Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set

by Allan Leverone

  “Never heard of him.” The bartender’s eyes glittered dangerously, and it occurred to Tracie she had no way of knowing how many of the men behind her were armed, or what sort of weaponry might be stashed behind the bar. Undoubtedly there was something.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. “I don’t believe you. Would you like to know what I do believe?”

  The man stared her down without speaking.

  “I believe that you do know Señor Gonzalez. I believe also that Señor Gonzalez is here. Tell Señor Gonzalez that Aaron Stallings sends his regards.” She spoke loudly enough to be heard by at least a few of the customers scattered around the room. All other conversation seemed to have died away. Even the salsa music playing softly in the background seemed to have lowered in volume.

  The bartender stared stonily back at her. He seemed off-balance, surprised by her last comment. After what felt like at least a minute, he turned and stalked along behind the bar toward a doorway. The man looked back at her once, then he shoved his way through the swinging Old West-style doors and disappeared.

  Tracie pivoted and leaned back against the bar but stayed on her feet. She offered the staring customers a smile and waited to see what would happen next.

  13

  She didn’t have to wait long to find out. Less than a minute later, the bartender reappeared, moving with a purpose in his stride that had been missing before. He wiped his hands on his apron as he walked in what she assumed must be a nervous habit, since it seemed unlikely he had been washing dishes during his short stint in the back room.

  “Follow me,” he said gruffly, then turned and retraced his steps.

  Tracie kept her face impassive, pushing through the swinging doors as the man waited for her to pass and then followed her through. She wondered whether Aaron Stallings would ever reveal her last known location to anyone if she disappeared, and then realized she was being ridiculous.

  Of course he wouldn’t.

  The entryway led to a combination kitchen/storage area. A massive sink separated a counter from an ancient stainless steel stove. Cases of beer, Cuban brands that presumably had been smuggled out of Castro’s country, were stacked along one wall next to an array of untapped kegs.

  Not a soul was back here besides Tracie and the bartender, who shoved her straight through the storage area to a second door, this one latched and much heavier than the first. It was painted to look like wood, but was clearly heavy steel, probably reinforced. Someone had taken great pains and gone to considerable expense to protect whatever—or whoever—was on the other side of that door.

  The bartender finally did what Tracie had been waiting for him to do since she mentioned Stallings. He pushed her face-first against the closed door and kicked her feet apart.

  The bartender’s frisking technique was sloppy, and even from this seemingly vulnerable position, it would have been a simple thing for Tracie to disable him, but she allowed herself to be manhandled. The only alternative would be to resist, and that would likely mean fighting her way out of here, which she wasn’t prepared to do.

  Yet.

  That might come later, but first, she had business to attend to. The man frisked her with an enthusiasm he had not previously displayed about anything. His hands lingered longer than they needed to on certain parts of her anatomy, and she put up with that as well. It wasn’t the first time she had been sexually assaulted while being frisked, and realistically, given her line of work, probably wouldn’t be the last.

  Despite his amateurish technique, the bartender did manage to relieve her of the 9mm Beretta in the holster at the small of her back, as well as the backup pistol in the ankle holster on her right leg and the combat knife in its sheath on her left leg.

  He placed the weapons on the stainless steel table and slid them to the other end. Though he remained silent, he seemed to regard her with a newfound respect. When the weapons were well out of her reach, he turned to the heavy steel door and rapped on it twice, hard. He waited a second and then rapped again.

  A muffled voice answered from the other side, and the bartender turned the knob and opened the door. He ushered Tracie inside a large, lavishly appointed office with a scowl and a wave of his hand. Then he stepped back, closed the door and was gone.

  Across the office, seated behind a desk so large even Aaron Stallings would be envious, was a clearly furious man. The man regarded Tracie through angry eyes, and after a moment, said, “I should cut you now and be done with it.” He spit the words out like bullets.

  Tracie smiled easily. Her heart was pounding but she knew she had to appear completely relaxed. Unworried. She had been in similar situations enough to know that the key to staying alive was getting on top of the situation and keeping her target off-balance. “Señor Gonzalez, I presume?”

  “Who the hell do you think you are, pulling such a reckless stunt out there? Are you trying to get me killed?”

  She shrugged. “I tried to get your man to bring me to you, but I was making no headway. I had no choice but to invoke the name of our…mutual friend.”

  “Let me tell you something, young lady. If the wrong people even suspect a connection between me and the director of the CIA, I will be dead within twenty-four hours.”

  Tracie shrugged again. It was time to take control of this meeting, while Gonzalez was still angry and off-balance. “I had to see you, so I did what I needed to do to make that happen. If our situations were reversed, you would have done the same.”

  Gonzalez glowered at her from behind the desk but didn’t argue.

  Tracie nodded at a chair placed next to the desk. “May I sit?”

  “No. Not until I know why you are here.”

  “Fair enough. I was told by sources in a position to know that you have as much understanding of the inner workings of the Castro government as anybody in this country, including anyone in the State Department or in any other official capacity.”

  Gonzalez said nothing. He simply lifted his right hand and rotated it in a “keep talking” gesture.

