Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,1

diminutive in stature and wore a black frock coat with black trousers and a black, flat-brimmed hat that made him look like an undertaker or a fire-and-brimstone preacher. From a holster cinched around his waist, he whipped out a pistol and began calmly and methodically firing it up in the direction the shots had been coming from. Spurts of dust pocked the ground around him as the sniper alternated between returning the gunfire and ducking for cover. But the black-clad little man remained heedless of his own safety and refused to flinch. Instead, he just kept on firing until his pistol was empty and he was forced to reload.

With the echo of the man’s last shot still reverberating in the narrow street, Maria Consuela heard a clattering sound from above and watched as the sniper’s rifle rolled down the tiled roof and fell to the street. A moment later came the sniper himself. His lifeless body tumbled down the slanted roof and struck the ground within an arm’s length of his weapon, landing with a resounding thud. The filibusters and their well-wishers emerged from their hiding places and approached the body to make sure that the sniper was well and truly dead.

Ignoring the dead sniper, the man in black holstered his weapon and approached Maria Consuela.

“Are you all right?” he asked her. His eyes lingered for a moment on her petite form inside her novice’s habit, as if trying to assure himself that she hadn’t been injured.

Maria Consuela found herself unable to speak, trembling not with fear but out of a profound sense of relief. All she could do was nod, shaking the long, dark curls that stuck out on either side of her wimple. She looked into his eyes and was surprised by their intensity. They were blue and fervent as though lit from within by a holy fire, and his riveting gaze made her feel safe. Something akin to the first stirrings of love quivered inside her, like a cocoon vibrating right before the birth of a butterfly.

“Good,” the man in black said as he held out his arm for her to take.

Maria Consuela smiled at this gentlemanly gesture. Arm in arm, she accompanied him through the streets of Granada until they, along with the crowd of soldiers and their well-wishers, arrived at the large and imposing villa that was the former headquarters of the overthrown Legitimist regime.

As she stood next to him, a delegation from the Democratic faction swarmed around the little black-clad man and deluged him with gratitude.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, may God bless you for liberating our country,” they said, some with tears streaming down their cheeks.

He accepted their thanks with grace and humility, but Maria Consuela had the distinct impression that he also thought of this acknowledgment as his just due, like Caesar being rightfully rendered unto.

Maria Consuela noticed a man who was holding himself apart from all the others. Hat in hand, he approached the small man in black and introduced himself.

“My name is Dominga Goicuria, and it is my honor to speak to you on behalf of the country of Cuba,” he said in a deferential tone, bordering on awe. “I have traveled here to ask you to come to the aid of the Cuban people and free our island from Spanish rule.”

It was then that Maria Consuela realized that this man in black, her savior, was the generalissimo of the norteamericano army of filibusters. Despite his diminutive stature, this American Napoléon had liberated her people and, inadvertently, liberated her as well. His name was William Walker, and he had changed her life forever. On the spot, she abandoned her pledge to return to the convent if she survived the sniper’s bullet—a promise clearly made in a moment of foolish weakness. No, now there was no going back. Maria Consuela knew that from this moment on her life would be inextricably bound with this American, who would declare himself the new president of Nicaragua.

PART ONE

THE MEXICAN DRACULA

I

New York City, May 1951

Whether on duty or off, an agent must be aware of his surroundings at all times.

—CIA FIELD AGENT MANUAL

It was a courier run.

Her instructions had been very simple. Go to New York. Pick up a package. Return with the package to Washington, D.C. Spend the day in Manhattan doing tourist things as a cover for her covert activities. But based on past experiences, if there was one thing that Jacqueline Lee Bouvier knew for certain, it was the fact that even