Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

Karen pressed a slender finger to her ear, making the movement look perfectly natural. “Hold on—his limousine has just arrived, along with another car. Looks like he has company.”

“What about the driver?” Jonas asked.

She leaned forward, revealing a lush swell of cleavage along with a wicked grin. “Just leave him to me.”

“Say no more.” Jonas studied the racing program for that afternoon. “Let me guess, Mr. Castilo’s animal is number six in race ten.”

She followed his pointing finger. “Cuba Libre? Nothing like displaying certain political views in plain sight.”

“Let’s just hope he’s a winner. It’s a Class B race, and old Cuba Libre has just slipped a ranking, so he should outclass the others. Unfortunately, he got box six, but he’s an inside dog, so he’ll need to do some hard running to get ahead of the pack before the escape turn.” Jonas slid three onehundred-dollar bills across the table. “Put this down on him across the board.”

“Am I your beard now?” Karen asked.

“Someone’s got to stay and watch for him. Besides, it won’t seem suspicious if you head out to bet and also scout the parking lot to see where their car is.”

She scooped up the bills. “And here I thought you’d only go for the win—you know, that kind of all-or-nothing macho bullshit.”

“A smart man hedges his bets whenever he can,” Jonas said with a smile.

“Looks like he’s coming in.”

Both Karen and Jonas kept up their idle chatter while watching the party of three men and three women enter the restaurant. The maître d’ greeted Castilo effusively and escorted the party to a pair of reserved tables on the first tier, a good distance from Jonas’s table. They were all dressed well, but Jonas only had eyes for one man.

Rafael Castilo had a bit more gray hair than in the picture Kate had sent to him, and his suit was probably tailored to hide a few additional pounds, but otherwise he’d aged well.

He laughed and talked with his party and was affectionate with the woman at his side, a beautiful Cuban-American woman at least twenty years younger, and from the looks of it, trying not to age any faster than necessary. She was Castilo’s second wife, his first having passed away seven years ago. Jonas noted that the man’s eyes were always in motion, sweeping the room as if constantly evaluating who was there.

Jonas swept the party with his gaze, while his Dior sunglasses recorded everything through a quarter-inch color, closed-circuit lens built into its frame. Unlike other spy glasses, which still required relatively bulky battery packs, this model, reverse engineered by a cutting-edge technology firm in California, had modified lithium batteries installed into the temple bars, so that the glasses were ready to go when put on.

“Hope you’re getting all this, Kate,” Jonas muttered.

Everything was being transmitted back to Room 59’s on-line suite for analysis. He hadn’t bothered to bug the reserved table, as it was doubtful that Castilo would be discussing anything regarding his personal crusade there.

Loudspeakers around the track blared into life, the sound distorted and muted by the thick glass windows. Jonas kept an eye on the small LCD screen at his table as the greyhounds came out for the post parade, guided by the lead outs. The people at Castilo’s two tables cheered and clapped when Cuba Libre appeared in the lineup. By the time the last dogs were walked out, the first ones were in the boxes, ready to go.

With ten races before the action would really begin, Jonas still kept an eye on Castilo’s group, but his thoughts kept returning to that long-ago mission. Seeing the island last night, even through the darkness, had brought back more memories, and they were proving increasingly hard to dismiss.

THE BACK OF JONAS’S NECK itched as rivulets of sweat ran down it and his sprained ankle throbbed, but those were the least of his worries at the moment. The twelve men taking up ambush positions around the clearing a dozen yards away were another matter entirely.

After squirming far enough through the jungle to be sure that they wouldn’t be seen, Jonas and his contact took cover in a copse of blue mahoe. He turned to the woman. “What’s your name?”

“¿Qué?”

“Your name. Or should I just say ‘Hey, you’ when I need your attention?”

“Marisa,” she whispered.

“I’m Karl.” Jonas hated having to lie to her, even under the circumstances, but his team couldn’t be connected with this operation in any way, so he needed the alias. “We have to alert my team.” He eased out his radio, but turning it to the secure channel only got him static. He hit the squelch button three times, the prearranged signal for contact, but there was no reply. Jonas tried again, with the same result.

He switched it off. “I cannot raise them,” he said.

“That isn’t surprising—there are too many hills around here. Radio transmission is spotty at best. Why don’t we strike out and find the route they are going to return by?

Then we could warn them off and head right for the coast,”

Marisa said.

“That assumes they’ll be coming back via the primary route. Anything might cause them to deviate to a secondary.

Without communication, I cannot coordinate a rendezvous.

No, it is up to us to neutralize these soldiers before they return,” Jonas said.

He felt her stare, even in the darkness. “Has that injury affected your brain, as well? There were at least a dozen men back there. We have you—crippled—and me, and I’m not throwing my life away in a fruitless gesture for anyone.”

Jonas shifted position, scratching his back against the tree trunk. “Believe me, I don’t want to be buried here, either.

I’m not advocating a frontal assault. We just need a distraction, or to trick them into thinking they’re being attacked by a larger force—anything to make them give up their position. If only I hadn’t gotten injured.”

“If you hadn’t, then you and your team would be walking into an ambush, and I’d be dead right now.” Marisa put her hand on his arm. “What about the truck? If we could gain control of it, perhaps that could be put to use.”

“Perhaps—if we can find it.” Jonas took out his compass, taking bearings. “They’re to our left, about fifteen yards away. Here, hold this.” He took her hand, which still rested on his arm, and pressed his compass into her fingers. Shrugging off his pack, he opened it and carefully removed his night-vision scope. Turning it on, he waited for it to warm up, then looked through it at the clearing, watching the jungle night appear in grainy green and black. Through the trees he could just make out the larger image of the sugar mill, with the Cuban soldiers still moving around it. He also took a long look around their current location, fixing trees and other foliage in his mind. He switched the scope off and rewrapped it for protection before putting it away. “All right, we have to walk parallel with the road until we find the truck, then we’ll reconnoiter and figure out a plan.” He sliced off a few tree fronds to cover his pack, taking his can-teen, radio, the spotting scope, rifle, pistol, ammunition for both, a machete and his double-edged commando knife.

Marisa didn’t say a word, but slipped her head underneath his shoulder again. “It’s going to be a long walk.”

“Not this time.” He handed her his machete. “See what you can do to clear a path while making as little noise as possible.”

“Where will you be?”

Jonas eased himself to the ground. “Crawling right behind you. It’s the best way. Otherwise we’ll both be exhausted by the time we reach our objective.”