“Can it, Gearheardt. If our job is to stop the Russians, let’s get to it. I think the best place to be is up near the stage, with the President. We don’t have time to search the crowd now.”
Isabella drew another document from her peasant blouse. “Señor Gearheardt, this is for you also.”
Gearheardt opened the envelope and scanned the contents. “Crap!” he said. “Look at this, Jack.”
‘This’ was a teletype from the Chinese manufacturer of the denutters. It stated that the design flaw was being researched but that for the present time there was no way to de-activate the mechanism. Once the device was ‘installed’ the men whom it was installed on would lose their uts.
“We must have ordered the doomsday de-nutter, Jack. Do you realize that the governments, military and businessmen of dozens of mostly third world countries are going to be neutered?”
I didn’t want to realize it or think about it.
“Isabella, get back to the Las Palomas. Tell Daisy everything is going according to the plan,” Gearheardt looked at me, “more or less.”
She started to leave and Gearheardt continued. “And tell her to get as many names as possible. Those guys will be prime candidates for immigration to Galoreland. Exactly the kind of guys the girls can trust once they get over being cranky about losing their balls.”
Gearheardt and I began making our way through the crowd, heading toward the stage at the north end of the plaza. I fell ten or so paces behind him, the Marine Corps mantra “don’t bunch up” automatically kicking in when in potentially dangerous territory.
And it was dangerous and tough going. Twenty feet later my arms were coated in snow cone syrup, I had tacos on my shirt front, and had emptied my pocket of pesos after stepping on a roast goat head from a plaza vendor unseen until my foot was descending into his spread-out wares. But I still had Gearheardt in sight.
I began to notice Gearheardt making eye contact with various good looking Mexican women. I was thinking at first the bastard could manage to flirt under any conditions known to man, but then realizing that these were ‘his girls’ spotting for him in the crowd. A Mexican band, now assembled on the stage, began blaring out songs obviously written by tuba manufacturers and the people who make the coverings for bass drums. The oompahing and pounding opened the ears so that the staccato shrieks of the trumpets could quickly penetrate to the brain’s nerve centers. My pistol was impotent against the musical assault that was made all the more annoying by the urge to hum along with the music.
I saw Gearheardt stop, glance back at me, and then nod to his left front. There, standing just behind the first uneven rows of Mexican Army uniforms, stood a dozen Cuban hoodlums. They were distinguished by smirks, frowns, and tee-shirts that bore pictures of Castro and Che Guevara. Their desire not to be mistaken for the peasant Mexicans apparently overrode their need for anonyminity.
Gearheardt indicated through nods and subtle hand gestures that I should proceed around the group. I unbuttoned my jacket, making my pistol as accessible as possible, and began moving. It entered my mind that I had no idea what we were going to do, but it was too late to start disbelieving in the powers of Gearheardt. I just moved to my right, keeping Gearheardt and the bad Cubans in sight.
I was kept from finding out if Gearheardt actually had a plan when fifteen or twenty Cubans appeared from the closest ‘canyon’ feeder into the plaza and waded into the bad Cubans with a holy vigor. The initial assault was made with wooden and cardboard signs proclaiming the Catholic Church’s legitimate claim to Cuba. The damage from that assault was minimal but led to disorganization of the bad Cubans and their assuming a defensive, retreating posture.
The Mexican soldiers turned their heads to watch the melee. They didn’t move toward it or bother to extinguish their cigarettes. Crenshaw appeared and was confronted by a Mexican officer whose shoulders and chest appeared to be gold-plated. Crenshaw’s mouth moved, his cheeks got red and he finally jerked off his beret and threw it to the ground. By this time my friend and fellow agent, Eric, was tugging at his arm, attempting to extricate Crenshaw from a no-win situation. With the band striking up the lovely Aria for Trombone and Bass Drum with Machine Gun and Artillery Obbligato it was impossible to hear the verbal exchange, but I was fairly certain that when Crenshaw finally punched the Mexican officer in the nose, the argument was over. Eric let go of the Major’s arm so that the Mexican soldiers could drag Crenshaw away to be bargained out of jail by the State Department at a later date.
