by Misty Evans
While the politicians and medical experts talked themselves to death, the CIA quietly sent an ex-spy to the last known sighting of the man who could change the landscape with a single scientific formula.
Ramon Cabrera. The virologist had a half-baked, but potentially successful, antidote to shut down any attack. Or so he claimed.
Conrad didn’t know jack about viruses and hemorrhagic fever, but he did know a few things about defectors. Hadn’t been long since he’d pulled his own Judas act against his current employer—and didn’t that make for cozy bedfellows. He was lucky he had a job and wasn’t rotting in a prison that didn’t exist on paper.
Traitors and renegades had their own brand of rules. They traded in a commodity loyalists to the cause never understood. All Con had to do was follow the breadcrumbs Cabrera had left and verify the guy’s formula was for real.
Snagging his encrypted cell from a pocket in his cargo shorts, he scanned the hotel’s entrance again. No Julia.
He pressed a couple of buttons, watched a tiny map and beeping red dot appear on the screen. The meeting point wasn’t far. Charging the meal to his and Julia’s suite, he pocketed the phone, double checked no one was watching, and set off down the beach.
Four
She was going to kill him.
No surprise there. She wanted to murder her husband at least once a week. At least.
Sections of the paper lay scattered over the king-size bed, the Want Ads on top. Spies often communicated via them and singles listings.
Since the paper originated in Havana, the ads were numerous but nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe a little conservative by American standards—after all, this was a communist country—but nothing that tripped her spy radar.
What was he up to? Was he meeting someone or just gathering intel?
Intel at a tourist spot? Unlikely.
Julia sat at her laptop, encrypted with all the latest FBI and CIA security measures, and placed a call to Ryan Smith in London. SkyCubX, her jazzed-up version of Skype, provided in part by the CIA’s uber-dweeb, Del Collins, went through its various checkpoints and clearances. A minute later, Smitty smiled at her from half a world away. “Sheba. Merry Christmas. How’s my favorite spy-turned-fed?”
“Don’t Merry Christmas me. I’m in the Caribbean wondering where my husband is and what he’s doing.”
“Solomon isn’t with you? I thought the two of you were on vacation.”
“I thought so, too, but apparently, he’s also working a mission. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Smitty’s neck flushed. Thought so.
“Do you still have access to that GPS tracker I sewed into his briefs?”
His attention stayed focused on her, but he was forcing it. Trying to pretend she hadn’t caught him red-handed. He was a genius, and she wondered how he’d attempt to talk his way out of this. “What are you going to do if you find him?”
He’d probably be on the phone to Con the second he clicked off with her. “He lied to me about this trip. All I want is to know why.”
Silence. Smitty didn’t believe her. “He’ll destroy me if I compromise his mission by giving you his coordinates.”
“So he is working.”
A grimace and the tapping of keys. “You didn’t hear that from me.”
“Person, place or thing?”
“Julia, it’s classified. Why do you think he didn’t tell you about it?”
“I’m a federal agent who happens to specialize in running down targets.”
Fugitives to be exact. She hoped she didn’t end up being one. “Person, place, or thing?” she reiterated.
“All three.”
Wasn’t that interesting? “Who’s the person?”
Smitty put up his hands. “That’s all I’m saying. You want more, talk to Con or Stone.”
Like either would fork over details. “Fine, I’ll find him on my own. And in the process, if I cause a stink, get arrested, and end up in a Cuban prison, I’m holding you responsible.”
Resignation clouded Smitty’s face. Another tap tap tap. “Prick your finger.”
“What?”
“Blood oath you will not tell him I gave you details. Rub the blood on the monitor and swear to it.”
She laughed. “How about I bring you back a souvenir?”
An exaggerated sigh filtered through. “I’d rather you called your boss and got official permission to insert yourself into this.”
“I’m not doing that on Christmas and disclosing that I know about a CIA mission that is, as we speak, already in play. That will get Con in all kinds of hot water.”
