by Ben English
Playing Jack Flynn the Actor came with the occasional drawback, of course, one of which was that he had no business attending high-level security briefings. When Alonzo finally showed up to share intel, he had a beer in his hand and a woman trailing close behind. Naturally.
Brunette, and something very familiar about her. “No, it’s okay, Kathleen. He’d really like to meet you,” Alonzo said. “We go way back. Jack Flynn, please meet Kathleen Krell, she designed this whole place. Everything you see.” Then his lips moved silently: She was at the security briefing. Knows the layout.
Jack smiled, and recognized her halfway through the handshake. She was the foreman earlier, in the ballroom, directing the workmen underneath the chandelier. “You’re a building designer?”
“Civil engineer, with a dash of architect,” she replied. She looked considerably different in her long cocktail dress. She held his hand a bit longer than necessary, and then blushed. Her perfume carried the briefest suggestion of lavender. Well.
What was this? Standing there, half listening to Alonzo go on, not bothering to read his lips for the rest of the security briefing, Jack experienced a funny sort of sympathy for her, and blushed himself. She was a strong, soft woman, willowy, with high features and happy eyes. She noticed his scrutiny, and he blushed all the more.
“Are you responsible for that amazing crystal, ah – what-do-you-call-it, in the main ballroom?” he asked.
Alonzo, oblivious. “Chandelier. She built it. You won’t believe it when you see it, Jack. The whole thing is held up by a window. A massive skylight. Incredible. Kathleen's got quite a mind for physics—"
"Mathematics, actually. It’s just mathematics." Her eyes hadn't left Jack's face. A single bead of perspiration ran down her neck, and a bit further. Jack found himself mentally tracking its progress.
Another group, similarly overdressed, joined them on the balcony to make appreciative noises about the view of Havana’s lights.
“Kathleen,” said Alonzo, “You don’t mind if I talk to Jack for just a few minutes? Thanks.” They retreated to the far end of the overlook.
“You’d better not leave her alone too long,” said Jack. “Are you using a legend, or playing yourself?” He didn’t want to inadvertently say anything to spoil Alonzo’s chances. Or did he? Jack sneaked a look at the woman leaning against the wide balcony railing, and felt the stirrings of sensations he thought gone and buried. She pulled at him, like gravity.
Alonzo waited until no one was within earshot. “I’m playing myself, changed the last name like you said. She was at the briefing, even had the original drawings for the building.”
“You borrow them?”
“Took pictures with my phone, sent them over to Steve. Jack, this place has been re-designed four or five times. It’s a security nightmare. Remember the last time we were here? How everybody refused any real protection, just wore a rosary? It’s like that, all over again.
“There was an editorial in the newspaper today criticizing Espinosa for wearing his locator bracelet. Guess who isn’t wearing their locator bracelet to the party tonight? Says it doesn’t go with his cufflinks.” Alonzo sighed. “It’s all just a little bit of history repeating, and I’m getting that old, bad, itchy feeling.”
“They have medicine for that, you know.” But the smaller man was not in a laughing mood. Jack tried another tack. “Was he actually at the security meeting?”
“Of course he was. Didn’t listen to a damn thing I had to say.” Alonzo shoved his hands through his hair, bristling with frustration.
“Just kept ignoring us. Hires the best private security in the world—the Secret Service was in the room, for crying out loud—and Espinosa ignores them all. I thought the problem was his security guy, but Espinosa’s the biggest headache we’ve got. This habit of stopping his car in a crowd and getting out to visit the nearest market, or bank, or public bathroom—it’s got to stop. He’s allowed the press total access tonight, Jack. Some bright kid is going to figure out how to make a camera shoot bullets. Hell, give me ten minutes and I’ll rig it myself.
“And that’s not the worse part. He’s thinned out his personal guard detail to the point where it’s like he wants to be killed. Even joked that Cuba needs another martyr.”
“So put yourself in the position of the bad guys for a minute. What do you think?”
