CLOAK & CORKSCREW: 2) THE RENDEZVOUS

My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel

4.

Jose Hernandez, a Cuban intelligence officer stationed in Washington, D.C., read the three-page fax a second time, stamped his cigarette butt into an ashtray and whistled softly.

On one hand, he felt honored to handle so discreet a matter involving his president, Venezuela’s top banana, personally.

On the other hand, as a seasoned intelligence professional, Hernandez perceived this as potentially harmful to a very cushiony job full of perks in a quite marvelous world capital.  Exposure could get him transferred to Angola—or someplace even less nice.

Extra-special precautions were necessary. So, after considering the matter through another cigarette, Hernandez zipped out for a hyper-elaborate round of dry-cleaning i.e., covering his tracks in the event that FBI counterintelligence officers were monitoring movements, as he always presumed they were.

Leaving his cell phone in the drawer of his desk (knowing the movements of his SIM card were easily tracked), he climbed into an embassy sedan and drove Van Ness west into residential neighborhoods, shot north up Wisconsin Avenue to Chevy Chase, turned left at Western Avenue, right on River Road, two quick lefts and right into Westbard Center.

As he walked toward Starbucks he watched the reflection of plate glass for surveillants, on foot or mobile.  He ordered an espresso, sat at a window table, to see and be seen, drank it and returned to his car for a drive to CVS pharmacy in nearby Spring Valley.  There he bought a Mars bar.

Now reasonably certain he did not have a tail, Hernandez weaved through several residential streets, back onto Western Avenue, and into the underground parking lot of Mazza Gallery.    

He ascended by elevator to the ground floor, wandered around Neiman Marcus for several minutes before exiting to cross Wisconsin Avenue and slip into a shopping complex called The Pavilion that housed a T-Mobile shop.

Inside, he purchased a pay-as-you-go cell phone for cash, quickly returned to his car and drove directly back to the Venezuelan Embassy a few blocks south.

Sitting at his desk, Hernandez lit another cigarette and read the fax from Caracas a third time.  Then he touch-keyed the new telephone number he had been instructed to call.  He listened as it rang into a generic message taker.

“This is Jose,” he said.  “I call you on behalf of President Hugo Chavez.  Please return my call.”  Hernandez recited his new cell number, disconnected and leaned back in his swivel chair.

To the intelligence officer’s surprise, not 20 minutes later his cheap T-Mobile whistled a melody.

Hernandez drew a breath and answered.

His mission for a first conversation was simple:  Nail down a rendezvous.  Nothing more.  He did so, two days hence, all the way across the continent in Los Angeles.

5.

Standing high above Sunset Boulevard at the picture window of his contemporary house in the Hollywood Hills, Josh Penner studied LA’s iconic skyscrapers before deciding whether to wear a cashmere sweater or a lambskin leather jacket.  He opted for the latter, jumped into his red Ferrari, one of three cars he housed in the garage, and zipped down the hill to Sunset.

Penner was a true creature of Hollywood, born within a mile of Hollywood and Vine.  He’d graduated from Fairfax High, matriculated through Santa Monica City College on a diet of drugs and alcohol—and became such a good liar that acting grew to be his ideal profession.

He started off in a television soap opera, eased into prime time and catapulted to fame as an Oscar-nominated Best Supporting Actor in an intense drama about family conflict.

At a red light, two pretty young things honked and waved, and Penner smirked. When the light flashed green, he shot away, launched, leaving them to breathe his exhaust fumes.  As he drove, his mind wondered how to play the role once he reached his destination.  Am I Mister Nice Guy or Mister Tough Guy today?  Sometimes he would simply flip a coin.

When Sunset came to an end at the Pacific Ocean, Penner swerved his Ferrari right and drove north on Pacific Coast Highway, allowing ocean breeze to massage his wavy brown hair while sunshine enhanced his deep tan and Citizen Cope blared from the quadraphonic CD player.

