Once More to Die

by Jim Johnson

  “Yes, Tommy.”

  “Goddamn. Is that all?”

  “Not exactly. And the FBI.”

  “Fuck me to tears. Why is that?”

  “Quickly, the oversight of 13 by the government, and their tacit complicity, is, of course, by the CIA. However, we are inside the continental United States. The CIA is not supposed to operate therein. Thus, the FBI has an iron in that fire. It also allows the FBI to have access to us, if they want, and know what’s going on. They’re obviously all playing some kind of game of their own.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “I am truly sorry, Tommy. I have killed you.”

  “Ain’t nobody done that thing yet, María Elena. Feds been on my ass for forty-eleven years. Not to mention some real professionals.” Shouldn’t have said that, damn it.

  “Let us get to a city, maybe Mobile,” she said. “Then I will go my own way. If I turn myself in, maybe they won’t follow you.”

  “Oh, no, college girl. Put them college credits to use. Ain’t no way. We spent more than five minutes together. I’m radioactive. They will hunt me down like a dog.” Not to mention they’ll put a forensics team on the cabin and find out just who the fuck I am.

  “Oh, Tommy.”

  “And no way Tommy Atkins is gonna turn Pocahontas over to them. They’ll gut you like a fish and you be talking sooner or later. Nobody can not talk, not when they’re really serious. They’d use drugs on you so that no word of torture to the 13 blogger would leak out.”

  “That is reassuring.”

  “Look here, Pocahontas. I have been treating this not very seriously. But now we got to really go underground. It wouldn’t surprise me if they didn’t already have an APB out on us. The FBI is bad enough, but the CIA can pull some serious computer searches. Maybe they’ll think we burned up in the fire.”

  She shook her head. “Do not try to sugar coat it, Tommy. I really got us behind the eight ball, no?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “It ain’t my job to make you feel better about this. You were working for freedom for twelve million Cubans—“

  “And over a million here.”

  “—and your intentions were good. What happened is some asshole fucked that up bad. This Diego fellow. I am beginning to take an intense dislike to him.”

  “Yes, Tommy. Not everybody knows the population of Cuba offhand.”

  “I know some shit, too, college girl. Never mind that. You understand some of the other implications, don’t you?”

  “We could split up. That would make it more difficult for them.”

  “Aye, and you’d be caught in two days and I’d have a guilty conscience for a week or so. No, this kinda marries us, don’t it?”

  Her look was inscrutable.

  “You know the context, college girl. We’re stuck together until we can straighten this all out or disappear.”

  “You’re dreaming if you think we can take on the CIA and the FBI and a trained paramilitary group.”

  “I am, but I ain’t stupid. Listen, we gotta start being real smart. Don’t cross the state line at some obvious point on the Interstate between Mobile and Pensacola. Let us get off this obvious road out of the great state of Florida and head into the great state of Alabama on a less obvious road. The next town, we exit and head north. And no stopping until we cross the line. Every minute counts.”

  “They must want you very bad, Tommy.”

  “Shit, you don’t know the half of it.”

  “Which is?” she prompted.

  “None of your business, college girl.” He grinned at her. “But nothing compared to your fair young body.” He chuckled. Nothing happens for too many years, now he is on the run with more urgency than any time in his life and that not of his own doing.

  They had to be fast on the way to figuring out who he was by now. Not that it mattered. He had a larger target on him now. What he was before paled in comparison to what he’d gotten himself involved with now. While they’d been taking their time wandering about Florida, the feds would have been working. And once that supertanker gets going at high speed, there was no slowing it or turning it back. And once they learned who he is, they could get others involved, like the U.S. Marshal Service and others. That would widen their net considerably. And a smart agent in the FBI, knowing who he was, would be able to track them better.

  Goddamn.

  “One final thing, Miss María Elena. You need to search your soul and decide what you want to get out of this.”