Smitty was Conrad’s best friend. He’d covered Con’s ass more times than he’d admit. “He’s half a mile east of the hotel at a bar called the Cocina de Sophia.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it? Anything else I should know? Code words, potential threats?”
“Seriously?”
“Do you want me to tell Anya all the dirt I have on you?”
Anya was the love of his life. An actual Russian princess he’d nearly died for. He hung his head. “Fine. Got a pen and paper?”
She tapped her temple. “Don’t need it.”
Begrudgingly, Smitty offered the information about the target. It wasn’t much, but it’d do.
And shit. This was serious stuff. No wonder Con had taken the assignment, and yes, she understood the highly classified label that came with it.
“Thank you,” she told Smitty. “Merry Christmas.”
“Stay out of trouble.”
They said their goodbyes and Julia erased the browsing history and locked the laptop. Slipping it in her tote and grabbing a floppy-brimmed hat and sunglasses, she headed for the east side.
Five
“Did she take the bait?” Michael asked when he answered the phone on his desk.
“She did.” Ryan Smith sounded like he was next door even though he was three thousand miles away from D.C. “You really think it’s a good idea?”
Michael watched his soon-to-be-bride bustle around, decorating a tree near the room’s fireplace. She’d put one up in nearly every corner in his house. Chatting on her cell to her assistant, Truman, she sounded relieved about a gift basket for their boss, who happened to be in Smitty’s area of the world.
“Good idea? Hell, no, but if I don’t get her to come back to the Agency, Flynn is going to make my life hell.” Outside, white fluffy flakes of snow fell past the windows. Cuba was probably warm, the water perfect. “He spends all his time worrying about her, and I know keeping missions like this secret is going to backfire on all of us. We need Julia and we need her back yesterday.”
“I hope this works. Julia’s already threatened to kill me on more than one occasion for lesser crimes.”
Pongo, Michael’s Rottweiler lounged on the couch, Brigit scruffing his ears as she passed. The dog panted and wagged his tail, totally infatuated with her. “They’ll be pissed for all of five seconds when they discover our involvement, and then they’ll see the genius of my plan.” He'd laid the breadcrumbs for the couple, and so far, so good. What better Christmas gift to give them than each other? If he recruited Julia to return to CIA operations, it would be a win-win for all of them. “You didn’t give in too easily, did you?”
“No… Well, maybe. There was no time to be coy and resist. Con was already headed for the meet-up spot. I couldn’t refuse for long, or she’d miss him.”
“Did she seem suspicious?”
A slight hesitation. “Hard to tell. This is Julia we’re talking about. She’s not easy to read.”
That was true. No sense worrying at this point. She was on Flynn’s trail and that’d be the ticket to get undercover work in her blood again. Lure her in. “You’re flying in tonight, right?”
“Anya and I are on the red-eye. We’ll catch some winks, adjust to the time difference, and be at your place by five eastern tomorrow. Did Zara threaten you for sending Lawson to Cuba?”
“I think
she cursed me under her breath, but I filled her in on the reason, so we’re cool. If all goes as planned, Lawson will be home and they’ll be here shortly after you.” Everyone needed to be present when he surprised Brigit. The sexy Homeland Security consultant was as clever as the spies he dealt with on a daily basis. He needed to be on his game to pull off both Julia’s return and Brigit’s surprise gift. Usually, he hated the holidays and never paid much attention to all the hubbub, but this year…
This year was special.
He’d been completely smitten by the woman throwing tinsel on the tree six feet away.
And he was going to need a big dose of Santa-level magic to outsmart everyone.
If he pulled it off, though, it would be the best Christmas ever. For him, and hopefully, the rest of his friends, too.
Brigit ended her call, a smile on her face, and headed his way.
“Gotta run,” he said to Smitty. “See you tomorrow.”
