Steve’s shorts: Fascist Tango, Part Two…
Fascist Tango
Copyright 2019, Steven M. Moore
Chapter Four
At a Buenos Aires Hotel
Juan Carlos watched Jasmine enter the hotel. He then paid the driver and followed her inside.
“I’d like to leave a message for Jasmine Locke who is also staying here,” he told the desk clerk, who then handed him a message pad.
He wrote: “Make it nine-twenty. r/Juan Carlos.”
He watched the clerk stick it into a cubbyhole. He now knew where Jasmine’s room was—number 312.
He went up to his own room on the fifth floor and checked his James Bond-style alarm. He’d read some of those old novels. One of his few surviving hairs plucked and stuck in the door jam and a camera inset in the peephole, low and high tech—no danger. He entered with confidence until he spotted the note that someone had shoved under the door. It read: “Thanks for the tango. r/Jasmine.”
I’ll be damned, he thought. How’d she know I was here? He changed hotels every time he journeyed to the port city from his hideaway in Salta. He decided she or the group had just waited for one of those trips to make it easy for them. But that also meant they probably didn’t know where he lived in Salta, which was a good thing.
He took off the fancy shirt with ruffles he used when milonga-hopping and his undershirt and looked at the old scars. They itched for some reason. Especially around the prosthetic. Is that a premonition of things to come?
He wondered how much of Jasmine was real woman. When they were dancing, all of her seemed real. The group’s techies must have improved both hardware and software if she was only part human. And she’d lied. She could dance. What is her story? He figured something in her past had brought her into the group.
He didn’t have many hours to sleep, and he didn’t sleep well. At breakfast Jasmine Locke looked a lot better than he did when he slid into the booth opposite her, although, with light makeup and lipstick, she’d looked better the night before.
“Coffee’s good,” she said.
“Questionable. Brazil’s next door. I’m partial to Colombian, for obvious reasons. What did you order?”
“The tropical fresh fruit plate. Brazil’s next door.”
He studied the menu. “Southwest scramble with a side of bacon for me. I assume they mean US Southwest. Why not just call it Mexican?”
“There are significant variations—Tex-Mex, Californian, New Mexican, Tijuana, Monterrey.”
“So you’re an expert on gringolandia without living there? Are you going to be contradicting me all day?”
“Just providing information.”
“The information I require is about what I might be getting into.”
She thought a moment. “Did you know Karl Wilson?”
“Ha! We called him the dumb Marx brother—Karl, get it? Besides, he was often an old Groucho, not gaucho, if you know your trivia. Great drinking buddy, old Karl. Miss him, just hearing his name.”
“Old Karl is dead.”
Juan Carlos, who had just scooped up a pat of butter for his biscuit, stopped his knife in midair. “Job-related death?”
“Yes, but don’t ask me for details. You’ll soon know them.”
He put the knife and biscuit down. “Mierda! That’s a turn-off. I’m retired, Jasmine. I’m done with this dangerous assassin and spying crap. I survived, and I want to keep it that way.”
“No desire to revenge his death?”
“More scared about having to face a global fascist movement in order to do that. What about you?”
She shrugged. “I have motives beyond revenging his death, but that’s one of them.”
“I never figured you for a death-wish woman.”
She now frowned. “Shut up and eat your breakfast.”
***
The safe house was in the Argentine capital’s suburbs. Juan Carlos drove Jasmine’s rental car.
“This had better be interesting,” he said. “That big breakfast is making me groggy even with that foul but strong coffee.”
“Just drive. I’m—”
Juan Carlos only had time to swerve a bit before the Mercedes-Benz truck T-boned their car and pushed it onto the sidewalk against the wall of a building, pinning it. Blood streaming down his face, he sniffed a bit. No gasoline spill. He drew his gun and waited.
When a man stuck his head through the driver’s side window, Juan Carlos shot him between the eyes, opened the door, and used it as a shield. Jasmine squeezed out beside him, gun in hand.
“Left!” he warned.
She took out two cops, and Juan Carlos put down the man dressed in worker’s clothes—the driver of the truck.
“Let’s get out of here!” she said.