  “Me? Simple. I want justice.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Those who killed my father should be brought to justice.” She massaged her shoulder. “I mean, ah, all except Don Diego were killed in the swamp. You know.” Though the rest of his organization would be turned against her now. She wondered how Don Diego had spun her disappearance and her father’s death. She shied away from thinking of what they’d done with his body.

  “I am dead serious, María Elena. Think it through. We’re fixing to go underground more than you can imagine. If you pop your head above water, somebody gonna be waiting to take it off.”

  She said cryptically, “There is a Cuban proverb which says, ‘A lie runs until it is overtaken by the truth.’”

  Tommy thought for a moment. “An old Bantu proverb: ‘Don’t flaunt the snake you have slain—the other snakes are watching.’”

  María Elena looked at him askance. “Are you gonna be this enigmatic all the time?”

  CHAPTER SIX: THEM, THE BAD GIRLS

  “It blew up.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “The girl disappeared.”

  The sign on her door read SUSAN HARTFORD QUANTRELL.

  Suzie Q opened the door and went into the small office. Gray metal desk, computer, gray metal credenza with printer and a couple of books. Paper scattered over the desk and the credenza. Unused hat rack, for in Washington in the summer it was more like south Florida: hot and humid with little or no relief in sight. She carried two large coffees from Starbucks and set them down on the credenza, shuffling a few papers aside.

  In fact, this office was not her real office: her real office was down south in Langley, Virginia, in Operations at CIA headquarters. This Washington office was the location for the JTF, Joint Task Force, aka JTF 13. Joint between the CIA and the FBI. It’s mission: covert and overt oversight of 13 de enero.

  Suzie Q was the senior between the CIA member and the FBI member, and therefore ran the group. They had a small staff they assembled when an operation was ongoing.

  Right behind her came in Linda Landover, aka Linda L. Linda Landover was the FBI rep to the JTF. Linda L was a tall willowy brunette whose model good looks always turned heads. Suzie Q was almost as tall and had short blonde hair. But not a Barbie.

  Linda L said, “I walked the damn dog this morning. Then I went over to the Hoover Building to check in.”

  “It was your turn to walk the dog.” Suzie Q sat in her swivel chair.

  “Yes. But you could’ve since you didn’t have to run through Langley before you came over here.”

  “I walked the dog last night because you were already in bed.”

  “That’s because you just had to watch the movie before we got charged another day.”

  “Yeah, and it wasn’t worth it. The girl’s gone?”

  “What I said, sweetie. They ain’t happy over at Hoover.”

  “Anybody see the girl?”

  Linda shook her head, her hair jerking when she did so. “Nobody’s certain what happened. We interviewed some local Indians and they reported the local hermit resident driving off, and behind him a great plume of smoke. They went over to check it out and his entire backwoods cabin was gone. Torched like a professional. No sign of the girl.”

  “Goddamn Diego García,” said Suzie Q. “Sometimes I wish we hadn’t hitched our wagon to that horse.” She thought for a moment, sipping on her coffee.

  “We sent a team to the site
at first light. We should know something soon.”

  “And I thought you were just walking the damn dog.”

  “Me and my cell phone.”

  “Well, I, for one, don’t believe the old man simply died in a training accident. And the girl is not the heir apparent, so that is no problem—“

  “For now,” Linda amended. She flipped the top off her coffee and took a big gulp. “What’s the count?”

  “Three.” Three agents buried in place in Cuba by Diego García. “Don Carlos should have played the game better. I still don’t like it. García is not trustworthy, not to me. But he’s our guy. I think he killed off the old man.”

  “And the daughter?”

  “You know their attachment.”

  “Yeah, but ‘Don Diego’ would sell his mother out.”

  “Yes, dear. What do you think we’re doing right now? We’re selling out truth, justice, and the American way for a few agents to be in place awaiting the big day.”

  “Non-concur. We are ignoring what’s right by using a slimy wannabe to further our careers. Look, Suzie. It is in our national interest to have people infiltrating 13 and the Cuban government. We cannot let García’s methods blind us to success.”

