name, it suggests an unusual affinity for European culture. Unless, of course, it means nothing.”
“The Figaro issue began about two years ago. There was some sort of flap involving a Spanish passport,” Fajardie said. “I saw that part of the file. Not my department, and I’m not the case officer. I’m your case officer but not Figaro’s. I don’t suppose that connects to anything, does it, the Spanish passport?”
“It might,” Alex said.
“How?”
“I spent some time in Madrid last year. I suspect you’re referring to one of the provisions of Le Ley de Memoria Histórica. Several thousand Spaniards fled Spain during the 1936 – 39 Civil War, as well as during the Franco regime, and settled in Cuba. Only a handful are still alive. But they, their children, and grandchildren now hold legal rights to Spanish citizenship. It’s part of the reconciliation process put forth by the current Spanish government. Seville, by the way, is in Spain, so there’s a subtle subtext with your Figaro. He’s not the Tailor of Saville Row in London; he’s the barber in Spain.”
She looked at Fajardie and wasn’t sure if she was connecting.
“So you think he’s a barber?” he asked.
“It’s always possible, but how would an ordinary barber have access to anything important? More likely he has an affinity for opera. Or Spain.”
“Could be,” said Fajardie.
“Before we overthink the point,” she added, “I’ll also point out that Figaro was a kitten in Pinocchio, and it’s also a chain of pizza joints in Los Angeles. So I’m as wary of overthinking as you are, okay?”
“I’m told Figaro was supposed to get a Spanish passport but didn’t,” Fajardie said, expanding. “That’s unofficial.”
“If a Cuban got Spanish citizenship and a Spanish passport, he — or she — could leave immediately,” Alex said. “Sounds like the Cuban government prevented this individual from getting a passport and exiting.”
“Only one reason they’d do that,” Fajardie said.
“Sure,” Alex said. “If he worked for the government or in defense or in anything sensitive, the government wouldn’t want him to leave.”
“That jibes with the scuttlebutt. He wanted to vamoose and they wouldn’t let him. The they in my sentence is the Castro government. And they’d have to be watching him pretty closely. So he had to be waiting for the perfect moment to slip his leash. He’s probably looking for someone from our side to contact him. He wants to find us. That’s where you come in. If he makes the wrong move at the wrong time, they’ll shoot him. And anyone helping him.”
“How do you know Figaro’s a man?” Alex asked.
Fajardie shrugged. “We don’t, but we’ve assumed it from the information.”
“Might be a foolish assumption,” Alex said. “You never know about the demure middle-aged woman who’s been a party functionary for years. She’s quiet and outgoing, but seething beneath the surface and ready to clean out the vault.”
No response. Then, “Maybe,” Fajardie said with absolute certainty, “our Figaro has already slipped us some engaging tidbits. Apparently, Figaro worked as part of a high-level Cuban delegation to Iraq in 1991. He says that, based on intelligence from a Russian spy facility at Lourdes in Cuba, the delegation had tried to convince Saddam Hussein that he could not win a war against the U.S. He claims to have met Saddam on several occasions. Do you know the name Arnoldo Ochoa?” Fajardie asked.
“No.”
“General Ochoa was the commander of Cuba’s intervention in Angola in the 1980s. He was scheduled to take over the most powerful and important command in Cuba after Angola. But he began speaking against Cuban colonialismo in Africa and in favor of glasnost, the new openness of Soviet President Gorbachev. Soon afterward, Ochoa was convicted of narco-trafficking. He was executed in 1989 with Fidel Castro’s permission. With his death, as when Che Guevara died in Bolivia, a popular and powerful potential rival to the president was eliminated. The real reason Ochoa was executed was political. We never knew that.” Fajardie laughed. “What does that tell you about Fidel and his regime? Fidel was pleased when Che died and pleased when Ochoa died. He is a low-budget Stalin who would never tolerate his Trotsky.”
“This is news?” Alex asked.
“The people on the sixth floor crave this stuff. What can I say?”
“So? What am I supposed to do about Figaro?” Alex asked after another moment.
“Keep your eyes and ears open. Be prepared to think on your noble feet, and if anything comes up while you have your boots on the ground in Cuba, rope him in. Bring him to the U.S. Getting Violette up here would be a home run. Bringing in Figaro, I’m told, would be a grand slam.”
“I assume I don’t mention any of this to my travel companion,” she said.
Fajardie laughed. “Absolutely not!” he said. “The only one you mention this to is me. And the aforesaid Figaro if you meet him.”
