Boring.
If there are WMDs at Guantanamo, then Sanderson would be here to bargain for their return.
Maybe.
Jeremiah Banks?
“Oh honey,” she said quietly. “I’ve lived here for years and not once has a president visited. It’s just not done. Why would he do it now?”
The older reporter looked at her, his eyes slightly misty; from age or drink, Christine couldn’t tell. He licked his lips, trying to make a decision.
“Think about it,” Christine continued, “The only reason for the president to come to Cuba would be for…maybe one of three things.” She held up her hand, counting fingers one by one. “First, to negotiate the end of the embargo and Cuba becoming another territory. I don’t think so, don’cha know. Second, maybe there is something important at Guantanamo that he needs, or has to check on personally. What it could be, I don’t know. And last…well…he could be after a criminal.”
“Jeremiah Banks!” the reporter said without thinking. He clamped his mouth shut, turning bright red with embarrassment. Christine nodded her head.
“Maybe, honey. But he’s a ghost. Right? A whispered name in the Caribbean to scare people.”
The older man shook his head vigorously. “He isn’t! He’s real! I know he is! That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh?” Christine feigned surprise. Hopefully, this guy could give her some proper information. Worst thing would be he’s a crackpot, she thought.
“Yes! I’ve been tracking Jeremiah Banks for fifteen years. I’m positive that’s why President Sanderson is here: to discuss the extradition of a war criminal. See, when Banks first arrived in Cuba, he had nothing. Imagine Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. He started to invest in businesses all over the island, starting in Santiago then moving into the mountains and coming to his Holy Land. Havana. From here, he was able to buy the police, the port, officials… You name it, he had a hand in it. All the while he started importing things people needed. See, Cuba has a thriving black-market and Banks wanted to be top dog. So he started with small things. Toys for children. Then some clothes. Bed linens and on and on until he got into medicine.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Cuba has the best free health care in the world.”
“True. But there are certain medications that are hard to come by. That’s what Jeremiah Banks specialized in… He built up an empire that eventually controlled the entirety of the Cuban black-market. Then shortly after President Felipe Esposito was elected, he just disappeared. No word. No sightings. Nothing at all. That’s why I’m here. If the presidents are going to talk, then Banks will make sure it goes wrong.”
They sat in silence as the bus exited Havana. The countryside was beautiful, greens as far as the eye could see. The highway didn’t go by the coast, which annoyed Christine, but not nearly as much as this crazy person. Reporter indeed, she thought. Fuck my life sideways.
“How do you know all this?” she asked.
“Research. My life’s work is on him.”
Christine nodded her head, thinking of an excuse to change seats.
“I got word from a contact living in Cuba that there had been sightings. He’s back.”
“Oh, really?” Christine said, her heart sinking as she realized that the scribblings were not short-hand but in fact a made-up language. “And how do you know this ‘contact’?”
He smiled with pride. “Reddit.”
#
Christine had hastily swapped seats. She was now sitting next to a bear of a man who was deeply asleep, a panama hat pulled down over his head. Good idea, she thought and positioned herself for a nap.
The bus hit a large pothole that made everyone jump, startled awake, except for Christine. Her eyes opened slowly, calmly. She looked around. The bus was making its way up a steep incline. There was no road, just dirt, rocks, and large bumps. All around were trees. Palms. Ferns. Tropical. Some would call it paradise. Christine called it the Heartland of Cigars.
Pinar del Rio is where nearly all of the tobacco is grown and used for cigars in Cuba. Sure there are others, but none are as important as Pinar. For within this province lie four areas. Ranches, plantations, whatever you want to call them that sport the perfect soil conditions to grow Tabaco Negro Cubano. Vuelta Abajo is THE land that is the key source of tobacco for the cigars. Here, they grow all types of tobacco that go into the making of a cigar: the wrapper (which covers the cigar), binder (the leaf that gives the cigar its shape), and the filler (where most of the flavors come from). Then there is San Luis, the epicenter for the vegueros (farmers) and where the leaves are used in the Cohiba brand. After that, there is San Juan y Martinez and Semi Vuelta.