  “Once again, sweetheart, we’re earning our moniker.”

  “I hate being called ‘The Bad Girls’, I hate it.”

  “It has its uses. Nobody fucks with us much.” Suzie Q smiled. “Diego García is ours, yours and mine. When all is said and done, he’ll be high up in the new and improved government of the newly free nation of Cuba. He is a moneyman; he wants money more than power. He’ll be in a trade ministry or some such. You stake your territory early and it’s not a high profile admin post, you will get it without any shooting. García will do that thing, and then he will be handing out trade licenses. And he will insure they go to the right companies in the states, American companies, not the Euro-creeps or those avaricious beet-eating, vodka-swilling, ex-commie Ruskie bastards. We’ll get oil leases galore, right next to the Florida waters where Florida won’t allow drilling, the stupid idiots.”

  “And stuff,” Linda added.

  Suzie Q nodded. The “stuff” meaning sufficient unaccounted for funds deposited in their joint account over in Nassau. Suzie Q and Linda L would have a grand and early retirement. Then they’d truly become “Bad Girls”. They were jointly known in the trade thusly because of their propensity for dirty tricks, methods that crossed the line from legal and proper, and willingness to use up people and resources. Because of that, they usually accomplished whatever they sought to, ends justifying means and all. And they weren’t skimming money or anything like that. They were simply going to get their due, a thing long overdue. Suzie Q smiled at her own joke. She and Linda would retire and become, like consultants, like lobbyists. If it’s good enough for ex-senators and congressmen, it was good enough for a couple of mid-level operatives. Their long, loyal service would be rewarded. And the good ole US of A would benefit big time, having grabbed all the major trade and export and import and tourism franchises over all those foreign assholes. She felt like standing and reciting the “Star Spangled Banner.” Suzie Q reminded herself of Russia when Yeltsin dumped Gorbachev and the commie regime: it was like pioneer days, the start of capitalism. Russia was wide-open territory and the visionaries did not grab for political power, they cornered markets. Suzie Q dreamed almost daily of a newly open Cuba: she’d go over and buy up all the old cars and drive them onto a barge and take them to Port Everglades or the Port of Tampa and hold auctions right there on the wharfs. She’d save one ’57 Chevy for herself to reclaim.

  “Still, the old man’s daughter is a wild card. I don’t like loose ends.”

  “We’ll find her, Suzie. Frankly, we can’t have her appear and begin talking. Five others died in this aforementioned training accident. I am not sure what happened and I don’t know if we’ll ever find out—“

  “Maybe we don’t want to know? García might not be saying much if they’re illegals.”

  “Well, he’s now in charge of 13 and should be able to sell it. Wonder what he’ll say about María Elena.”

  “That’ll be the giveaway. If he says she was involved in the accident, then she’s already dead. If he says nothing, that means she might turn up alive.”

  “I am seriously curious, Linda. Five of García’s men dead? And coincidentally, this swamp hermit drives off and his place explodes and burns? What the hell?”

  “We got some good forensics on the team, we should know.”

  “It’s going to be a long day, I feel it.” Suzie Q swung around to face her desk and get to work on the ubiquitous paperwork which fuels government bureaucracy at any level. She utilized the traditional technique for dealing with so much paperwork: work the one on top.

  “I’ll get us a chef’s salad at the deli for lunch.” Linda laughed. “Us Bad Girls ought to be eating raw meat and hot peppers.”

  They found a picnic table in the courtyard in the center of the building’s U-shape. It was actually too hot to eat outside, but Linda had to have her after-lunch smoke. Even here the anti-smoking Nazi’s would complain. Fuck them.

  “Preliminary report,” Linda said.

  “Gimme.”

  “No sign of nothing. Cabin totally gone. Burnt and crispy shit all over. Musta been a big bad boom.”

  “Why would this hermit blow up his place? He wasn’t even part of the deal.”

  “García isn’t talking. But we found a sign, save the whales or panthers or something. They’d been there and gone.”

