Jack Be Nimble: Tyro Book 2

by Ben English

That made him laugh. “Though I have to admit,” Jack said, looking around. “He couldn’t have planned this any better.”

  Mercedes followed his eyes. “I see what you mean. Secluded little spot far away from everything in a lake in the middle of the woods. Scantily clad heroine just recovered from her swoon; dramatic sunset fast approaching. Yep. I’ve got you right where I want you, Potatohead.”

  She finished his bottle of water as he tried to think of something clever to say.

  It really was an excellent spot. The orange and blue sky stood sharply against the dark ridges to the west, on the far side of the reservoir. Birds moved over the water, shooting through the bright, gold light. There were more clouds overhead than earlier. Mercedes had to tilt her head back as far as it would go to see the whole sky and all the shapes. The sun shone through the piling clouds, filling the sky with an armada of pearl-sailed schooners.

  Mercedes sighed. “Can we just stay here awhile?”

  He nodded slowly. “If you’re really feeling alright. As long as we get the boat back to the pier before dark.”

  “Won’t he come looking for us?”

  “Not before dark. Maybe not even then.” Jack took her empty bottle and knelt over the cooler. “Alonzo pretty much looks out for himself. Want some juice? Hey, the sandwiches are still in here.”

  She realized she was hungry, hungrier than she should have been, and they both made short work of the food.

  Mercedes finished ahead of Jack, and was taking the cover off the cooler when he swallowed and said, “That’s something else I like about you.”

  Mercedes paused with a fistful of carrots. “What’s that?”

  “All the girls I know are afraid to let a guy see them eat anything.”

  She shrugged and sat closer. The sky was turning all sorts of soft shades of gold and red, mirrored in the water below.

  “I must have slept hours. What time is it?”

  He shifted his arm around her shoulders, allowing her to nestle in. “I didn’t bring a watch, and Al hasn’t set the boat’s clock.” He finished his sandwich.

  At length he asked, “Why do you always want to know what time it is? Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

  Mercedes couldn’t see his face, but something in his tone bothered her. “I’m not going to answer that question,” she said, deliberately.

  He shifted slightly. “School starts in a few weeks—”

  She felt backward for his face and covered his mouth with her hand. “Hey, look Jack, a sunset! Let’s watch.”

  But when she moved her hand, he said, “Your school even starts three days before that.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Looked it up on the Internet.”

  Mercedes forced a laugh. The dark water looked colder now, despite the silvery ripples. “Jack Flynn, using a computer. For his next trick, liberating Cuba!”

  He pressed his lips into the tangled hair at the back of her head. “What’s going to happen with us?”

  She closed her mouth, trying to think of a way out of this conversation. Failing. Failing and frightened, for she felt a cold ghost, an echo of the anger she’d directed at Kyle, well up inside her.

  “I don’t want to go,” she murmured.

  “Then don’t,” he whispered back. “What if you stayed, somehow? What if your dad came up here, to—”

  “He’s too sick. Besides, that’s crazy.” She sat up. “My dad move back here, to do what? Everything’s there. Our lives are down there, this is, this is –”

  His expression was unreadable. “This is where you come on vacation.”

  He was taking it all wrong. “No, well – no!” She could feel herself getting angry, which served to irritate her all the more. “This is so different, up here. I’m different, just being here. And now you want to talk about going back to that? You?” Her voice was getting loud, but she didn’t care. “I don’t get a choice, Jack! The stupid doctors don’t know what they’re doing, he’s probably going to…and now here’s you, and I’m finally feeling this way about someone?”

  He reached out, but she slapped his hands away and backed up until she was standing. “Don’t! Don’t say anything!” She’d never felt this kind of ache before. Irrational and infuriating, but she felt trapped suddenly, trapped between her father and Jack. “Don’t give me words! Not you. You can’t tell me it’s all going to be okay, just like he does! I hate that!”