Vuelta Abajo is where the tour of Pinar del Rio started and as Christine thought, would be where an attempt on President Sanderson’s life would happen. She hoped that Adriana had talked to Juan and everything was organized. She hoped. The reason they have the Habanos Festival in February is because this is the time that the tobacco plants are almost ready for harvesting. Standing at almost 305 centimeters, they are impressive. The crowd in the bus all took photos of the fields and the farmers, making sure each plant was ready for the harvest and that there were no tobacco beetles on the precious leaves. Christine smiled. She loved the sight.
The bus came to a stop and everyone clambered out. There were more buses and more turistas, a mixture of reporters, cameramen, cigar enthusiasts, and the locals who had turned out to catch a glimpse of the President. Among the crowd were men wearing guayaberas, the traditional shirt with four pockets on the front. These were the tour guides and all were trying to get the attention of the turistas. Some were already forming lines, ready to take them around the plantations.
“Disculpe, señorita,” an ancient voice said as the equally aged finger tapped her shoulder. Christine spun. The veguero was tiny and had been alive for far too long. He smiled up at her and his face looked as if it was about to split along the wrinkles.
“Si?”
“This is for you.” He held up a petite corona-sized cigar. It was band-less. But looked delicious.
“Oh no,” Christine said, “I couldn’t, but thank you.”
The old man shook his head. “This is your cigar, señora. And so is this.” In his other hand was a small folded piece of paper.
“Gracias,” she said, taking both. The veguero bowed his head slightly then shuffled away.
Christine quickly unfolded the note.
Chris, do us all a favor and stay out of trouble.
CI has this covered.
Love, Ad
“No fucking way,” she said to herself as she used her lighter to burn the paper. The ashes floated away while she cut the head off the cigar and got it lit. The flavors were earthy and Christine had found a new favorite.
To all eyes, she looked just like a turista; a gorgeous woman enjoying cigars, the scenery, and life in general. She ignored the tour guides cat-calling at her, trying to get her to join their line. Instead, Christine’s eyes were constantly darting around, scanning the crowd for anyone who looked suspicious.
She started to frown. Was this a waste of time?
Had Adriana sent her here so that she wouldn’t find out the truth at the Bay?
Wouldn’t be the first time, she thought. Her mind started to wander to the past. Christine shook her head. Not now, she commanded herself; stay focused on the mission. A quick glance at her watch showed that at any moment President Sanderson would be arriving. But how?
As if on cue, the vegetation began to sway. The dust and earth was kicked up as a powerful man-made wind shot through the area. All eyes went up as panama hats and fedoras were scattered to the four corners.
A small helicopter had appeared in the sky and was circling, looking for a place to land. The pilot must have found it for the vehicle started descending towards them. The turistas, reporters, and vegueros ran, creating a perimeter for the helicopter.
The closer it got, the more violent the wind became. C
hristine had to shield her eyes and hold the cigar so that she could still see and the cigar would not be wasted.
As soon as the helicopter touched down, the back door was flung open and four big burly Federal agents exited. They all wore black suits, aviator sunglasses, and had the tell-tale ear-piece. Fuckwits, Christine thought. The agents formed a tight protective unit and one signaled.
The crowd gasped and the women oohed and aahed as President Aaron Sanderson stepped down. He was sporting a tan suit and looked immaculate. His suave jaw and cleft chin was almost cartoonish in the way it made him look and he used his smile to its full effect.
“Good morning!” he said cheerfully as he waved. The reporters rushed towards him, all holding out microphones or their cell phones.
“Thank you all for coming out on this wonderful day.” His speech patterns sounded natural and yet also rehearsed. Give him the Oscar, Christine thought. “To be here, the first President of the United States to ever be invited to the prestigious Habanos Festival, is truly an honor. For this is a momentous occasion between two countries and there is much we can learn from both.”
