Station Master nodded, then moved around from behind the table. His wheelchair moved silently, gliding him across the room. Christine watched; she couldn’t remember the last time he had done this, as he took her empty glass then over to the bar, where he refilled both.
He motioned for her and they stood in front of the window, staring out at the water. The storm raged on. “Fitting. Isn’t it?” he said as he handed Christine her glass.
“What is?”
He sipped, the gold liquid burning his throat slightly. “It’s always darkest before the dawn. The coming storm. Take your pick.”
“Station Master?”
The old man sighed then turned his gaze from the weather to the woman next to him. “You fucked up, young lady. This is your chance.”
“For revenge?”
“No,” Station Master said, shaking his head. “Redemption. Consider this your moment for resurrection. Think Lazarus, rising from the dead.”
Christine lowered her eyes, briefly avoiding the gaze from the old man. “So what? Stop the assassination?” Station Master nodded. “But,” Christine continued, “who would want Cuba to stay as it was?”
“Only one name has been mentioned in all the inter-agency chatter. Jeremiah Banks.”
Christine didn’t say a word as she drank the rum. Station Master watched her.
“Is it really him or just chatter?”
“Since the talks between Cuba and the USA started up again, there has been word from that organization he runs. His syndicate. But he hasn’t shown his face since you were last there.”
Once more, the woman lowered her head. She asked silently for forgiveness knowing full well it would never come. When she looked up, her eyes were steely and her jaw set, resolutely.
“Give me the mission, Station Master.”
The old man smiled, not fatherly but smugly, then raised his glass. “Christine Moore, go to Cuba, stop the assassination attempt of President Sanderson, bring to justice the party responsible for this plan and,” he paused then grinned, “if you just happen to run into Mister Banks, why not send him our best wishes.”
“Only if,” Christine said with a sly grin. Both chuckled as they raised their glasses.
“To Cuba,” Station Master toasted.
“To second chances,” Christine muttered under her breath as they drank.
#
The parcel was small, the size of a camera bag. Christine hated when Station Master sent her these “gifts” as he called them. She opened it then slowly took out the contents. Inside was a passport, an airplane ticket to Cuba, and a reservation confirmation for a hotel. That’ll have to be changed, Christine thought. There was only one place for her to stay in Cuba. Also included were the dossiers for Sanderson, Jeremiah Banks, the Habanos Festival, and the head of Cuban Intelligence.
And there was a note from Station Master:
Miss Moore,
Failure to complete the mission is unacceptable.
If you are unsuccessful, then might I suggest retiring somewhere far away.
Somewhere without Internet. Or cellular reception.
But, if you do succeed, then your Mission Status will be changed from LIMITED to ACTIVE.
Good hunting, and don’t fuck this up.
“I love you too, Station Master,” she said as she eyed the intel about the festival. Her mind swam, memories of Havana creeping in. Memories of her.
Christine shook her head. This is how you failed last time, she thought, letting yourself get caught up. She had a job. The mission was all that mattered.
She couldn’t… No… Wouldn’t let anything get in the way of the mission.
Not the past.
Not Jeremiah Banks.
Not even Adriana Prado.
CHAPTER THREE
The flight from Cancun to Havana was smooth. In fact, for Christine, it was downright dull. The landing was a little more exciting though. The tires screeched, the back end of the plane spun out, but luckily the pilot was good. When the plane came to a stop, he came over to Christine and apologized for the rough landing. He added, just before Christine stepped down the gangway, that he hoped Station Master would use his service again.
Christine shook her head, the poor fool, as she went through customs and immigration. José Martí airport had changed since the last time she had visited. Once where people could easily pass through without being hassled, now there were state-of-the-art body scanners, facial recognition systems, and the best passport scanners. The benefits of US Dollars, Christine thought as she headed for the exit.
Outside, the sun hit her, followed quickly by the sea breeze and all the smells. She smiled, feeling at home. She looked around; all the taxis were busy, picking people up, dropping off. There was a line at the taxi stand. She snorted; no time for that.
As single gringo men and boys stared in wonder at all the pretty Cuban señoritas, Christine placed her single piece of luggage down on the ground, adjusted her skirt slightly, then raised her arm. The effect of her legs and cleavage showing caused a taxi to nearly crash into a bus.
“Welcome to Cuba, señorita,” the taxi driver said as he paid off the bus driver. He took her bag, swiftly put it in the trunk, then held a door open for her. As she climbed into the cab, he took a quick glance at her and liked what he saw.
“Muchas gracias,” she said as the car pulled into traffic.
“You speak Español?” the driver asked with slight surprise. Christine nodded with a smile; she always enjoyed surprising men.
“Poquito. My Español is a little rusty.” It was coming back to her, slowly. By the time she arrived at the hotel, she would be back in the swing of things.
“You speak it very well.”
Christine laughed. “Gracias, señor. Dime, how goes things in Cuba?”
The taxi swerved, barely missing a nun, who turned and started to shout curses at the speeding vehicle. The driver laughed as Christine held in a snort of her own laughter.