As she plopped into a chair across from him, he disconnected before the man could reply.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Peachy. You?”
A piece of tinsel was stuck in her dark hair. Her natural curls were already defying the flat iron she’d used on them earlier. “Truman is handling the botched gift fiasco. I can’t believe I forgot to send Charles an offering.”
Since she considered her boss more of a nuisance than anything, Michael wasn’t. “A doctorate in psychology and you can’t see that you’re secretly sabotaging your chances for a promotion?”
“One that would put me more solidly under St. Charles’ thumb? No thanks. I can barely force myself to continue playing his weird, narcissistic games as it is. Two more months and he’ll retire. I can hang on that long.” She blew out a long sigh. “He’s off skiing in the Alps and yet insists I turn in a fifty-page report on my current training with the NSA.”
The man was a pompous ass, that was for sure. Totally old-school and didn’t seem to have much respect for women. Michael knew Brigit had given him an ear-full on more than one occasion. From the way he acted, it was no wonder she considered her gift an “offering,” or talked about refusing to worship at his altar. “You could work permanently with Homeland. Plus, the FBI’s offer still stands. You would make an amazing profiler.”
She sat forward and waggled a finger in his direction. “You keep dangling that carrot, and I might take you up on it.”
The only reason she hadn’t was Truman. The two were like brother and sister and she couldn’t stand the thought of not working with him. If she left MI-5 and became a full-time consultant for Homeland, she’d have to do exactly that. Michael had secured her a job in the States permanently and T would be in London, assigned to a different partner.
Michael sympathized, but it might be the price she had to pay to gain a new boss. “I could have him assassinated.”
Her brows shot upward and her eyes rounded. “You wouldn’t!”
“I don’t like that he can upset while he’s thousands of miles away.” There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for her and she knew it. “Skiing accidents happen all the time. Ask Conrad.”
Standing, she shook her finger again, even while she scanned his face as if attempting to read his mind. Was he joking, or not? He liked that she couldn’t be sure. “No assassinations.”
“Then let me get Truman a job here. Flynn’s always looking for recruits who have field experience.”
“Are you kidding? They’d kill each other.”
Truman would lose. “Just a thought.”
“I wish Dad and Tory could be here,” she said, suddenly wistful.
He nodded, keeping a straight face. There wasn’t much he could do about her sister, since she was still in prison for various crimes, but the other… He shuffled papers, directing his attention to them so he wouldn’t break down and tell her everything he had planned. “We can visit your sister tomorrow before the party.”
“I’d like that.” She sashayed over to the tree, and held out a box of ornaments. “Are you ready to decorate?”
He scrunched his nose. “Looks like you’re doing a bang-up job without me. Continue on. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the show.”
She struck a pose, her tight red sweater and black jeans hugging her curves, as she gave him a pinup girl pout. “Come on, Director. Help a lady out?”
Oh, he was going to help her all right. He wanted to make her holiday the best she’d ever had. “I think Santa might have left you something under the tree already.”
Her grin told him she knew what he was up to. “Well, he better come over here and let me unwrap it then.”
Rising from his chair, he happily let her lead him to the rug in front of the fireplace before he began peeling off that sweater and doing a little worshipping at the altar of Brigit.
Six
0847 hours.
The island bar was a rundown shack. Definitely not tourist material, but open from five in the morning to midnight. Inside the dark building, a few early diehards such as Conrad drank bad coffee and ate breakfast. Most were loners like him as well. The only difference was they were locals and he wasn’t.
Out back, three pigs roasted on grates for Christmas Eve dinners the bar would serve later that day. The smell wafted through the open door, reminding him of his lunch date. On the heels of that thought followed the afternoon’s plan to stay locked in the room with Julia. It was serious fun to dream about as he nonchalantly scanned the faces coming and going.
No one tripped his oh-shit radar and that was good. The only one to peak his interest was the waiter from the hotel, who came in, spoke to the owner and left. Con kept his head down and the kid never even looked his way.