“If I’m lucky enough to find him,” she said.
“No,” Fajardie said in conclusion. “There’s no chance that you will find him. As I said, Figaro will find you — or it doesn’t happen at all.”
THIRTY-ONE
MacPhail and Ramirez checked Alex into Washington’s Madison Hotel that evening. The two agents sat outside her door, waiting to be r
elieved overnight by agents from a local office. Even the room service waiter had to pass a security check.
After 8:00 p.m., Alex opened her laptop. She had a soft drink on ice after changing out of her meeting clothes into a T-shirt and jeans. Might as well be comfortable. Tonight, the Madison was the crown jewel of the American protective-custody system. Five floors below, along 15th Street, traffic rumbled along. As her computer booted, Alex walked to the window and pushed back the curtain.
Was she still in danger? she wondered. Was another sniper preparing to pick her off? Maybe the same sniper? But she felt like a fugitive. She used to live in Washington and, by and large, enjoyed her time here. She used to move around freely as a younger woman. Restaurants, clubs, the gym.
She had a man in her life back then, someone she loved. She enjoyed her various promotions, the career excitement. Then abruptly the disaster and tragedy in Kiev struck. Now, more recently, there was the promotion to her job in New York. Yet fate and emotions kept pushing her back down. Tonight she felt overwhelmed and lonely. She thought about the two million sitting in a bank account for her in New York. She drew a long breath. Why did God allow her to get that money?
But as long as that sniper was out there, she couldn’t lead a normal life. Most other women her age had families, husbands, or steady relationships. What, she asked herself, did she have to show? She had the burden of a job in which she could get her head blown off. So why did she keep doing it? What if God intended for her to use that money to get away from it all?
She continued to gaze out the window, making herself a target as she stood. She watched couples, presumably happy, going to movies, bars, and restaurants. Right at this moment, Alex would have traded places with any of them.
Then her thoughts tripped a mental landmine, one of sadness and longing, one of still painfully missing her late fiancé. The memories set off a worse wave of loneliness within her, one she fought almost every day for at least a few moments. Intellectually she had accepted what had happened in Kiev, but emotionally she hadn’t.
She let the curtain close. She didn’t feel like working. She didn’t feel like praying more. So, dragging herself back to the laptop, she accessed the flash drives the CIA had given her and poured through the files that Maurice Fajardie had provided. It was tedious stuff, poorly organized and repetitive. It added nothing to what he had presented to her in person. But she plodded through it.
Roland Violette came off as the loosest of cannons. She read copies of his most recent correspondence to the CIA, frequently struggling with Violette’s drifting handwriting — and his reasoning, which drifted even more obliquely.
The cold war ended in 1986, but the true struggle lies before us …
The socio-economic exploitation of the population of Central and South America has exceeded anything Karl Marx could have imagined …
I love America and its ideals very deeply …
And, almost inexplicably,
Even if greedy America were knocked out of the game by heroic Islamic fundamentalism, the price of fish in Lima, Peru, would hardly be altered.
The latter was the opening salvo in a wandering five-thousand-word essay that tortured Alex’s ability to read.
After more than an hour, she had read enough and seen enough to understand the assignment. She went to her cell phone and called her friend Ben, who lived just a few blocks away.
The phone rang once, twice —
“Well, I can leave him a message,” she thought to herself. “He’s probably at the gym playing basketball. Or maybe he’s with his girlfriend.”
Three rings. A fourth.
“Maybe we could chat later when — “
Then Ben picked up.
“Hey,” she said, almost in surprise.
A pause, then, “Alex?”
“Really,” she said. “Your favorite head case. The one and only.”
“What the — ! What a nice surprise!” He paused a little awkwardly. “How are things?”
“Oh, they’re okay,” she said. “Hey, listen …”
“Yeah?”
“I’m in Washington.”
“You’re what? Now?”
“I’m in town,” she said, rallying. “Passing through. One overnight and — “
“And you didn’t tell me in advance? I’m hurt.”
“It happened suddenly. Part of a case I’m on,” she said. She hesitated. “But I’ve got a little time later. Want to talk?”
“Where are you?”
“At the Madison Hotel.”
He laughed. “Slumming, huh?”
“Right. At the taxpayers’ expense. Listen, I only called to talk and — “
“So let’s talk in person,” he said.
She turned and glanced at her door and pictured her guards beyond it. “Oh, I don’t think that would be possible,” she said, “but — “
“Come on, Alex,” he said. “You’re here in town. Let’s get together.”
