Cheering Garcia

The end of a Company man

“¡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 sitting. Even if they did, I was hidden behind the curtains, in the shadows.

Garcia was worshipped by the people, but he had made enemies among the multinationals. He’d nationalised some holdings, forced the big boys to declare their interests in others, and generally tightened up the regulations that let American corporations do whatever they wanted. But his real crime was refusing to grant permits for oil exploration and mining. The corporations leaned on the President, and when declaring Monte Rico a national security concern, and then putting sanctions on Garcia hadn’t produced results, she leaned on the Company. They always do, after all.

I wondered if Garcia had guessed what would happen. 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. Still, a professional cuts no corners, even on an easy job. I’d planned everything out.

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,’ Graves had 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 wasn’t unusual on a mission like this, but it meant I was flying solo. Graves gave me a Canadian passport to use. It had been issued in Ottawa, though there was no paperwork behind it; Canada was part of Five Eyes after all, and could be counted on to play ball. I knew their ambassador would get my SOS back to the Company, if I ran into any complications.

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 away. 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 third world Presidente for American businessmen 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. I knew where I was going, but I strolled along as if I had no idea that there had been an assassination, just another sight-seer. I carried my backpack casually, although I was acutely aware of what was hidden in it. It was important that no one trace anything back to me, so I planned to ditch each item separately, in spots I’d picked out days before.

The first of my stops was a bakery that had a wood-burning oven in the back. I stood on some oil drums beside the wall and dropped the rifle 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.

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 that flowed behind a picturesque taberna.

I lost count of how many times some teary-eyed local told me that el Presidente had been assassinated. So much for the Company’s 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 – Mariel – tipped me off to the danger I was in.

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

“Which friend is that, Mariel?” The innocuous look on her face gave way to caution. Mariel 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 Mariel 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. Over my drink the suspicion that Graves might have had a different reason for insisting on deniability for this mission grew. When I finished, I went up to my room

It was obvious ‘the American Man’ 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 local security men; their style was to burst in with guns blazing. This probe was professional, but no less threatening. Nothing in my rooms seemed disturbed, but appearances could be deceptive. I weighed the various reasons someone might have entered. Only one made sense. Still holding the backpack, I returned to the lobby.

My I.D. was useless, since I’d been blown. My back-ups were my own, picked up over the years on similar missions, not Company issue. That wasn’t protocol, of course, but I’d always been cautious, and always made sure I had a fall-back plan. I just needed to collect them from the hotel safe.

Rodriguez showed me into the back and discretely turned away as I used the key, but the safety deposit box was empty; I pivotted around and dug my Glock into his back.

“Who was in here?” I said, keeping my voice low. Rodriguez had to be in on it, but the question was how far.

“The American. He said it was all right. He works for the same company as you. He said he had the key.” Rodriguez wasn’t used to the rough stuff and whimpered a little. Was he telling the truth. though?

“Did he say when he’d be back?” I jabbed the gun into his ribs, again, harder than I needed to, but precious time was slipping away.

“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 might have worked, except for Mariel’s slip. It’s always some small detail that gives you away.

“You never saw me. I didn’t come back,” I whispered into his ear. I pushed two $50s into his hand. Rodriguez’s eyes went wide; I guessed whoever my “friend” was, he hadn’t been as generous. “Make sure Mariel 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 went back to the front desk.

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; damn them all. I’d been such a fool. In public, the government pretends that they care about their agents, but everyone in the Company knows that operatives are expendable. Still, a grey man like Graves, making black and white decisions while he sat safely back at Langley, seemed obscene, suddenly.

I wandered down the nameless streets, turning over possible exit plans. I tossed most of them though; 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 given chapter and verse to whoever he’d sent to take me out. If I was going to escape I needed something different.

Up ahead I saw 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.

I talked to him idly, while my eyes surveyed the room, but I couldn’t see anyone suspicious. He must have noticed that I was nervous and he put his hand on mine and gave me a half-smile. I nodded and slipped him some cash before we went out the back, my hand on his ass. That would be expected if anyone was watching.

Instead of going upstairs to his room, I found the back door, and we walked down the alley, toward the street. I was looking for a cab, but I’d pay the boy off before I got the ride to the airport; I doubted he’d be disappointed.

As I looked round for a taxi, I saw the face of a man I vaguely recalled from Langley, talking to the local police. He was a new recruit for the Company and, before I could do anything, he looked straight at me, his eyes taking in the damned maple-leaf backpack. I’ll never know if it was coincidence or if he’d worked out where I had to be, but he pointed me out to the police, without any expression.

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

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