Costa Gorda
Another moonless night in the mountains.
“I’m hungry,” said one of the rebels.
“I told you, we have to ration staples until they make another supply drop,” said the squad leader. “Two spoons of Spam a day.”
“Henry,” whispered Ralph. “When is that next drop?”
“Don’t know. Can’t reach them on the high-band.”
“We were only able to salvage two boxes from the last drop. The rest landed on the others still burning from the napalm.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
Ralph looked back at a waning campfire and audible groans. “The men are starving. Some are getting sick from eating the berries…”
On the other side of the encampment, more whispering among the lower ranks:
“I can’t take this anymore.”
“I’m so weak I can barely stand up.”
“Guys!” Someone ran over with a small shortwave. “Just picked up the BBC. The intelligence subcommittee canceled our funding.”
“But they wouldn’t just leave us here… right?”
“What do you think? This is an illegal operation. We’re expendable.”
Eyes darted round the circle. Panic. “They’ve abandoned us!”
“What are we going to do?”
“I know this village at the edge of the next province. They must have food.”
“How far?”
“About ten clicks past the river.”
“What are we waiting for?”
Back on the command side: “Ralph, what are those guys doing?”
Ralph turned around. “Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“We’re hungry.”
Downtown Miami
This time, a shark was dropped in front of a Cuban deli with plastic Italian tablecloths. The chalk menu sat under a painting of a rooster.
A light afternoon crowd. In the back of the deli, at the very last red-and-white-checkered table, sat a young man from a mail room on the seventh floor of an office building across the street. His face was in his hands. Pork sandwich untouched.
“They’re going to send me home!” said Scooter Escobar. “I just know it!”
“They’re not sending you anywhere,” said the woman seated across from him, picking through her avocado salad. “You’ve got the safest job in the whole consulate.”
“But you’ve met this Serge character.”
She sipped a glass of sangria. “Yes.”
“Then you know what I mean.”
“I know you’re paranoid.”
“But the president likes him.” His head jerked back and forth looking for phantoms. “Why didn’t they ask me to run backup security from the airport? I’m the spy in the office.”
She set her fork down. “Listen, Scooter, your uncle’s the general. You worry too much.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” He leaned over the table and sniffed. “You have job security.”
She did.
Felicia Carmen. All curves and hips and luscious red lips. A beauty mark. Long, curling jet-black hair, designed to make any man swallow his tongue and spit out deepest secrets, which was her job. The local honey trap in the Costa Gordan consulate.
The consulate was the ultimate brass ring.
Everyone wanted the Miami gig. It was a sexy city with easy lifting and all the perks. The rest of the local staff wrangled their assignments through politics. Felicia earned hers. Top performance reviews during stints in St. Kitts, St. Lucia, Montserrat, and Trinidad. On the short list for Miami.
Then Scooter jumped to the head of the line.
It wasn’t fair.
Openings were few and far.
Then it accidentally became fair. Because…
Scooter arrived in Miami.
Word went back to the capital in Costa Gorda. “We’ve got a problem.”
They added another opening.
Scooter required a full-time job, just to chaperone Scooter.
So Felicia arrived in town.
And for the first time, the tiny Costa Gordan consulate had a backup spy. And a spy’s first priority is job security. She began spying on her consulate’s head attache.
“I’m telling you,” said Felicia. “If they were sending anyone home, he would have mentioned something in bed.”
Scooter sniffled back tears. “Did you use the vibrator?”
Felicia lit a thin cigar. “When that thing’s in him, he tells me a bunch of secrets I don’t even give a shit about.”
“Was it on the high setting?”
“What’s with always asking about the high setting?” She reached for an ashtray. “You’re just trying to get a mental image of me.”
Scooter grinned sheepishly. He glanced around again and dumped a tiny pile of white powder on the edge of the table.
“Wonderful,” said Felicia. “That’s going to help.”
Scooter raised his face from the table and rubbed his nose. “I need it to calm down.”
She shook her head and blew smoke rings toward a ceiling fan.
Escobar did another toot, then pulled an envelope from his pocket. He unfolded a single sheet of paper and handed it to Felicia.
“What’s this?”
“The note Serge left for me at the consulate’s reception desk.” He tapped out more powder. “Remember? The first day he made contact, when our guys threw him out on the sidewalk. He said to give that note to the spy in the office.” Scooter raised his head up and pinched nostrils. “But it’s blank. I haven’t been able to figure out what it means.”
Felicia flicked her lighter and ran the flame back and forth under the paper. Tan lines slowly appeared on the page until they were solid brown.
“What are you doing?” asked Escobar.
“He wrote it in lemon juice. A child’s trick.”
“What’s it say?”
She turned the page toward him. A smiley face over words: H AVE A