  Suddenly all the anger she’d felt, all of it, came back. She cringed at the awkward commotion inside. What right did she have to feel such horrible self-pity? Bitterness swirled up and boiled over. Tears sprang from her eyes, and Mercedes shouted, “Nobody can tell me it’s going to be all right! I hate how I feel, Jack! Don’t you tell me it’s going to be all right. My mom is dead and my Dad is almost gone, and I hate everything! Everyone and everything!”

  Jack stood there, before her, like a warm stone, keen eyes in a boy’s face. Mercedes felt the anger inside coming to a crescendo, a fine, sharp, unstoppable point that would fly out of her and break him to pieces. She gasped, drowning in a hate that held her, engulfed her. Jack glanced past, over her shoulder, and gestured with a nod of his head.

  “I think our mothers would really like this sunset.”

  She looked, and felt her heart shiver at the wide, simple beauty. Slowly he touched her shoulder, then her face and arms, and Mercedes leaned back into him, and began to sob. As the tears fell, so did the shame she felt at her own self-pity. The anger swirled away.

  After she cried herself out, Jack got her a towel and helped her wipe her eyes and nose.

  “I’m getting your towel all gross.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, “Its Alonzo’s.” She smiled.

  “Thanks, Jack. You’ve really got yourself together. Sorry I’m…I’m such a mess.”

  “Got myself together? You’re saying this to a guy who tries to put forks in the spoon drawer.” He shrugged. “I can’t even tell the difference between a lettuce and a cabbage. I made myself a turkey and cabbage sandwich yesterday.”

  His voice held that offhand sincerity she loved, and Mercedes felt herself near a laugh.

  Jack held her quietly a long time, examining her face with a thrilling curiosity, and she felt herself grow warm. She wanted him closer. As close as he could get. She wanted to be under his skin. It took Jack forever to kiss her.

  They held each other tightly, the orphan and the motherless girl, and the sun hid itself. In that quiet, thundering moment there was nothing as fine or as bright or as pure.

  Café Cubano

  First thing he thought of, before coffee, even before any ridiculous gyrations in the bathroom, was to check the magazine in his pistol. Alonzo took that as a good omen, and allowed himself to wake all the way up for his second day in Havana.

  He was made for this climate. Alonzo dressed quickly, covering his pistol underneath an oversized white shirt, light slacks, no tie. Needed to move quickly on a beach or through a boardroom in Havana, with no one looking twice. The gun would stay behind during breakfast number one (coffee and not much else) with the CIA/Secret Service and breakfast number two (coffee and too much of everything else) during the 'official' security meeting.

  He kept the gun with him as he went looking for caffeine. Breakfast before breakfast.

  The Hotel Parque Central was a strong, solid building, tall but constructed with touches of the soft style and tastes preferred by Spanish aristocrats secure in their colonial privilege. That part of Havana never changed; that part, Alonzo found the most reassuring. For all he knew, his ancestors—Andalusian nobility, according to his grandmother—might have slept in this very building. Might have taken their coffee on this very balcony while Jack’s forebears were chasing each other around the Scottish Highlands, claymores bloody.

  He wondered what his ancestors would think about Cuba as an enlightened democratic republic. And how they’d deal, mentally, with the idea of the International Goodwill Games, sche
duled to begin a few days hence. Alonzo found the cappuccino bar and toasted the general idea of Havana, his distant forebears, and their rampantly gifted genetic legacy. “Curse those handsome devils,” he said, followed by, “Yuck!”

  The cappuccino soured in his mouth. Ever since Jack made him plaster his ribs with that tobacco crap, he hadn’t found a coffee or a beer that tasted like it should.

  Other aspects of the mission were a mixed bag.

  President Espinosa’s usual public announcements were understated. They took place in a simple, windowless room with the fewest direct witnesses allowed by law, adorned only by a Cuban flag and a picture of the late Castro the Elder. A tiny camera crew, a select number of the local media, and two or three foreign photographers were all the press that Espinosa would allow. Alonzo had to admire the president-elect’s sense of theater. From a marketing standpoint, he was a natural-born genius.

  The actual oath of office ceremony, set for the following day, would be very public, very open. Impossible to secure, and this absolute transparency pulled attention toward Cuba—and the Games—like nothing else.