“Muy bien, but, señorita, a donde?”
Christine cursed herself for not saying that in the first place. “Hotel Nacional, por favor.”
The driver nodded as the taxi turned down a side road.
“So?” Christine asked, her Español indeed coming back.
“Cuba?” asked the driver. “Ah, she will always be the same. The gringos came before, tried to make her their bitch. It didn’t work then.”
“Now, though?”
He laughed. “Nunca, my dear. No matter how much money gets thrown around here, Cuba will always be her own. It didn’t work when the Spaniards came. Nor for the gringos. The Mafia? Ha! We took care of them… But, sometimes I’m not sure. When the President… What was his name?… Obama! Si! That was him. Well, anyway, when he started talks with Presidente Castro… The good one, mind you.” At this, he laughed again, steering the car with ease, like he had been driving all his life.
“What’s wrong with them?”
The driver’s eyes glanced quickly at the sidewalk next to the street they were currently cruising along. Christine was staring at the people littering it. They were obviously malnourished and needing to see a doctor.
“The homeless,” the driver said. “They always look like that.” The man snorted as his eyes went back to the road.
Christine continued to gaze at the poor and needy of Havana. She had seen this sight before, sure; go to any bustling city and the homeless will always be there. What made her stare was the glassy eyes of the children.
Each one had sunken eyes and pale, pale skin. Their little heads were covered in bald patches and the open sores on their arms, legs, and faces oozed blood. Christine’s mouth dropped open as a stray dog approached a small boy. The beast sniffed around him and then, after making a decision, it opened its jaws. The fangs pierced the flesh and blood spurted over the beast’s fur. Which a quick shake of the head, the boy was on the ground. The dog lunged and started ripping the flesh.
The car turned a corner
, but Christine was picturing the jaws tearing into the small body, rending flesh from bone, lapping up the spilled blood, and generally feasting.
Christine shuddered when she realized that there were no sounds. No screaming. No snarling. The attack had happened in complete and utter silence. At least a moan or groan should have been heard. But nothing? Not even the other people tried to do anything about it.
“What’s happened to Havana,” she asked no one.
“Every few years, the poor get sick,” the driver answered sagely. “In the end, it helps us all.”
He may believe that, she thought, but no matter how strong a sickness is, it cannot render someone catatonic. She once more shuddered at the image of the child.
“Put it out of your mind, señorita.”
Easier said, Christine thought. They continued on in silence. Christine now stared at the roofs of passing buildings. She could not remember seeing that sort of thing before. Truly, it troubled her.
How far had Cuba fallen?
What other nasty surprises laid waiting?
Why didn’t she get booster shots before flying?
These thoughts and more flashed through her mind. She furrowed her brow slightly and opened her mouth.
A dog ran across the street, forcing the man to slam the brakes. Christine had to prop herself up to stop from being injured.
“Pinche perro,” he exclaimed. The beast glanced at them, wagged its tail, then continued on his way.
“Gotta love the wildlife here,” Christine said slyly.
“Perros are my favorite. My wife keeps saying that if I had the money, I would get an estate and then save all the poor fellows,” he said as they continued. Christine enjoyed the drive. It gave her time to get reacquainted with the city she had spent five years in. This was her home.
“Anyway,” the man continued, “since the talks started again, Business Big… Is that how they say it? It doesn’t matter,” he said before she could correct him. He switched from Español to English halfway through his sentences. It was slightly annoying. “Business Big started buying buildings, hotels, you know… Trying to get as much as they could before the embargo went down.”
“How wrong they were, eh,” Christine chimed in with a knowing smile.
“You know Cuba well,” he said with a chuckle. “And now, Presidente Sanderson is here. For the festival they say. Aye por favor.”
They were now driving along the Malecón, the strip of road that also had the famous sea wall. The waves were crashing against it, almost welcoming Christine back. She sighed happily, watching the people smoking cigars, the old men playing dominoes, and the bands practicing.
“…a day into the festival,” the driver’s voice brought her back, “and there has been no talk about why he is here. Some say, well, you know what they say about rumors?”
Christine nodded. “Do not repeat anything you would not sign your name to.”
The driver nodded, sagely. “Well, I would sign my name to any of the rumors about President Sanderson.”
Christine looked out the window. In the distance, she could see the twin copulas that were the trademark of the grand dame of Cuban hotels, the Hotel Nacional. She smiled, happy to be at her home away from home. A pause at that thought, and Christine realized something. The Nacional was her home. The only real home she had ever known. And she was ecstatic to be back.
“Señorita?” The driver had stopped to let a passing marching band go by. “I think you have been to my city before. Si?”
“Once,” she said, letting the music wash over her. “A long time ago. She hasn’t changed.”
The man laughed. “Gringo dollars have tried. But she may change her appearance, but, believe me. Habana’s soul will always be hers.”
Christine nodded as the car continued. “The festival this year. Will it be big?”
“It is the biggest one yet!” The driver seemed genuinely surprised as the old hotel grew closer. “A day already in and there are more turistas here than ever. It will be a spectacular miracle you’ll get a room.”
