by Shane Kuhn
The answer was not to try to get someone close to him. The answer was to recruit one of his already-close minions. He had to have a small army of them, handling logistics, resources, and financial transactions. It was like any other business. Lentz had employees, and there was a hierarchy governing them. Attempting to pilot fish onto someone too high up in the organization was not the right approach. The higher up the minion, the higher the pay, and the stronger the loyalty. Kennedy needed someone lower on the totem pole, but not so low they couldn’t leave Lentz’s back door open for him. And it needed to be someone Lentz was obliged to trust to some degree.
Kennedy knew travel, so he started there. Private would be the only way for Lentz to move freely around the world and maintain anonymity. A pilot would be someone who would have a lot of contact with him and someone he would be obliged to trust. If he were Lentz, he would engage someone and keep that person local so he could leave at a moment’s notice. Kennedy contacted the Ciudad Libertad Airport in Havana. It had been Cuba’s original airport before José Martí International was built, so it was large enough for big private jets and catered to a wealthy clientele. He spoke to the airport’s main office, telling them he needed a large aircraft for executive travel. The flight crew needed to be experienced enough to pass muster with corporate risk management. The airport e-mailed him a list with contact information for all private pilots and aircraft they had available for service, listed in order of years of experience.
He narrowed the list to a dozen pilots with the flight hours and aircraft-type ratings to fit the profile. Juarez had Nuri pull all of their recent flight records, and only one of the pilots on the list had multiple flight logs listing Isla de la Juventud as point of origin. His name was Rico and he was a former pilot for the Venezuelan Air Force. On the surface, he seemed like an excellent candidate. He was very experienced and well trained, something Kennedy believed Lentz would look for. He was also from a country whose president despised the United States, so he may have had his own reasons, politically, to help Lentz. Finally, at thirty years old, his youth was something Lentz could use to his advantage. The average salary for young pilots even in the United States was shockingly low, so the commercial prospects in Venezuela, and most of Latin America for that matter, couldn’t possibly have been able to compete with what Lentz might pay.
Juarez agreed Rico was an excellent mark, but when he mentioned it to Alia, couching it as a lead he had thought of, he had not been able to convince her to try to bring him in. She was in full ass-coverage mode and felt that recruiting one of Lentz’s own people as a snitch carried too much risk. If things with Rico went sideways, Lentz would go even darker.
“Sorry, man,” Juarez said, “you did some great work here but it looks like this is the end of the line.”
“So, that’s it? You’re just going to ignore this lead and walk away?”
“I have to, brother. She’s the boss. You take care.”
Juarez’s Better luck next time brush-off only galvanized Kennedy’s resolve. This wasn’t about getting reinstated with Red Carpet anymore. It was about saving lives, and he couldn’t, in good conscience, leave this last stone unturned.
If Alia was covering her ass, it was time for Kennedy to put his on the line.
When you called to say you needed a favor, I figured maybe you wanted tickets to a show or a ride to the airport,” Love said.
It was early evening and Kennedy had invited Love to El Carmen, a hole-in-the-wall tequila bar on the outer edge of West Hollywood. She had just come from the recording studio, so she was sporting her artfully dressed-down look—jeans, gold combat boots, and a vintage Descendents concert T-shirt. Kennedy, on the other hand, looked like he was coming off a three-day bender. He was desperate to chase down his lead in Havana and thought maybe Love could help him, so he told her about being recruited for Red Carpet and filled her in on most of what had happened. Love just listened and tried to keep her jaw from breaking on the floor.
“I know it’s kind of crazy—”
“Kind of crazy? Dude, I can’t believe you’re a . . .” She looked around to see if anyone was listening and mouthed the word “spy.”
“I’m not. I’m what they call an asset. They hired me because of my work and connections in airport security.”
“But you got fired?”
“Yeah . . . I fucked up.”
“What’d you do?”
“I’ll tell you sometime. I promise. But I can’t right now.”
“You’re kind of scaring me,” she said.
“Sorry, I’m just desperate to fix this. I’m doing it for Belle. I feel like it’s a chance to make good with her.”
“And you want me to help?”
“I don’t know where else to turn.”
“Okay,” she said, putting her hand on his. “I’ll do whatever you want. We’re family, remember?”
“Let me explain it to you first and you can make up your mind.”
Kennedy told her about the young pilot and how they needed to get close to him in order to get close to Lentz, the man they wanted to catch. Kennedy couldn’t think of a scenario where he could do it himself without raising Rico’s suspicion. But Love was capable of sweet-talking the devil into going to church. Maybe she could go to Havana and get the guy on the hook.
“You want me to whore myself out for information?”
“No! Jesus. All you need to do is talk to the guy and see if you can convince him to help us. Once you get your foot in the door, the CIA can take it from there.”
“You need me to be a fluffer,” Love said, grinning.
“For lack of a better term, yes. But it’s a mind fluff, nothing physical.”