  The minimalist tactics up to this point had the media frothing and starving to break any story about the fledgling democracy’s emergence as the fastest-rising power in the region. Sure, loans from the United States had helped, but Cuba was rising without much other assistance. The renewed country was strong enough and respected sufficiently to host the Goodwill Games, the latest favorite international venue to showcase just how well we all can get along. Alonzo smiled, despite the coffee.

  The larger international scene adored the idea of Cuba and all things Cuban. During Espinosa’s first term, the country had kicked off a furious modernization campaign, gaining quick, solid credibility thanks largely to early victories against drug traffickers. It was during this time Jack and Alonzo had first brought their team to Cuba. Their actions earned them the recognition of Cuba’s leadership then and a seat at the security table today.

  The first meeting would be small and unofficial, attended by Espinosa’s personal handlers and consultants from the United States government, who would wonder what the hell Alonzo was doing there. He’d let them wonder, take a page from Espinosa’s book and keep things understated. He’d wear black. Would look totally badass. And the intel would be first-rate.

  The second meeting, hosted by the FBI’s advance team, would be more PR than anything else, a meet and greet between the representatives and bodyguards of every nation, multinational corporation, and half-assed celebrity who was putting in an appearance during Cuba’s Goodwill Games. Mostly an opportunity for everyone who thought of themselves as part of the intelligence community to look each other over, figure out the pecking order, take dibs on the best parking places, and shag guesses back and forth about who had the largest expense account.

  Alonzo hated these meetings. Best case scenario, they were as close to a full-body frisk as you can get without physical contact. Worst case, well – actually, the worst part was, no one with any longevity in the spy business ever brought their whole team to an FBI briefing. It was all about gathering the most information about everyone else while at the same time sharing as little as possible, including the Who and How Many of your own team.

  Too bad it was the absolute best use of his time. The team was far behind in the game; they sorely needed the intel, needed to know who was boots-on-the-ground and what everyone’s goals were. Raines Capital had huge interests in Cuba; they would probably have someone interesting at the second breakfast. Maybe two someones interesting.

  Alonzo sat for a moment on the wrought-iron patio furniture near the pool, six stories above the street. The view of the white dome on the Cuban National Capitol was always amazing to him—like a piece of Washington D.C. had broken off and tumbled down to the lower latitudes—but Alonzo turned his back on it, in part to concentrate, but mostly as a safeguard against anyone with a proper telephoto lens reading the screen of his phone.

  Quickly scanning messages, he saw that everyone had uploaded their individual reports to the team server during the night—even Jack.

  Alonzo squinted, figuring time zones—Jack must have uploaded while he was still at LAX. Good . Hopefully he’s skipped the in-flight movie and gotten some kind of sleep. As it was, they probably wouldn’t see Jack until mid-afternoon. Cross-country redeye flight into a tropical country—he damn well better sleep somewhere along the line.

  He skimmed the details of Jack’s jaunt to California, and wondered if they had time to call in the team doctor for a fitness report. Nicole was in Cuba anyway, observing as the Tanner brothers trained up the local military. Rumor had it she’d even found someone good enough to be asked the Golden Questions.

  Jack’s report was long and meticulous. Too detailed. He really hadn’t slept.

  According to the instant messaging software built into his phone, Nicole was online. The doctor might even be in front of her computer in the crow’s nest already. Alonzo flagged Jack’s report for her immediate review, and stabbed out a line of his own, just for her eyes. Suggest fitness report.

  There was time to tell her himself. He headed back inside.

  *

  The Tanner brothers had picked the crow’s nest weeks before, and it had evolved into a workable headquarters. Originally intended for storage of AV equipment for the attached conference center, the large room contained the requisite network hookups, external windows facing two directions (swathed in blackout curtains), and a reliably low amount of foot traffic, as it was wedged in between the hotel’s service elevator and laundry. Steve’s flexible display screen stretched neatly across one wall, right where the coffee machine usually sat. The coffee machine itself was nowhere in sight.

