BeachHead: Special Missions – Part Two: Carmen
Part Two — Carmen
The following evening, Beachhead found himself walking through Buenos Aires with no particular destination in mind. That alone felt strange. No rendezvous point. No grid coordinates. No timetable beyond the soccer match the following day.
Eventually, hunger made the decision for him.
He found a cantina a few blocks off one of the busier streets. It was small enough to avoid the tourist crowds but busy enough that a stranger wouldn't draw much attention. Music played beneath the steady hum of conversation and clinking glasses, and the smell coming from the kitchen made a convincing argument for staying.
Beachhead stepped inside and automatically surveyed the room. Two exits. Kitchen access in the rear. A narrow hallway that likely led to restrooms and storage. Nobody appeared particularly interested in him.
Good enough.
Since he was alone, he took an open stool at the bar.
"What can I get you?"
Beachhead looked up. The bartender was perhaps the first thing he'd encountered in Buenos Aires that hadn't been subjected to an immediate threat assessment.
Perhaps.
She had shoulder-length dark hair, deep brown eyes and a smile that drew you in. She was athletic, confident and moved behind the bar with the practiced efficiency of someone who could carry on three conversations while remembering four drink orders.
Beachhead glanced toward the menu. "Food."
She raised an eyebrow. "Excellent choice. Most people come to restaurants for that."
He looked at her. She smiled.
"I'm Carmen."
"Wayne."
"Wayne," she repeated. "American?"
"Yeah."
"What brings you to Buenos Aires, Wayne?"
"Vacation."
She studied him for a moment. "You do not look like a man on vacation."
"What does a man on vacation look like?"
"More relaxed."
"I am relaxed."
"No. You are sitting where you can see both doors."
Beachhead's eyes shifted toward her.
Carmen's smile returned. "And now you're wondering how I noticed."
That got his attention.
She slid a menu toward him. "Relax. Bartenders notice things too."
Beachhead studied her for another second before looking down at the menu. "Fish tacos."
"Good choice." She started to turn away, then stopped. "And what are you drinking?"
"Water."
Carmen looked offended. "Absolutely not."
"I didn't ask for a recommendation."
"You needed one anyway." She reached for a glass. "I'm making you a Buenos Aires Zombie."
"What's in it?"
"If I tell you, you'll say no."
"Then I'm definitely saying no."
"Too late."
She was already making it.
Beachhead watched her work. For a few seconds he considered stopping her. Then another possibility occurred to him.
Maybe she was an intelligence operative.
Friendly bartender. Attractive. Observant. Asking why he was in the country. Offering him a drink he hadn't ordered.
The thought lasted perhaps three seconds before he recognized how ridiculous it was.
Even if someone knew Beachhead was in Argentina, Carmen knew him only as Wayne. His real name wasn't something attached to his operational identity and identifying him visually presented an even bigger problem. Beachhead wore a balaclava on operations. Anyone looking for the G.I. Joe operative known as Beachhead would be looking for a codename and a masked face, not the unshaven American sitting alone at a bar in Buenos Aires.
Still, paranoia had kept him alive more than once.
He watched her hands. No unusual movements. Nothing dropped into the glass. No glance toward anyone else in the room.
Carmen looked up and caught him staring. "Are you watching me make your drink?"
"Yes."
"Making sure I don't poison you?"
Beachhead paused. "Something like that."
She laughed.
Beachhead shook his head slightly at himself. No. She wasn't an enemy agent.
Probably.
Carmen placed the finished drink in front of him with a small flourish. "The Buenos Aires Zombie."
Beachhead inspected it.
"You're still suspicious."
"Occupational habit."
"What occupation?"
Beachhead picked up the glass. "Government."
"That explains absolutely nothing."
"That's usually the idea."
He took a cautious drink. Carmen leaned against the bar, waiting. Beachhead took another.
"Well?"
"It's good."
"That looked painful for you to admit."
"I said it was good."
"You looked angry while saying it."
"That's just my face."
Carmen laughed again, and Beachhead found himself smiling despite his better judgment.
The tacos arrived a few minutes later, and Carmen drifted between customers while continuing their conversation whenever she returned to his end of the bar. After listening to her for a while, Beachhead picked up something in her accent.
"You're not from Buenos Aires."
Carmen stopped wiping down the bar. "No."
"Argentina?"
"No."
He waited.
She smiled. "Are you going to keep guessing countries, or would you like me to tell you?"
"Ecuador."
