Missile Intercept Page 8

  Grimaldi snorted and started to say something, but Bolan silenced him with a hard look.

  “I can arrange it,” the Executioner said, holding up his phone.

  The special agents appeared indecisive for a moment, then Stevenson gave a quick nod.

  Chong turned to Bolan and said, “Okay, we’re in.”

  Bolan punched a number into his sat phone and Grimaldi snapped his fingers for the server.

  “Ah, looks like we’re all Havana bound,” he said. “And I need a shot of tequila before I leave Mexico.”

  5

  American Embassy

  Havana, Cuba

  The room was small and hot, especially with the windows closed. The bright afternoon sunlight spilled around the edges of the drawn opaque shades, and a constant stream of water flowed from what looked to be an antique showerhead, splattering into the equally antique bathtub a few feet away. Grimaldi sat on the bed, and Chong and Stevenson stood nearby as Bolan fieldstripped a 9 mm Tokarev pistol and checked the firing pin. It seemed in working order, but he wouldn’t feel comfortable until he’d put some rounds through it, something he doubted he’d be able to do in this place. He looked at Grimaldi, who was holding his own Tokarev and frowning.

  “What’s the story?” Grimaldi asked, looking around the small room. “Where’s our usual stuff?” The water was running in the shower to provide background noise.

  The assistant to the ambassador, Ted Hertel, held his finger to his lips in a silencing gesture. “Keep in mind that down here, these relatively new, normalized relations are suspended by a thread.” He was a tall, thin man with shaggy gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Bolan knew he had been with the State Department for many years and was actually a clandestine operative.

  Hertel reached over and adjusted the water flow in the shower. “And also assume your conversations are being monitored at all times.”

  Grimaldi rolled his eyes and said, “This ain’t our first trip to the rodeo.”

  Hertel grinned and pointed to Chong and Stevenson. “No, but I bet it’s theirs.”

  The two FBI agents looked self-conscious and very much out of place. Neither said anything.

  “Up until last year,” Hertel continued, “this place was no more than another abandoned building in Havana. Now, after the normalization, it’s an embassy.” He gestured toward the running shower. “Hence our rather archaic approach to security matters.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you’re sticking us with substandard equipment,” Grimaldi said, pointing to the pistol. “I’m a SIG Sauer man from way back, and my partner prefers a Beretta 93-R.”

  Hertel lifted his arms toward the ceiling. “What part of what I just said about always assuming that Big Brother is listening didn’t you understand?”

  “Jack,” Bolan said, looking at Grimaldi and holding up the Tokarev. “These will do fine. I’m assuming this is the standard, and not the exception down here?”

  “The same kind as the Cuban police use,” Hertel said. “They can be discarded in any street gutter and nothing will be traced back to us here.”

  Bolan nodded. Even though things had opened up diplomatically, they were still in one of the most repressive countries around. Any chance that weaponry could be traced back to the US would be fodder for the Cubans to scuttle the diplomatic efforts.

  “We’ll be careful,” he said, and reassembled the weapon. He eased the slide forward and then inserted the magazine, leaving the chamber empty. It was best not to trust a weapon he had yet to fire. Bolan gestured toward Chong and Stevenson. “Got any toys for them?”

  Hertel shook his head. “Sorry, what you see is what you get.”

  Bolan nodded again. It made sense. Giving out weapons to unfamiliar, untested personnel could produce disastrous results. This wasn’t the time or the place for on-the-job training. Still, he felt the two FBI agents could handle themselves, at least for the short term. “What if we need more equipment?”

  “Cuba Libre can help you with that,” Hertel whispered.

  “Who’s our contact?” Bolan asked.

  Hertel adjusted the water flow again, creating as much noise as he could, then leaned toward Bolan. “His name’s Miguel. He’s a nonregistered taxi driver who drives an old ’57 Chevy. He’ll contact you using the phrase, ‘It’s a perfect day for bananafish.’ When he feels it’s safe, that is. As I said, assume you’re being followed and watched at all times.”

  Bolan nodded. “And our cover?”