  “You’re telling me, Linda, that some eco-freaks blew the place and ran this recluse off?”

  “Nope. I’m saying that’s what it looks like. Or, more specifically, that’s what it’s meant to look like. A bit too coincidental methinks.”

  “I think this hermit requires checking out.”

  “Roger that. And no sign of the girl. García said she was involved in the accident and is unaccounted for.”

  “Don’t you love the passive voice?”

  “That tells me she is on the run someplace, or dead and the gators are feasting upon her supple, hard-body right—“

  “Look but don’t touch, sweetie.” Suzie Q gave Linda an admonishing glance. She forked some salad into her mouth.

  “Yes, ma’am. Think about something, hon. If María Elena is actually on the run, why is that? I mean, what makes her want to take out of there all of a sudden?”

  “García is lying about the accident. Something happened and he killed the old man.”

  “That’s the way I figure it. Don Carlos must have held his own, if García lost five men.”

  Suzie Q snorted. “That old fart couldn’t walk across the street without a Boy Scout. No, it’s something else. Could your hard-bodied babe have killed them?”

  “Anything is possible. She’s had some of the paramilitary training and might be capable. But I think not, Suze. Listen, follow me here. If García is smart enough to get the drop on Don Carlos, he isn’t going to leave the daughter free no matter what. He had to grab her at the same time.”

  “Ahh, now I see why you’re such a bad girl. Your leap of logic: five dead guys, give or take, not counting the old guy, one missing young lady when she shouldn’t be, and one missing mystery ’Glades resident’.”

  “Yep. Hurry up and finish, I need a smoke.”

  “Three questions, Linda. One: how is García going to deal with Don Carlos’ death? You need a body. And he won’t want us to exhume or run it through a morgue or Miami CSI whatever it’s called.”

  “Easy. An illegal immigrant substitute, a closed casket ceremony. Maybe shake and bake. Perhaps the evidence of murder can be obliterated. He’s got the power and connections. Those Cubans are a clannish bunch, and those 13 people are almost a closed society down there.”

  “What’s to keep the daughter from going public? She can call the press. She can expose García on the web; after all, she’s a highly respected blogge
r. Her story would go viral on the Internet and be big news, at least in South Florida.”

  Linda nodded. “I am guessing here, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Señor García hastened to tie up loose ends: he’s got her friends and family under threat. Sorta like the Mafia used to do.”

  “That’s how I see it.” Suzie Q held up three fingers. “Three, how long before Don Diego requests assistance in locating one each María Elena and all her other names?”

  “My bet, Suze, is end of business today.”

  “You think?”

  “I’ll walk the damn dog for a week if I’m wrong.” Linda beamed her confidence.

  At 1630 hours, Linda walked into Suzie Q’s office. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  “?”

  “García requested help finding the girl. You get to walk the dog. And forensics found a couple of prints, good ones, on a shard of glass and on a CD that had blown clear of the explosion. Hopefully, the mystery man won’t be such a mystery for much longer.”

  Suzie Q grunted. “I hope the damn dog can hold it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN: HER

  They found old time luxury in the Menger Hotel, Alamo Plaza, San Antonio, Texas.

  María Elena checked herself in the mirror. “Lookin’ good, girl,” she said. Simple black sheath dress, half heels, hair loose down her back. She was reaching behind her back to zip up the dress when the door to the hotel room opened.

  Tommy Atkins came in. He stopped in midstride. “Jesus, María Elena. We need to keep a low profile. Every man in the church is going to memorize you.” He closed the door and walked to her.

  “Thanks, I think.” She turned her back to him. “Zip me up.” She felt his fingers caress her back as the zipper rose. She wore no bra for the zipper to skip over the strap. Them that can, do, she thought.

  He walked away shaking his head. She smiled to herself.

  He went to the window and looked out at the Alamo. “There’s a great deal of history here. This place was built only a few years after the Alamo fell. Presidents have stayed here. Teddy Roosevelt recruited his Rough Riders in the bar downstairs.”