“Look at you! All protective. What does this guy look like? Not to toot my own horn, but if he’s a troll and I throw the vibe all over him, he’s going to be suspicious.”
“He’s not a troll.”
Kennedy showed her Rico’s picture.
“Ay, caramba,” Love said, biting her fist.
“Okay, maybe this isn’t such a great idea.”
“I’m joking, dummy. I’ll do it.”
“Really?”
“Why not?” she said. “Sounds kind of fun. James Bond shit.”
Kennedy gave her a hug. “Thank you. You’re the best,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “Now give me the intel,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re taking this seriously, right?”
“Of course. I’m just getting into the right headspace. Sorry, I’ll shut up now.”
“I want to send you to Havana as soon as possible. I’ll handle all the expenses, of course,” Kennedy said. “And pay you very well for your time.”
“Please,” she said. “This is a favor, remember?”
“No, this is work, and you’re getting paid whether you like it or not.”
“Fine. But I don’t fluff cheap,” she said.
“Fair enough.”
“Quick question,” she said. “How do you know this guy isn’t going to smoke me on the spot?”
“He’s a pilot, so I doubt he spends a lot of time smoking people. But if he gets out of line at all, we’ll be waiting to take him down.”
“You know you’re going to owe me big-time for this, right?”
“Absolutely. Whatever you want.”
“If I do this, you have to promise me you’re going to quit that lousy bullshit thing you call a day job and do something fun for a living.”
“I promise,” Kennedy said without hesitation.
“On Belle.”
“Oh my God. Fine, I swear it on my dead sister, you creep.”
“Good. Havana, here we come.”
HAVANA
Day 30
Kennedy made arrangements for he and Love to travel to Cuba via the Bahamas, and
they were in Havana three days later. Without the help of the CIA, he wasn’t able to get any more intel on Rico. But he knew most pilots had their favorite bars. Like cops and firefighters, they enjoyed talking shop over a few hundred beers. Kennedy spoke to a pilot friend in Miami who said that on layovers he had frequented a dive bar called Shangri-la, a half mile from Ciudad Libertad Airport. Love did her part too and found Rico on Instagram. He had posted selfies at Shangri-la, mostly on Fridays when he went there with friends to watch soccer. When Friday night rolled around, Kennedy posted up at a table in the back of the bar and waited. When Rico rolled in with his boys, Kennedy texted Love and she made her entrance.
She sat at the bar and ordered a drink while half the patrons ogled her unrepentantly. A few of them actually tried to hit on her and she shot them down in flames. In the midst of all this, she flashed Rico one look. It was quick and subtle, but it was all the invitation he needed.
“My name is Rico,” he said in accented English, “and I’m going to buy you a drink.”
“Knock yourself out,” she said as he sat on the stool next to hers.
After a few shots and some gently provocative conversation, Rico was nice and oiled up. And like most colorfully narcissistic egomaniacs, he loved to talk about his favorite subject: himself. He went on about his time in the air force, then his move into private aviation, where he used to fly pop stars in and out of Ibiza. Since moving to Cuba, he’d been flying rich Europeans and South Americans around the world. He even bragged about having carried the occasional Bolivian marching powder payload up to the Bahamas or Key West. Love had him drooling in the palm of her hand.
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, doing her best naïve American girl impression. “What an amazing job. Do you love it?”
“It’s okay . . .”
His face darkened, and he gulped down the rest of his drink. Love almost burst out laughing at the dramatic overtones. Rico was like the hunky star of a Mexican soap opera, gearing up for his big scenes. Love could tell he wanted to get something off his chest, but like most drama queens, he needed her to draw it out of him. The problem was, the bar was getting more crowded with loud soccer fans and Rico became preoccupied with the looks the other men were giving Love. She played that note like a prodigy.
“You want to get out of here?” she asked.
He nodded and left a wad of cash on the bar. They walked outside for a smoke, and when Rico got an even better look at Love under the streetlamp, the fire in his belly became an inferno.
“Where do you want to go?” she asked.
“My apartment is nearby,” he said.
Love wasn’t about to take one for the team. She lit another cigarette and tried to get him to open up.
“Tell me more about your job. You seemed upset in the bar.”
“It’s just . . . I shouldn’t talk about it.”
“Aw, and I thought we were making a connection.”
He looked at her with stars in his eyes and touched her cheek tenderly.
“Tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help,” she cooed.
“I work for a fucking Nazi asshole,” he said.
“Tell me about him. What’s his name?”
Rico ranted about the “fucking Nazi asshole” he had to fly all over the world. Based on the small number of times Rico had seen him, he provided a physical description that sounded very much like what Kennedy had told her about Lentz. But Rico had never learned his name.
“Motherfucker killed my friend,” he said, his eyes welling.
“Oh my God. What happened?”
