by Owen Parr
“We do, but the history of our intelligence service versus the United States . . . well, if it was a baseball game, they would have to call it for mercy. We have kicked their asses, their little culitos, since the early sixties, brother. The Americanos have underestimated our abilities and capabilities from the get-go. They never thought the Cubanitos could mount such an intelligence service in such a short time and be as effective as we have been. Our network is vast and extends all around the world. We know instantly what is happening. Although, much of it, we don’t care about anymore, but we do assist other friendly governments with the information we gather regularly. You know what I mean, mano?” The captain asked.
“I get it. El Comandante has been a spymaster, hasn’t he?”
“All I can say is that my father, who worked for him in intelligence before he passed away from cancer, used to call the Comandante, El Maestro de la inteligencia. It’s been rumored for many years, that El Comandante himself handles at least two assets at a very high level of the U.S. government,” said the captain.
“I see. One more request,” Rick said.
“What, brother?” The captain asked.
“Let’s order dessert. Shredded coconut, cream cheese, Cuban crackers and a cafecito,” he said.
“Mano, you are still a Cubanaso, even after being raised in the U.S. Aren’t you?” The captain said.
“It is in the blood. It is in the blood,” he replied, as they laughed.
Abimbola opened a pouch, took out two Cohibas, 1966 Edición Limitada, and lit the captain’s before lighting his own cigar. Rick was flabbergasted at the audacity displayed by this small inner circle of officers. ‘These guys are going to assassinate twenty-one people in one day. Talk about cojones.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PANAMA CITY, PANAMA
996 MILES FROM HAVANA, CUBA
It was almost lunchtime for Ramón Ortega, Vice President and Senior Lending Officer at the Banco Comercial de Credito in Panama City, Panama. He had made arrangements to meet Sergio Abreu at the Marriott Hotel and Casino for lunch and a little blackjack. One of his drivers was picking up Abreu at the Tocumen Panama Airport, approximately twelve miles from the hotel and a good forty-five minutes’ drive time during lunchtime in Panama.
Ramón was being his jovial self, walking around the bank, saying hello to clients, and signing approvals his assistants were bringing to him as he paraded his extra-large body around the bank’s lobby.
His limo was outside waiting for him with a driver and a bodyguard, but he was in no hurry. He was performing his usual pre-lunch routine on his stage. He was getting a raise today. He had told his wife this morning before he left for the bank to plan a vacation in Madrid with the family. Which to him meant their immediate family, a party of twelve.
“Mi amor, Sonia, I’ll be out to lunch with Señor Abreu. I’ll be back around four in the afternoon,” he told his assistant, as he walked by the many olive colored uniformed security personnel armed with rifles inside and outside the bank.
“Very well, sir,” replied Sonia.
As he walked toward the car, the bodyguard opened the door to the backseat to allow him to sit. This was his normal custom. “No, Pepe, I’ll sit in the passenger seat today. You can sit in the backseat. Got to keep those gunning for me guessing. You know?” He said, laughing out loud.
“Al casino, Señor?” The driver asked.
“No, to the beach. Of course, to the casino. Where else do we go for lunch almost every day?” He replied, annoyed.
Arriving at the casino a few minutes before Abreu, he walked directly to the blackjack tables. As he did, he shook hands with anyone that would acknowledge him, giving himself a bit more importance than anyone otherwise would.
“Gloria, corazon, you look so pretty today. How can your husband let you out of the house?” He said to the blackjack dealer as he sat down on the stool. “How are those hands today? Ready to deal me some good cards?”
As he began playing a few hands of blackjack, he called for the maître d’ of the restaurant.
“Sí, Señor Ortega, would you be having lunch today with us?” asked the maître d’.
“Raul, I want my usual table with Carla as my waitress, and there are two of us for lunch today,” he said.
“Señor Ortega, the girls you asked for are ready and waiting. Also, sir, I have the pills you requested for both your enjoyment. However, I have someone occupying your table right now. I think they will be finished before you are ready for it, however,” said Raul, in a low voice.
