Big Smoke

by R. F. Blackstone

  Adriana spun Christine and kissed her. It was passionate with a promise of ecstasy to come later. They both moaned.

  “Shut up, missy,” Adriana said before planting another kiss full of fuego on Christine’s soft, moist lips.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The sun was warm as it hit Christine’s face. The slit between the heavy curtains allowed just enough light to seep in and bathe her in its warm glow. She smiled and shifted slightly trying to escape the day. Christine rolled over and reached out. Her arm touched nothing, just the linen sheets. Slowly, her eyes opened. “Adriana?”

  There was no answer. Christine sat up and rubbed her chest. She stretched slowly, looking around. “Adriana?”

  She waited, listening for the shower or movement in the kitchen. Getting to her feet, Christine wrapped a robe around herself. She tied it tightly then went into the main room.

  There was no one else in the suite. The curtains had been drawn, the windows opened, and the place had been tidied. Christine rubbed her head, looking around, trying to remember what they had done the night before. She saw the ashtray full of cigar nubs and three empty bottles of rum. They had had a party. There were cushions strewn across the room and some of the chairs had been upturned.

  Christine grabbed a bottle of water and went to one of the balconies.

  Outside, it was beautiful, not a cloud in the sky. The sea was a clear crystal blue. People were surfing and there were the fishing boats peppered across it.

  Christine took a deep breath, held it as her mind traced the previous night. They had made love, that much she could remember. But why? Deep in her heart, Christine knew she still couldn’t trust Adriana one hundred percent. So why the intimacy? she thought. What had they discovered?

  Rafael’s body flashed into her mind. Christine released the breath and took a long drink of water. It felt good. Her mind started to clear. They had found him then fought with the twins and had come back to get clean. She had spoken to Juan and they fought. Then she fought with Adriana. Damn, Christine thought, why the fuck am I fighting the only people who can help?

  “Because you are an idiot,” she said to herself.

  She looked down at the traffic. The Malecón was empty; no cars, no people, and no bands. Absolutely nothing. Christine scratched her head. This was odd. She felt a tugging from the back of her head, like there was something important she had to do.

  Christine reached into her robe pocket and pulled out the piece of paper that she had gotten off of Slick Cut. She unfolded it and stared at the writing. It still didn’t make sense. What did this have to do with the plot… The plot! She smiled to herself as it all came back.

  The WMDs were a ruse to throw all the agencies off the trail of the real plot to setup a fake assassination attempt so that the gringos would leave the country before the end of the festival, thus stopping any of the talks between the USA and Cuba. It all started to make sense now. Finally, Christine felt ahead of the curve.

  She went over to the desktop humidor that had been delivered and opened it. It was full of cigars, matches, and a cutter. She reached inside and pulled out the satellite phone. She dialed quickly as she untied the robe.

  “Agent Moore here. Connect me to the Signal Box.”

  She waited as the tell-tale click of the secure line becoming engaged sounded, followed by slight static. Why they didn’t upgrade the secure lines she had no idea. Sometimes it was a pain.

  “You bitch,” Signal’s voice echoed slightly.

  “Nice to hear your voice, too.”

  Signal laughed. “You go to Cuba without saying bye? I have to hear it from the Old Man himself!”

  “Awww did I hurt your feelings?” Christine asked as she started to pace the room.

  “Fuck you.” Signal’s voice was light. Christine had never met her face to face; that was how Station Master wanted it. It meant no one could be given up easily. “So?” Signal said. “What do you want?”

  “I have a note here that needs translating.”

  “How soon do you need it?”

  “Yesterday. I don’t know the language, but it looks like a mixture of Hungarian, French, and maybe Arabic.”

  “Send a pic.”

  Christine laid the page on the table, flattened it the best she could, and then used the phone to send a photo. “You got it?”

  “Hang on.” Signal sounded tense for some reason. Christine stared at the page while she waited. The tugging feeling came back. She ignored it.

