“Jack, the plan has always been to kick the Cubans out of Cuba and start the New Cuba. A good agent makes the rest up as he goes along. You see, he’s dealing with the most dangerous and unpredictable of obstacles, the human reaction. In this case, the sex drive of the—”
“Oh, for God’s sakes, Gearheardt, spare me. You’re just making this up as you go along.”
Gearheardt’s grin was maddeningly bright. “Except in this case, Jack, I was counting on the inability of man to think straight when confronted by naked women.”
He grabbed my shoulder. “Once again, Jack. Do your duty. We’ll be in Pussy Galore by the end of the month.”
“We’ll be where?”
“Pussy Galore is the new name for Cuba. The vote was just tallied. The majority of the women who voted want to name the country after that lady in Goldfinger, the Bond flick. Some of the women think it’s a good marketing attraction. I’m not sure they totally get the concept of having their own country. Too much influence by the pimps and other assholes in their lives.” He sighed. “Running this show is not as easy as you might think.” He gave my arm a pat and turned to go into the building.
Marta had not returned so I decided to set out for the square, only a few blocks away, on my own. The streets were crowded with shoppers, tourists, and the hordes of people that seem to always fill the sidewalks of major cities. Except most of these were Mexican and there was a noticeable flow toward the Square of the Heroes, where the President was to give his speech. I decided to go past the square and approach from the other side, taking a look for Victor and hoping to spot anyone that might be tailing me from Las Palomas.
I came into the edge of the square near a statue of a Mexican hero who looked more like a character from a Dickens novel. The four-story buildings, at once ornate and solemn, surrounded the huge park-like plaza, creating a rectangular valley cut by deep canyons of side streets. Near the southwest edge of the plaza, not far from where I stood observing the activity, the oldest church in Mexico City was sinking steadily into the lake upon which modern Mexico City was built.
There were three or four thousand people in the plaza, one of whom was Gearheardt, sitting at a sidewalk café, sipping wine and enjoying a cigarette. He spotted me and waved me over.
“I took a taxi, Jack. Want a glass of wine?”
I sat down across from him at the small table. “How did you know how to find me?”
Gearheardt snorted his annoying laugh. “Who taught you everything you know about spying, Jack?”
“Not you. You were supposed to be dead or in Angola.”
“Same thing. And beside the point.” He leaned toward me. “Things have kind of turned to shit, Jack. You and I have to get this operation back on track.”
“I can’t tell you how frightening those words are, coming from you, Gearheardt. No more Gearheardt games. Okay?” I was feeling a sense of heightened anxiety. No matter what was happening, Gearheardt could always make it worse.
“Drink up, Jack (I of course had not had a chance to order), we need to get to business. I’ll fill you in as we walk.” He opened his suit coat to expose a chrome .45 caliber pistol looking suspiciously like the one Crenshaw had been carrying. “Dumb shit stopped to take a piss on the way out of Las Palomas and the pisser attendant stole it for me.” He motioned for me to leave some pesos on the table as he got up. “We’d better hurry, or the President of Mexico will look like a sieve. There have to be half a dozen groups trying to shoot him.”
We crossed the street into the main area of the plaza, heading toward the northern end where a sizable stage had been erected. Scores of Mexican army uniformed men were milling around the stage, which was properly festooned with the Mexican flag in various shapes and formats. Behind the stage the VIP gathering area was in a large tent. It was there that I was originally supposed to meet up with the guard unit protecting the president.
I stopped Gearheardt. “Wait, Gearheardt. Let’s just get the lay of the land. And tell me what you meant by the operation turning to shit. This was not The Manhattan Project to begin with, you know.”
“First off, nuts are dropping world-wide. We passed out the denutters to the girls way too soon. I’m not mad at them, but, like I told you, we have massive logistical support problems. Already a few of the shops have been stormed by the local police and we’ve lost a few girls. That’s to be expected. A shame, but you have to break some eggs to … have eggs for breakfast or however it goes. I keep trying to explain to the girls that if you chop off a hostage’s balls, you have no leverage. We needed to keep some leverage until the Marines kick Castro into the Caribbean.”