Meanwhile the Cuban Christians and Commies had started round two. The soldiers moved on the fighting Cubans by forming a skirmish line and pushing the knock-down drag-out brawl through the crowd as the body would expel a dangerous infection. Hair-pulling, shin-kicking, and slugging each other took precedence over any pre-conceived mission for the Cubans and I lost sight of them. I hadn’t realized that he had spotted me, but when I looked back Eric held out his hands palms up and shrugged. A Mexican officer evidently saw the gesture and began berating Eric who popped him in the nose. Soon thereafter he joined the short procession of CIA agents being frog-marched toward the gloomiest of the plaza valley walls, the headquarters of the Halcones. He had always been extremely loyal to Crenshaw and the Agency.
Gearheardt joined me. “We’ve only got about ten minutes, Jack. We have to assume the Cubans have been taken care of. Did you see that shameless mess, by the way? I don’t know if you could hear Crenshaw, but he was demanding the Army arrest the bad Cubans. The Army officer was insisting that although he was a sympathetic Catholic, it was obvious that the Christian coalition of attackers were beating the be-Jesus out of Castro’s guys and didn’t need his help.”
“So we really have to focus our efforts on stopping any Russian activity against the President. Right? Aside from the Pygmy and that other guy, the almost blind guy.”
Gearheardt signaled to a gorgeous young woman hovering nearby. “I need to talk to Rosarita a moment, Jack. But basically, yes, you’re right. I saw the Pygmy by the way. He’s in his cigarette vendor outfit. I’ve asked one of the girls to keep an eye on him. The little shithead.” Rosarita came near. “Rosie, como esta? You know Jack, right? We need to find the Russians. Ruso, quien sabe? You said you saw them earlier.” He then broke into his own rapid Spanish. I knew that Gearheardt, being my best friend and a decent fellow to the extreme, often used broken Spanish/English in front of me just so I wouldn’t feel so dumb.
Rosie was quite animated as well as being cute. She began speaking rapidly, first walking a circle in what would best be described as ‘basic Frankenstein monster,’ then in a more mysterious gait that had her legs so wide apart that walking was difficult, her face pained.
“The Russians are down by the fountain, headed this way. Evidently Eduardo is with them.”
“And the other Halcones?”
“I’m not sure. None have been reported and they usually stand out. They’re so damn mean that they don’t care whether or not people recognize them.” Gearheardt grabbed my arm and looked at my watch.
“Omega? I used to have one something like that.” He started back toward the fountain, away from the stage. “Jack, let’s take a chance on intercepting them. I don’t like our odds up here with the Mexican military.”
As we pushed through the crowd, Rosie disappeared, but ten paces further on reappeared with three other girls, obviously from the Las Palomas contingent. They drew alongside Gearheardt and he began what appeared to be a briefing, the girls solemn and occasionally nodding their lovely heads in agreement or understanding.
The crowd was now more or less stationary, the area of the Plaza at maximum holding capacity. It made the going easier, not having to fight against a crowd still moving toward the stage. Around the fountain the crowd was thinner, probably because it was harder to see the stage and the young mothers and children still frolicked. I watched for a moment but could see no signs of Russians, or of Eduardo, my former friend.
Then he came into view
and it was apparent Eduardo was the person that Rosarita was mimicking when she described the Russians. Eduardo was walking in severe pain, or at least caution, his legs skewed wide with each step, a cane in each hand supported him, and his pants were ballooned around his butt like he was wearing a hoop skirt that encircled him.
It dawned on me that although I didn’t know the nomenclature of the hoop skirt or its foundation, it was obvious that Eduardo was wearing the Model 156 Doomsday De-Nutter, first phase activated, second phase armed. I felt sorry for him. He saw me and said something bitter and short over his shoulder. The Frankenstein monsters, Russians, appeared and moved quickly by him, converging on me and Gearheardt. They looked as if they had piled ten suits of clothes in the middle of a dark room and given prizes for the first ones dressed. But they also looked deadly. I reached inside my coat and put my fingers around the butt of my pistol, noticing Gearheardt doing the same.