“Raul, get them the fuck out of my table. How many times do we have to do this dance?” He said a bit loudly. Everyone at the blackjack table was surprised by such a sudden change in behavior— from jovial to asshole in one flat second.
“Sí, Señor,” replied Raul.
“Gloria, hold my chips. I see my lunch guest walking in. We’ll play later after lunch,” he said, looking around the table, “Sorry, folks, Raul makes me lose my temper sometimes. Gloria, please, buy everyone at the table a drink on me,” he said.
Everyone thanked him as he walked away to greet Sergio Abreu.
“Sergito, you make me happy to see you. How are you, my friend?” he said, shaking hands with Sergio.
“Doing well, and yourself?” Abreu asked.
“Couldn’t be happier. Listen, I have lunch planned for us now. Afterwards, a little blackjack, and then we can retreat to a quiet corner and finalize our conversation of the other day. Does that work for you?” He asked.
“That would be fine,” Abreu replied.
“I have a surprise for you, my friend,” he said.
“Oh?” Abreu responded.
“After we are done—and I have to go back and toil some more—you, my friend, are going to enjoy your afternoon and evening, and best of all, the entertainment is on me,” he said with a wide smile.
“That’s not necessary—” Abreu said.
“I have two nineteen-year-olds,” he interrupted. “Chantal, the most caliente mulata in Panama and Yenifer, a Venezolana, sporting the best ass in Panama. The girls will be together for you until tomorrow morning. Just thinking about it, I get an erection, my friend. Oh, and here,” he said, sliding a small white envelope to Abreu. “A few Ecstasy pills for your party. On the house. Enjoy yourself, hijo de puta.”
Abreu took the envelope and said, “Maybe, I should just skip lunch and go directly to my room.”
“No, no, first you need the energy from lunch, and second we have a little business to discuss.”
“Very well, but I don’t know if I’ll stay for blackjack. You won’t be offended if I don’t, will you?”
“If you do, I may think you are a maricón, my friend.”
He walked over with Abreu to the dining room and sat at his table that had been vacated by the other guests. Carla, as requested, was there, waiting to take care of their lunch desires.
“Ortega, I spoke to Ramirez about your request,” Abreu said.
“Let’s wait until after lunch. We don’t need to get into this now,” he said, hoping a negative response from Ramirez was not forthcoming, so he could enjoy his lunch.
“Relax. Ramirez knows of the new hardships imposed on bankers such as yourself, and he is in agreement,” Abreu said with emphasis.
Taking a deep breath, he said, “Well, that’s excellent news. Yes, excellent.” Waving over the waitress, he said, “Carla, bring us a bottle of Dom Perignon, mi amor. You guys are first class, Sergio,” he said, exhaling nervously.
Ortega was very relaxed during lunch. His thoughts were on the upcoming Madrid jaunt and his new increased income. As they finished their lunch, he said, “My friend, thank you again for your trip here and the good news. I am going to play a little blackjack, and you, well, you enjoy Chantal and Yenifer, and don’t forget to take those pills—you’ll thank me tomorrow.”
“Raul,” he called out, “put lunch on my tab, add twenty-five per cent for Carla and the same for you
rself, and have the ladies meet Sergio in his room.”
“Señor Ortega, you are not joining your friend and the girls?” Raul asked.
“No, somebody has to work. I’m going to play a little blackjack and head back to the bank. My guest can handle those two bundles of joy,” he said, laughing.
He accompanied Abreu out of the dining room, and they walked by the blackjack table where Gloria, the dealer, was holding a place for him. He noticed a scraggly looking man with longish dirty blond hair, who had just sat down at the table.
He sat at the blackjack table in his accustomed place, the first seat on the left of the dealer, and ordered a Macallan 18. Poured neat. The scraggly looking guy was sitting in the last seat just right of the dealer. His first card, which was covered, was a jack of spades. The dealer pulled a seven of hearts, also, covered. His second card, which was dealt open, was a six of clubs. Scraggly guy pulled a four of spades on his second card, and the dealer, an eight of clubs, which was open for the players to see.
