new recognition codes and passwords. They would never meet Beltran or know of his participation or even existence; all they knew was that they'd been assigned by Monatero to another Havana agent, a phantom figure whose identity was top secret and must not be revealed, even to them.
Their dealings with their new temporary commander would be conducted via the cell phones. They'd carried out similar missions in the past; this was nothing new to them. They knew how to follow orders.
But Monatero was appalled by the mission.
Getting into a rumble with Venezuela's Paz was regrettable but acceptable. These things happened. Monatero knew that Paz and Beltran were partners in some dirty business: drug dealing, weapons and people smuggling, murder. All for the cause of the revolution. A regrettable necessity and hazard of the profession.
Raoul Garros, however, was a whole different order of being. He was a public figure, prominently featured on society pages and the lighter side of local television news shows. He was glamorous, dashing, rich, and handsome; a playboy. Telegenic. He'd have made good copy even if not for his engagement to Susan Keehan.
But his romance with the Keehan heiress catapulted him to new heights of celebrity. Snatching him would make not only national but international headlines. Worse, Susan Keehan's uncle, the Senator, was not unfriendly to the revolution and the Cuban cause. Why risk alienating him? He and his brother, Wilmont, the girl's father, would make bad enemies.
Well, the question was academic now. The thing had been done. Monatero only hoped it could be handled without becoming public news.
Most worrisome of all, he was unsure if this was a Havana-mandated operation or if Beltran had come up with it on his own. Not only the Supremo cell but Cuba itself had been put into an extraordinary state of risk. Stratospheric, dizzying.
All on the say-so of one man: Beltran.
Yet that was how the system had been set up by Havana, Monatero's supreme masters. It was the home island spy chiefs who'd invested such extraordinary powers in the Generalissimo, their master spy. The setup had been designed for fast action, bypassing the red tape ('red,' indeed) and delay associated with going through clandestine channels to get clearance from Havana.
The flaw, perhaps fatal flaw of that system was now apparent. Ultimately, it all depended on the reliability and accuracy of Beltran's judgment. And — honesty? Depth of revolutionary commitment?
Monatero, used to working in the dark, for once longed to contact his superiors in Havana. But Beltran had specifically forbidden him to take such a course, enjoining him to maintain a blackout on communications with the Cuban high command.
Ordinarily Monatero would have accepted the dictate without question. Now, though, it increased his anxiety, deepening his ever-growing suspicions of the man. He wanted validation, assurance that his chiefs back home were apprised of the situation and approved of it.
He was seriously considering disobeying orders and contacting Havana.
Yet it was his business and duty to maintain revolutionary discipline and follow orders without question. His unease was worsened by being pinned down here at the command post, waiting for Beltran's next communique. Whenever that came. If ever.
Beltran, the much-vaunted Generalissimo, had made three serious if not potentially fatal mistakes. At least that was how Colonel Paz saw it.
The first, and least potentially disastrous slipup, was the use of Beatriz Ortiz as part of the assault on Paz.
For Paz knew her. Beatriz had recently operated for a time in Venezuela, in the hinterlands of the Orinoco rain forest, participating in a terror campaign against the wealthy, hidebound owners of the
The land barons would never reconcile with the new Chavez regime; they were the most ultra of the ultraconservative counterrevolutionary faction.
So it was better, according to Caracas's lights, that they be done away with, liquidated, and the survivors frightened away from their holdings and into exile.
This would be accomplished by the use of radical militias and death squads, operating in-country, living off the land, and covertly supplied with food and arms by the government. The great estates could then be broken up and redistributed to the peasants, further ensuring their gratitude and dependency on President Chavez's program of twenty-first-century socialism.
It was the kind of operation that was tailor-made for the likes of Beatriz Ortiz, who specialized in revolutionary activities in agrarian and rural regions, as she had done so notably in Colombia with the FARC militia.
Paz was a confirmed urban dweller by birth and inclination; his bailiwick was the cities of Venezuela. But as a top hand in President Chavez's secret police, there was little that he didn't know about the regime's clandestine activities in town and country.
He had met Beatriz Ortiz once or twice in passing in the capital at strategy sessions for solidifying the grip of the revolution in Venezuela and exporting it to neighboring countries.
When the attack at the Golden Pole went down and he'd spotted her taking potshots at him, he'd instantly recognized her.
Beltran's second mistake, according to the Colonel's reasoning, was in underestimating Martello Paz.
This high-and-mighty Cuban revolutionary, Fidel Castro's favorite spymaster, had disdained the Venezuelan as a johnny-come-lately to the world socialist cause, a mere secret policeman, thug, and enforcer. A useful idiot.
He had forgotten, or never taken notice of, the fact that Paz himself had run a vast and efficient spy system, one using a legion of informers, double agents, and operatives from all levels of society, from shoeshine boys in the slums to elegant hostesses in the most exclusive salons.
Paz made it his business to know about those he did business with. Beltran was no exception. Paz was a survivalist by nature and needed no encouragement to open a file on the Generalissimo and gather every fact he could about him and his New Orleans operation.
He'd unearthed vital facts about Beltran's shadow organization, including the man's own tight-knit personal cadre, as well as his association with the Supremo spy cell, which he called upon from time to time for various services as required.
Paz's spies had spotted Beatriz Ortiz coming from several meetings with Beltran; she was part of a small clique of freelance operatives that he kept insulated and independent of his Supremo cell connections.
Beltran's third, and most serious mistake, was botching the hit on Paz and leaving him alive.
In a sense, this could be regarded as an extension of his second mistake; namely, underestimating Paz.
A fatal oversight, if Paz had anything to do with it.
Beltran wasn't the only one with an organization here in New Orleans. Paz ran a formidable machine himself.
The Venezuelan Consulate and LAGO offices, with their vital shield of diplomatic immunity, both served as platforms for his spy operations. Yet even they had to be insulated from the down-and-dirty mechanics of violence and murder so necessary to maintain discipline and instill the respect that comes from fear.
Those chores were handled by an independent enforcement arm, overseen by Paz himself.
Running a death squad was old hat to him. He'd specialized in violence since boyhood days, first as an up- and-coming street gang tough, later as a police officer.
Many were the ace murder teams he'd put together and honed to perfection.
When first posted to the New Orleans consulate, he'd selected a group of his top killers from Venezuela to accompany him on his new assignment.
He played a rough game. The game was always rough when high-volume narcotics dealing was involved, and Paz was in the trade up to his eyebrows — professionally and personally.
Why, it was his patriotic chore. No government, not even an oil-rich state like Venezuela, could afford to