One of the Las Palomas girls, Victoria, came quickly from the crowd and bumped into one of the broad-shouldered bozos in dark suits. She fell immediately to the ground at his feet causing him to stumble.
“Ayuda! Ayuda! Violar! Violar!” she screamed, very convincingly I thought. Help. Rape.
The crowd in the immediate vicinity turned as one and several men began moving angrily toward the Russians, who became trapped in the mass.
“Ayuda! Rusos hurtar las ninas! Ayuda por favor!” Help me please, the Russians are stealing my little girl. This came from the edge of the fountain where Rosarita appeared suitably distraught. She became hysterical and began grabbing at the ill-fitting suits of the scrambling Russians.
Victoria had managed to get to her knees, clinging to the leg of a panicked Russian. One breast had appeared through a mysteriously torn blouse. The sight seemed to add a level of interest from the Mexican men who were even more belligerent than before.
Eduardo was in a small circle of his own making, swinging his canes wildly to keep anyone from coming close. I could see the panic in his eyes. He was yelling that people should not press against the Model 156 De-nutter, or something to that effect.
A Russian who had managed to get his pistol from beneath his jacket was quickly knocked into the fountain and his head held under water. The Mexican men swarmed over the Russians and a shot was fired. A roar went up. Quiet thumping. Then the sounds of whimpering in Russian were heard before the military band began a new blitzkrieg against the eardrums, the marvelous Cacophony in G Minor for Cymbals and Howitzer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE ROAD TO HEAVEN IS PAVED WITH GEARHEARDT
Gearheardt and I were trying to make our way back to the stage area. At first, still near the fountain, we were accosted and accused of being Russian. We were able to dissuade the accosters by pointing out our finely tailored apparel and grinning like possums, something no self-respecting Russian would do just to free himself from Mexican peasant attacks.
After a few yards, with Mexican men still racing past us, Gearheardt stopped, causing me to run into him. “Jack,” he said, “doesn’t it strike you as crazy that men will knock themselves out to get a look at a strange boob? Did you know that the viewing of naked women is the number one money making business in the world, Jack?”
“I guess I wouldn’t be surprised. Even though I know you just made that up.” I turned him around and pushed him toward the stage.
We reached the stage, out of breath and with less than five minutes before the President was scheduled to appear and speak to the crowd. I fumbled in my pocket for the embassy pass that was to get me to onto the honor guard where I would have a clear view of the people immediately around the President. I realized that I was not breathing hard only due to the rush to the stage. I was adrenaline charged. Victor had pledged to kill the President. I had pledged (to Victor) to help him and (to Gearheardt) stop him. I had to be quick on the draw and fire straight and true if there were no other options and I didn’t think there would be any. I pushed myself through the small crowd around the opening to the VIP tent, Gearheardt right behind me. What would happen to me when I shot Victor? That was what was on my mind, not whether or not I could shoot him.
“Jack, let me see your pistol,” Gearheardt demanded.
I surreptitiously withdrew it and passed it to him. He took a silencer from his pocket and screwed it on the barrel.
“There he is right there,” I heard him say. He shot over my shoulder and Victor dropped to the ground. Gearheardt shoved the pistol in my back pocket and pushed me toward the tent. “I’ll catch up later.”
No one seemed vitally interested as Victor’s body slumped to the ground. Men who I assumed were his bodyguards, gathered around him and talked among themselves. One of them nudged Victor with the toe of his shoe and said something that made the others laugh. Sic transit tyrannis came to mind, although I wasn’t sure about the Latin. Evidently Victor had not been the best of bosses.
Stunned to numbness, my credentials held in front of my face, I was moved along by the crowd. After almost a week of agonizing about defending the President, worrying about shooting Victor, and all the rest, Gearheardt had seen him and shot him. I felt let down and redundant.