The dealer looked at him, and he waved her off. Other players got their cards and either held or busted as they went over. Scraggly guy waved in a hit, another four of spades, and waved in for another hit, a king of hearts. The dealer pulled a three of diamonds.
“Eighteen,” said Gloria, the dealer.
Ortega noticed the scraggly guy had pulled a face card on his fourth card, and as he tossed his cards to the dealer, he was aware scraggly guy had pulled a seventeen before pulling the king of hearts. If this guy knew how to play, Ortega thought, the king would have gone to the dealer and busted her. He was fuming.
The next four hands were similar. Scraggly kept pulling cards without considering any strategy and kept busting, while allowing the dealer to win. He could not take it anymore.
“My friend,” he said, looking at the scraggly guy, “have you ever played this game before?”
“Yes, I have. Although, it’s none of your business,” the scraggly guy said.
“Have you ever won a hand?” He asked.
“Look, fatso, who the hell are you to tell me how to play. It’s my fricking money,” replied the scraggly guy in a loud voice.
Ortega saw some of the players getting up from the table, while others were beginning to congregate around it.
Ignoring the fatso comment, he replied equally loudly, “When you play against the house, as in this game, you have to be conscious of what you are doing and aware of the other hands being played.”
“Listen, tubby, don’t give me any shit. Go fucking play at another table,” said scraggly guy, loudly.
Ortega could not take this guy anymore. He pulled back from the stool rapidly to send it rattling back on the floor as people, now about twenty of them, cleared the way for him. He moved his rotund body quickly to confront the scraggly guy and noticed the silver barrel of the gun in his hand. Ortega moved faster towards him, trying to prevent the gun from rising. Suddenly, he was seeing everything in slow motion. The scraggly guy shot twice towards the ceiling, and then, he saw the barrel of the gun directly in his face. As he did, a bullet entered his forehead and killed him on the spot.
Pandemonium ensued as everyone ran in different directions. Some were covered with blood and brain matter that had spattered from Ortega’s head.
Raul, the maître d’ had witnessed everything and could not believe what had happened. After a few minutes of confusion, he saw Ortega in a pool of blood beside the blackjack table. Security personnel had now surrounded the table, and Raul saw that everyone was in shock. The shooter was nowhere to be seen.
Raul dialed Abreu’s room. The phone rang for quite a while.
“Yes,” a harried voice answered, finally.
“This is Raul. Who is this? Yenifer?” He asked.
“Oh, Mr. Raul, no, this is Chantal. Oh, my God, they are dead,” she said.
“Who is dead?” Raul asked.
“Oh, my God, Yenifer and this man. They are both dead,” she screamed at the phone.
“Calm down. His name is Abreu. What happened?” He asked.
“Nothing happened. We came up, we had a few drinks, and me and Yenifer played around for this man’s benefit. Then, he joined us in bed. That’s all,” she said hysterically.
“And they just died?” He asked. “Did you take any pills?”
“Oh, my God, no. No pills, you said not to. Yenifer and this man, Abreu, took some pills that he said would make the party better. They both were sweating profusely. I’ve never seen Yenifer sweat so much. They went into convulsions, and they just died. Oh, my God,” she said. “What do I do?”
“Calm down, Chantal, get dressed and get out of the room. I’ll take it from here. And Chantal, I am sorry about Yenifer, but be calm and be quiet about this. You don’t want any involvement in this with the authorities. Understood?” He said.
“Yes, sir, I’ll leave right now,” she replied.
Raul dialed a number from his cell phone. “Two for two,” he said into the phone. “Plus, unfortunately one of the girls got medicated, also, and she is gone, poor thing.”
“Collateral damage, otherwise great job, Raul. Thank you,” said the voice on the other end of the phone.