“She was one of his regular girls,” he said shamefully. “He goes through them like shop rags. It wasn’t her thing. I know everybody says that, but she really needed the money and the putas know how to suck a young girl in, you know? She’d only been turned out a couple of weeks when his people picked her up. She was young and fresh, so he kept bringing her back. She made more money than she’d seen her whole life, more than even her father or grandfather ever made, so she didn’t want to quit. She thought she could do it for just a while, and then buy her way to New York or Miami. But then he started asking for some really weird shit that she didn’t want to do.”
“What kind of weird shit?”
“She wouldn’t even tell me. It was that bad. She just kept saying he was the devil, that no man would ever want things like that from a woman. So one night she told him to go fuck himself. She called me the next morning, so proud. I was proud of her too. We went out and celebrated. But after that night I didn’t hear from her again. Then they found her. She was . . . I can’t even say it . . .”
Rico fought back the tears. Love hugged him tightly, and he wept for several minutes. When they made it back to his apartment, Love skillfully extricated herself, telling Rico she had feelings for him and didn’t want to destroy what they had by moving too quickly. So she promised to have dinner with him the next night.
* * *
“Oh, you’re good,” Kennedy told her as they debriefed later at their hotel.
“It’s weird, right? I never thought in a million years I could be a spy.”
“You’re a performer, Love. And a damn good one. Plus, you’re helping this guy out. This is probably the only way for him to get out of a very bad situation.”
“Are you going to tell your CIA contacts about me?” she asked excitedly.
“I’m going to do better than that. I’m going to tell them to get their asses down here to watch your repeat performance tomorrow night.”
Day 31
You’re one ballsy son of a bitch. I’ll give you that.”
The next morning, Juarez was smiling at Kennedy and Love across an outdoor café table overlooking the bay. The place was small, filthy, and loud—a local hangout for commercial fishermen and dock laborers. Juarez had chosen it because it was far from any of the city’s tourist spots. Kennedy figured he might have also picked it because if he didn’t like what they had to say, he could easily kill them and stuff their bodies in waste oil tanks or pay someone to haul them out for chum.
“Not as ballsy as Love,” Kennedy said.
Juarez looked at Love and sized her up.
“You got that right,” he said.
“What do you think?” Kennedy asked. “About tonight?”
“I think we need to prep,” Juarez said. “Where did he ask you to go?”
“His place,” she replied. “Shocker.”
“Romantic intentions aside,” Juarez began, “that’s perfect. Means we don’t have to do any of this in public.”
“So what do I tell him?”
“Depends. How much does he know about Lentz?” Juarez asked.
“Not a lot. When I asked his boss’s name, he didn’t know it. I guess he mostly deals with a handler and rarely sees Lentz.”
“Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re going to show up at Rico’s place and blow his mind. He doesn’t know shit about his boss? Good. Then, you tell him his boss is the head of a drug cartel family . . . and you’re DEA. That’ll put the fear of God in him that he needs to get out and needs your help to do it. We make you DEA so if Lentz catches wind, he’ll sic his dogs on them first and we’ll have time to regroup.”
Kennedy could see Love was working it all over in her head.
“So, I’m asking him to be a snitch,” she said. “What’s in it for him?”
Juarez handed her a box of chocolates.
“Seriously?” She laughed.
“There’s twenty thousand US in there. Enough to whet his appetite. Tell him there are five more stacks where that came from if he finishes the job.”
“Which is?” Kennedy asked.
“Planting bugs. I want him to wire Lentz to the gills—house, cars, and private jet especially. We’ll use the tech you’ve been installing in airports so Lentz’s sweeper
s can’t pick them up. The money will show Rico we’re for real. If he bites, we’ll set up a meeting tomorrow and I can prep him.”
“What if he doesn’t bite?” Kennedy said.
“Then Love will have to kill him and get the hell out of there.”
“What?” Love yelped.
Juarez laughed. “I’m messing with you. He’s not going to say no. Twenty large goes a very long way in Cuba.”
“He’s a man. If I do my job right, I can probably get him to pay you.”
“No doubt,” Juarez said.
“What if he isn’t as cooperative as we would like? Or maybe even hostile?”
“Got that covered,” Juarez said.
He handed Love a jewelry box. There was a silver skull ring inside with black gemstones for eyes.
“There’s a bug and a GPS transmitter in there. If you feel at any time you’re in danger, tap the ring three times on a hard surface and it will send out a distress signal.”
Love looked at the ring anxiously.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be close by with Kennedy and I’ll be able to get to you in five minutes.”
“You all right?” Kennedy asked her.
“Yeah,” she said, twisting the ring onto her finger with an air of indifference.
“We’ll all recon later tonight,” Juarez said. “Now you should head back to the hotel and wait there,” he told Love. “Stay off the street today.”
Love saluted him and took off. Kennedy got up to follow her.
“Have a seat,” Juarez said. “We should have a chat.”
Kennedy sat back down.
“You realize how dangerous this is, right?” Juarez asked.
“Do you want me to stop her?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I just want to make sure you’re clear on what we’ve just asked her to do.”