  “The translator is having trouble,” Signal said. “It seems like the words are literally made up of thirds of those languages you said. It’s going to take some time. Sorry.”

  “Shit.” Christine scrunched the paper into a ball and placed it into the humidor. “Send a text of it the moment it gets done. Okay?”

  “Yep yep… So, how’s the festival going? Gotten laid?”

  Christine laughed. “A lady never kiss and tells.”

  “True, but whoever said you were a lady?” They both laughed and Christine felt at ease. “So, no juicy gossip?”

  “What do you mean? What have you heard?”

  “Nothing.” Signal went on the defense.

  Christine shook her head. “Sorry. I’m running on fumes.”

  “You okay?”

  “Think you…” Christine rubbed her face, her mind fuzzy. “Sig.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you,” she paused, not sure what to say. “Do you think the dead can come back?”

  “Like ghosts or something?”

  “Nononono more like…fuck! The more I think about it, the crazier it sounds.”

  “What the fuck are you on about?”

  Christine steeled herself. “There’s something seriously fucked up happening in Cuba…”

  There was a slight chuckle from Signal. “What else is new?”

  “Not like that.” Christine was exasperated. “The dead are fucking coming back! Like, and I can’t fucking believe I’m fucking saying this, but like zombies!”

  There she had said it properly, not only to herself but to the entire world! It felt good. Now she was waiting for the inevitable laughter from Signal. That would be the rational and reasonable reaction to hearing about goddamn fucking zombies.

  Instead, Signal said, “Not surprising. Really.”

  “What?”

  “Did I stutter?” Signal asked sarcastically. “It makes sense. With today’s modern medicine and technology, it would be quite easy to put an implant in the brain that would affect the motor neurons… Or something like that.”

  Christine blinked. “You are amazing, Signal!”

  “Well, without actually seeing one of these in action, I can’t give you a definite answer.”

  Christine was smiling but as a thought entered her mind, the grin faded. “It couldn’t be that.”

  “Do tell why?”

  She sighed. “Whatever is happening is not isolated. It’s all over the island. So an implant would have to be done in a medical facility. State of the art. Like something out of science fiction. Fuck!”

  She was getting agitated now. Christine wanted to beat the shit out of someone. Anyone. Her hand started to squeeze the plastic-covered phone in her hand.

  “Leave it with me, Chris,” Signal said. “Now, fucked anyone?”

  “I’ve gotta go, Signal.”

  “Party pooper.”

  Christine hung up, placed the phone back in its hiding spot then went to the small kitchenette. She needed some food. A smile formed when she saw the small fruit platter laid out for her. Christine took a fork and started to eat. It was deliciously sweet and juicy. She moaned slightly.

  Her eyes noticed an envelope leaning against the kettle. The handwriting was elegant and feminine; Adriana’s writing. On the front was one word: Christine.

  Slowly, she picked it up and tore the seal open. Then she tipped it upside down and watched as the page slid out and floated to the floor. Using the juice-drenched fork, Christi
ne opened the letter. Her eyes skimmed the lovely writing:

  Chris,

  Last night was amazing. I’m sorry I had to leave early but duty calls.

  A couple of things I didn’t get to tell you; your tongue did most of the work.

  1) Do not trust Juan. He hasn’t been going to the meetings with the CIA and Esposito.

  Also, he doesn’t seem to care about what is happening with Jeremiah Banks. His attention is only on that bar of his. Do not trust him and try not to be alone with him.

  2) The moment you read this, get your fine trasero to the Old Partagas factory. Remember?

  I’ll see you later, after today’s activities. And please try not to kill anyone else, por favor!

  Christine smiled as she read the note. She always loved Adriana’s handwriting. Her eyes read the part about Juan and she thought, Yeah that’s what he’d say about you too. What are they playing?

  Her eyes grew wide when she read the part about the Old Partagas factory. She glanced to the wall-mounted clock and swore. It was already ten-thirty.

