What if we all got it wrong_ - 1. Chapter 1

Carlos Hazday had a great sense of humour. Hopefully, he will forgive this black comedy submitted in homage. It makes complete sense only if you have read his CDMX first, where CJ arrives in Mexico City to work in the Embassy.

oOo

What if we all got it wrong?

He groaned inwardly, not daring to disturb the giant of a man spilling over the armrest. Surreptitiously, he tried to reclaim at least part of the rest for himself. It was to no avail. The guy just grunted in his sleep and seemed to hold ever more tightly to the territory gained over the last few hours on this redeye from Mexico DF to Washington DC. He shuffled over to the other side and prayed for sleep. As an unbeliever he should not have been surprised to have had his prayers unanswered. And so, he did what he swore he would not do. He looked back in his mind’s eye to the day that cocky young bastard had strolled into the chancery as if he owned it. It seemed like yesterday.

Until that moment, all had been going well for him. The Embassy in Mexico was his first overseas appointment as a supervisor. Hey, he even had his own great office with a name plaque glistening on the door, and another one on his desk lest anyone forget who he was. He knew he wasn’t the Einstein of the diplomatic world. He had got through exams and more exams by burning the midnight oil, working weekends to go over the contents of each unit. He had avoided study groups etc., not wanting to reveal his lack of “sparkle”, but he had got through it all and had been first to Spain and then in Mexico for two years after that. Spanish had been tough at first, although he was now, of course fluent, even if his accent owed more to “Biarritz” than to La Rioja.

And then “CJ” Abelló waltzed in with his perfect Spanish, taking the Embassy by storm from security guys who should have known better, to the secretaries who fell for his charm, even the Ambassador herself who had fawned over him shamelessly. That last was not a great surprise given the political connections she shared with him and his “daddies” back in DC. But from the first he had smelt a rat. This guy and his cute Aussie partner were just too good to be true. Why had no one suspected anything? First there was the very choice of working in the Chancery permits area. Oh, yes, he wanted to “help others”. Them there was the bizarre relationship with the Russian agent. He had mentioned this to the Ambassador on at least two occasions, only to be shot down with increasing vehemence. Strange that.

Suddenly, it all clicked. The deal with the Russian was just a front to distract people. He decided to call in a few favours in DC and got the background on the daddies. The ex-Marine seemed, overall, a pretty good guy but the actual father was another story. Cuban, second generation immigrant, living out the American dream… He had decided to supervise Mister CJ more closely, and more discretely. He had always been good at analysis, especially statistics. Opening an excel spreadsheet he began to analyse the data from the permit department; in the previous year, CJ’s approval rate for US visas and permits had not, in itself, been remarkable. What had been were the origins of many “borderline” cases. Was it really possible that there was such a steady stream of successful applications linked obscurely to Cuba? That’s what the analysis pointed to. What the hell had been going on? Putting everything together, he copied his report to a pen drive and had asked for a confidential meeting with the Ambassador. He had expected possibly every reaction except for one. She simply thanked him, asked him for the pen drive and said she would get back to him. Nothing more.

He had waited for CJ to be arrested and had fantasied about being proved right after all. But nothing. Life seemed to continue as before during the following two days. Then he received a message from State telling him he was required in Washington to go over a sensitive case from his days in Madrid. His input would be “essential”. He had told himself it would do him good to get away for a few days and perhaps even alert a friend or two in Foggy Bottom about what was (not) happening in DF.

A pinging sound roused him from his reflection. Once, twice, three times and then twice more. He knew that meant trouble. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a somewhat stressed voice announced. “Please put your seatbelts on and return your seats to an upright position.” The voice paused, about, he knew, to tell them the worst. “I’m afraid we have an issue with the aircraft.” And then he knew. The Ambassador herself was in on it. It was outrageous but true. It was to be his last thought.

oO0

“Good morning, everyone. Thank you all for coming in today at such short notice. But a short while ago I received a call from the Secretary of State. The overnight flight to DC crashed just before crossing the frontier. It is believed no one has survived.” She went on, “One of the many victims was our own dear colleague, Stephen. It is such devastating news. Obviously, we will do all we can to assist his family in any way, and the Consul will be arranging a service for us here in DF. Meanwhile, I have asked Mr Abelló, CJ, to step in as acting supervisor for immigration permits and visas.” The Ambassador glanced up, noticing CJ standing coolly at the back. She gave him the slightest of glances and he slid out of the room.

“Dad? It’s sorted. We have his hard drive. Things are under control. Let Havana know.”

“Good work, son. It’s tough but essential to our cause. Hasta pronto.”