Jack Be Nimble: The Crystal Falcon Book 3

by Ben English

  “What did you do?”

  “Hired him. Have you met Special Agent Whitaker?”

  A soft pinging sound announced their arrival at the main terminal. The train lurched as it pulled between parallel loading platforms.

  The central airport was new. Very shiny. In both directions up and down the long hallway to the terminals, vendors were preparing for business. The day’s arriving flights were already inbound. Lights came on behind the newsstand and the cigar shop windows, and inside the store selling t-shirts and beach jewelry. A stand selling sorbet and iced island delicacies packed in dry ice for the plane trip home advertised orange-pineapple frozen yogurt.

  She shivered. The pre-storm evening had sucked all the heat from the air, and the artificially-cooled climate inside the airport didn’t appear to have an off switch.

  The store selling spoons and other touristy gewgaws was full of departing tourists, so they found seats nearby. Jack handed her his coat. It was green wool with black leather sleeves, warm from his body.

  “Your team likes you.”

  “That they do.”

  “They think you walk on water.” She was slightly dizzy. Fatigue, probably.

  “They don’t like me that much. Now, turning water into wine, that’s a trick they would appreciate.”

  “How about pool water into Jell-o?”

  “That was probably a one-time thing. And it wasn’t really Jell-o.” But he looked happy that she remembered.

  “The M&Ms were real.”

  He brightened. “You want some M&Ms?”

  She shook her head. “Against my diet.”

  He thought about that. “You should really get a day off once in awhile.”

  She smiled. Eventually, she said, “They’ll follow you pretty much anywhere, won’t they?”

  “They know I’m a ham.”

  “You? A ham?”

  “They know I do my best work when I’m showing off for a pretty girl.”

  The food concessions were open, but neither Jack nor Mercedes felt hungry. The terminal had a lot of people in it for such an early hour—Mercedes expected many of the island visitors to cut their vacations short after the violence of a few hours ago, but there actually seemed to be more people arriving than departing the island.

  Remarkable that none of them recognized Jack, until one of them did.

  “Hello, infidel.”

  The man stood very close when he suddenly turned to them and spoke. Mercedes jumped at the boom of his voice. He continued, cheerily as he’d begun.

  “I am thinking how amazing it is. Of all the people in this terminal, at least a few of which must watch American movies, none of them recognize Jack Flynn.”

  “Most of them have never made a career of following me like you have, friend.” He stood and embraced the newcomer.

  He was a tall man, elegant. He wore layers, including a sweater, as if he were in Chicago or New York rather than a tropical zone. Mercedes watched his stance and hand motions. No, he dressed as if he was accustomed to a much warmer, drier climate. The men kissed each other on both cheeks.

  Jack introduced him as Mahmoud. He made a little bow when he took Mercedes’ hand. “Oh, Light of the Morning, forgive my intrusion. Such a happy coincidence I chanced to see Jack—”

  “He’s been following us since the dance in the plaza in Chinatown,” added Jack, gesturing for him to sit.

  “—apparently I’ve been following you since you danced in Chinatown.” His eyes twinkled. To Jack he added, “I watched your movie last night. Terrible, terrible. You hardly looked like yourself, let alone General MacArthur as a young man.”

  Jack assumed a thoughtful look. “I suppose you’d have to consider it an artistic attempt at portraying the man.”

  Mahmoud nodded. “Ah, yes. Well. A double failure. Cheers!”

  “So how did your son’s science experiment turn out?”

  Mercedes couldn’t decide exactly how to take the situation. She wondered how often Jack found himself in exactly this circumstance, striking up conversations with people as if some previous discussion never really ended.

  Mahmoud lowered his voice. “Did you find what everyone is looking for? Behind the wall in the corridor? My government arrived at the same conclusion yours did, only you beat us to the wall by a good hour.”