“It’s a simple concept but probably new to a lot of the girls.”
“Is that more of that sarcastic shit, Jack? That got you into a lot of trouble in the Marine Corps.”
I ignored him. “Needed? Past tense?” I was craning my neck around the plaza, looking for Victor, his Cuban hoods or Crenshaw and his Christian Cuban band. I looked back at Gearheardt. “You did say needed?”
“I think I’ve got a deal, Jack. Daisy is going to telephone me if or when she gets word from the UN.”
“So Kurt’s going to call you?”
Gearheardt pulled his head back, impressed. “You know Kurt? You never fail to amaze me, Jack. Yeah, I had the Pope call Waldheim to see if he couldn’t get a deal cut right now.”
“Gearheardt—”
“Hey, Señor! Yeah you, por favor. Come here.” Gearheardt was hailing a Mexican photographer. Either on his way to film the President or just to take photos for the folks for souvenirs.
“Let’s have our picture made, Jack.” He withdrew the shiny .45 pistol. “Get your gun out.” Gearheardt put his arm around my shoulders and held his pistol across his chest like a Mexican bandit. “Come on. Get your gun out.”
I thought it would be less hassle to just go along, so I stood Mexican bandit style in the afternoon Mexican sun, posing with Gearheardt. He who had been shortly before wheeling and dealing with the Pope and the Secretary General of the United Nations.
Gearheardt spoke to me through smiling teeth as we posed exceptionally long while the photographer consulted the instruction manual for his new camera. “Jack, we got some of the Pope’s boys in a massage parlor in Bali. He’ll make the deal, believe me.”
“What makes you think that the Secretary General will go along with whatever this deal is the Pope proposes?” My jaws were starting to ache from holding the smile.
“Ha. Surely you’re kidding. Guess where about half the UN payroll is at this moment?”
Gearheardt thanked the grinning photographer and let me pay him. He asked that the photos be delivered to Las Palomas and was assured they would be.
“Let’s go, Jack.” Gearheardt holstered his pistol.
We started into the ever-growing crowd of Mexican people. Festivities were breaking out as offices emptied by government order so that the people could hear the speech of the President. Angling toward the stage, we began to notice stern faced, dangerous looking men in small groups. Gearheardt nudged me and nodded toward the men as we passed. None seemed to take note of us.
“Cuban, you think?” I asked Gearheardt.
“Probably. They are darker and they aren’t happy to be here.”
“Good enough for me, let’s shoot them.”
“Not a good idea, Jack,” Gearheardt said, forgetting he was my comedic mentor.
We reached a sizable fountain surrounded by a low wall. Gearheardt jumped to the top of the wall and I followed him. We continued to survey the crowd, looking for …
“Who all are we looking for, Gearheardt? Did you ever tell me why the operation was going to shit?”
Gearheardt spoke while continuing to look out across the crowd. “First, you need to find Victor. We know that bastard will try to kill the President.”
“Which we asked him to do, by the way.”
Gearheardt looked at me. “Are you going to keep up a running comment
ary or do you want me to tell you about the operation?”
“Forgive me, your Excellency.”
“Knock it off, Jack. But anyway, we need to find Crenshaw and his band of Christians. He must have converted and recruited half of Victor’s bad Cuban gang. We need to find your friend, Eduardo, with his Halcones. And of course there’s always the Pygmy and the blind Ukrainian. You can never tell what those guys might do.”
“Eduardo? I thought you said you had the cooperation of the Halcones.”
“That was when they thought my bordello operation was only about intelligence. After the Tijuana episode last night, I think they’ve thrown in with the Russians.”
“Señor Armstrong. Señor Armstrong.” My walkie-talkie startled me. I dropped down from my conspicuous position atop the wall and pressed the talk button.
“This is Señor Armstrong. Over.”
A pause. “Señor Armstrong is over?”
“No. This is Señor Armstrong.” I resisted my training in radio procedure.
“Señor Gearheardt is with you, no?”
