by Glen Carter
Under ordinary circumstances, an American aircraft vectoring south from the 24th parallel would have brought immediate regimental orders to arm the missiles. Even though Bovalenko knew that no such command would come, his training compelled him to confirm the operational status of the six V-750 rockets, which encircled the battalion command structures.All showed green, ready for launch.
Bovalenko spun his tracking ball to follow the progress of the incoming aircraft, its altitude and heading. How fast it was travelling as it violated Cuban airspace.He knew what the aircraft was and who was aboard. A few keystrokes.That’s all it would take. He placed a quivering hand over the firing computer and struck a series of keys. Its guidance radar activated, one of the missiles came to life and nestled with a mechanical hum to its deadly firing position.With a payload of four hundred and thirty pounds, the intruder would be obliterated at more that three times the speed of sound.
Bovalenko smiled at the fantasy, and then soft green light illuminated his disappointment. He punched a key and commanded the missile to stand down.
Aboard Air Force One, a countermeasures officer named Morgan suffered a jolt of adrenalin that nearly made him piss his pants. A warning flashed on his computer screen. But as quickly as it appeared, the red light, which indicated missile lock, vanished. Impossible, Morgan thought, in an operational response that represented an almost criminal failure in his training and duty. He shook his head and made a mental note to have his console checked once they were on the ground.
In the cockpit of Air Force One, the pilot pulled throttle for the descent to Jose Marti International Airport. It took several minutes before the aircraft was pointed directly at the active runway, and when it was, the flight engineer switched on the seat-belt sign and set about the other duties for landing.
A few seconds after settling on final, the pilot added a notch of power to compensate for the humid air and to keep the aircraft tracking straight as an arrow towards the runway threshold.
“Air Force One, you are cleared to land.”The radio crackled with information on altimeter and wind. “We welcome the President of the United States on his historic visit to the Republic of Cuba.”
Air Force One was a jaw-dropping spectacle. An icon of American power and superiority. The thunderous engines, each delivering more than fifty-six thousand pounds of thrust, were tweaked with ear-splitting results, propelling the aircraft to within inches of the red carpet.
When the door opened, Frederick Denton stepped through the opening and waved. Dignitaries smiled from below. Dozens of tiny flags flapped in the hands of uniformed school children.A band began to play. Denton felt a genuine affection that, like the heat, embraced him.
At the same moment, pool cameras closed in on the President’s smiling face, and on televisions around the world, commentators spoke of the enormity of what was being witnessed. No matter what the language, the significance of the event was evident in their hushed tones. In one broadcast booth, a Spanish newswoman stopped what she was saying to choke back tears.
M.J. Dumont and Paul Braithwaite waited, along with a dozen others just inside the aircraft.
“That would be a shit-eating grin you’ve got,” Dumont said.
“Yes. Yes, it is,”Braithwaite replied.
The President smiled back at them. “Better pray there are no lip readers in the audience,” he said. “Let’smove.”
Secret Service agents dashed to position, forming a security perimeter around Air Force One.Then the President descended the stairs. When he reached the bottom, Pilious Ortega greeted him warmly. “Welcome to Havana,Mister President,” Ortega said.
“Thank you, Pilious. It’s good to finally be here.”They stood with hands clasped while cameras captured the moment.
Braithwaite came up behind them to segue the event. “Mister President,” he said with a nod of his head.
“Paul,” Ortega said, smiling broadly. “How long it’s been.”
“Too long,” Braithwaite replied, grasping Ortega’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Pilious.”
M.J. Dumont stepped forward and was introduced by Denton. Ortega bowed ceremonially. “Much more lovely in person,” he said.
“Thank you, President Ortega,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“No doubt during your intelligence briefings,” he laughed, joined by the others.
Under the close scrutiny of the Secret Service, Denton continued along the reception line, shaking hands and being introduced to members of Ortega’s government. A few minutes later a group of brightly dressed Cuban children danced and sang for the American entourage. Flowers were presented to Denton, who got down on one knee and kissed the cheek of a child. Cameras flashed for a full thirty seconds.Then he walked to a podium.
A hush fell over the crowd.
“Good afternoon,” Denton began. “I cannot express enough of my gratitude for the warm welcome I have received from President Ortega on behalf of the Cuban people.” Denton turned with a smile to Ortega, at his side.
“I have some important announcements to make concerning the new relationship between our two nations. These are announcements which underline the commitment by both our countries to forge new, friendlier ties and to end decades of mistrust and acrimony.”
Cameras zoomed in on the President’s face.
“As I speak, the remaining members of a group of men known as the Cuban Five are being released from prison. Several of them will be boarding an aircraft for repatriation to Cuba and to their families.”
There was an audible gasp from the crowd.
Denton named them. “With my authority as President, I signed the papers this morning to decree pardons for these men, who were convicted of crimes against the United States years ago and have represented a thorn in the side of reapproachment.” Denton paused. “The imprisonment of these men represented a mindset that no longer exists among the American people and in particular the Cuban-American communities throughout our country. Those communities want change. Those communities have endorsed my administration’s forward thinking policies on Cuba, which is why I stand here today.”