“Mr. President?” a British reporter started. “Is it true that the Russians are angered with the talks between Cuba and the USA?”
Another spoke up. “Some say that you are here to buy stock in Habanos S.A. Is that true?”
Sanderson smiled and held up his hands. Everyone hushed, except for the old crazy man Christine met on the bus. “Are you here to capture the War Profiteer Jeremiah Banks?”
The President ignored them as he flashed a million dollar smile. “Please. Please. Allow me to enjoy today and the fun activities ahead. Then, later tonight at the hotel, I will gladly answer any questions. Thank you.”
He started to move and the agents followed. “You heard him. Back away now. After the tour, he will answer questions. Back away now!”
Christine watched as the small party of men made their way to an official-looking woman. She shook the president’s hand then led them away. Handles himself well, she thought.
She quickly scanned the area and her eyes bulged.
“No fucking way!”
CHAPTER TEN
Since the arrival of President Sanderson, the area seemed to be swamped with tall, muscular gringos. Some were obviously agents while others had on the garb of turistas: ugly Hawaiian shirts, shorts and sneakers. To Christine, they were trying too hard to appear to be normal people.
What had made her exclaimed was the only man dressed for proper action. Military-grade cargo pants, boots, a light-weight short sleeve shirt and close-cut hair, Don stared at her, smiling brightly. He waved at her then blew a kiss.
Christine started to make her way through the crowd towards him, weaving and dodging the myriad of people, trying to get a glimpse of the president. Don kept moving too. They were playing Cat and Mouse. Unfortunately for him, Christine was not in the mood for a game.
Moving past a fat turista, she nimbly took his heavy SLR camera.
The nearer to Don Christine got, she started to wrap the heavy strap around her hand. The camera hung loosely, swaying gently from each step she took. Her hand tensed, followed by her arm. Eyes narrowing, Christine made sure there would be no one to get in the way. Her hand began to move in small circles, the strap twisting, camera spinning. The target? Back of the knees.
Don groaned loudly from the impact as his knees gave way. He dropped to the ground, landing on his palms then as he started to get to back up the fabric of the strap wrapped itself round his neck and he choked. The material cut into his skin as Christine kept pulling up.
“Up you get, darling,” she whispered into his ear, yanking the man to his feet. His hands dove into his pockets, trying to find any weapon.
“Stop that, or you’ll be dead.”
He obeyed the command. Christine smiled, her eyes darting around, scanning to see if anyone had been witness to this brief scuffle. Satisfied, she tugged on the straps. “Right this way.” Another sharp pull had Don being lead far from the crowd and into the stalks of tobacco.
Surrounded by the green, it reminded Christine of her training in Ireland. Wonderful times. The smell of the tobacco plants brought her back. Periodically, a veguero on a horse would gallop past them, on its way to another section of the plantation. Christine continued pulling the struggling man along the path between the plants. She was looking for a secluded patch of land.
Don tried to speak but all that came out was gurgles and splutters. Christine ignored him as she continued searching. Her eyes kept looking for signs of hats or voices. His hands started tapping her arms. Then they were hitting her.
She cried out from the stamp on her foot. The pain forced her to release her grip on the camera strap. Don elbowed her in the stomach and she dropped the camera. She kicked out at him and he dodged away.
They both stood there, panting and rubbing their sore parts. A breeze started the shoots swaying, causing the shadows to dance around them. The sun was almost at the noon point and the heat was sweltering. Christine was used to it.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she asked between gulps for air.
“I could ask you the same,” Don answered, eyes going to the camera that lay between them.
“Don’t think about it,” Christine warned, her own eyes at the camera.
“Too late.”
They both dived at the same time, arms reaching out, fingers grasping. Don had the advantage. His arms were longer and the heavy slabs of meat he called hands wrapped around the strap. Christine, on the other hand, had grabbed a clump of dirt. She threw it with all her might. Don screamed as a rock inside it split his nose, shattering the bone. His hands clamped to his face, trying to stop the blood flow. Christine was on her feet, the camera in her hand.
