Please retweet this post to your friends. - Thanks! _____________________________________________________________ A. J. Phelps is a pseudonym for an analyst of global affairs and author of international thriller fiction. Check out his debut novel, Havana Dawn. Follow him on Twitter at ajphelpsauthor1.
CIA Deputy Director of Operations Musgrave watched the hyperbolic Comandante with Belinda Cooper on an HD monitor in his private meeting room. The prim and proper veteran agent was a rarity in the CIA’s top echelon – a careerist from academe in a normally appointed post. That is, the president could never remove him, at least easily.
That was a compromise struck between the opposition-led Senate and Belling in exchange for confirmation of Bill Taylor as Director of Central Intelligence (DCI). Musgrave calmly sipped a cup of black coffee with cream and sugar – an old habit from the innumerable and boring faculty meetings at Tufts in another life – from a fresh pot he brewed himself and propped his head up with his left arm as the public show ended. He flipped off the transmission from Havana and then clasped his hands together. “Is Project Hermes compromised, Belinda?” “Two agents in four months and now this failed putsch,” she replied thumping her black ink pen on her binder labeled PROJECT HERMES – TOP SECRET. “Someone at CIA tipped them. I’m certain. The Cubans knew exactly how, when, and where to defeat the rebellious troops. There is no doubt in my mind.” “Still the President must not be told about this project,” he said draining the remainder of the caffeinated liquid in his blue-patterned decorative porcelain china. “Make sure it stays that way.” “Yes, sir,” she replied to Musgrave. This man is so brave, she thought. He cleaned his lips with a yellow linen napkin. “Hermes is the Company’s own private operation to do what this president does not have the courage to do.” “And so it shall be.” “Is Cade ready for his next assignment?” “Yes. And if our sources are correct, it could be a blockbuster.” The bespectacled director grinned with pleasure at what he heard. _____ At the same time, Cade made his way to the Havana seaside. Always observant, he stopped to check a stylish hat in a hard currency shop. Well, not really. In the mirror reflection he saw two plain-clothed secret police agents milling about outside. “Señora, hay salida por detrás?” Cade asked and quickly scooted out to the rear of the shop onto a cul de sac. One goon was in hot pursuit from behind. Surely, the other must be headed to block his escape. Cade was still wearing his tourist sandals which made running more difficult, but obviously his cover had attracted attention. Dammit! Or their amigo in Washington had tipped them about Cade just like his friend, Agent Echeverri, before him. Sure enough, a hulking thug was about to greet him at the end of the passageway. Cade gave a running karate kick and knocked him out of the way. The goon fell to the cobblestone and as his buddy arrived, both started chasing Cade who narrowly had crossed the wide avenue with honking horns to the Malecón, Havana’s iconic waterfront promenade. The normal nighttime party crowds were just starting to gather and perhaps he could use them to his advantage. Cade blended with a knot of partiers and started sucking up a piña colada from inside a delicately carved pineapple. One security agent passed by, but where was the other one? “Señor,” Cade heard the other one call. “Tengo algunas preguntas para Ud.” Cade hurled his drink squarely at the head of the agent and leaped over the seawall. Fuck he thought. That water looked deep. Splash! He disappeared into the night treading water as he had learned at the YMCA several years after his boating accident. Cade was a helicopter pilot from the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq before joining the Company, a real daredevil, not a world-class swimmer. When he was ten, Cade and Grandpa Forrester went fishing for bass in Enid Lake outside Oxford, Mississippi. The cold did not matter. Cade and his grandpa always had a ball together. Tragedy struck when Cade fell overboard trying to help haul in a feisty three-pounder smallmouth. He fought the murky water without his life preserver – a cardinal sin in that situation.
He slipped under the frigid water and touched bottom with horrible thoughts coursing through his mind. He surfaced a minute later and Grandpa pulled him back into the boat – his biggest catch that day!
At one point, Cade thought he would not survive cold, shaking, and smelling of fish. No training later as an army grunt or pilot totally eliminated the fear of deep water from his mind. A light patrol craft made a quick pass scanning the muddy waters with a searchlight. Nothing. --- After a half hour Cade figured, dodging the patrol, he crawled back onto nearby rocks to return to the seaside concrete seawall drawing the stares of partygoers, but luckily not the secret police. Bedraggled and slowly drying in the cool windy conditions, the surrounding air filled with the aroma of deep-fried chopped ham, pork shoulder, cheese and pickles. Cade returned to his original destination - a cyber café across from the Malecón. “Una caña de Cristal, porfa,” he ordered a taste of local ale. “Baño?” The uninterested proprietor gave Cade a strange look and motioned to the back as he returned to reading the worthless state-run Granma newspaper and took another hit of a Cohiba. A ceiling fan barely circulated enough air to stir the thick aromatic clouds of billowy smoke. Yuck, disgusting, Cade thought. The former track star, winner of multiple awards for the 4 x 400 relay and 5,000 meters, ambled into the shoddy closet-sized room labeled “Señores.” The door wouldn’t lock, so he removed the lid of the commode anyhow and extended his leg backward to close the door. He inspected the inside contents and noticed the small plastic bag hidden at the bottom of the water tank.
Without thinking, he reached with one hand to retrieve it. The note inside simply read – “Palacio de la Revolución, fiesta, 8pm, 2 days.” Cade loved parties.
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