“Ben, it’s complicated,” she said. “I’m on an assignment. I’m dealing with some bad people, okay? That’s why I’m passing through quickly and — “
Her voice wavered for a moment as memories came flooding back. She remembered the night Ben had convinced her not to commit suicide and saved her life. She remained quiet as she regained her composure.
“You there?” he asked.
“I’m here. Hey. Wait for a second, okay?”
“Of course.”
She thought for a moment, rose, and went to the door. She opened it. MacPhail and Ramirez were sitting outside, playing cards.
“Hey …,” she said, putting a hand over her phone.
MacPhail looked up. “Problem?” he asked.
“Listen, guys. I know I’m under some form of high-rent house arrest,” she said, “but do you mind if I have a friend come over?”
The Feds looked at each other. “We’re not supposed to let anyone in the room with you unless we’re there, Alex,” MacPhail said. “Those are the instructions. Isn’t that going to cramp your style?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Oh, it’s a ‘friend’ friend?” MacPhail asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to get across. So how about the restaurant downstairs? Can I meet a guy for a drink?”
“You buying for the four of us?”
“No. You are, Walter,” she said.
The Feds looked at each other again, back and forth. “We got to go with you and watch the door,” MacPhail said. “You know that. Unless you’re in that room by yourself we can’t take our eyes off you.”
“That’s fine. In fact, I appreciate it. So how about the bar?”
Ramirez shrugged. “Sure,” he said.
“Good,” Alex said. “We’ll do it.”
“Go for it,” Ramirez said.
She gave her bodyguards a thumbs-up and went back into her hotel room. She closed the door. “So?” Ben asked.
“Be at the Madison Hotel in ninety minutes. Fifteenth and M Street.”
“I know where it is,” Ben said.
THIRTY-TWO
Alex settled in at the far end of the bar and waited. The room was sleekly modern, an offshoot of Palette, the adjacent restaurant. The counter was light wood, and the cylindrical hanging lamps echoed the shape of liquor bottles. Tall, comfortable stools flanked the bar.
MacPhail and Ramirez took up positions near the door that led to the lobby. Alex scanned the room. It was moderately busy. She saw at least one congressman and a gaggle of lobbyists. She waited.
Alex saw Ben before he saw her. She lifted an arm and gave a subdued wave. He spotted her. He was in jeans and a polo shirt and looked fit and happy, with only a slight limp. He came directly to her and didn’t even notice when she gave a nod to her FBI babysitters to indicate that this was her friend and he was okay.
“Hey,” he said in greeting.
“Hey,” she answered.
She slid off the stool into his embrace. It was longer
than it needed to be, but she went with it. She felt his lips linger on her cheek. Then he released her, and she installed herself back on the barstool.
“No hard feelings?” she asked.
“From what?” He eased onto the chair next to her.
“I didn’t like the way we said good-bye … in New York.”
“Nah.” He waved her off. “It’s forgotten. We’re friends.”
“You’re okay with that?”
He shrugged and winked. “I’m allowed to keep hoping that something might change, right?” he said, gently teasing. “I mean, no law against wishful thinking, right?”
“You’re allowed,” Alex answered.
The bartender appeared, and Ben ordered for himself and Alex. Alex glanced over at MacPhail and Ramirez. Ramirez gave her a goofy grin and a thumbs-up. She scowled back just as Ben turned back to her.
“So?” he asked. “What sort of trouble you in now?”
She blew out a long breath. “I’m making a trip out of the country. That’s all I can tell you. It’s against the rules even to say that much. I’m nervous and scared, and I need someone friendly to settle me down.”
“Okay,” he said. He put his hand on hers. “I’m here.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
“Between us, there were threats against me in New York. So I’m dropping off the radar and taking what might loosely be called a short-term foreign posting, also known as keeping my head down and trying not to get killed. If I seem blasé about it,” she concluded, “that’s a huge feint, because I’m nervous as a dozen scared cats, but you’re the one person I can bare my soul to. How’s that?”
“Lousy,” he said. “And I know you well enough to see how shook up you are.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“To me,” he said. The drinks arrived. Ben continued, “You going alone?”
She hesitated. “I can’t tell you that.”
He looked at her strangely. “Someone you work with?”
“No. Someone I know. I can’t tell you the name.”
As he tried to decipher the situation, Alex began to feel the whole conversation was going the wrong way. “Someone you’re involved with?” he asked after a long pause.