“Stupid, stupid monkey,” she said as she wrenched one of his hands away from his face. She forced it behind Don’s back and prised open the fingers. “We’re going to have a little chat,” she said casually.
“My nose! You broke my fucking nose!”
“Be quiet and speak when spoken to,” Christine snapped as she slid the guillotine cutter down to the first knuckle of his ring finger. Gently, she closed the blades so that they were just touching his flesh. He stopped moving instantly.
“What’s that?”
“This is what’s going to happen,” Christine said. “I’m going to ask questions. You will answer them. The moment you don’t, well…” she closed the blades tighter. They started to cut the flesh.
“Okay! Okay! Okay!”
Christine chuckled. She was enjoying herself immensely. “First question. Where is Jeremiah Banks?”
“Who?”
It didn’t take much pressure to slice the tip of the finger off. Don squealed like a stuck pig while he fought to get his hand back. Christine kneed him in the spine, causing him to double over. Quickly, the cutter went down to the next knuckle. “Once more. Where is Jeremiah Banks?”
“Fuck you! I don’t know anything. I’m here on some point job. That’s all!”
The blades once more started to close. The moment the metal touched his skin, “You crazy bitch! What do you want?”
“Just answer the question. Where is—?”
“—I don’t know!” He begged. “You can’t kill me!”
Christine laughed. “Why not?”
“Station Master would never back it.”
“What?”
Don tried to turn his head so he could see her. He smiled. “You heard right.”
“How do you know Station Master?”
“He brokered the deal for that drive and is bringing me into the Stat—”
A low moan escaped his lips as the next part of his finger was snipped away. Christine was careful to position the digit so that the blood would not hit her but just squirt onto the ground. “Why would Station Master bring you into the House?”
“I’m not going to say shit!” Don spat. “Take all my fingers.” He laughe
d. “It doesn’t matter. By the time this is all over, I’ll be the new kid on the block and you… Why, you will be—”
Christine slammed the camera into the base of Don’s skull. There was a sickening thud and the man fell forward. She then turned her head. The sounds of screaming and gunfire echoed across the plantation.
“It never ends,” she muttered to herself, giving the unconscious Don a kick in the side.
#
Christine emerged from the stalks of tobacco to find herself surrounded by chaos. There were masked men all carrying AK-47s and spraying the area with bullets. This was an uncoordinated attack, her training said. The president and his team of agents were gone. Probably already made their escape. The helicopter was still on the ground, the pilot on his belly, blood oozing from a gash on the back of his head.
“Fucking great!” she muttered under her breath.
The closet thug heard her. Turning, he raised the weapon while shouting for her to get on the ground. Christine smiled. “Not a chance.”
She ran full speed towards the man. He fumbled, startled that a woman would try to attack him. He raised the weapon then squeezed the trigger. An emotionless click. The AK had jammed. Christine dropped and slid across the earth, her hand flinging a handful of dust up at the man.
The thug dropped the weapon, clutching at his face. Christine scooped up the weapon by its barrel and with two swift smacks to the head, the man was down, unconscious.
Quickly, Christine slid the clip out, reloaded, pulled the stock back then took aim. Two short bursts and two other of the attackers laid dead. There were more out there. She could hear the shouts and clumsy firing. Rank amateurs, she thought.
As she moved forward, scanning the perimeter, Christine took up another two magazines. She kept one hugged against the clip in the AK, the other stuffed into her pants.
Christine moved with precision. Each time she got sight of another AK-45, her weapon sung. A short, sharp aria and they were dead. She was rusty, but not that rusty.
A hot searing pain ripped through her shoulder. Blood stained the earth and her hands. Whirling to her left, Christine emptied the clip into the assailant. He screamed as the bullets tore his lungs and heart to shreds. As the body collapsed, Christine had the second clip loaded and ready to go.
Big Smoke Page 6