Alonzo considered. “Weakest point is the perimeter. Even with the foreign security crowd here, the perimeter is thin. Miklos Nasim could probably walk right in here himself, throw off the facial recognition software with a little zinc-based makeup. If Raines knows Espinosa at all, he’ll strike tonight.”
“He’s still relying too much on technology?”
Alonzo nodded. “Not enough men on the ground. He’s got the military watching the sky, police in the streets, but not enough men on the ground. Forget a trained operative like Nasim, a farmer with a hand-trowel could break in, wouldn’t have to know his ass from a hole in the ground.
“He’s right,” said Pete Dalton, from the dark space behind them. Alonzo jumped and swore.
Jack’s response was more measured. “Hello old man. Nice suit.” He’d only halfway drawn his pistol before he recognized the voice.
Alonzo recovered fast. “Pete, you must get a real kick out of watching me freak out every time you do that."
"Do what, Al?" The speaker materializing out of the shadows had a wide, toothy grin that radiated confidence. A mirror-image Jack. He even wore an identical tuxedo. “Alonzo’s right. Weak defenses. Air traffic control is doing their job, but there’s no antiaircraft on the rooftops and only a few defensive sniper positions.” He pointed them out from the balcony.
Alonzo made worried noises.
Jack steadied him, and straightened his tie. “Listen, Espinosa isn’t as foolish as he pretends to be. He’s pulling a Reagan, or a JFK. He knows we can best defend him by going on the attack. That’s why he allows us to be here, gave you a seat at the security briefing.”
Pete added, “He ignored your defensive suggestions because he wants everyone else to underestimate us, not because he’s trying to marginalize us.”
“Yes, whatever that means.” Alonzo shook his head.
“It’s like butter,” Jack said.
Pete laughed. Alonzo pressed on.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll roll with whatever happens tonight.” He blinked. “You seem confident enough. What’s your little voice telling you?”
“Not sure. He hasn’t said a word lately.”
“No?”
“Probably busy giving advice to somebody else.”
“Maybe you’re just not listening,” said Pete.
Alonzo stopped them. “Listen to this, I’m starving. They’re already serving food in the main ballroom.”
Kathleen Krell joined them. “Are we going downstairs?” she asked.
Alonzo looked at her. “That’s where my mouth is going to be,” he said.
Her nose twitched. Moving towards the door, Kathleen stood between them and rested a hand on each of their arms. To Jack she whispered, “Your friend is an odd one.”
He agreed, feeling her eyes on him. Wondered for a moment how to respond. Jack felt the funny flicker of longing again, the deep, linear pull that was akin to gravity. The flesh of her hand and arm was very smooth, and a number of possibilities sang to him from the near future. He was reasonably certain he could say and do the exact combination of things needed to seduce this woman. He looked beyond her at Alonzo.
Jack leaned close to her. “He’s single,” he whispered. And just like that, opportunity passed.
He listened as their conversation echoed back from the hallway. "Funny," Kathleen said. "What kind of a name is Alonzo Tsipwhich?"
"I believe it's Swedish-Mexican," he replied. Jack snorted derisively.
"That's a rather odd combination."
"You should meet my parents."
Kathleen's throaty chuckle receded into the darkness, and
Jack and Pete were alone on the balcony.
Mercedes. What would he do if she saw and recognized him, he wondered.
After a moment, Pete took enough breath to say, “No one’s spotted her yet, but her press pass was scanned a few minutes ago in the media room.”
“Did I ask?” But he was glad, all the same. “You reading my mind now?”
“She really does remind me of someone,” Pete said.
“Well, you know what they say. You live long enough and everybody reminds you of someone.”
Pete gave him an odd look, and fished through his pockets.
“The flight attendants were cleaning out the QSST, and found this,” said Pete. “Didn’t think you’d want to lose it.” He set the crystal falcon on the balcony rail and took in another deep draught of the humid air.