  At least I’ve gotten his attention. “Perhaps you’ve heard about the murders of the top executives at National Circuit Corporation? It’s been all over the news, even here in South Florida.”

  “Perhaps. What does that have to do with me?”

  “We have reason to believe someone inside Fidel Castro’s government was responsible for those murders.”

  Gonzalez wrinkled his forehead. He seemed to have forgotten about being angry, at least for the moment. “Who is the ‘we’ you are referring to?” he asked.

  It was Tracie’s turn to keep her mouth shut. She stared at Gonzalez, giving away nothing. He was obviously not a stupid man; therefore he had already put two and two together when she mentioned Director Stallings’s name. He was playing mind games, trying to get Tracie to admit a connection she would never—she could never—acknowledge.

  An uncomfortable moment passed, and then Gonzalez continued as if he had never asked his previous question. “What makes you believe Castro would attack a technology company? For that matter, what makes you believe he possesses the capability of attacking the corporate structure of a relatively small business located right here in the United States? In Washington, DC, no less?”

  “I can’t answer the first part of your question other than to say the working theory is that Castro, or someone in his immediate inner circle, wishes to extract vengeance against NCC for what they believe is a past…indiscretion…on the part of the company.

  “As for your second question, it would certainly be possible for a representative or representatives of a small island nation located just off the U.S. mainland to come ashore undetected, to accomplish their mission successfully, and then to leave the country and be back in Cuba in a matter of hours. In fact, not only would it be possible, it would be fairly easy to pull off, if the individuals were sufficiently motivated and willing to risk the obvious danger.”

  Gonzalez considered Tracie’s words a
nd then shrugged noncommittally. “Perhaps,” he said. And then, “Again, I ask you, why are you here? What does any of this have to do with me?”

  “Señor Gonzalez, you’ve cooperated with my government in the past. If you do so again, it will not escape the attention of certain highly influential people in Washington. There is little risk to you, since all I want is information. Give me that information, and I will be out of your hair quickly and you’ll likely never see me again.

  “However, if you elect to shut me out,” she continued ominously, “those same influential people I just mentioned are perfectly capable of making your life a living hell.” She spread her hands and smiled, the picture of reason and common sense. “Presumably you don’t wish your life to become a living hell?”

  Gonzalez smiled tightly, his bloodless lips stretched tightly over his teeth. “What do you require of me?”

  This time, Tracie sat without asking. She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. She unfolded the paper and placed it on the desktop, smoothing it with her hand. Then she turned it to face Gonzalez. “Do you recognize this?”

  The CIA collaborator chewed on his lip as he examined the paper, eyes narrowed. On it was just one item: a copy of the mysterious open circle with the odd stick-figure design inside that had adorned each of the threatening letters Edison Kiley had received.

  “Where did you get this?” Gonzalez asked.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Was this design accompanied by anything else or did it appear by itself?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either.”

  Gonzalez sighed noisily and cleared his throat. “You’re not giving me anything to work with. How can I help you if you won’t share any information?”

  “That’s the way it has to be,” Tracie said. “I can’t tell you any more than I already have. Now, do you recognize this design or am I wasting my time?”

  The man leaned back in his chair, regarding Tracie through hooded eyes. “All right,” he said. “I am somewhat familiar with this unusual-looking design.”

  “And?”

  “You must understand something. Cuba under Fidel Castro is no different than any country under any government, at least in one respect. People are always vying for power. Now, in Cuba’s case, the ultimate power resides in Castro’s hands and always will, at least until he is overthrown or dies. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t plenty of other power and influence to be had.”

  “Okay. What does that have to do with this symbol?”

  “Following the revolution, in the early days of Castro’s Communist dictatorship, private property was being seized, and incredible wealth being amassed, by those individuals in the power structure savvy enough and quick-witted enough to do what had to be done.

  “Doing what had to be done,” Gonzalez continued, “often meant assembling paramilitary organizations entirely separate from those of the official Castro military. Many of the same men populated both organizations, but they were necessarily separate from, and independent of, one another. Do you understand?”

  What Gonzalez described was strikingly similar to what Tracie had seen firsthand in the Soviet Union. She narrowed her eyes, concentrating. “So, you’re saying these symbols”—she nodded at the paper on Gonzalez’s desk—“represent one of those private paramilitary organizations being run by someone in Castro’s government?”

  “Contrary to what you have been told,” Gonzalez said, “my familiarity with the workings of Castro’s Cuba is not complete. But I do have contacts in place in the country, and while I cannot tell you with total certainty that is what these markings represent, I do believe that to be the case.”

  “Who runs this particular organization?”

  “Unless I am mistaken, it belongs to General Antonio Polanco.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Minister of the Revolutionary Armed Forces.”

  “I assume he’s a powerful guy?”

  Gonzalez leaned back in his chair and laughed. The sound was long and loud and, as far as Tracie could tell, completely genuine. “Yes, you might say he is ‘a powerful guy.’ He is probably the second-most powerful man in Cuba, behind only Castro himself.”

  Tracie nodded.

