Cheering Garcia

“¡Gar-ci-a! ¡Gar-ci-a!” twenty-thousand voices cheered Monte Rico’s president, as he started to climb up the steps to the podium. Every eye was on their hero; no-one was likely to look at the high window where I was hidden. 

Garcia had made enemies among the multinationals. He’d nationalised some holdings, forced the big boys to declare their interests, but his real crime was refusing to grant permits for oil exploration and mining. The corporations leaned on the President, and she leaned on the Company; then they sent me to deal with Garcia. I wondered if he guessed his fate was sealed.

Graves – head of operations – assured me it would be a simple job, when I was briefed. He seemed right; the security arrangements were laughably bad. But a professional cuts no corners, even on an easy job.

Garcia’s head was lined up through the telescopic sight. It was a good one, and the rifle was the excellent Tikka T3, in .308. There was nothing military on this mission, and nothing American, that was something Graves had emphasised several times during briefing.

“Deniability, Jack. Deniability is all important,’ he said. Even his grey eyes looked guarded. “Our new President takes a dim view of prejudicial methods, in public. So nothing must tie any unpleasantness back to us.” That meant I was flying solo, on a false Canadian passport, with no contact to the local station. If anything went wrong, I had to hope the Canadians would play ball and get my SOS back to the Company, if I was taken alive. It hadn’t occurred to me that Graves might have a different agenda. 

Garcia harangued the crowd. It wasn’t a hard shot; his head was in my crosshairs and there was no pressure on me. As he looked down at his notes, I squeezed the trigger a little more, until the butt pushed back into my shoulder.

Garcia was less than half the Tikka’s effective range from me. The hollow-point bullet covered the distance between us in .37 seconds, a bit slower than an eyeblink. I’d aimed for the top of the head, the point where the coronal suture and metopic suture cross. The shot was flawless and his head exploded. One less troublesome, third world, Presidente for America to worry about.

The cheers of the people turned to cries of “¡Muerte!” and “¡Traición!” While the confused, screaming mob fled from the square, I dismantled the rifle carefully. Each separate part of the Tikka fit into my red and white, maple-leaf backpack. When I finally stepped onto the street, minutes later, I looked like any other tourist. 

The police had cordoned off the streets nearest the Plaza Mayor, so I turned away and strolled along as if I had no idea that there had been an assassination.  I made my way to a bakery that had a wood-burning oven in the back. I stood on some oil drums beside the wall and dropped the stock down the flue. To explain my presence there, I used the opportunity to take a good, touristy photo of children playing barefoot soccer in the alley. No-one saw me; the adults were all glued to their televisions, and the kids were focused on their game. In  half an hour, the stock would be completely consumed. 

It was important no one traced anything back to me, so I ditched each item separately,  in spots I’d picked out days before. The barrel disappeared into a pile of pipes in a scrap dealer’s yard – I took care to pour  nitric acid down it, first. I dropped the trigger in a sewer; the bolt I tossed into the river from a little taberna. 

I lost count of how many times some teary-eyed local told me that el Presidente had been assassinated. So much for the assurances that opposition to Garcia was strong in Monte Rico. Of course, I knew better than to believe anything from the Agency for Global Media; their stories were purely intended to con exiles, gull the American public, and sway Congressmen. 

About 7:00 I got back to the hotel, where the dark eyed girl at the desk – Marcia – tipped me off to the danger I was in.

“Did your friend find you, Mr Jackson?” she asked. 

“Which friend is that, Marcia?” The innocuous look on her face gave way to caution. Marcia would never be a good poker player.

“The American man. He was looking for you.” 

“What are you doing?” Rodriguez, the manager, a dull looking, middle-aged guy snapped at her in Spanish. “He told us not to say anything to him. He wants it to be a surprise.” Never let the locals know you can speak the language; you’ll find out much more that way. I feigned incomprehension, waiting for Marcia to say more, but Rodriguez sent her into the back. With nothing further to go on, I stepped into the bar to have a beer and think.

I was compromised, obviously. Only Graves was supposed to know I was in Monte Rico; I’d never even contacted the Company's station chief. I pondered the implications of that unpleasant thought over my drink. When I finished, I went up to my room

It was obvious someone had been there. The tell-tales I’d placed on the door were both disturbed, and a faint hint of unfamiliar aftershave – Stetson, I think – floated in the air.  The intruder was unlikely to be one of the locals; it was their style to burst in with guns blazing. This probe was professional, but no less threatening. Nothing seemed disturbed, and I weighed the various reasons someone might have entered. Only one made sense. 

My I.D. was useless, since I’d been blown. My back-ups weren’t Company issue, and should be OK; I needed to collect them from the hotel safe.

Rodriguez showed me into the back and discretely turned away. The safety deposit box was empty; apparently my ‘friend’ had been there before me. It seemed unlikely Rodriguez was in on it, but I turned and dug my Glock into his back.

“The American who was looking for me, did he say when he’d be back?” He wasn't used to the rough stuff and whimpered as I shoved him, half-turning his head.

“No Señor. He said nothing,” Rodriguez’ voice trembled as he answered. “He said not to tell you, that he would surprise you, later.” That plan would have worked, except for Marcia’s slip.

“You never saw me. I didn’t come back,” I whispered into his ear. Fortunately I still had cash on me, and I pushed two $50s into his hand. “Make sure Marcia takes the next few days off, so she doesn’t have to speak to him. Understood?” I added a third $50. Rodriguez nodded and I told him to count to 100 before he left the safe.

Out on the street, I looked around; there was no obvious tail, but I had to assume that there was a watcher, somewhere. Damn Graves. He clearly wanted ultimate deniability. The government pretends that they care, but everyone in the Company knows that operatives are expendable. Still a grey man like Graves making such black and white decisions seemed obscene, suddenly. 

I wandered down the nameless streets, turning over possible exit plans. I tossed most of them; dozens of briefings and debriefings over the years must have given Graves a pretty good dossier on me, and my tradecraft. I had to assume he’d informed whoever he’d sent to take me out, and plan something different. 

Up ahead was a cantina that catered to tourists whose tastes ran to boys and, sharing the doorway, a barber shop; an idea started to form. 

I purchased some shorts, a tee shirt, and some knock-off Nikes from a cart in the street.  Then I walked into the cantina, before slipping into the barber shop from the inside. I asked the man to shave my head bald. It wasn’t the best disguise, but I didn’t have time for anything elaborate. When he was done I changed in the washroom, leaving my old clothes in the trash. Holding onto my bag I went into the bar and engaged a boy who didn’t seem too stoned. We went out through the back, down the alley and toward the street. I’d pay him off before I went to the airport; I doubted he’d be disappointed.

Before I could hail a taxi, the face of a man I vaguely recalled from Langley, a new recruit for the Company, looked straight at me, his eyes taking in the damned maple-leaf backpack. Was it coincidence, or had I been followed? I’ll never know. He pointed me out to the police, without expression.

“¡El asesino!” they yelled. Suddenly every face around me turned hostile, not that I blamed them. The mob’s kicks took me down onto my hands and knees quickly enough, and a well-placed punch left me seeing stars and bleeding from the nose.

“Gar-ci-a! Gar-ci-a!” the crowd started to cheer.

-30-