“Thanks.” He moved the bird a few inches away from the edge. “You wearing your wireless?” Jack carefully inserted his ear bud and used his phone to remotely activate it. “Everybody else on the net?”
Steve’s voice came back immediately. “Communications are up,” announced Steve’s voice. “Ready for check, Ollie.”
They ran through the team’s callsigns, and after everyone responded Pete said, “So if you’re Ollie, it follows that somewhere there’s a Stan.”
“Somewhere,” he agreed. Jack stretched his fingers, then passed his hand over the crystal bird without flourish or preamble. It vanished on the third pass.
“How the hell did you do that? Where did it go?” asked Pete.
“Let’s just say I won’t be dancing too closely with anybody tonight,” Jack replied.
The lights in the hallway lowered, then came on again. Three times. “The party’s starting,” Pete said.
Jack checked the clock on his phone. Less than twenty minutes. Everyone else was in place. “Let’s get down to the action.”
Reception
Minutes later, Jack found himself on another balcony, this time overlooking the grand ballroom. It was filled with people of every race and distinction in the world. The riot of sound assailing his perch above the throng was nearly overwhelming. Below, Romanians waltzed with Swedes while a Slavic gentleman, via interpreter, talked an Indian woman through the complexities of a tight, jazzy turn. Neither one had any clue what the other said, but their joy sounded the same. No matter the language, Jack thought, laughter sounds the same.
Hopeful. And hope drives the world. It’s the reason we buy cologne, lottery tickets, Viagra. “Let’s all make a happy noise for hope,” Jack murmured.
The balcony he stood on ran the length of the room, nearly to the windows, stopping only to give enough space for the gathered curtains. The steel shutters were invisible, hidden behind the draperies. Less invisible were the guards along each wall, each in full dress uniform.
Jack was suddenly jostled by one of the people milling about behind him. He turned to find one of his men dressed as a butler, politely offering him a platter of hors d’oeuvres. "Nice outfit, Vern," he whispered, taking a loaded toothpick.
The waiter leaned close. "The air control team just signatured a private helicopter flying in low and fast, just off the waterfront. It's not on the approved list."
"Probably just a media charter. If not, the Secret Service has men on all the buildings. If you bump into Alonzo, tell him to check out the roof access in a bit, just in case." Both men glanced up at the ceiling and the most expensive skylight in the world.
Illuminated, it shone. Blazed, but not so brightly that they couldn’t make out the intricate, organic details. The brilliance it shed reflected dozens of times from alternating panes of glass and steel woven around the crystal centerpiece of the skylight, which in turn supported the chandelier. Chains anchoring the affair gleamed, drawing the eye down to the base of the wall as well as up toward a central, incandescent disk in the ceiling. The design suggested movement; surging, liquid power. Espinosa probably loved it. The chandelier looked for all the world like a ten-tiered glass arrowhead aimed at the floor. It was lighted, and its tear-drop crystal beads reflected the room's brilliance a thousand times over. Like staring down the face of a comet, Jack thought, or into the soul of a prophet.
A familiar voice from below, dancing closely with a young woman. Ravishing would not be too strong a word. "Can you really get me into the movies, Mr. Alonzo?"
Jack's friend smiled down at her. "Oh, I should think so."
Jack grinned and dropped the toothpick into Alonzo's hair. He wondered what had become of Mercedes, and swept the crowd with his eyes.
*
Mercedes was becoming bored.
She should be enjoying herself. There were enough pretty faces. Normally she enjoyed these sorts of gatherings. The international scene offered her an endless array of fascinating things to take pictures of, an endless line of fascinating people to meet, and more than enough photographs to keep editors happy.
She snapped a picture, with a bit more force than was necessary.
The creeping boredom, even surrounded by all this noise and all these pictures just happening right in front of her, tipped it at last. Submerged in all the finery, Mercedes was forced to admit she just wasn't satisfied. It wasn’t enough.
(Finally. At last.)