“Yes. Señor Gearheardt is with me. Let me give the radio to him.”
I held the walkie-talkie to Gearheardt. “It’s for you.”
Gearheardt joined me below the wall.
“This is Gearheardt. Who’s this?”
Rapid Spanish followed from both ends of the walkie-talkie. Finally Gearheardt handed the radio back to me. He smiled. “Good news, Jack. I have a message from Waldheim and I think it’s positive.”
“Exactly what does it say?”
“They didn’t want to read it over the air. Isabella is going to meet us here by the fountain in a few minutes. How long do we have before the President is shot?”
“Very funny, Gearheardt.” I looked at my watch. “He is due on stage in about half an hour. I’ll need to get up there pretty soon. If we can’t intercept Victor, I need to at least be there to recognize him if he approaches the President.”
“A half hour is plenty, Jack.” He sat down on the wall. “Look, let me tell you where we’re at. You usually have things pretty well figured out when we work together, but this operation is a bit confusing.” He smiled as I sat down next to him, a bit pissed off.
“The bottom line is this. I’ve worked out a deal with the Pope to let the Catholic Church off the hook, give them a permanent beach resort on the island, and first crack at setting up the religion of Pussy Galoreland. Not a bad deal for him.”
“Pretty common arrangement in deals like this,” I said.
“Really, Jack, you’re getting to be awfully sarcastic. You keep hounding me to learn the real deal and I’m trying to accommodate you.”
“Please go ahead.”
“So Paul, the Pope, has made a deal with Kurt Waldheim up at the UN to pressure Castro out of Cuba without a fight. We just walk in and take over.”
“You’re shitting me. Castro agreed to that? We don’t even have to fight or send in the Marines?”
“Castro gets some pissant African country, nothing the girls would want, that has oil and other stuff that Castro needs to become a real player. Plus, let’s face it, he’s pretty much worked himself into a hole in Cuba. After a while the peasants are going to be getting restless and what can he give them? More sugarcane?”
I looked at my pal for a moment. Could he have really pulled this off? Some things, however, didn’t add up.
“Why did the Secretary General … oh, I forgot, the scores of thousands of guys around the world sitting with their balls on the line, so to speak.”
“The UN switchboard was swamped. Faxes, cables, personal emissaries, telephone calls. One guy even had his people send a carrier pigeon. Seems the world’s leaders leave no stone unturned when it’s their balls on the line.”
“I hate to ask, but what’s the ‘operation turning to shit’ issue?”
Gearheardt looked down at the cobblestones between his feet and blew out his breath. “Everything is off if someone kills the President of Mexico.”
I tried to think through that. “Because … ?”
“The U.S. has its fingerprints all over the assassination attempt. We can hardly try to explain that it was just a CIA ploy to justify going into Cuba.”
“And the UN needs the U.S. because … ?”
“Waldheim got assurances from the U.S. that we would nuke Cuba if Castro didn’t give up. They even got the Pope to wire Castro saying the church agreed with the UN’s position.”
“So much for the diplomacy. It was get out or get nuked for Castro.”
“Pretty much. The Agency did a quick study of the danger to Miami and southern Florida if Cuba was nuked. At least they thought that far ahead.” Gearheardt stood up and searched the crowd again, then sat back down.
“So they felt they could safely nuke Cuba?” I asked.
“They found out that Miami was mostly Cuban anyway, and that ‘deviates’ lived in Key West. It was decided to be an acceptable risk. This was for the good of the Cuban exiles after all.” Gearheardt didn’t blush when he said it, nor did he look at me. “And the trade winds could start blowing in the other direction. There’s always that chance.”
Around us the crowd had become joyously boisterous. Mariachi music and the warm smell of street food took the air and made the atmosphere friendly, comforting.
“So we just need to make sure the President isn’t shot? Right?” I wasn’t quite sure what Gearheardt was seemingly worried about.
