"What are you giving them in return?" said Petrovich.
"Capabilities. Resources. All untraceable back to them."
"I'd love to know how you pulled that off in less than thirty seconds."
"Remember when I said there was no such thing as a coincidence?"
Daniel shrugged his shoulders to indicate he really didn't care what Sanderson planned to say next.
"Every once in a great while…I'm proven wrong."
"Any chance of drink service for the legendary Daniel Petrovich? Maybe one of the newbies?"
"I'll have Colonel Farrington get right on it. Welcome back, Daniel."
"Apparently, I never left," Daniel muttered as the screen door slammed shut.
EPILOGUE
One Month Later
Dario and Natalia Russo relaxed in comfortable chairs on the rooftop bar of the Santa Isabel Hotel in Old Havana, which overlooked the tree lined Plaza de Armas. A small marble topped wrought iron table sat between them, holding two recently emptied martini glasses. The napkins placed under each sweating glass were soaked to the table with condensation. A warm sea breeze passed lazily through the uncovered bar, compliments of the nearby Gulf of Mexico, providing a small respite from the heat and oppressive humidity. Still not accustomed to the warmer climate, Dario glistened from persistent beads of sweat. Natalia looked unaffected by the heat, but welcomed the breeze.
The couple had arrived at the hotel thirty minutes earlier, drawing envious stares all the way to the small table at the balcony's edge. They were the kind of couple that you would expect to find adorning the sun deck of a private luxury yacht docked in Cannes, France. Dario's tanned skin contrasted against a crisp white short-sleeved shirt, tucked loosely into dark tailored pants. On his left wrist, an expensive watch shined in the fading sun, when he ran his hand through his jet black hair. Natalia sparkled from two silver cuff bracelets and a thick silver jeweled aquamarine necklace. The straps of her black dress hung loosely over the exotic dark skin of her well-toned shoulders. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, accentuating her strong, angular face, and her eyes were dark brown to match her Argentinian passport.
The Russos were native Argentinians, descended from Italian and Irish immigrants which, on the surface, didn't attract any attention. Nearly seventy percent of Argentina's population shared some degree of European descent, mostly Italian. The fact that neither of them spoke fluent Spanish or Italian was something they needed to correct, and they'd have plenty of time to work with Sanderson's linguistic experts once they were in place at the new training compound.
Dario, or Daniel, squinted as the sun slipped below the top of the two-story stone walls of the Palacio de los Capitanes Generales on the far side of the Plaza, casting a shadow across the rooftop terrace. The temperature dropped a few degrees, and a golden amber light poured through the Plaza over the mix of vendors and tourists straddling the sides of the cobblestone streets.
A waiter dressed in an impeccable white suit placed a single martini with two olives on the table between the two of them, removing the empty glasses. Daniel detected a hint of olive juice shaken into the clear, chilled vodka, by the slightly darkened blur swirling through the drink. He glanced up at their waiter, expecting to see another dirty vodka martini descend from his tray.
"Piropos de Companero en la mesa de la esquina," the waiter said, gesturing with his hand in the direction of the terrace's far side.
Dario and Natalia both glanced at the lone gentleman sitting at the far corner table. He was dressed in khaki pants and a white oxford shirt, wearing a light brown baseball cap. His shirt reflected the burnt orange color of the sun, which poured around the Palacio and still bathed the corner of the rooftop. The man nodded to them, and removed his sunglasses. The man's face didn't register with Daniel, but when he glanced at Jessica, he saw an emotional response.
"Oh my God," she muttered under her breath.
"Sabes lo?" said Daniel, emphasizing their need to speak Spanish in order to avoid unnecessary suspicion.
"Si. Un viejo amigo. Dame unos minutos," she said, and whispered, "and watch the door."
"Bien. Un otro martini por favor," Daniel said, flowing the Spanish together like a native.
Jessica picked up a black purse and her drink from the table. She kissed Daniel on the forehead before she walked over to meet the mystery guest. The man looked like he was in his early fifties, trim, and handsome. Daniel wondered if this man had been one of her professors at Boston, or possibly Loyola. Her warning to watch the doors suggested he was a ghost from a more recent past, which left him uncomfortable.
He didn't expect any trouble in Cuba, but underestimating situations wasn't a luxury he could afford, or a habit he wanted to start. He analyzed every object and angle within his view, running multiple scenarios through his head like a computer, still keeping an eye on Jessica. The man didn't get up to greet her; instead, he motioned for her to join him at the table. She placed both the purse and the drink on the table in front of him, which told Daniel everything he needed to know about the situation.
The purse contained the only knife they carried, and she would never have placed it within the man's reach if she didn't trust him. He felt a little better about the situation, but didn't relax. After a long ten minutes for Daniel, Jessica and the man stood up from the table. Poised for action, and wishing they had ordered an appetizer that would have placed a knife on the table, Daniel watched as they hugged. The interaction looked cordial, and the man patted her on the back right before they separated. He watched Jessica walk back to the table, along with every other man on the crowded terrace.
Daniel still wasn't accustomed to the strong machismo attitude found in South and Central America, which apparently allowed men to gawk at women, in front of other women. Jessica certainly didn't help matters with her choice of expensive outfits, or the confident energy she exuded simply walking from one table to another. A subtle change had washed over her as they settled into their new lives. She was bolder. Happier. More in her element.
He couldn't help but think that maybe General Sanderson had been right about her. There was still so much that she wouldn't discuss about her time in Serbia, before they had rediscovered each other during a chance encounter in a Belgrade nightclub. Daniel avoided the club scene with regularity, preferring to spend time in the field staring through his sniper scope. On that fateful night, he had relented under pressure from his boss, Radovan Grahovac, agreeing to join him in a few shots of rakija to "ease the memories." As soon as he saw her in the cramped, smelly club, everything finally made sense to Daniel. CIA.
She had disappeared from his life after a casual pizza dinner near Wrigley Field, three days after college graduation. Stoically fighting back tears, she announced that they would not be able to see each other anymore. Daniel had barely noticed the uncomfortable waitress push the check between two empty pilsner glasses, and scoot clear of the scene. He remained stunned and speechless as she kissed him lightly on the cheek, and told him that she loved him…but they could never be together.
He didn't follow her, or try to figure it out that night. He had ordered another beer and sat at the bar, wondering exactly what had gone wrong that day. He was accustomed to her wild mood swings, usually connected to something related to her parents, but this felt different. When he called early the next morning, her roommate told him that she had abruptly walked out of the apartment with her bags to a waiting taxi. She had left no forwarding address, and never said goodbye. She just simply vanished.