They scarpered to an alleyway as sirens, faint at first, rose above the din of traffic and screams from pedestrians.
I guess I’m involved, thought Juan Carlos, following behind Jasmine. She was like a wild deer leaving the wolves behind, and he kept looking back to see if they were following. I have to watch who I dance a tango with from now on!
Chapter Five
Two Buenos Aires Safe Houses
“That was a cluster-fuck,” said Blair Cranston.
“Would you prefer that we’d let them kill us?” said Juan Carlos.
I glanced at one man and then the other. Juan Carlos was a lot like Karl. Blair Cranston had been a field agent, but I knew that right then he was worried more about exposing our group.
“They knew where we were going, Blair,” I said. “That’s not on us. The group’s local cabal must be under surveillance.”
“Or there’s a mole,” said Juan Carlos. “I think we’re in danger here whoever is right. After your aptly described cluster-fuck, I only agreed to accompany Jasmine because two guns are better than one. You can have your damn Project Orion. It’s looking too much like the old one.”
Blair nodded. “I’ve given the order to evacuate. We have other places. The Argentine junta is better than we thought. All the more reason they have to be stopped.”
“They probably have more trucks than you do,” said Juan Carlos. He turned to me. “Are we good? If so, I’m out of here.”
“Go with us,” I said. “The three of us have a lot to discuss.”
“No we don’t. The group is playing a deadly game it can’t win. Never could. I already cashed in my chips. You can keep playing if you want, but the fascists always win. They have more personnel, and they’re smarter. Safe house, my ass. They were probably just going to torture either Jasmine or me to find out more about the group.”
“It’s possible they knew about you two but don’t know where the safe house is,” said Blair.
“But then they’d find out by torturing us,” said Jasmine. “We’re wasting time. I find Juan Carlos’s intentions admirable, but I came here to warn you. Let’s resume this discussion at the next safe house.” I looked at Juan Carlos. “Please.”
I saw him glance at Blair, but he turned to me with a smile. “Just for you, Jasmine. Guess I’m still curious.” He rubbed his left ribs. “You drive this time, though.”
“You’ll both be in the back seat. Jose will drive, and I’ll be in the passenger’s seat.”
***
The next safe house was farther away from the city, almost to Mar de Plata.
“La distancia no hace mas seguridad,” said Juan Carlos, taking a seat at the multiuse kitchen table. Guards were watching at the windows.
I had to agree with Juan Carlos. The distance from the city didn’t make us more secure. I felt better with guards watching at the windows, though, both in the front and back of the safe house.
Blair took a seat beside me. “Let’s forget Project Orion’s generalities for the moment. We need to find this Rodrigo Jimenez, Juan Carlos. Any ideas?”
“I’ve heard of him up Asuncion way. Someone has to infiltrate the Asuncion cadre and learn more about him. Knowing he’s an import-export tycoon doesn’t help us at all, except he’s my competitor, in a sense. I want to know how he contributed to Karl’s death and what his plans are before we kill him.”
“I thought you didn’t want revenge,” I said.
“Men can be capricious too, dulcecita,” said Juan Carlos. “That someone can’t be me, by the way. I’m too well known in the Southern Cone, especially Asuncion where I have a few business interests.”
“That would have to be me,” I said. “I know the language.”
“You’ll have to dye your hair and darken your skin a bit. You Nordic types can’t pass as a local.”
“Maybe my grandparents were Nazis who fled to Argentina,” I said with a smile. But I took off my wig, revealing my bald pate. “No room for hair roots in the syntho skin.” I chose another subroutine for my skin color, making it a light brown. Another subroutine slanted my eyes slightly and added more cheekbone, adding a bit of indigenous look. “Work for you?”
“Hell yes. The perfect spy.”
“I prefer to call myself an agent or assassin, depending on the op.”
“You’ll be both,” said Blair. “Let’s hash out some details.”
Chapter Six
Asuncion
“We’re organizing a worldwide effort against this group,” Rodrigo Jimenez told Jerry Lawton. “I knew the FSA would want to join that effort when I received your inquiry about our group. Let me fill you in about what we learned in Budapest.”