As if on cue, several people nodded their heads. The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue across Denton’s features. “Make no mistake,” he continued, “there are doubters. Within Congress, within my own party, and within some of those Cuban communities. There has been protest, yes. And today I condemn those who have chosen violence to try and force their will on the people of the United States and Cuba. We will not tolerate it. As President, I will not tolerate it. The foreign policy of our great nations cannot be born of threats, intimidation, and bloodshed.” Denton looked directly into the nearest camera. “Some in my country believe this is the wrong way to go. As surrender to a country that has represented, in the past, a nation of despots and oppressors. Those ways exist no more. Cubans have proudly chosen new ideals that have long determined the path of free people, not only in the United States, but also beyond our borders to all of Latin America. Democracy has been seeded now on the fertile Cuban landscape, nurtured by a new generation with a bold, new vision. You have set a brave course for other nations to follow.”
Denton turned to Ortega, a look of genuine affection on his face. “A generation of men and women like Pilious Ortega. They are Cuba’s new revolutionaries and they are remarkable for what they have achieved. A democracy without the spilling of a single drop of Cuban blood. Courageously, they have cast aside the old in favour of the new and, in doing so, have achieved a peaceful transition to something profound. It is because of them that you will now enjoy the benefits of a new friendship with the United States. Benefits that will bring prosperity to the Cuban people, so wrongly denied for so long. Thank you.”
There was thunderous applause. In the crowd, people embraced. Eyes were dabbed.
Denton turned to Pilious Ortega, took hold of his hand, and thrust it into the air. It was the money shot, and the next morning, it would appear on the front page
of newspapers around the world.
A moment later, smiling and waving, Denton and Ortega followed the red carpet to the President’s waiting limousine. Then with lights flashing and sirens blaring, they drove off.
51
Poole smoked a cigar and, in the fading sunlight, watched a musician on the other side of the street. A crowd had gathered to listen, and for a solitary moment, the minstrel reminded Poole of a man he had shot dead in a sunny vineyard in Italy. His wife wanted him dead for two reasons—one because he was fucking her younger sister and two because his death would make her very rich. The man took his last breath during just such a sunset.
Suddenly everyone was singing. One guitar was joined by another and soon there was an impromptu concert. A man began to dance, laughing and hopping, an American flag stuck in his straw hat. He grabbed a nearby woman and spun her around. Others soon joined in. People were clapping from sidewalk bars, hooting their approval, foreigners and locals up and down the street.
A formation of throaty motorcycles roared by, drowning out all other sounds. Several riders pumped their fists. A passenger aboard one of the bikes trailed a giant red, white, and blue. The crowd went wild.
It had been a long time since Havana had seen such happiness. Not since Batista was driven out by the socialists. Poole understood. He had also lived under the yoke of oppression and then tasted freedom. Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed the festivities. Poole puffed on his cigar, sending a large cloud of grey smoke into the air. It almost made him smile to see such joy.
Everything was ready. The room at the boarding house had been thoroughly sanitized. Many of his possessions had been discarded. The only things he kept were his satellite telephone, which he stuffed in a satchel along with his laptop computer. One other thing was required and that would be provided before the night was over.
Poole raised his shiny lighter and studied her in its reflection. She was seated alone at a table near the restaurant’s entrance. A glass of wine was set before her. Even as a blurry reflection there was much to admire. Her sleek form, large breasts, and handfuls of thick blonde hair.
She stared for a while in his direction. Then she slowly lifted a cell phone, casually fingered it, and spoke for just a few seconds.
Poole lowered his lighter. He turned and smiled.
The woman looked quickly away.
It was all the confirmation he needed. Asatiani’s contacts were worth every peso.
After a moment, Poole rose, took his beer, and swaggered to her table. “May I sit?”
After a moment, she simply nodded.
Poole looked around and then pulled out a chair.
Calmly, she stared. Hands tightly clasped, though Poole was certain she was boiling. If given the chance, he knew she would bolt.
He studied her for a moment. Her large eyes. High smooth cheeks and sensuous lips. She was beautiful by western standards, with snake-like curves and a face that belonged in an American beer commercial.Though Poole preferred the darkly exotic and found her bland.
She clutched a purse that was too small to hold anything of a decent calibre. Smirking, he said, “I slept with a whore in Brussels once whose name was Lilia. I’m hoping you’re a better conversationalist.”
Brechkovsky showed disgust, but not surprise. No doubt she was reeling with confusion. With him standing there, speaking her name.
“That depends,” she said evenly.
“On what?” Poole replied.
“On whether you’re here for sex or conversation. And I can assure you, the former is not a choice you would ever have.”
Poole forced a laugh. “No. Perhaps not.”
“If it were not for the circumstances,” she continued, “I’d slap you for your opening line.”
Lilia suddenly glanced away.
Poole caught it. “I appreciate the leeway,” he said. “Circumstances?”
“What?”
“You said if it were not for the circumstances.”