  But Nicole was, thankfully. The psych specialist wore what Alonzo thought of as her G.I. Joe costume. It bulked out her tiny build and completely broke up her profile, which he found regrettable, but there it was. Otherwise she looked her typical sunny Southern Florida elfin self, complete with hair in a ponytail.

  Steve and Ian he expected to see. A fourth figure paced on the other side of the table, near the wall display. From the clutter on the table, Alonzo had missed breakfast. He’d catch one sooner or later.

  Everyone’s computer screen was on, and the wall-sized display showed an orderly pastiche of faces and figures. He recognized it as the file of known and suspected intelligence assets currently known to be in-country during the inauguration ceremony of Cuba’s new head of state. The file was two weeks old, practically useless—still, he’d review it before the security briefing. At the moment, the team was in disagreement. The loudest voice belonged to the woman with her back to the door, gesturing sharply in front of the wall display. Faces and human profile shots spun this way and that under her fingers. “I’m telling you, this man in the baseball cap and this man on the bridge are the same person. Look at the angle of his shoulders when he leans forward in both shots,” the video in both windows started forward, “See this? Same man.” The speaker had a British accent, more precisely, a tilt to her words that Alonzo had only recently come to identify as Welsh.

  “I have to agree,” said Ian. “In both shots he leans away and to the left when someone approaches from behind him. That’s his only physical tell. Weren’t these shots taken less than two minutes apart?”

  “Have to be fast,” Nicole said. “But a total disguise swap like that doesn’t leave much time for whatever he did that called for a quickchange in the first place.” She paused. “Who do you suppose he was working for?”

  The woman at the screen gestured again, and the two images expanded until each copy was nearly her own height. Tilted her head and tapped her thigh. Alonzo noted she was dressed in fatigues similar to Nicole’s, although they didn’t quite fit, and her shorter auburn hair made for a more erect ponytail. Abruptly, she straightened. “He’s French,” she announced.

  Steve frowned. “How can you tell? He’s completely changed his clothes. I mean, ever
ything’s different.”

  Alonzo realized he was still standing. “Even the shoes.” Everyone turned. “That’s his real tell. He’s French. Only the French agents change their shoes.” He nodded at the woman standing opposite him. “Hello, Major Griffin.”

  She smiled back. “Mr. Noel.” Her smile broadened for just a moment, eyes going from Alonzo to Steve, then back to Alonzo. “What? Ah, no. MI-6 maintains files on all known French operatives.” The smile faded a bit to something more thoughtful. “But I suppose you could be correct.”

  “I’m correct.” He sat. “French. They change their shoes most of the time.” Wasn’t there any breakfast left? “How long have you been in Cuba?”

  The Major crossed the room, shook his hand (a bit too formally, he thought) and sat, smoothing a nonexistent pleat in her fatigues. “Just this morning. You had a day’s head start on me, what with your new jet and all my paperwork.”

  There was a computer in front of Alonzo. Two tiny, useless plates, and a clean coffee mug.

  Nicole leaned on her elbows. “We’re glad you’re here, Major. After what you’ve been through with this crew, you could be a member of the family.” That was for his benefit, Alonzo realized. He got the feeling the two women had already been over this conversational ground.

  The phone in the center of the conference table pinged. It was Jack. “Found myself a quiet spot in the Denver airport, but I’ve only got a minute or two. Has the Major put in an appearance yet?”

  “Good morning,” she replied.

  “Hello,” he said, brightly. “Glad you’re still with us. Sorry about the mess we made of London. Nicole, what is the Major’s status?”

  “After the last few days, the UK is beefing up its security detail here during the inauguration and games. Major Griffin is ostensibly in Havana as an upgrade to the UK security team, but she’s seconded to us for as long as she deems necessary.”

  Alonzo caught the subtle inflections in her voice. There was something significant there. He didn’t have time to figure it out, and he’d never been good at reading Nicole’s face. Microexpressions, they were called, subtle shifts in the facial muscles. Nicole had studied with the Secret Service, and they were the best at reading microexpressions. Nicole caught his eye and looked away, but her lips continued to move. We have to discuss her, soon.