  “Mercedes thought of it,” said Jack. Before the man could fully turn his attention to her, he added, “I’ll make sure you receive a full report. Even throw in a few spelling errors so your superiors think you nicked a draft copy.”

  Mahmoud wasn’t as playful. “What did you find?”

  “Some sort of aerosolized delivery system. Should know more in a few hours.”

  He still wasn’t amused. “Jack. The man who will be our next president walked through that doorway, and two of his wives. They left the country a short time ago. Should we quarantine them?”

  “Both the Center for Disease Control and Prevention and the Epidemic Intelligence Service have weighed in. Nothing on any of the CDC’s preliminary tests indicate that a bio weapon was involved.” When Mahmoud started to press further, Jack added, “Honestly Mahmoud, that’s all we know so far. Read the book when it comes out.”

  “Bah, always it is books with you. I could track you by following the trail of discarded receipts from used book stores, like breadcrumbs.”

  Seeing Mercedes’ expression, Jack explained. “Mahmoud and I met when he was trying to catch me.”

  “I did indeed catch you, and that would have been the end of you if not for your little friend and his helicopter.”

  Mercedes spoke up. “Was this when Alonzo was in the Navy?”

  Jack’s eyebrows jumped. Mahmoud was completely astonished.

  Jack spoke first. “You found out about that?”

  “Alonzo mentioned it. Earlier, at the conference center, when we were taking a break and you were talking with the men in black.” She hadn’t surprised him as much as she initially hoped.

  “That was an adventure,” said Mahmoud. To Jack, he added, “They say the Beautiful One still whispers your name, in her sleep.”

  Mercedes crossed her arms, smiling at Jack. “First of many adventures, from what I hear. First time you and Alonzo raised hell together. As adults, that is.” She wondered what he would do next.

  Jack looked at her, his expression unreadable. “Okay. For the record, that wasn’t really the first time. The real first time happened a few months later.” He turned to Mahmoud. “After I met your family.”

  An unspoken message passed between the two men, and Mahmoud looked at her. His expression changed slightly; she couldn’t read it.

  Behind him, the door to the store opened. Jack rose. “Need to buy a souvenir,” he said. “Be back in a spoon.”

  Mahmoud watched her face. She ignored him momentarily, surprised at her own feelings as Jack’s focus slipped away from her, turned inward. She’d said something wrong. They’d enjoyed each other’s company for a few scant hours, and she was already antagonizing him.

  Maybe she could fix it. Mercedes tried something new, a trick she’d seen Jack and Alonzo employ a few times that morning. Catching Jack’s eye, she mouthed a question. The Beautiful One?

  He paused. Light of the Morning? he returned. But he didn’t quite smile.

  Turning to enter the shop, Jack was nearly trampled by a sudden stampede of elderly women, tourists, if their matching t-shirts and baseball caps were any indication. They neatly outflanked him, storming into the boutique with single-minded ferocity. He spun slightly in their wake.

  “You okay?” Mercedes asked.

  “I let them go first, you saw that, right? I get full points for letting them go first.”

  So he wasn’t upset after all.

  “If they try to make off with the best spoon, this could get ugly,” Jack said. “Might need both of you to back me up if I have to take on the entire gang.”

  *

  The black, short-bodied limousine bounce
d once as its wheels met the new macadam of the airport’s frontage road. Everything was new here, Miklos sniffed. Give him Europe, with its Roman roads and sense of deep use.

  The Lada was far from what he would term a luxury vehicle, but it did have six doors and a sturdy suspension. Soviet-built—the most sturdy piece of engineering to come out of the Worker’s Paradise—it was the only car brand to be found on every continent of the world. Including Antarctica. The heavy-gauge steel bodywork grounded the car to the road as well in the tropics as it did in the more extreme Siberian climates. It was the first type of car Miklos remembered riding in, as a boy. This wisp of memory was useless, of course, but the corresponding hint of home made up for the jarring newness of Nuevo República Cuba.