  “Journalists,” Hertel said, reaching into the diplomatic pouch and withdrawing four sets of false passports and IDs. He grinned. “Which one of you is Matt Cooper?”

  “That would be me,” Bolan said.

  “If we’re journalists,” Grimaldi asked, “what are we supposed to be doing down here?”

  “What else? You’re here covering Homer Glen’s goodwill tour.”

  “Homer Glen.” Grimaldi shook his head. “That guy couldn’t carry a football in a picnic basket. And now he’s just another washed-up jock trying to be a movie star.”

  “Yeah,” Hertel said, “but the Cubans love him.”

  Grimaldi stood, then inserted the magazine into his pistol. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a range in this building where we could put a couple rounds through these things, do you?”

  Hertel shook his head. “Like I said, this ain’t the Ritz.”

  “Marvelous,” Grimaldi said. “I guess I can always throw it, if it doesn’t work.”

  Hertel laughed. “Sounds like a plan. Just keep in mind that the secret police are all over, watching and waiting, and there’s usually an informer on every corner.”

  Bolan snapped the Tokarev into its holster and belted it into position.

  Grimaldi sighed and did the same. “Anything else we have to watch out for?”

  Hertel shrugged. “Derrumbes—building collapses.”

  “Building collapses?” Grimaldi repeated.

  “Some of these structures are old,” Bolan said, putting on his shirt and making sure the untucked tails covered the holstered weapon. “The tropical air has rotted a lot of the timbers in the buildings and there’s no money to repair them.”

  Hertel raised his eyebrows. “I’m impressed. I take it you’ve been here before?”

  “Secret police, informers and collapsing buildings,” Grimaldi said. “Sounds like a piece of cake.” He picked up one of the small suitcases with the video equipment and handed it to Chong. He picked up the second one and hefted it. “Hey, yours is lighter. How come I always end up doing the heavy lifting on these gigs?”

  “Because you’re so good at it,” Bolan said, allowing himself a rare grin. “Come on, let’s go catch a cab.”

  Punta de las Sueños

  Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

  ENSCONCED IN THE booth at the far end of the lounge, Colonel Yi watched the figures on the dance floor several meters away in the softly lit bar. He felt uncomfortable in the blue polo shirt and tan slacks. The drink sat untouched on the table before him. His eyes drifted away from the dancers as he detected the movement of someone new entering the bar area.

  Kim Soo-Han, accompanied by James Hudson, strolled into the lounge, and they were holding hands. While such overt physical contact would be frowned upon in the homeland, it was tolerable in this place, at this time. She was, after all, leading the man around like a goat about to be slaughtered.

  Yi saw Kim surveying the room, but he made no gesture to summon her. Instead, he waited until she saw him. The two went to the bar, ordered drinks and began a casual walk toward the booths. When they got abreast of his table, Kim stopped and looked down at him.

  “Why, Mr. Lee,” she said. “I did not know you would be arriving here so soon.”

  “Please,” Yi said, gesturing to the other side of
the table. “Join me.”

  They sat, with Kim sliding into the area between them so the two men could look directly at each other across the table. Hudson appeared flaccid and pale. Yi sensed the man was both nervous and distrustful. Trying to seem reassuring, the colonel smiled.

  “Let me buy you another drink,” he said. “Or, perhaps, something to eat?”

  Hudson shook his head. “I don’t have much time. I have to arrange for some entertainment tonight.”

  “I see,” Yi replied. “And what time will it be starting?”

  “Around seven.” He leaned closer. “Is Farrokhzad here yet?”

  Yi shook his head. The Iranian was actually close by, but still on the boat. The timetable dictated that he be kept out of sight for the short-term.

  Hudson looked around again. “When am I going to get my money?” he whispered.

  His nervous actions were like a neon sign. Yi did not like that. He reached across and casually grabbed one of the man’s fingers, twisting it slightly to cause Hudson to wince.

  Yi smiled and leaned forward, as if he’d just been telling a very funny joke.