  Christine hauled ass to get dressed in comfortable clothes, linen pants and a button-down shirt. She threw on a pair of walking shoes, splashed water on her face and hair then was out the door.

  #

  Out of all the Cuban cigar brands, there are three that rank among the best for cigar lovers the world over: Cohiba, Montecristo, and Partagas. Each one has its own unique history and vitolas that people love. Cohiba was once just made for Fidel Castro and given as gifts to visiting dignitaries. Then, in the 1990s, it was released to the general public. Montecristo has always been a favorite, but not just because of the relation to the fabled Count. Go to any cigar event and ask people what their favorite Cuban is and most people will say a Montecristo No. 2. The torpedo is one of the perfect sizes to smoke, not too long and not too short.

  As for Partagas, it has its own lovers, but one of the biggest draws is the factory. Since 1845 when the first factory was built, the brand has steadily become one of the top selling in the country, second to the Montecristo. The owners have either been murdered on the tobacco plantations, disappeared mysteriously, or have had the factory seized by the government, thanks to Fidel Castro. Since the 1960 Revolution, Partagas was one of the sixteen other factories to have been taken over by Castro’s Government and is now controlled by Habanos S.A. In 2012, the factory was moved three kilometers away from Old Havana and the factory has been renamed Francisco Pérez Germán Factory and has become one of the many turista destinations for cigars.

  Christine had to fight her way to the factory located on Calle Industria. The traffic was stopped, the detour signs barely registering for the taxis, buses, and people walking the streets. She hoped that nothing had happened to Sanderson. Then she reminded herself to get a full itinerary from Juan; if there was anyone who could give her one it would be him. If not, then she would go to Adriana.

  She hadn’t taken a taxi and part of her was thankful for that. Even though the taxis were excellent in Havana, riding around in an old Cadillac is fun and all, but when you are in a rush then the best thing to do is walk it. Or run, which is what Christine had done. She had run along the Malecón until she came to Calle Galiano then turned right. There were more people and cars here. “Fuck me!”

  Pushing through the crowd, she eventually made it to the intersection of Galiano and Neptuno. Continuing to push through the unwashed masses, she then turned again to the right onto Industria and scolded herself for sleeping in. It was packed with people, buses, reporters, news vans, and the CIA. Everyone was walking one step at a time and she had to remind herself to be polite as she moved through the throng.

  Some of the people were Cuban and they gladly let her pass. The turistas, on the other hand, wouldn’t give her the time of day, unless they were asking for a date.

  At last, she saw the factory. It was old and grand. There had been some renovations done to it over the years, and it had the appearance of an old woman trying to look young. But here it succeeded.

  A part of Christine couldn’t wait to get in. For the entire time she had been stationed in Havana, she had never had the time to visit it and had always regretted it. Now was her chance. Hopefully.

  Next to the factory is an equally old La Casa de Habanos, the official shop for all Habanos sold in Cuba. You can find them in most countries around the world except for the USA. There was the regular crowd standing in front of it, aficionados and the people newly initiated into the world of cigars. Also standing around were the locals selling cigars for a huge discount. They would say they got them from an amigo in the factory. Nine times out of ten, the cigar was a fake made with the floor sweepings from the factories. Inside, though, one could find the best cigars available, or so Christine used to think. She shook her head as she watched a young man hand over two hundred Cuban pesos to one of the scalpers then walk away like he had found the holy grail. She turned her attention back to the factory.

  In front of it, a small podium had been erected. The CIA stood guard all around the immediate vicinity. That would be where Sanderson would make his appearance before heading in for a private tour. Christine looked up at the various windows of the factory. If I was a sniper, she thought, where would I position myself?

  The answer didn’t matter unless she could get in. How she was going to do that was beyond her.