She needed a change, an opportunity to view the world from a different perspective. Snapped another picture. Parties like this one were wonderful; it gave her a chance to show off how well she looked in expensive clothes, but it was becoming harder for her to conceal her yawns. Snap. Snap. The need for change ran deeper than this party. She wanted more.
At last!
There it was again. A small, dry, voice perking up from the back of her brain, armed with a tiny glimmer of glee she couldn’t account for. Completely at odds with her mood but there it was, nonetheless.
This peculiar sensation of amusement seemed to spread and even out within her, warmly, until it was merely a memory, leaving a sort of peace in its wake. During this time she found two more perfect shots waiting for her camera.
I’m losing my mind, she thought. No time like the present for a CAT scan!
An actor went by, noticing her. He’d won an award the previous season, but for the life of her Mercedes couldn’t remember his name or where she’d seen him, in movies or TV. The moment he saw her camera and media ID he pulled his cheeks and stomach in as far as humanly possible. Mercedes smiled, and deliberately did not take his picture. Honestly, what use were these people to anyone?
Which of course reminded her of Jack Flynn.
She found herself thinking about him lately, for some reason. She wondered where he was and what he was doing with his glamorous and probably empty life. She wondered again if she were losing her mind, just a bit.
Since her conversation with the old man on the train, Mercedes had been mistaking people for Jack every time she turned around. Just that morning while exploring the hallways of the new building, Mercedes thought she saw Jack, dressed as a workman, entering a heating duct. Absurd. If he were here tonight, she told herself, Jack would be out in the crowd with the other celebrities. Right now she had other things to worry about.
The balcony would give her the perfect angle to shoot the Vice President and whoever it was in the long pink dress he had been dancing with all night. She made her way toward the stairs. The expensive camera was definitely out of place with her black dress.
The mob on the balcony was almost as bad as on the lower level. The throng parted for an instant, and Mercedes froze.
There at the balcony's railing, not five feet away with his back to her, stood Jack. She knew from his stance and the burnished shade of hair, and even the tilt of his head. What was she to do? Running seemed out of order. At any rate the crowd behind her surged forward, pressing her towards him. Mercedes refused to panic; instead she did what came natural. Snap.
Abruptly the man turned, smiling affably and holding a reddish-tinted glass to his lips. Mercedes let out an explosive breath. It wasn't Jack afte
r all. The man's mouth was the same, and the facial structure nearly identical. There was a strangeness about his eyes as they fixed on her.
It could have been the resemblance to Jack, but her practiced eye told Mercedes there was something more to the man. Almost like a mask—she couldn’t frame it in other terms. There was something elemental and leaping behind his eyes, like fire against glass.
He seemed to recognize her for a moment. Looked at her with terrifying honesty. Just for that moment, Mercedes was afraid. Just for that moment, his mask slipped.
The instant passed, and Mercedes smiled and extended her hand. He took it and said, "Thank you for taking my picture. I'd like to see a copy of it sometime. You know, we’ve never met; my name's Peter Dalton. Some party, isn't it?" His warm smile almost disarmed her. Somehow Mercedes was certain that under his civilized veneer lurked an unreconstructed predator.
Something familiar about him. Beyond being another Jack lookalike.
Dalton willingly enough gave up his place at the railing, and Mercedes shot several dozen pictures from the balcony. Time for something different, she thought, as she focused on the skylight. "I wonder what's on the other side of that window?" she wondered aloud.
It was easy enough to find the stairs leading to the roof's service entrance, and her media pass let her by the guard stationed at the bottom door. The sounds of the reception barely echoed here, and Mercedes had trouble finding the knob at the head of the stairs. The muggy heat at the top of the shaft nearly stifled her.
The door swung open noiselessly and the sounds of the parade several stories below greeted her as Mercedes stepped out into the night. Despite all the spotlight beams, the stars above were dazzling, and Mercedes nearly fell when she tripped over something large on the roof.
The door had opened to the side of the building cast in shadows, away from the great skylight and the parade lights. She bent low to see what she had fallen on—