****
HAVANA, CUBA
General Garces was concerned that the upcoming elections in the United States were too close to call. The consensus was that George W. Bush would win. However, he had some doubts about the candidate. He asked Captain Abimbola to meet with him in Cayo Piedra to come up with a plan to make sure Bush lost.
Abimbola arrived in Cayo Piedra via helicopter the day after meeting with Ramirez in Havana.
“Thank you for coming in, Captain,” said Garces, sitting in his favorite spot on the covered patio overlooking the calm blue-green ocean waters around Fidel’s island home. “Have a seat.”
Captain Abimbola sat beside Garces.
“Captain, we have a concern, and that is, if Bush becomes president, he will legitimize the Cuban Councils both here and in the United States. If that happens, we are afraid that unnecessary pressure could be exerted against Cuba. Ultimately, what is a minor concern now could become a problem down the road,” said Garces, as he drank his cafecito that had been served to both of them by a maid.
“I understand, General. What would you have me do?” The captain asked with a serious look on his face
“The Americanos have a saying during the elections. They call it the ‘October Surprise.’ Simply stated, that means that something shows up just before the November elections that can derail their candidacy. Either by the voters staying away from the ballot box or by voting for the other candidate,” he said, crossing his legs. “Is there anything in the files of our Directorate General of Intelligence on George Bush that we can feed to the media in the U.S. to help derail his candidacy?”
“I have looked at everything we have, and there is an arrest for drunken driving in 1976 that has not been made public yet,” Abimbola replied, as he sat up and leaned towards Garces.
“I don’t know if that is enough to make a big splash,” Garces said, looking up at the ceiling in deep thought. “Do you think we could embellish that with an accident that left people hurt, and the Bush family covered it up? I mean, a similar incident knocked Edward Kennedy out of the running for president, just a little before your time.”
“It would have to be timed just right, so that any investigation could not be completed before the election, and thus we might achieve the desired result from the electorate in the U.S.,” Abimbola replied, sliding back in his comfortable wicker recliner. “We could plant that story, providing proof of the arrest with selected media people in the U.S. If they pick up on it, it could work.”
“Here is what I want you to do. Prepare two plans. A Plan A and a Plan B,” he said, raising both index fingers as he said it. “Plan A, work on the release of the drunken driving incident and embellish it with a car accident as we discussed. Plan B is of a more serious nature. I want you to come up with a sch
eme to eliminate George Bush before the election.”
“Eliminate as in assassinate?” Abimbola asked.
“That’s correct. We have our Stasi assets in place for the elimination of the council members in the U.S. Let’s make them earn their keep and utilize them for this operation, as well. It has to be strictly them. No Cuban assets are to take part in this,” he said, taking a deep breath.
“Very well, General. May I speak freely, sir?” Abimbola asked.
“Go ahead, Captain.”
“That’s a big step, sir, going from planting a bogus news story in the U.S. media to killing a presidential candidate. That’s a big leap from one to the other,” the captain said.
“Your job is to plan the two events. We, on our end, will make the final decision as to which of the two, if any, we will use. After all, our intelligence directorate seems to be without any damaging facts on young Bush. And to be honest, we owe the elder Bush from when he was the Director of the CIA,” he said with a smile.
“Very well, sir. The U.S. Secret Service provides protection to presidential candidates one hundred and twenty days before the election. However, since Vice President Gore already enjoys that protection, Mr. Bush has been assigned Secret Service protection, as well. So, I’ll have to work around that. I assume you don’t care how this is done?” Abimbola asked.
“No, I don’t care. Just plan for it,” replied Garces.
“When do you want this done?” Abimbola asked.
“Yesterday, Captain, yesterday,” he replied.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MIAMI BEACH, FLORIDA
Rick and Jackie Allison, his flight engineer, co-pilot, and now full-time lady, were hanging around his infinity pool gazing at the bay and soaking in the sunrays.
“Listen, I want to thank you for helping me host yesterday’s party with all these potential merger and acquisition company owners,” he said. “They all loved you, and you are quite the hostess.