  The crowd started to cheer and push in towards the podium. Standing behind a microphone was President Sanderson, looking completely different to how he had the last time Christine saw him. His hair was neatly combed and parted, face clean shaven, and he smiled beatifically at the mass in front of him. He raised his hands and all went quiet with a hushed awe.

  “Thank you all so much for coming out today!” he began. “As most of you know, this was THE crown jewel of all the cigar factories in Havana. But, unfortunately, progress must happen and Partagas was relocated to newer and better accommodations.” Sanderson paused and looked up at the old building. “It is indeed beautiful, but has fallen into disrepair… No matter though, because due to some entrepreneurs, this fine building is going to be refurbished and used to produce the first new Cuban cigar brand since the Cohiba was made publicly available. I am happy to be the first to announce the name of the brand… La Perpetua!”

  The mass of people cheered and whooped. Christine didn’t bother to look around or at the president. She kept her eyes on the old shuttered windows, looking for any sign of movement.

  “As many of you know,” Sanderson continued, “there are tours of this fine building and before reconstruction begins, I am going to take it AND roll my own vitola. A…” he looked to his left at a gorgeous Cuban in a suit, most likely his handler who leaned towards him and whispered something in his ear “…torpedo!”

  A cheer exploded from the mass as Sanderson was ushered into the building by the CIA. Christine watched as he waved and smiled at the cameras. Then he was gone. Quickly, Christine looked around for anyone who might be able to get her in.

  “Christine!” Juan shouted to her and waved. He was wearing a light blue suit and was leaning on his cane. “I didn’t think you were going to make it. I got word from The Station that you would need entrance.”

  “Really?” Christine said when she got over to him. “When did you get the message?”

  “Early this morning. Believe me, it took some time to arrange it. I don’t have the clout I once did. But, here.” He handed her a pass that said PRESS.

  “Muchisimas gracias!” She hugged him. “Do me a favor and find out everything you can about La Perpetua?”

  Juan looked at her oddly. “Why? They have no link to Jeremiah Banks.”

  “Just do it, por favor!” Christine begged as she turned and sprinted towards the entrance. Juan stood there, looking confused then did what he always did when confused: took a sip from a hip flask and lit up a cigar.

  #

  Christine whispered a small thanks to Juan. Without the pass, she would have
had to break into the building and that would definitely have caused more problems. As it was, she was able to join the small group as it passed the old reception area.

  The reporters were wrestling to get close enough to Sanderson to ask him questions, take photos, and record video of the president. Each time one would get close enough, the CIA agents would push them back. This happened three times before the president noticed.

  They had come to a stairwell and he went up two steps. Stopped. Then turned around, “You all must have tons of questions. I’m happy to answer one now.”

  He looked over the small group of people; all had their hands raised as is the protocol. He ignored the men and focused on the women. Christine stood in the back, hiding from his view but keeping an eye on everyone. She could tell that Sanderson was looking for a beautiful lady to speak with, try to impress, woo, then later take her back to his room.

  “You there,” he said, pointing, “the pretty little red head.”

  A petite British reporter giggled as she took a step forward. “Thank you, Mister President.” Her accent was upper-middle class, probably from London itself. “My question is a little unrelated to today’s proceedings.”

  “Unrelated questions are my favorite,” Sanderson said with a megawatt smile.

  “Well…then…my question is this. You are the first president to be invited to the Habanos Festival. So far, you have been seen at all of the major events and you do seem to be having a fun time.”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  The reporter giggled and played with her hair. “There has been lots of speculation, Mister President, about why you are really here. A new trade agreement? Buying stock in the cigar market? Looking for a new wife?”

  “It’s a trial separation,” Sanderson said with a slight shift in tone. He now spoke like a father scolding a child. “My wife and I are not getting a divorce.”

  “My apologies, Mister President,” the reporter said rather too quickly. She knew she had lost her moment and had to recover. “Well, my question is this… Are the rumors about the talks between Presidente Esposito and yourself regarding Cuba becoming another territory of the United States true?”