“A day already?” Christine cursed her luck. Why did Station Master wait for so long before sending her? A day late, who knows what she had missed.
“Si,” the driver said, “but, no sign of Presidente Sanderson. The Battle for Cuba’s soul has yet to begin.”
The car turned and there they were, in front of the Hotel Nacional.
CHAPTER FOUR
The perfect example of history in Cuba, the Hotel Nacional is the most iconic hotel in the country. The twin cupolas are like sentinels. The rooms reek of the stench of history in each. Old world charm and new world decadence abounds. Built in 1930, surviving wars and revolutions to the renovations in 1992, this is THE hotel in Havana. From Winston Churchill to Frank Sinatra to Jean Paul Sartre to Alexander Fleming, she has seen it all. Only standing eight stories tall, she is not that imposing. But the beauty comes from the history and her character.
Christine knew all this, and more. For the five years she had lived in Cuba, her room had been the Errol Flynn suite, where the famous actor and lover had spent many nights entertaining the local ladies and his special guests. She loved it. Everything was paid for by The Station. But now, she wasn’t sure. A more spartan room was called for, though she hoped that Rafael Cienfuentes, the manager she knew, was still there.
“Muchas gracias, señor,” she said, paying the man then giving him a healthy tip. He beamed at her, then quickly pulled back out into traffic.
Christine Moore took a breath, gripped her bag tightly, then walked back into her old life.
#
Inside the hotel was all a hustle and bustle. Christine had forgotten how it got when the festival was on. So many turistas; most of them gringos. She could tell from the shorts, socks with sandals, and the fanny packs. Tacky. Every one of them had cameras and were taking photos of the old guns that were once part of the Santa Clara Battery, which now stood in the garden. She shook her head at them. They all came for the same reason: cheap cigars and lots of attractive women looking for an easy escape. It made her sick.
Then she felt it. The sweat and dirt from the years of being exiled. Right, she thought, first things first; check in and then to one of the two pools. She needed a swim anyway.
At the front desk, the young lady gave her a snooty look. Christine hated that look.
“Si, señora?”
“Hola.” Christine flashed her most lovely smile. “My usual room, por favor.”
The lady looked her up and down, sniffed, then, “And does señora have any other baggage? Or a reservation?”
“It’s a spur of the moment decision. My room, por favor.”
The lady looked around at all the other guests. Her face said it all: you have got to be fucking joking. “Perhaps señora has not noticed, but we are slightly busy at the moment. If señora had made a reservation, then… but…” She raised her hands.
Christine was getting agitated. She wanted to reach across, grab this pendeja by the hair, then pull her across the large desk, slam her onto the floor, and then proceed to give her the beating of her life. But she couldn’t. So she didn’t.
“May I speak to the manager?” was what she said instead.
The young lady blinked. “Perdon? The manager?”
“Si,” Christine said, her voice now tinged with anger. “Get him. Now.”
She gulped; obviously, this girl had never had her small amount of authority questioned before. But she bowed her head slightly then disappeared into the back room.
Christine waited. Her nose twitched, the familiar smells hitting her. Rum. Cigars. The sea. Damn, she had missed it all.
“…you are paid to take care of the customers,” the deep voice was saying as the girl reappeared, followed by an older man, still young but the gray at his temples told all of his advancing years. “If you can’t handle one cust…”
Christine smiled broadly at the man who had stopped dead in his tracks. Rafael Cien
fuentes could not believe his eyes. “Hola, you old pervert,” Christine said with her arms ready for a cuddle.
He engulfed her in a bear hug. “Señora Moore! I don’t believe it,” he said as he released her. The young lady behind the counter gulped; she knew she was in trouble.
“Believe it,” Christine said. “I need my room.”
Rafael frowned slightly, his mind worked. “Señora Moore—”
“—Christine.”
He blushed slightly. “Christine, you may have noticed that we are quite busy.”
She nodded then took his arm. “True, but,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “this is business, not pleasure.”
Rafael laughed. “It is always pleasure with you, my dear lady.”
Christine couldn’t help but join in. “True, but I DO need my room.”
“Now that,” he said with the shake of his head, “is something I cannot do.”
She pouted. “En serio?”
The manager nodded. He looked around at all the turistas. He barely hid his contempt for them. “Uno momento, por favor.”
Christine watched as he went over to the desk, grabbed a tablet, and then went to work, checking all the rooms and the guests in each. He bit his lip as he did. Christine held her breath; she didn’t have a backup plan if the Nacional was fully booked.
Then.
“The Sinatra room,” Rafael said to the young lady. “Señora Moore will be staying in the Frank Sinatra room. 225.”
“But, what about the guests already there?”
The old manager stared daggers at the young lady. “Kick them out. There have been noise complaints about them. Invite them to leave. Now.”
He turned back to Christine, a big smile on his face. “Please forgive us this imposition.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, giving him another hug.
“Why don’t you go up to the rooftop bar for an hour or so? I’ll escort you to the room when it is ready. Si?”
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