Since he’d been on the island, Con had seen a few paramilitary guys, but none posed any kind of threat to him or his mission. They were young, hot-blooded teenagers, and untrained. They had the right clothes and weapons, and God knew they had the correct attitude, but they lacked direction and skill.
At eight-fifty-five, he took a last sip of coffee, paid his bill, and donned sunglasses and a white hat. The fabric band sported a subtle red and blue stripe; the calling card Ramon would be looking for. Red, white, and blue…Cuba’s national colors as well as America’s.
Outside the sun was turning the landscape into a glowing sauna. Wide swaths of bright fabrics shaded a dozen or so open-air stalls. There was no street here; a pedestrian footpath guided locals past them, along with a few of the more daring tourists who’d left the safety of the hotel’s grounds to graze through the proffered goods.
Conrad did a slow crawl with the other shoppers, avoiding the children darting in and out of the crowds while keeping an eye open for anyone trailing him. He liked kids, it wasn’t that, but here they were renowned for covertly relieving folks of their wallets.
He’d almost made it to the designated meeting place when he detoured to a stall with a toothless sales lady and hundreds of designer sunglasses. The items were fakes, of course, but he pretended to be interested. As he tried on pair after pair and checked his reflection in a cracked mirror hanging on a support beam, he kept an eye on the meet point, a stall selling Virgin Mary statues, and the other on a healthy looking thirty-something male with dreadlocks and a Che Guevara beard who’d had eyes on him since Con exited the bar.
No visible weapons on the guy, but the way he carried himself suggested he was hiding a handgun or knife in the waistband of his pants.
Conrad’s radar hummed but didn’t blare. Dreadlocks was probably a thief looking for a mark. A review of the mental photograph of Cabrera in his head confirmed it wasn’t the virologist. He had short hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a mole on his left cheek.
Conrad continued his search for the perfect shades. At nine on the dot, a woman…young, dark skin, hair pulled taut, and covered with a Cuban flag scarf…walked up to the table and began handling the statues. Each time she set one down, she glanced over her shoulder.
Virgin Mary, tabl
e, shoulder. When she realized a sale was unlikely, the owner chattered at the woman and made shooing motions with hands gnarled by arthritis. The young woman mumbled something back and ignored the get-lost message, continuing to peek over her shoulder every few seconds.
Dreadlocks moved off to Conrad’s left, disappearing behind a booth selling cabbages and tomatoes. Mary-woman checked her watch, sighed heavily, and tapped a foot. She shifted her weight. Once, twice. Scanned the crowd and ran a hand over her lower abdomen.
Who was she waiting for?
And why did he have the unmistakable feeling it was him?
Her skirt and blouse hung loose on her frame. Hiding weapons or simply beating the heat?
Randomly grabbing a pair of glasses, he paid three times the amount they were worth. He took his purchase and slid off to the right, doing his own disappearing act. From the cover of the stall’s rear, he peered through the fabric and framework to observe the woman as well as each and every person who crossed her path.
A minute passed, then two. She stayed put. Dreadlocks remained MIA.
And Ramon Cabrera didn’t show.
Shit.
Yep, his radar was going off now.
Was it a set up?
Only one way to find out.
Stepping out from behind the stall, he strolled toward the table of statues. The moment the young woman saw him, her body tensed.
Wasn’t that interesting?
Instinct told him to move slow, look uninterested. Cornering a scared animal wasn’t the best move. He was here for Ramon, after all. Not her.
Maybe the virologist had sent her in his place, or he’d already been nabbed by the Intelligence Directorate.
Or maybe the guy was just plain late and the woman was waiting for someone else.
Sure she is.
He hadn’t become the best in the business by ignoring his intuition.
Conrad stopped to let two kids run in front of him. Dreadlocks was nowhere to be seen, but he felt eyes on him. Not the woman’s steady, anxious gaze either.