Free Gabriel's Redemption by Steve Umstead Page A

from the automatic system extinguished the smoldering remnant.
    “Ah hell,” he said aloud, countermanding his earlier neuretics directive and activating the comm unit. He walked over to his desk and sat down in the high-backed synthvelour, then sent a command to the chair to begin lower back stimulation. Satisfied with the massage, he took the call.
    “Yes, Mariela,” he said tiredly, leaning back and putting both feet up on the desk, scattering a few data printouts and causing his bobblehead Maple Leafs figure to bounce wildly. He kicked at it and sent it clattering to the floor.
    “Admiral, I have an Ignacio Cáceres for you.“ She properly emphasized the first syllable of the last name. “He says it’s urgent, and won’t be put off.”  
    Mariela sounded harried, MacFarland thought. Maybe she could use some permanent time off. He was getting tired of her constant stories of her poor family back in Nicaragua, over and over again. Maybe I’ll have her sent back, get her out of my hair. What’s left of it, he thought wryly, running his hand through his sparse red stubble. “Go ahead, Mariela, put it through to my wall.”
    He stood up and straightened his uniform jacket. He faced the side wall as it came to life with a ten-foot high 2D image of a thin, dark-skinned Latino with a bushy mustache and jet black hair.  
    “Nacho, mi amigo, como estas ?” MacFarland boomed.
    After a brief delay the image smiled slightly. “ Hola , Admiral, I am well, gracias .” The smile disappeared instantly. “You are not returning my messages?”
    MacFarland coughed, and took a few steps to his liquor cabinet, never fully turning his back to the image, but not exactly being completely respectful. He picked up a glass and poured two fingers of a clear liquid.
    “Señor Cáceres,” he said more formally as he turned back to face the image. “I’ve been very busy with not only your project, but in keeping Toronto running. I don’t have much free time to, with all due respect, constantly keep you updated on my progress.”
    The image frowned. “Admiral, our project is of the utmost importance, entiendes ? You have ambitions, we have ambitions, si ?”
    “ Si, claro que si ,” MacFarland replied, butchering a Spanish accent. He swirled the obscenely-expensive Icelandic vodka, taking in a deep breath of its powerful aroma through his nose. “But you must understand, I cannot overcommit to this project, or it will raise suspicions. Not only here in Toronto, but there in Buenos Aires. And you wouldn’t want your government to catch wind of this, verdad ?” He sipped the vodka and savored the burning feeling in his throat. Nothing like that Argentinian firewater Nacho brought to their last meeting - aguardiente he called it? More like jet fuel.
    “Yes, of course. But we have many men who have invested millions upon millions of your dollars into this enterprise, and I am their first point of contact. Surely you understand I must keep them apprised of where we stand.”
    MacFarland sighed. “Nacho, you know we’re on schedule, and you know I’m the right man for the job. Your masters will get what they are asking for, and I will get what I’m asking for from them, and we’ll all be happy, si ? By this time next month, you will be a rich man, sitting in a huge position of power in La Republica de Sudamérica, as Chief of the Cabinet of Ministers. I believe that is what you said you’ve been promised?” He finished off the vodka in a quick gulp. “Sounds like a wonderful job. Your wife and kids in Lambaré will be eternally grateful to you.”
    Cáceres blinked. “What do you mean, Lambaré?”
    MacFarland set the glass down on his desk. “Your family, in Lambaré, Paraguay, si ? I believe you are Paraguayan by birth, and you only live and work in Argentina for the SAR for convenience?” He turned his back to the image, looking back out his window. “No worries, my friend. No one else needs to know this, and I know