  The six doors had a practical application, of course. “Twenty seconds,” Miklos said, and the first pair of men nodded. Their equipment was secure.

  The second and third pairs of men checked their duffel bags as well. Each wore identical coveralls—the same design used by the ground crew and general airport maintenance.

  A voice sounded in Miklos’ ear. “We read you. We have control of the operations and security systems, but have not exerted that control. We’re going to get you and the rest of your team out, Mr. Nasim.”

  Marduk. He sneered. Marduk and his computer skills were an asset, but ultimately unnecessary. Turning off the lights and opening doors was a nice trick, but his contribution to their exit from Cuba was negligible at best. At the end of the day, the finesse and brute force belonged to no one but Miklos Nasim.

  His only regret was tactical. It was a shame to have to use the Colombians for this essentially mundane task. The plan required a certain level of skill, however, and his ranks were depleted. Nearly all the enhanced men from Cayo Verad were dead. Also, none of the Colombians were enhanced yet, and so Miklos didn’t have an effective killswitch embedded in any of them. If they were captured and interrogated – well. He would deal with them in a more traditional manner.

  One that did not rely on Marduk, Raines, or the infinitesimally tiny nanoweapons of the future.

  “Time,” he said, and the car braked quickly as the first two men opened the doors and bolted from the car. The Lada moved again, continuing on course around the perimeter of the airport fence. “Twenty five seconds,” he said.

  *

  Mahmoud never stopped looking curiously at Mercedes. He waited until Jack entered the store before he spoke.

  “Spoons. Used books and interesting spoons. Why he always needs to purchase a spoon is beyond me. Not that I mind the company. So Alonzo told you about our little adventure in the desert.”

  “Not very much. Still waiting for the full story from Jack.”

  “I see.” She could tell he wanted to ask her a question. Instead, he said, “I tracked Jack through the Great Kavir Desert, in Iran.” He looked at her, expectantly.

  “To be honest, sir, I still don’t know if you’re friend or foe.”

  “Friend, definitely. Though depending on how much of the story the good Alonzo told you—from his point of view, I can see why you’d wonder.” He chuckled. “Life has a way of coming around again, like a large wheel. One of the ways God helps us fix things.”

  She could see Jack through the shop window. “Alonzo didn’t mention anything about ‘The Beautiful One’.”

  He laughed with his hands. “That is a longer story than we have time for. And one I’m sure Jack wants to tell you himself.” He shook his head. “That type of honesty never works well with women. Someone should tell him this.”

  “I’ll pass it along.”

  Mahmoud’s grin was bright. “He would say something similar. And just as carelessly. You have much of him in you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Can you at least tell me how you and Jack met?”

  He considered. “I met him in a mosque. He was praying, can you imagine? In those days, if I had found a Christian there, kneeling toward Kaaba, his forehead pressed to a prayer carpet – I would have removed the head, do you understand? It was forbidden for a true Muslim to be a friend to one who does not believe in God and his Prophet.”

  “But he won you over?”

  “During the time of our chase across the desert.” He cast about for the words. “Those were terrible, bloody days. I have never known a man with such violence in him, such darkness. And yet Jack looks on it all equally, as a seeker of truth should.”

  Mercedes didn’t know how to take this. “You keep mentioning truth.”

  Mahmoud nodded. “Jihad—true jihad, not the use of the term in your Hollywood. There can be no spiritual jihad without an intensive search for the deepest truth of things.”

  He struggled, she saw, to convey meanings deeper to him than language would allow. “Thank you, sir, for sharing that with me. You honor me,” she added.

  Now he looked almost bashful. “I have sat here, speaking these things with you that I would tell no one but Jack Flynn, as if he were here himself. And now you say exactly the thing his wife would say.”

  “His wife?”

  Outflanked

  At the curb outside the airline ticketing counter, Miklos softly closed the door of the limousine and stepped inside. The car immediately pulled away and headed for the main road, back toward the city proper. Only one man inside, one man with two tasks.

