Steve’s shorts: Fascist Tango, Part Three…
Fascist Tango
Copyright 2019, Steven M. Moore
Chapter Seven
Buenos Aires Safe House
I wanted to learn more about Rodrigo Jimenez. The safe house had a state-of-art connection to the net, complete with interactive helmet to speed up searches through massive databases with an AI’s help. I took out my personalized dongle and plugged it into the side of my head and then connected its leads to the helmet’s input/output jacks. While the dongle could use an RF link, the bandwidth was larger with the helmet. I became one with the net and began my search.
The high bandwidth sped up the search, allowing me to mind-meld with the AI, but I still spent over three hours. I then gave up. I had a wealth of information about the history of fascism in Paraguay and the Southern Cone in general, but little on Rodrigo. He seemed to be a sympathizer of a movement called Libertad con Responsibilidad. Some name! Fascists neither want liberty nor responsibility for others. Everyone must bow to those in power. Still, the name gave me a start.
The name he called himself was even more twisted—El Vengador, the Avenger. I wondered how many lives our group had lost to find that out! His shtick was purification—he wanted to purify Earth. Only then could there be true liberty through responsibility under God’s watchful eye.
I never could figure out why some people bought into this crap, but they did. At least the Argentine junta was more down to earth—tyrants in the old-school sense.
For some reason, Karl had thought Rodrigo was key. I wondered why. Jimenez looked a little like Peter Lorre. I saw the actor once as a gambling man in some old Hitchcock TV show. The only photo we had of Rodrigo was taken in his nightclub in Montevideo with three bimbos draped around him.
We had no details about his financial situation. He moved in the rich circles of power in the Southern Cone but mostly in the background. I was developing an image of him as a ruthless manipulator of right-wing sympathizers, though. What is this man’s life below the tip of the iceberg?
***
“We’ll take a corporate jet from Jorge Newbery Airpark to fly to Asuncion,” said Juan Carlos as I climbed into the backseat of the Mercedes. The irony was never lost on me that we often used these cars once preferred by Nazi VIPs. And that scurrilous North Korean dictator. “Ted knows the way, so let’s talk about the mission.”
“We’re assuming they don’t know me. That’s a big assumption.”
“You’ve changed your name and eyes and hair color. I don’t know anything else we can do.”
“I can change my eye and hair color at will. It’s just software.”
He glanced at me. “Yes, we might need that again. What else do I need to know about you, other than you’re a great shooter?”
“I’m more machine than flesh, so you should just be prepared for surprises.”
“That’s not a good answer. We’re working on this together. But I didn’t feel anything artificial when we were dancing that tango.”
“The designers had talent.”
He paused to think that over. “What about down there?”
The devil actually pointed. I smiled. “Why are you asking?”
“Just asking. I’m a Latino.”
“And I’m known as a cold Scottish lass. Let’s get back to the mission. How do we know that Rodrigo’s club will have a job waiting?”
“Cranston ordered a little kidnapping. There will be two openings in the dance group.”
“Dance group? I’m not qualified for that. We’ll have to call Cranston.”
“I suggested it. The group does only Moulin Rouge numbers. I’ll show you a video after we arrive. You have good legs.”
“And how does that get me hooked up with Rodrigo?”
“He likes to drape girls all over him. Most of them are his employees. Or so I’m told. I’ve never actually met the bastard even though he’s a competitor in a few things.”
I thought of the pic of Rodrigo with the girls. “Yes. That could work.”
Chapter Eight
Jorge Newbery Airport
They were waiting for us when we rode the tiny bus out to the plane.
It was a good thing I went in first. I saw the two-man crew had guns and attacked. Their reactions were too slow. Peripheral vision told me they’d been drinking as I bounded over seats and tackled one who died quickly. I used his body as a shield, still feeling the impact of bullets, and then his gun, eliminating the other crewmember.
“Mierda! That was amazing,” said Juan Carlos. He’d been peeking into the cabin from the jet way.
“I’m dripping. Help me plug the leak!”
“I don’t see—oh.”
I had my blouse up. A bit of green lubricant was dripping from where a bullet had passed through my left-side exoskeleton.
“There must be a first-aid kit in the galley. Find a band-aid. You can just wrap it around the tube. My sensors and auto-diagnostic software tell me it’s mostly intact.”
After Juan Carlos played TV doctor with my inner plumbing, we frisked the corpses.
“These aren’t our people,” he concluded.
“No kidding. But where are the real crewmembers?”
“Probably dead. Doesn’t matter. I’ll fly the damn plane. I’ll need a copilot.”
“I’ve only flown old prop planes and made water landings.”
“That’s good enough. Let’s wave the port goodbye.”
As we taxied down the runway, I was wondering how our enemies had found out about our flight. Did that mean our mission was doomed before it even started?
***
“You’re from Colombia, you say?” said the club’s manager.
“Manizales. A lot of Colombians are fair-skinned. Paisa ancestors emigrated from Spain to the country when the Spanish king kicked out all the Jews. My ancestors had already converted to Catholicism, but they still wanted to put that hijo de puta king behind them.”
“Too much information, Rosita.”
My name in Asuncion would be Rosa Barrera. He’d used the diminutive, which meant he might already be looking me over as a future conquest. Let him try!
