"I didn't expect to hear from you so soon." Apparently, Ms. Marple was all cheek, all the time.
"I didn't expect it would be you answering the phone." Teddy's forced chuckle betrayed a slight nervousness.
"What can I do for you?" Ms. Marple was all business.
"Cuba. I need entry visas for Cuba and permission to dive off the western end of the island." Teddy blurted. He had spent all night coming up with the perfect speech and now that was out the window. It couldn't hurt to ask for it all and see what they gave you.
"Have funding, will travel, I guess—the Lost City?" Ms. Marple made it her business to protect her employer's interests—that meant having more information than almost everybody.
"Yes. How did you know?" Teddy was on the back foot.
"I'll arrange professional research visas and look into what dive permissions may be needed—how many?" Ms. Marple didn't bat an eye and she didn't answer the question.
"Four—but two of them are fourteen and sixteen." This might be the whole ball of wax, Teddy thought, he wasn't going without at least the older two.
"I'll take care of it. Anything else?" Efficiency was Ms. Marple's hallmark.
"What made you choose me?" A question that had been on his heart came unbidden to his lips.
Silence rang over the line. Teddy thought she might not have heard him.
"One line in your grant application jumped out at me. I've been reciting it in front of so many committees and boards that I have it memorized: I believe these megalithic sites contain ample evidence of promising ancient technologies, different and even more advanced then our own, and most likely of otherworldly origin."
"And what do you do? What is your role in the organization?" Teddy pressed through the open door and quickly changed the subject. He recognized that line from his grant application—he had intended it to be purposefully ambiguous in order to draw interest—he didn't think any of the grant reviewers would be interested in his real thesis.
"Think of me as a Project Manager. You are one of my projects, Teddy Fairchild. A very special project." Ms. Marple was pleased with herself. "I can assure you that I have direct access to the Brothers, if I need it. Will there be anything else?" It was clear from the tone of her voice that there would not be anything else.
"No. Thank you. Thank you very much!" Teddy hung up, tucking away a few little factoids: they hadn't said no yet, Ms. Marple was running several "projects" and, apparently, his employers shared the same mother and father.
***
Chief Norberto Ruiz Cortes Castro looked at the cable on his desk again. As head of the National Revolutionary Police force in the tiny beach town of Cabo San Antonio at the westernmost tip of Cuba, Norberto indirectly reported to the DGI, Direccion General De Inteligencia, Cuba's secret intelligence agency.
Which mostly meant that he often had to set up beach houses and dive trips for Raul Castro's buddies and fill both with local prostitutes, high-quality drugs and, of course, cigars. It occasionally meant he received cables from the Secret Police that he did not understand.
It was when he received one of these cables that he regretted his position. The job was simple: the government paid him absolutely nothing for his services, but neither did they require him to do any work. He was provided a uniform, a gun and the carte blanch right to extortion and bribery within his given territory. All he had to do was make certain nobody got out of hand and that he sent a negotiated percentage of his take up the chain to the regional head of police.
Every once in awhile, a troublemaker would show up in town followed by one of these cables. He would put a bag over the person's head and deliver him or her to regional police headquarters, where he was sure they received the full due process protection provided by the Cuban constitution.
He had his grandmother to thank for the cushy job—apparently she had amazing green eyes that caught the attention of someone in the Castro line. Norberto was always careful to introduce himself using his full name, instead of dropping one surname as was common. Alas, with power came responsibility.
"Jose Luis!" Norberto screamed at the top of his lungs while watching his subordinate's back flinch.
"Yes, Capitan!" Jose Luis nearly tripped over his own feet as he turned and stumbled into Norberto's office, which was directly behind the front counter he stood at all day. Jose Luis weighed in at one hundred and ninety nine pounds, which would have been okay on a man of average height, but five foot and almost one inch was all Jose Luis could claim for stature.
Even that was with a few layers of cardboard tucked into the heels of his black Michael Jordan's. He had stolen the sneakers off of a drunken tourist many years previously and he worked to keep the tops in perfect condition—he'd already had them resoled many times. In fact, the only thing that could make the portly police officer fly into a rage was a direct threat to his sneakers.
"Jose Luis, have you seen any new tourists in town?" Norberto liked to assume Jose Luis had been out walking a beat searching out crime, even though he had been listening to the man's labored breathing all morning.
"No, sir!" Jose stroked a greasy combover out of his eyes.
"Keep a sharp eye out! I want to know if you see anything suspicious. This is a matter for the DGI!" Norberto's eyes shot laser beams.
He had never really liked Jose Luis. The man gave him the creeps. In fact, that was the only thing he did like about him—if he gave Norberto the heeby jeebies, he definitely did the same to their clients. That's how Norberto liked to think of his relationships with the local businesses and families. Still, he didn't like how Jose Luis looked at their daughters.
Looking down at his desk, he read the cable again: Three month Professional Research visas granted to the following individuals for residence at Cabo San Antonio. The cable went on to list a bunch of gringo names, three appeared to be in the same family. It was the last line that he found not credible in Cabo San Antonio, but it caused him heartburn anyway:
Possible espionage suspected.