  Three steps inside the airport, Miklos had already forgotten his features. This was the part that came easy, the casual focus and precise execution. The point where his pulse would actually slow. All other concerns fell from his mind, and he fixed his attention on the security checkpoint.

  His colorless hair and gray eyes concealed underneath a baseball cap—these Cubans had a ridiculous propensity for the sport—Miklos walked with a slight shuffle, slowly and deliberately towards the first guard.

  The air inside was cool—cooler than it should have been. Fewer people than he expected. So much easier to keep track of everyone. A blond woman sat with her back to him, outside a tourist shop, speaking to a known Persian spymaster. Miklos cataloged this and moved on. The Persian clearly thought himself discreet, but his compact, compartmentalized stance and eyes gave him away as a boxer or intelligence operative. The woman looked familiar, but it wouldn’t do to look back for a better view. There was a timetable, and Miklos needed to get beyond the security checkpoint before the driver of the Lada returned.

  Other eyes watched them all. While he was still near enough to make a play for the exit, Miklos looked directly into the nearest security camera, and counted a dozen heartbeats. No alarms, no claxons. No security personnel, in uniform or plainclothes, approaching him obliquely.

  “What are you waiting for?” The radio’s voice in his ear was plaintive, bored.

  So Marduk had managed it, obviously. The local surveillance system was under his command. Probably the other systems too, at this point. As soon as Miklos was on the other side of the baggage check, he could really start to move. His intel was correct; the main security checkpoint was manned by Cuban regular army, rather than the private security company employed directly by the airport.

  A nagging thought. Familiar. The blond woman. She would draw eyes in any crowd, and Miklos made use of this tactical advantage. The soldier checking personal IDs only gave Miklos a cursory glance; he had a much better view of the woman. He didn’t see Miklos take visual inventory of his weapons—gas, baton, taser, no sidearm—and move through the rest of security, a smile on his face and a song in his heart.

  *

  Mercedes tread carefully. “You know Jack’s wife?”

  “I only saw her veiled. After our adventure in the desert, my country keeps extensive files on them both. But you know how difficult this can be. Like Jack, she is something of a chameleon. Our linguistic analysts have never come to agreement on her first language, for example. Our experts do not know her exact height.”

  And now she detected a deeper thread in Mahmoud’s narration. He hadn’t let much slip, but
there was a careful slyness to him, a curiosity underneath his warm exterior. Her suspicions growing, Mercedes allowed him to continue without interruption.

  “Both Jack and his wife resist classification. Oddball, I believe the term is. Did you know that your country issued an extermination order against all members of their religion? Quite some time ago,” he amended, “But even so. Jack voluntarily joined this religion. Your husband is most peculiar.”

  “My husband?”

  “You see? Your expression. Shock, humor—even though you expected me to say such a thing. Again, your Jack is similar. Your enemies find you both most implacable.”

  *

  Half a kilometer from the terminal, the driver of the Lada accelerated past a bus and two other cars, then braked abruptly, ignoring the resulting symphony of squealing tires and car horns.

  An overpass marked where the airport access road completed its loop and met itself for the return trip to the city. The road narrowed in the pass underneath, and his maneuver would be tricky. He’d practiced several times over the past few hours, but still. He had no intention of dying.

  No barrier stood between the two conflicting lanes of traffic. Just before the overpass, he braked hard and spun the wheel all the way to the left, canting the six-door Lada across three lanes of traffic. A bus rode his bumper.

  More horns, less squealing of rubber. He activated the satchel of explosives in the passenger seat and chambered a round in his assault rifle before exiting the car.

  He felt more passion for the gun than the car. It was his favorite. A Norinco Type 56, the Chinese version of an AK-47, was the first weapon he’d seen as a child in Colombia. He knew it was the weapon that he’d carry into the United States, when the plan indicated the time was right.