“Let’s see you dance, querida.”
He used his cellphone and played “Galop Infernal” from Offenbach, the quintessential can-can music. I’d been a fast learner at the pension where Juan Carlos and I were staying. I sensed the beat and then started my routine.
When the music stopped, I stood in front of him, not even breathing hard. “How’s that? I can adapt to the group’s routine, of course. I just improvised.”
“You did fine. You’re hired. When Lulu comes in, tell her I hired you. Right now, let’s get Draco to give us some refreshment. Follow me.”
I’d jumped to conclusions about the manager. He was a nice, mature man of German descent in his fifties. Turned out he had a new young wife and three kids from a previous marriage. He didn’t make any passes.
He asked questions about Colombia. I spouted stuff I’d learned, and he seemed satisfied. Rosa Barrera had graduated from the Universidad de Antioquia in 2023 with a major in theater arts and a minor in music. Because Colombians were also citizens of Paraguay—in some long forgotten war, they’d been the only ones who supported the Paraguayan people—she’d migrated to Asuncion to look for work. She’d found none in Medellin.
Lulu was nice enough too, but she gave me a warning.
“The boss likes to use us in an ornamental fashion sometimes, if you know what I mean.”
“Do you mean the old man? He’s like a teddy bear.”
“No, Rodrigo, the owner. Are you on birth control?” I nodded. “Good. He sometimes wants to fool around too, the bastard. If you know what I mean.”
“I couldn’t just cut his balls off?”
She laughed. “You could try, but you might want to increase your life insurance before doing so.”
I didn’t have any life insurance. Too complicated. They kept personal data on those insured.
Chapter Nine
Asuncion
“Who’s the new chiquita?” said Rodrigo.
The club manager was watching the high kicks. That Rosa’s a find!
“Rosa Barrera. Colombiana. From Manizales originally. She fits right in.”
“Too bad we can’t clone her. Do you think the two we lost became lesbian lovers and eloped?”
The manager shrugged. “Anything’s possible these days, sir.”
“I hate that shit. It’s against God’s will. Homos, Jews, left-wingers—they’re all alike. Scourge of the Earth, they are. Immoral bastards. We have to eliminate them.”
“Yes, sir.” The manager was used to Rodrigo’s rants.
“I want to get to know this Rosita,” said Rodrigo. “If you know what I mean.”
“After the routine, I’ll have her come to the table.”
Rodrigo seemed to sulk the more he waited. He’s such a pig, thought the manager. I’d never trust my daughters with him. And a hypocrite! He pretended to be a godly man but treated women in ungodly ways.
The manager needed his job, so he never said anything. But his ear had caught nuances in the new girl’s Spanish that worried him. Maybe it was just that Paisa accent from Medellin—he’d heard it often enough when Pablo’s cartel had dominated the city—but there seemed to be something else.
He nursed his cuba libre and matched Rodrigo’s mood as they waited in the shadows at the back of the club, out of sight from everyone else. He hated the spot, but Rodrigo insisted on it. He was a man who lived in the shadows.
***
Rodrigo had already heard that Juan Carlos’s plane had safely landed at the airport. His men had failed again. But a spy, a Jorge Newbery baggage handler, had informed him Juan Carlos had shoved out his men’s bodies and taken off before authorities knew what was happening. They later found the crewmembers in a men’s room.
You can count on the Junta being sloppy, he thought. That’s why we need someone strong to bring order and peace to the world.
He had come too far to give up on his dream of a united Earth under his rule. Samuelson and leaders like him were too weak. He was strong. Once he had Juan Carlos out of the way, he would move on that man Karl’s little group of leftists and obliterate them completely. After that, it was only a matter of time.
He’d find someone to do the PR and marketing so people would love the peace he brought to the world. That was all easier now. Goebbels would have loved all the modern media opportunities to brainwash gullible people and cause them to hate others. Most people were stupid and filled with prejudices. It was his duty to mold them and bend them to his will to establish peace on Earth. He would be Plato’s philosopher king doing God’s work.
Long ago, Juan Carlos Benavides had become a business competitor. Rodrigo blamed him back then for Rodrigo’s loss of several lucrative business deals. He hated the man for that, but he also hated him for his good reputation.
I have no reputation because I live in the shadows. Some day that will change!
***
Comments are always welcome.
Last man alive? What about last woman alive? Penny Castro, LA County Sheriff’s Deputy and forensic diver, finds she isn’t alone after the apocalypse, though—there are a few others who survived the contagion and now want to kill her. And the remnants of a US government could be the greatest danger for her and the family she’s adopted. The post-apocalyptic thriller The Last Humans has just been released by Black Opal Books in both ebook and print versions and is available at the publisher’s website, online retailers like Amazon and Smashwords and the latter’s affiliated retailers (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc), and bookstores (if they don’t have it, ask for it!).
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The Last Humans does not dwell on the details of the cause of an apocalyptic event, but instead builds some wonderfully deep characters. A strong female lead deals with the aftermath of a biological catastrophe.
I really enjoyed this story and found it difficult to put down. Admittedly, the heroine was extremely lucky, but that did not distract from the tale.
I highly recommend this book for those who enjoy post-apocalyptic and /or action novels.”—Debra Miller, in her Amazon review.
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