  He increased the pressure on the finger. Hudson groaned, but did not cry out. Yi was satisfied that his power had been sufficiently demonstrated, so he released his grip. Hudson withdrew his hand and began massaging his finger.

  “What did you do that for?”

  “You must learn patience,” Yi said. “And respect. Only then will we talk about your reward.”

  “Okay, just don’t do that again. Please.”

  With the addition of that final word, a sign of weakness, Yi knew he had the man exactly where he wanted him. He smiled again.

  “But of course,” he said.

  Plaza de la Revolución

  Havana, Cuba

  A GROUP OF tourists poured from their bus and began to walk down the street, talking and pointing, while their bilingual Cuban guide told them about the historic sites around the square.

  “Over there,” the guide said, pointing toward an old domed building, “is what we call El Capitolio. Before the triunfo, the revolution, it once housed the government of the dictator, Fulgencio Batista, who was overthrown by our Fidel.”

  Bolan and company stood off to the side, observing and waiting. The tourists began to snap pictures, and Bolan signaled Grimaldi, Chong and Stevenson to turn away. The Executioner was certain that somewhere on the street the secret police were watching, and he didn’t want anyone in his group photographed.

  “Where is this Miguel guy?” Grimaldi whispered.

  “Relax,” Bolan said. “This was the pickup point Hertel gave us.”

  “I forgot how damn hot it is here in August,” he replied.

  “Have you guys been here before?” Chong asked.

  Grimaldi smiled. “Kid, you’d be hard-pressed to find a place we haven’t been to.” He leaned close to Stevenson and said, “Hey, what do you say about the two of us meandering over to that bar over there and getting something cold to drink? The best Cuban beer is called—”

  “I think that’s our man,” Bolan said, slapping Grimaldi’s shoulder as a yellow-and-green vintage Chevy turned the corner and pulled slowly down the boulevard. Bolan glanced across the street and spotted two swarthy-looking men with dark mustaches, wearing loose-fitting, blue guayabera shirts and tan slacks, gazing their way.

  “Don’t look now,” he added, “but I think we’ve got two guys checking us out.”

  “What do you want to do?” Grimaldi asked.

  Bolan watched as the old Chevy crept closer. The man behind the wheel was also looking around warily.

  “Come on,” Bolan said, heading into the group of tourists. When the majority of the crowd was between them and the two secret policemen, Bolan motioned for his people to head down a narrow alley. They trotted between the buildings, suddenly engulfed in shadow. The alley led to another, with more buildings on the other side. One of them appeared to be in a semidemolished state, and Bolan remembered Hertel’s warning about the collapses. He held up his fist for everyone to stop, and motioned for Stevenson to join him.

  “Take off your running shoes,” Bolan said. “And can you roll your blouse up and tie it so that your midriff is exposed?”

  “I can,” she said, unbuttoning the garment. “But what’s going on?”

  “You need to look more like a barefoot native,” Bolan said. “You’ll have to go back to the square and flag down Miguel in his Chevy. Lean in on the driver’s door, like you’re looking for a ride. Then have him pick us up on the next block.”

  “Got it,” she said, slipping off her socks and running shoes. “I hate to lose these.”

  “Don’t worry,” Grimaldi said, bending to pick them up. “I’ll keep them close to my heart.” He knotted the laces together and hung the shoes around his neck.

  “Thanks.” She finished knotting the blouse under her breasts and spun. “How do I look?”

  “Like a million bucks,” Grimaldi said, grinning. Bolan held her at arm’s length and assessed her. She was pretty, no doubt about that. In fact, a bit too much so. He squatted and grabbed a handful of dirt from the alley floor. Standing, he held out his open palm.

  “Smear a bit of this on your face,” he said. “You look too immaculate.”

  Stevenson dabbed her fingers in the dirt and made some streaks on her face. They looked like camo stripes. Bolan grinned and smoothed them out a bit, and then told her to put some of the remaining dirt on her blouse and jeans.

  “Hey, let me know if you need any help with that,” Grimaldi said, flashing a rakish smile.