After Jimenez finished his briefing, Lawton leaned back in his chair and studied Jimenez. How can Samuelson and Jimenez be so much alike? Both men were narcissistic and needed to have their egos stroked. Both men used violence to further their agendas. And both were so stupid that they depended on others to maintain them in power.
No, not stupid; oblivious. Jerry had suggested contact with Jimenez’s organization, and Samuelson had trumpeted the idea as if he’d come up with it. If Jerry wasn’t so comfortable in his position where he had Samuelson’s ear, he’d oust the bastard.
“That’s quite a story, but I like your organization more than the story,” Jerry said. “Makes those World War Two Axis powers seem like something organized by kindergartners. Congratulations. That was a clever idea. But what are we going to do about this Karl’s organization. Seems like they’re organized too.”
“It’s a secret war,” said Rodrigo, “and we have to launch more attacks. Our friends in Hungary are using Karl’s information to chase down our enemies in that country. Yes, we have to expose them in each country and exterminate the infestation. But my plans go farther.” He paused and waved his right hand at the ceiling. “God wants our planet to be in peace. I want that too. Your boss and others like him stand in the way of that. Help me, Jerry, and I will make it worth your while.”
“In what way can I help? You seem to have things under control.”
“Do you know what the masses call me?”
“I have no clue. I only just met you.”
“El Vengador. The Avenger. I live in the shadows, but that’s what they call me. I’m an avenging angel doing God’s work. My plan is to eliminate all the vermin, wipe them off the face of the planet.”
I’ve heard that line before. Even old kings used God to justify their atrocities. As Goebbels said, say something often enough and people will believe it. He couldn’t make them believe Hitler was a god, but he sure made them believe in the Third Reich and their Final Solution. Is Rodrigo planning a worldwide pogrom of anyone who stands in his way?
Those thoughts sent chills up Jerry’s spine.
***
After Jerry Lawton assured Rodrigo Jimenez that the FSA would help the South American tyrant all they could, short of conquest of other allies, Rodrigo felt he’d made progress. The last man he had told his plans to had laughed in his face. That man was now dead. As his plans proceeded, they would all come around or suffer the same fate.
There was a knock on the door.
“Siga!”
The corpulent fellow who entered showed the usual deference to the great man, bowing his head slightly. “I have news, great leader.”
“Spit it out! I don’t have time to waste.” Actually he did, but Rodrigo loved saying that, and he also loved to berate his underlings.
“Our attacks in Buenos Aires failed. Juan Carlos still lives.”
Incompetents. My agents are incompetent. “Give me details.”
There weren’t many: Some eyewitness accounts and other information learned from police reports. Everyone attributed the attack to the Argentine junta. That he’d planned, not failure.
“Just why is this Juan Carlos a target?” said his aide. “Reports from around here say he’s just an old businessman with his hands in a lot of pies.”
“Juan Carlos and I go way back. He knew me by another name back then. I’m just in clean-up mode. We need to get rid of past enemies as well as go after present ones. Who was the person with him?”
“No one is sure. Whoever it was moved very fast and was an expert shot.”
Had Juan Carlos teamed up with the group Jerry and he had just finished discussing? Did his old enemy know El Vengador’s true identity?
“OK, you failed. We failed. Tell our agents to follow Juan Carlos as much as possible. Let’s not fail again.”
***
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 available at the publisher’s website, online retailers like Amazon and Smashwords and the latter’s affiliated retailers (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, Walmart, etc), and your local bookstore (if they don’t have it, ask for it!).
Here’s what one reviewer says…
“The Last Humans is a thrilling ride into a dystopian world. Written in first person narrative, the heart and soul of the heroine emerges. Every thought, emotion, and action is seen from her perspective. She is courageous but not necessarily brave. She faces her fears and often vomits in the aftermath. Her femininity at times gets the better of her, but her humanity always prevails. The cast of characters and the tragic events surrounding her cause her character to grow beyond expectation. This concept is mandatory for survival in an apocalyptic world, keeping to the adage ‘that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’” —Cheryl E. Rodriguez, Readers’ Favorite reviewer
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