“Yep, we need to do that. And we need to keep that damn Crenshaw from getting to Cuba before our girls and setting up shop. And we need to find Marta and shoot her.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Marta has gone off the reservation, Jack. I talked to her on the phone just after you took off. At least she had the decency to call me and say she was sorry. And to try to get the name of the de-nutter manufacturer in China. But she was sincere I think.” He turned to me. “She really liked you, Jack. Said for me to tell you that. She was ready to try the old man-woman routine with you. You should be proud.”
I wasn’t. “So why didn’t she?”
“She thought you were homosexual. She ran around naked half the time she was in your apartment and you were just trying to get clothes on her most of the time.”
“I was just trying to be a decent guy, for God’s sake. It’s not like—”
“It’s not a concept she understands, Jack.”
Now I was depressed. I had thought I was falling in love with Marta.
“Remember what I told you right after I left her in your apartment the first time, Jack. ‘Don’t fall in love with her; we might have to shoot her.’ Remember me saying that?”
“You said, asshole, ‘don’t screw her.’”
“The distinction escapes me, Jack. But anyway right now she is a danger to the whole plan.” He stood on the wall again. “Where the hell is that darn Isabella?”
Behind us the fountain was filling with mothers and small children, wading in the water and squealing delightedly—ignorant of their proximity to scheming spies. Gearheardt took coins from his pocket and flipped them high into the air so the kids could try to catch them or search for them under the water when they dropped. The mothers smiled, a bit nervously, and Gearheardt bowed to them, smiling broadly. Then he dropped back down by my side.
“Do you see that Señorita with the two little girls, Jack? That’s one of the best looking Mexican women I’ve ever seen.” He reached for my radio. “I’m going to call back and see what’s happened to Isabella.”
“No need, Gearheardt. That’s her coming there.”
Isabella was dressed in a white peasant blouse and billowing skirt, revealing to me how much I had anticipated her sashaying through this crowd in her yellow peignoir. She barely nodded to me and handed Gearheardt a manila envelope.
“Thanks, Isabella,” he said. “Jack, keep looking for Eduardo, Crenshaw, Marta, or those other guys while I make sure I have what was promised.” He sat down an
d tore open the envelope. He ran his finger down the page of the teletype. “Yes. Yes. Yes. The bastards. Yes. Okay. Yes.”
“Let’s start with ‘the bastards.’ What does the letter say?” I grabbed for it, but Gearheardt jerked it away.
“Oh just the shitheads at the UN aren’t going to give recognition to any diplomats from Pussy Galoreland for the first five years unless Fidel Castro is Dictator Emeritus. They all remember how Hitler and Stalin’s reputations suffered after they lost their countries.” He started to fold the paper. “But everything else is pretty much what we wanted.” He stood and put the paper in his coat pocket. “And of course, Kurt expects a free pass to Havana. Seems like every country he contacted for approval for the girls getting Cuba wants to present their diplomatic credentials as soon as possible. I don’t think the PG concept is being clearly understood.”
“We’ve got about fifteen minutes, Gearheardt. What do we have to do?” I found myself greatly wanting the women to get their country. It might be a stupid idea, started by a madman as a money-making scheme or a CIA operation gone horribly wrong, but the women deserved something—something life-changing, something hopeful.
“We can all but forget about Crenshaw. If his crew of jolly Christians helps stop the assassination, fine. If they get to Cuba before we do, fine. The UN and the Pope can deal with that.”
“The Halcones?”
“Still a problem. If they are truly in with the Russians, they’ll try to shoot the President just to make the U.S. look bad. And Paul and Kurt were adamant, the U.S. has to come out clean in this thing or they won’t have the credibility to back taking Castro’s country away from him.”
I felt ‘commissioned’ to shoot Eduardo and anyone with him. I became conscious of the weight of the pistol in my shoulder holster and felt a boost of adrenaline.
“Good Cubans? Bad Cubans?”
“Immaterial now, Jack. I’ll probably never get that thirty-five-hundred-dollar taxi bill reimbursed, but we can’t worry about that now.” He took a calming deep breath. “Why does it always come down to stopping the fucking Russians? Can’t they just leave well enough alone? Always dicking around where they can cause us trouble. Always—”
Goodbye Mexico Page 28