  “Your clearance isn’t that high,” Stevenson said lightly, patting the dirt on herself.

  Bolan was impressed at her show of pluck in the face of danger.

  “Okay, head out,” he said, pointing Stevenson back the way they’d just come. “And remember, no English, only Spanish. You recall the password?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, and began jogging down the alley.

  As Stevenson disappeared from view, the men ran down the narrow alley, which opened onto another street. Soft rumba music emanated from a nearby café, and scores of makeshift stalls lined the doorways of the buildings, with vendors hawking everything from bootleg DVDs to kitchen appliances.

  Bolan steered Grimaldi and Chong toward the nearest one. “Act like you’re shopping,” he said, glancing up and down the block. He saw no obvious secret police, but the place could be full of informers.

  A couple kids approached them, begging for money and offering everything from cigarettes and cigars to cooperative young women. Bolan heard the sound of a car turning the corner and saw the yellow-and-green sedan heading down the block.

  “Our ride’s here,” he said.

  The Chevy stopped, and Bolan saw Stevenson in the front passenger seat, with a male about thirty-five years old behind the wheel, his teeth gleaming white beneath his bushy mustache.

  “Hop in, amigos,” the man said. “Or do you want me to tell you about bananafish?”

  Bolan opened the right front door and motioned for Stevenson to slide over, while Grimaldi and Chong got in the back.

  “Easy on those doors when you close them,” the driver said. “She is very old.”

  “I never abuse a classic,” Grimaldi said, closing the door with a delicate pull. Bolan closed his a bit harder, and motioned for the driver to get moving.

  “I know, I know,” the driver said. “I appreciate you not making it too obvious for the police back there. And especially sending such a bonita señorita to fetch me.” He shot a grin at Stevenson as he shifted the lever on the column to second gear. “You can call me Miguel, by the way.”

  “Okay,” Bolan said. “And right now I’d appreciate it if you took us out of here, away from prying eyes.” />
  Miguel nodded, accelerated and shifted to third, constantly glancing into his rearview mirror. After a few minutes he slowed a bit and sighed. “I think we lost them.”

  “Good,” Bolan replied. “What can you tell us about the North Korean ship that’s docked in the bay?”

  Miguel shrugged. “It’s pretty big. Looks like a transport vessel of some sort. It’s been there a few days. Want to go by and take a look?”

  “Definitely,” Bolan said. “Any scuttlebutt about why it’s here?”

  “The word on the street says that they are waiting to get another load of old Russian missiles.” Miguel laughed. “Why they would want them, after all these years, no one can say.”

  “They already got one shipment a few weeks ago,” Bolan said.

  “Yes, but they say the workers didn’t load enough sugar on top,” Miguel said with a laugh. “They found them out when they went through the canal.”

  Bolan didn’t say anything more. Cuba Libre had its own network, but apparently Miguel hadn’t heard about the North Korean’s latest action taking the missiles from Panama. The Executioner figured that information was on a need-to-know basis, and their primary focus was the ship docked in Havana Bay.

  The Cuban downshifted to second and made a left turn.

  “Miguel, you mentioned that word is the North Koreans are here to get more missiles?”

  “Ah, yes. Until the fall of the Soviet Union, the Russians were supporting us, like a guilty parent sending money to his bastard child. When the Soviet Union collapsed, the money stopped and they pulled out completely, leaving a lot of stuff behind. Old cars, old missiles.” He grinned.

  “The missiles have been here a lot longer than that,” Bolan said. “The Cuban Missile Crisis was in 1962.”

  Miguel nodded. Bolan knew that the Soviets had backed down fifty-plus years ago, and had abandoned their plans to build missile-launching sites in the Western Hemisphere. He also knew that although they’d left the missiles, they’d removed the nuclear triggers and fissionable material from them long ago, much to the Cuban leader’s strenuous objections. Back then, even the Soviets knew the dangers of nuclear proliferation and leaving such a weapon in the hands of a ruthless dictator, although the Cuban strongman was purportedly heartbroken over losing the chance to become a nuclear power broker.