Inside the tent, the atmosphere was less frantic. The President chatted amiably with his aides and sycophants, glancing at the sheets of paper in his hand I took to be the speech. He seemed in no hurry to mount the stage. No one seemed to notice my presence. I tried to relax, knowing that the Russians, the good and bad Cubans and Victor Ramirez were no longer threats. I checked in with the Mexican security chief, flashed my permit and shook hands with the others on the immediate security team. When I asked the time remaining before the speech, the security chief shrugged and rolled his eyes toward the President.
I walked to a table laden with drinks and food, helping myself to a ham sandwich and a cola after deciding I would wait until after the speech to hit the beer. There were a number of women in the tent, all young and vivacious, dressed in elegance and money. I wondered how many of them qualified for citizenship in Galoreland. And how many of that number would give up the President’s tent for their freedom. Was it freedom? Gearheardt’s scheme was complicated when it came to women who were not physically confined to bordellos. To hell with that. I just looked forward to the evening at Las Palomas, the girls celebrating, Gearheardt celebrating (always a spectacle) and warm feelings for the success and new hope.
“Ola, Jack.”
I should have sensed her, smelled her, before she pressed against my back. The focus point of her body against mine was just below my ribs where the unmistakable form of a pistol barrel was present.
“Ola, Marta.” I set the plate and bottle on the table and tried to move away to turn around to face her. She wouldn’t let me.
“Let’s move to the back. Behind the serving curtain, Jack. We can talk there.”
Once there, screened from the guests, I turned around. I didn’t need to ask how she managed to get into the high security area. She was wearing jeans and a man’s white shirt. It was open to where two mirrored ‘commas’ marked the underside of her breasts. Almost seen dark circles surrounded small protruding nipple pods for deliberate effect. She looked reat.
“Come with me, Jack. I have a plane to Havana.”
I hesitated. “Marta, believe me, it is tempting. I’m not sure whether I’ve ever felt about a woman like I feel about you. But I’m not sure that—”
“I am insisting that you come, Jack. Perhaps some time in the Havana military prison will help you to remember more about the operation in Mexico and other countries.”
Blushing, I assured her that I had no intention of going to Cuba with her.
“Jack, the President will be assassinated. The Americans will be blamed. Cuba will be safe.”
“And you will shoot him?” Talking was so much better than getting shot, so I wanted to keep the conversation going.
“At some point. Perhaps from the tent. I am too important to Cuba to make a martyr of myse
lf.”
I was liking her less. “You’re a whore, Marta.”
“But a whore to important men in Cuba.” By now I was too confused to know if that was a legitimate distinction. “Gearheardt’s scheme was of interest to me at one time. To be free. To not be beaten for not having sex. Those are good things.”
“I thank God nightly for them.” Keeping the conversation going.
“You are not Gearheardt, Jack. Do not be the wiseass.” She smiled, or maybe it was a smirk. “There are other things. There is power. I can have power with sex.”
“You could have had power in Pussy Galoreland.” Still hard to say with a straight face.
Marta laughed. “There will be no Pussy Galoreland. Gearheardt knows this. It would destroy his intelligence network. Did you not think of this? And why would he have himself appointed Emperor of Mexico if he were moving to Cuba?”
I wasn’t going to give her an inch. “Maybe he wanted it on his resume.”
“Wake up, Jack. Gearheardt is—”
“Right behind you, sweetheart.” It was a crappy Humphrey Bogart. He had the .45 at her temple as he reached around to take her pistol. “Jack, I think we finally have all the assassins wrapped up. Sorry Marta, and you can quit flashing your tits. Won’t work at this point.”
“What was that, Gearheardt?” I asked, taking one last look.
“Better check your boy, Jack. Just to make sure.”
I stepped around the screen just in time to see the President take a deep breath and head for the stage. The microphone squealed outside and I heard the President’s name announced and a roar from the crowd. As the President strode by me, I noticed that he wasn’t the President. It was obviously a look alike with a great deal of makeup. I glanced quickly around the tent and saw the real President of Mexico relaxing in a lounge chair, sipping golden tequila and flirting with ladies who weren’t Mrs. President, if I had to guess.
Goodbye Mexico Page 29