After he passed Point Mugu and the route shot inland, Penner’s mood soured.  Why the hell Oxnard?  What the hell was wrong with meeting in Malibu?

6.

Charles Mulberry checked his wristwatch for the sixth time, and shook his head, convinced his asset would not show up, again.  In his mind, this CIA officer imagined he would be blamed.  Had he not properly communicated the rendezvous point?  Had there been a miscommunication about the time?  They had a code, of course, when discussing logistics.  And his asset had already complained once that it was Mulberry who had messed up the code, not he.

So what else to do but wait?  He’d give it another hour. 

Meantime, Josh Penner drove into the somewhat downtrodden city of Oxnard and allowed his GPS navigation system to guide him to the Vagabond Inn.   He drove past it slowly—and immediately became worried that his glitzy wheels stuck out like a nun in a brothel.  So he did not abide by protocol and park two blocks away, but instead pulled into the forecourt of the cheap motel and parked directly outside Room 8.

He climbed out, stretched his arms and looked around before marching up to the door and tapping it twice, waiting a beat, and tapping it twice more.

It opened a crack, exposing Charles Mulberry, who was mortified on seeing the fancy red sports car behind Penner.  Waterboarding.  He opened the door just wide enough for Penner to enter and closed it quickly behind him.

“Can you open those blinds?”  Penner pointed to the window, which Mulberry had shuttered after checking in.  “I have to keep an eye on Eileen.”

“Who?”  Had this moron brought someone with him?

“My wheels.  This place is a dump.  This whole town is a dump.  How do you find these places?”

Mulberry had already explained, on two previous occasions, the need for using offbeat places for their meetings; that part of a case officer’s job was to identify such places, and to ensure that operational security was fully deployed during secret meetings between case officer and asset.  And also concluded that Penner suffered from short-term memory loss, probably from smoking too much weed over 30 years, from the age of 15. Waterboarding.

“Josh, you’re not supposed to park your car anywhere near here.”

“You nuts?  I’ve never seen so many addicts on one street.  And I know how junkies think.  Why here?”

“We’ve been through this before.”

Penner shook his head theatrically, playing himself, and wondering if he’d be young enough to play himself if they ever made a movie out of this, when this was over one day.  But right now, having to endure Oxnard, it seemed to be more trouble than it was worth.  He walked to the window and peered through a blind.

“Maybe it would be better, in future, if you drove a lower-profile car to our meetings,” suggested Mulberry.

“I don’t have any low-profile cars,” snapped Penner before lighting a cigarette.  “And I ain’t taking the bus.”

Mulberry bit his lip, nodding.  “I understand.  Shall we begin?”  He sat upon the sole desk chair.

Penner looked around, disgusted by the room’s drab tackiness.  “Where the hell am I supposed to sit?”

Mulberry rose.  “Here.  I’ll take the bed.”

Penner shot him a suspicious look.

“Okay,” said Mulberry, “pen poised over pad of paper. “Take me through it.”

Penner glared at Mulberry, who stared right back into the movie star’s eyes until Penner turned away, took another long drag from his cigarette and blew a series of smoke rings at the ceiling.  “What specifically do you want to know?”  Just then, Penner thought he heard something outside, flicked a blind, peeked out, and did not like what he saw. “Sonofabitch!”  He grabbed the doorknob, flung the door open and hollered at three teenagers who stood a few yards from his Ferrari, gawking at it.  “Stay the fuck away from my car!”   

Mulberry started to feel very anxious, and he began to feel his teeth with his fingers and count them, one by one, first lower, then upper and, when he thought he missed one, was compelled to start over, one of his OCD rituals.

“Hey,” said one of teens.  “Aren’t you…?”

“Yeah, I’m riled—and I’ll kick your butt if you lay one finger on Eileen.”

Yup, definitely Mister Tough Guy today.

Penner continued to watch as the teens backed away, muttering, but cowed.  Then he slammed the door and reverted to Mulberry, who got up and locked himself in the bathroom to complete his tooth count.