  Waited for Gonzalez to finish laughing.

  Said, “Okay. How do I get at him?”

  Juan Gonzalez looked at Tracie incredulously. “Get at him?” he repeated. “You don’t ‘get at’ General Antonio Polanco.”

  “You can get at anyone,” Tracie said calmly. “You don’t ‘get at’ the president of the United States, either, and yet four presidents have been assassinated while in office and two more have been injured and nearly killed in assassination attempts. You don’t ‘get at’ the entire management structure of a significant U.S. defense contractor, and yet National Circuit Corporation has been decimated.

  “You can get at anyone,” Tracie repeated, “provided you’re motivated enough. I’m motivated enough.”

  Gonzalez shook his head. “Young lady, you are crazy.”

  Tracie shrugged. “Look at it this way. If representatives of this General Polanco were able to enter the United States undetected, murder a CEO and plant explosive devices to take down more than a half-dozen people, and then vanish into thin air, presumably disappearing back to Cuba, why would you think it’s impossible to manage it the other way?”

  “You are serious.”

  “Damn right I’m serious, and with the proper assistance it shouldn’t even be all that difficult. As the foremost expert in Communist Cuba’s affairs, you’re going to give me that assistance. I know you are an expatriate of Cuba, I know you look forward to the day you can return to your homeland. Think of this as a way to bring that day a little closer, to strike a blow against the government you want so badly to be rid of.”

  Gonzalez was quiet for a long time. Tracie hoped she hadn’t pushed him too hard, but she really had no choice. Contrary to everything she had just said, she knew that getting access to the second most-powerful man in Cuba would be nearly impossible without the kind of help he could presumably provide.

  She waited quietly, letting Gonzalez think through all they had discussed, doing her best to keep her expression impassive. It wasn’t easy. If he refused her request, she could play hardball, but beyond threatening him with the name and influence of Aaron Stallings again, the arm-twisting tools available to her were basically nonexistent.

  “What kind of help do you require?” Gonzalez asked the question quietly, much of his previous bluster gone.

  Tracie told him.

  14

  Tracie crouched as far down in the bow of the rubber craft as she could manage. Near-constant exposure to sea spray had left her cold and shivering, even in the tropical air off the Florida coast and despite being bundled up in the much-too-big rain slicker Gonzalez had provided. The other occupant of the little boat seemed impervious to the conditions and stared stolidly ahead, ignoring her.

  The majority of the one hundred sixty-five mile trip from Homestead, Florida had taken place in a speedboat that offered only slightly better protection from the elements. But Tracie had to admit it was fast.

  After setting out from a private dock, Gonzalez’s sleek, blue-and-white twin-engine Scarab had turned immediately southwest and hugged the shoreline, staying just far enough off the coast to be invisible to anyone not scanning the ocean through binoculars. The pilot navigated along the Florida Keys until reaching Marathon, then set a course almost due south and headed into the open sea.

  Less than two hours later the speedboat began to slow. Tracie started trying to loosen up while the second member of Gonzalez’s taciturn crew worked at inflating a small rubber landing boat. The man would ferry Tracie in the rubber boat the rest of the way to the shoreline east of Havana.

  When the rubber boat was ready, the Scarab’s pilot dropped anchor and they began riding the gentle swells, the lights of Cuba’s largest city
dimly visible in the distance. The sun had set during their three-hour boat ride, and now stars glittered in the clear sky, impossibly bright and seemingly close enough to touch.

  The man who had inflated the rubber craft dropped it into the water next to the speedboat and nodded to Tracie. She grabbed her backpack, checked her shoulder rig for roughly the hundredth time—the Beretta was still exactly where it had been every other time she checked, nestled cozily against her left breast—and then clambered over the side of the speedboat.

  She dropped heavily into the rubber boat, which felt insubstantial after the relative solidity of the Scarab. A moment later, Gonzalez’s man dropped in beside her and fired up the small motor located at the rear of the craft.

  Then they were off.

  The Scarab’s pilot would remain here, while the man guiding the rubber boat would ferry Tracie to a small inlet near the Havana suburb of Santa Cruz del Norte. According to Gonzalez, the inlet was sheltered and private, far too inaccessible for Cubans to bother with in an island nation with miles and miles of beaches. It was certain to be deserted.

  The man in the rubber boat had been instructed to remain on the beach and wait for Tracie to return. At that time, he would ferry them back to the speedboat, which would then reverse course and return to Homestead.

  “You will have until three a.m. to complete your insane mission,” Gonzalez had said. “There will be no negotiation on this point. If you have not returned to the inlet by that time, my men will leave you. Three a.m.,” he repeated for emphasis. “Not one minute later. I will not risk my men being seen anywhere near Cuba at sunrise.”

  The rubber boat moved slowly, its progress hampered by its tiny electric motor, which offered the advantage of near-total silence but at the cost of very little power. Tracie hoped no sharp-eyed Cubans were scanning the Atlantic at this time of night, because if the rubber boat were to be spotted, there would be no way to outrun even the most anemic patrol vessel. She doubted they could outdistance a rowboat.