That got a reaction.
Carmen tilted her head. "Very good."
"Where?"
"Guayaquil."
Beachhead nodded. Now it was Carmen's turn to study him.
"You know Ecuador?"
"I know maps."
"Of course you do."
"What does that mean?"
"You look like a man who knows maps."
Beachhead couldn't decide whether he'd just been complimented or insulted.
"So how does a woman from Guayaquil end up tending bar in Buenos Aires?"
"That's a long way from asking what I'm serving tonight."
"Occupational habit."
"Ah. Government." She mimicked the flat way he'd said it earlier.
Beachhead almost smiled again.
Carmen told him she'd left Ecuador several years earlier. Buenos Aires had originally been intended as something temporary—a chance to get away, see somewhere different and build a life of her own for a while. Somewhere along the way, temporary had become considerably less temporary.
"You came all that way by yourself?"
"I did."
"Why Argentina?"
"Why not?"
Beachhead gave her a look.
Carmen laughed. "You don't like answers that aren't answers, do you?"
"No."
"Good. Now you know how I feel about 'government.'"
He had to give her that one. She offered nothing more, and Beachhead didn't press, but he filed it away. Ecuadorian. Guayaquil. Several years in Argentina. Intelligent. Observant. Independent enough to relocate across a continent on her own and quick enough to turn his questions back on him before he realized she was doing it.
Interesting woman.
Possibly too interesting.
Then Carmen set another napkin beside his plate. "You are doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Thinking too hard." She looked at him for a moment. "You're eating fish tacos, Wayne, not negotiating a hostage release."
He stared at her for half a second longer than necessary.
Carmen caught it. "What?"
"Nothing."
"That was definitely something."
Beachhead picked up another taco. "Just wondering how you knew I've negotiated hostage releases."
Carmen froze for exactly one second, then broke into that perfect smile.
"I didn't."
Beachhead stopped chewing.
Carmen walked away laughing, leaving him watching her disappear toward the other end of the bar. He found himself very… interested. God, had it been that long?
Maybe Hawk had been right. Maybe he really did need a vacation. Maybe he needed more than that.
A few minutes later, she returned and nodded toward the television mounted above the bar, where a soccer program was running highlights.
"You came for the match?"
"River Plate and Vélez. Tomorrow."
Carmen nodded approvingly. "So there actually is a normal person hiding in there somewhere."
"I wouldn't go that far."
"Do you know who you're cheering for?"
"I came to watch the match."
"That is not an answer."
"I'm neutral."
"In Buenos Aires?" She shook her head. "That may be more dangerous than whatever your government job is."
Beachhead gave her a sideways glance. She grinned.
They talked about soccer, places he'd traveled, and places Carmen wanted to see. She tried several times to get more information about exactly what he did for the government and got nowhere. Beachhead, in return, learned surprisingly little about her.
That bothered him. Not enough to stop talking to her, but enough that he noticed.
At some point he realized he'd finished the tacos, the Buenos Aires Zombie was nearly gone, and he'd been sitting at the bar considerably longer than he'd intended.
Worse, he'd enjoyed himself, and he'd enjoyed her.
Carmen collected his empty plate. "So, Wayne... still think I might poison you?"
He looked at the remaining inch of his drink. "Jury's still out."
"Then you'll have to come back and investigate further."
There it was.
He looked at her. Dark eyes. Perfect smile. Completely comfortable with herself. Beachhead's instincts told him to be suspicious. Another part of him—the part Hawk and Duke were apparently trying to prove still existed—had a different assessment.
He reached for the glass and finished the drink. "I might do that."
Carmen smiled. "Careful. That almost sounded like flirting."
Beachhead stood and placed some bills on the bar. "Don't get carried away."
He walked toward the door.
"Enjoy the match tomorrow, Wayne."
He glanced back. "I intend to."
Carmen watched him disappear into the Buenos Aires night before turning to her next customer.
Beachhead walked back toward his hotel wondering exactly what had just happened. Maybe she was simply friendly. Maybe she liked him. Or maybe she really was an enemy intelligence operative who had just spent an hour extracting information from him over fish tacos and rum.
He considered that last possibility again and almost laughed at himself.
She didn't know who Beachhead was. She didn't even know she'd just met him.
To Carmen, he was simply Wayne, an American government employee with an unusual interest in exits, maps and the ingredients in his drink. Hawk wanted him to relax. This was apparently what relaxing felt like. He wasn't sure he trusted it.