“The circumstances of what you are,” Lilia said nonchalantly.
“And what is that?”
“A cold-blooded killer.”
Poole looked at her blankly. “You have me confused with someone else.”
Lilia locked eyes with him. “That’s not so. In fact, I’m quite familiar with you, as it seems you are with me.” She straightened then. So suddenly full of confidence it made Poole wonder.
“Go on,” he said, turning to look over his shoulder.
“Vasily Rusakova,” she continued. “Or should I say Colonel Rusakova? Second Directorate, Presidential Protection Unit. Special Operations Division. Then assigned to the Counterterrorist Response Team. Decorated for marksmanship and valour in Afghanistan and Chechnya.”
“An impressive resume,” he said. “Someone’s mother should be proud.”
Lilia flashed her eyes. “Or someone’s wife,” she said. “You disappeared after her.”
Poole went stone faced. Go on, my brave little whore. Dig your grave.
“Then people started to die,” Lilia went on. “People with targets on their backs.” Lilia paused. “Leonid Androsski was one of them.”
“Leonid who?”
Lilia shrugged. “Very well. Play the game. It means nothing to me.”
Androsski, the feared mobster, Poole thought. The hit had brought a briefcase full of money. Androsski had enemies, but he also had loyal friends. Poole had been careful, but apparently not careful enough. “As I’ve said. You’re confused.”
Lilia looked him straight in the eye. “I am not confused, Colonel.”
Poole had heard enough. It was time to shut her mouth. He got up.
As he did, the two men suddenly appeared behind him. One of them held a folded newspaper. It was clear what he was hiding.
“Sit,” one of the men commanded.
Lilia nodded. “Yes. Sit down, Vasily. These two have travelled a long way to find you. We three.”
Poole recognized the pair immediately. Both were Androsski’s men. The night outside the dacha, they had cowered over his dead body, a blur of panic. The two goons were Slavic with low Mongol foreheads and small sharp eyes. Poole wasn’t surprised he was being hunted. He knew the danger that went along with the Androsski contract. Poole decided he’d allow things to play out—for now. “Get on with it,” he said between clenched teeth. “I haven’t got all night.”
“Nor do I,” Lilia said softly.
A waiter approached but was waved away. Lilia came straight to the point. “You kill for a living. Is that why you’re here?”
“Once again,” Poole said dryly, “you’ve confused me with someone else.”
Lilia rolled her eyes. “I’d prefer if we didn’t do this little dance. I could be taking a hot bath right now or screwing the stunning hotel boy who turns down my covers at night.”
Poole thought a moment about Lilia naked. Hair whipping against her back as he takes her from behind. A knife slashes across her throat. He was finished with the fantasy. “Get to the point,” he hissed. “Or not even your two monkeys will be able to protect you.”
A sliver of fear cut across Lilia’s face. She swallowed.
Poole enjoyed it. He glanced at the two goons. His knife was close, but as quick as he was, it was no match for a gun. After a few seconds, he sat up straight. He calmly lifted his beer and brought the rim to his lips. He swallowed a large mouthful and placed the glass on the table again. He stared at her blankly. “Your move.”
Lilia leaned forward across the table. “Let’s go, Colonel.”
They hovered over him as he got up. The two monkeys were sneering. Poole turned his back on them and followed Lilia to the sidewalk.
It had been wonderfully orchestrated. The two of them. In the same restaurant in the middle of old Havana. Asatiani had many friends, including the concierge at Lilia’s hotel who had made a reservation for the Russian journalist. Soon after, there was a twentypeso note in his pocket from the old Georgian. Poole
had waited for her to arrive and then made the first move. It had been planned that way. As they walked, Poole couldn’t help but wonder where the old Georgian was laying in wait.
A moment later Poole thought again about the strange alliance. A reporter and two henchmen from the Russian mob. Reporters were always sticking their noses in other people’s business, but they never got involved in their dirty work. It was clear that Lilia had brought Androsski’smen into this and not the other way around. The muscle provided protection, and likely a deadly outcome. There was much more to discover. Poole could hardly wait to pry the information from her.
He thought about what was coming and, inwardly, he smiled. In the meantime, she had taken an unacceptable risk. A public place, witnesses. There was the danger of gunplay. Stupid girl. What did she think? That her stunning looks would mesmerize him. That he’d just allow himself to be taken.
Suddenly, there was a jab at his back. A deep Russian voice said one word. “Pidar.” What a ridiculous provocation. What child’s play this would be.
They walked thirty seconds to an alleyway; the blonde fell a few steps behind. The click-clack of her heels told him exactly where she was. She was speaking to one of the goons then. Softly, like a whisper at a funeral.
They would kill him. He knew that. The two goons were better at it than she was. She was boss, not used to wet work, getting brain splatter in her eyes, her mouth. Lilia’s press credentials were obviously a cover. If she were FSB, that would be a problem because there would be more like her to complicate his work. If she was a freelancer the question became who was paying her? He had many enemies. Poole decided that he would deal with her himself. The other two would die more quickly.
