Paul Christopher - Valley of the Templars

Once upon a time Playa Baracoa had been an important airbase, but it had been inactive for years, old MiGs rusting away on overgrown hardstands, a few old Russian MiL 18 helicopters and some short-range Yak 40 VIP transports in case some bigwig in the military took it into his head to visit friends at the other end of the island or fly to Cancun for the weekend.

There was a man working on an airplane in front of Servicios de Aviacion P. Laframbuesa. He was in his early sixties, tall and gangly, his bib overalls and his old straw hat making him look more like old MacDonald on his farm than an airplane mechanic.

The plane itself looked almost as out of place as the man. It was canary yellow with tricycle landing gear, the front two wheels on high pylons that tilted the nose upward like some sort of curious insect. Both the upward-hinged doors were open and Black could see that there was room for a pilot and copilot and Spartan seating for two more in the cramped little cockpit.

The man turned as they approached. He smiled and doffed his straw hat. Underneath it was a shock of curly salt-and-pepper hair. Carrie almost laughed. It was the first time she’d actually seen a man’s eyes “twinkle.” She smiled back at him. He looked like a six-foot-two version of the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

“Puedo estar de servicio?” the leprechaun asked, the Spanish formal with a strangely flat accent.

“Nos gustaria alquilar su avion,” answered Black. “Hace que lo realmente volar?”

“Of course she flies, and lower your voice or Miroslava will hear you,” said the man. His English had the same flat drawl as his Spanish.

“Who’s Miroslava?” Carrie asked.

“She is,” said the man, stroking the aircraft’s rounded snout, “ Miroslava the Golden Oriole. She’s a PZL-104 Wilga and proud of it. A hundred and twenty miles per hour, range of four hundred and twenty miles; take you anywhere in Cuba you want to go.”

“You’re not Cuban.”

“Name’s Pete Laframboise,” said the man. He held out a hand and they both shook it. The grip was strong and firm and the hand felt as though it had done its fair share of hard labor. “I’m a political exile,” he added pleasantly.

“Laframboise, laframbuesa , very cute,” said Carrie.

“I thought so,” he replied.

“What kind of political exile?” Carrie asked.

“You’re way too young,” said Laframboise. “FLQ, Federation de Liberation du Quebec.”

“The Cross-LaPorte kidnappings in Montreal, October 1970,” said Carrie promptly. “LaPorte was murdered and the prime minister invoked the War Measures Act, same thing as martial law in the States. First real case of terrorism in North America. The FLQ went around planting bombs in mailboxes.”

“Not bad,” Laframboise said, turning to Black. “Who in hell does she work for?”

“If I told you I’d have to kill you.” Black smiled. He paused. “You don’t sound very French-Canadian.”

“I’m not. I’m all Anglo. But I was young. I was going to McGill University. I fell in with the ‘wrong bunch,’ as the saying goes. Her name was Paulette and she was very passionate about…politics. We were part of the team that kidnapped James Cross, the British trade commissioner. In return for letting him go, we were all exiled to Cuba. The rest went back years ago. I was the only one who stayed. I like it down here. No winters, no snow to shovel. No hockey, either, but what the hey, you can’t have everything, even in the Socialist Paradise.”

“And you wound up flying airplanes?”

Laframboise shrugged and smiled. “I already had my license by the time I got to Montreal. Back then they needed crop dusters, so there was a ready-made job.”

“You’re very forthcoming about yourself,” said Black.

“Some people couldn’t give a crap. Just get them to the fishing and pick them up again without any chatter. You two are different. I could tell that right off. You’re no fishermen. You’re not even tourists, so I thought I’d be up front. Now it’s your turn; you be up front with me and maybe I’ll let you hire Miroslava .”

“Fair enough,” said Black. “We’re looking for someone in the Sierra del Escambray. If we don’t find him, a lot of people are going to die.”

“You’re a Brit. Who do you work for?”

“MI6.”

Laframboise glanced at Carrie. “Which means she works for…”

“That’s right.” Black nodded.

“You’ve got big brass ones to play spy games in this country-I’ll give you that,” said Laframboise. “In Cuba they drop you in jail for five years for not handing over your ID fast enough.”

“This is no game, Mr. Laframboise. This is the real thing. I wasn’t kidding that people are going to die unless we find this man, and very soon.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is John Holliday. He’s traveling with a Cuban mercenary named Eddie Cabrera. They’re looking for Cabrera’s brother, Domingo.”

“Who’s this Domingo character?”

“An ex-agent of MININT,” answered Carrie. “The Ministerio del Interior.”

Laframboise lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Believe me, dear, I know what MININT stands for. I’ve had my own run-ins with them every once in a while.” He shook his head. “You really like to pick exciting friends, don’t you?”

“He’s hardly a friend,” said Black. “But we really do need to find him.”

“And this stuff about a lot of people dying is true?”

“I’m afraid so.” Black nodded.

Laframboise shrugged. “Okay, me and Miroslava are in.”

“It may well be dangerous,” warned Black.

“What the hell?” said the tall, gangly man. “What’s life without a little danger?” He grinned. “Besides, if things get really bad, we’ll just fly to the Caymans so I can spend all that money I’ve been squirreling away for a snowy day.”

“All right.” Black nodded again. “We need to go back to our hotel and pack a few things. Can you be ready in an hour?”

“No problemo.” The pilot nodded.

After twenty-two years of military service, fighting in three wars for his country and receiving two Purple Hearts, the Distinguished Service Medal, a Bronze Star and divorce papers and losing any sort of custody for his two kids, Major Frank Turturro was making the princely sum of six thousand six hundred and thirty-three dollars a month. Of that, twenty-four hundred dollars went to alimony, twelve hundred to child support and seven hundred on car payments. He’d maxed out all his credit cards, his overdraft protection had been revoked and he was still on the hook for his ex-wife’s student loans for the degree she’d gone after and failed to obtain while in search of her “inner woman.” When all was said and done, he barely had enough left over for beer and pretzels.

He’d been in the U.S. Army for twenty-two years and had post-traumatic stress disorder stretched wire thin from Baghdad to Kabul and back again. More than once while lying on his back on some stony piece of ground in the middle of goat-butt nowhere staring up at constellations that were nothing like the ones he’d grown up with, he’d seriously considered putting his Browning.45 between his teeth and giving it the old heave-ho.

Instead he went home after his last tour, took his pension in a lump sum and paid all his debts, then took a contract with Blackhawk Security and went straight back to Helmand Province, this time at six thousand a week. That was four years ago, and now he was a light colonel commanding his own small battalion of top-notch men, all of them combat veterans like himself and making a hell of a lot more than six grand. Mind you, commanding an elite unit about to start a revolution in Cuba was no ordinary ride in a Humvee down the dangerous streets of Sadr City in Baghdad.