A sick joke, that.
Everything in the whole damned country was broken or worn out, including Castro’s sheets. You didn’t have to be a high government official to be aware of that hard fact.
On the dresser just out of reach was a box of cigars. He hitched himself around in bed, reached for one, then leaned far over and got his hand on the lighter.
The pain made him gasp.
Madre mia!
When the pain subsided somewhat he lay back in the bed, wiped his face again on the sheet.
He fumbled with the cigar, bit off the end and spat it on the floor. Got the lighter going, sucked on the cigar … the raw smoke was like a knife in his throat. He hacked and hacked.
The doctors made him give up cigars ten years ago. He demanded this box two days ago, when they told him he was dying. “If I am dying, I can smoke. The cancer will kill me before the cigars, so why not?”
When the coughing subsided, he took a tiny puff on the cigar, careful not to inhale.
God, the smoke was delicious.
Another puff.
He lay back on the pillow, sniffed the aroma of the smoke wafting through the air, inhaled the tobacco essence and let it out slowly as the cigar smoldered in his hand.
The truth was that he had made a hash of it. Cuba’s problems had defeated him. Oh, he had done the best he could, but by any measure, his best hadn’t been good enough. The average Cuban was worse off today than he had been those last few years under Batista. Food was in short supply, the economy was in tatters, the bureaucrats were openly corrupt, the social welfare system was falling apart, and the nation reeled under massive short-term foreign debt, for it had defaulted on its long-term international debt in the late 1980s. The short-term debt could not be repudiated, not if the nation ever expected to borrow another peso abroad.
He puffed on the cigar, savoring the smoke. Then he shifted, trying to make the ache in his bowels ease up.
Of course he knew what had gone wrong. When he took over the nation he had played the cards he had … evicted the hated Yanqui imperialistas and seized their property, and accepted the cheers and adulation of the people for delivering them from the oppressor. Unfortunately Cuba was a tiny, poor country, so he had had to replace the evicted patron with another, and the only one in sight had been the Soviet Union. He embraced communism, got down on his knees and swore fealty to the Soviet state. With that act he earned the undying hatred of the politicians who ruled the United States—after several assassination attempts and the ill-fated Bay of Pigs invasion debacle, they declared economic warfare on Cuba. Then the cruelest twist of the knife—the Soviet Union collapsed in 1990-91 and Cuba was cut adrift.
Ah, he should have been wiser, should have realized that the United States would be the winning horse. The Spanish grandees had bled Cuba for centuries, worked the people as slaves, then as peons. After the Americans ran the Spanish off, American corporations put their men in the manor houses and life continued as before. The people were still slaves to the cane crop, living in abject poverty, unable to escape the company towns and the company stores.
A few things did change under the Americans. The island became America’s red light district, the home of the vice that was illegal on the American mainland: gambling, prostitution, drugs, and, during Prohibition, alcohol. Poor Catholic families sent their daughters to the cities to whore for the Yanquis.
The capitalists bled Cuba until there was no blood left—they would keep exploiting people the world over until there were no more people. Or no more capitalists. Until then, the capitalists would have all the money. He should have realized that fundamental truth.
He had grown up hating the United States, hating Yanquis who drank and gambled and whored the nights away in Havana. He hated their diplomats, their base at Guantánamo Bay, their smugness, their money … he despised them and all their works, which was unfortunate, because America was a fact of life, like shit. A man could not escape it because it smelled bad.
God had never given him the opportunity to destroy the Yanquis, because if He had …
Fidel Castro was intensely, totally Cuban. He personified the resentment the Cuban people felt because they had spent their lives begging for the scraps that fell from the rich men’s table. Resentment was a vile emotion, like hatred and envy.
Well, he was dying. Weeks, they said. A few weeks, more or less. The cancer was eating him alive.
The painkillers were doing their job—at least he could sit up, think rationally, smoke the forbidden cigars, plan for Cuba’s future.
Cuba had a future, even if he didn’t.
Of course, the United States would play a prominent role in that future. With the great devil Fidel dead, all things were possible. The economic embargo would probably perish with him, a new presidente could bring … what?
He thought about that question as he puffed gingerly on the cigar, letting the smoke trickle out between his lips.
For years Americans had paraded through the government offices in Havana talking about what might be after the economic embargo was lifted by their government Always they had an angle, wanted a special dispensation from the Cuban government … and were willing to pay for it, of course. Pay handsomely. Now. Paper promises … He had enjoyed taking their money.
He had made no plans for a successor, had anointed no one. Some people thought his brother, Raúl, might take over after him, but Raúl was impotente, a lightweight.
He would have to have his say now, while he was very much alive.
But what should the future of Cuba be?
The pain in his bowels doubled him up. He curled up in the bed, groaning, holding tightly to the cigar.
After a minute or so the pain eased somewhat and he puffed at the cigar, which was still smoldering.
Whoever came after him was going to have to make his peace with the United States. They were going to have to be selective about America’s gifts, rejecting the bad while learning to profit from the good things, the gifts America had to give to the world.
That had been his worst failing—he himself had never learned how to safely handle the American elephant, make the beast do his bidding. His successors would have to for the sake of the Cuban people. Cuba would never be anything if it remained a long, narrow sugarcane field and way point for cocaine smugglers. If that was all there was, everyone on the island might as well set sail for Miami.
Maybe he should have left, said good-bye, thrown up his hands and retired to the Costa del Sol.
Next time. Next time he would retire young, let the Cubans make it on their own.
Like every man who ever walked the earth, Castro had been trapped by his own mistakes. The choices he made early in the game were irreversible. He and the Cuban people had been forced to live with the consequences. Life is like that, he reflected. Everyone must make his choices, wise or foolish, good or bad, and live with them; there is no going back.
There is always the possibility of redemption, of course, but one cannot unmake the past. We have only the present. Only this moment.
When the pain came this time, the cigar dropped from his fingers.
He lay in the bed groaning, trying not to scream for the nurse. If he did, she would give him an injection, which would put him to sleep. The needle was going to give him peace during his final days, but he wasn’t ready for it yet.
The pain had eased somewhat when he felt a hand on his forehead. He opened his eyes. Mercedes.
“You dropped your cigar on the floor,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“Shall I call the nurse?”
“Not for a while.”
She used a damp cloth to wipe the perspiration from his face. The cloth felt good.
“Light the cigar.”
She did so, put it in his hand. He managed one tiny puff.
“You talked to Hector?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He was surprised. He didn�
�t know it would be so soon.”
“That was your impression?”
“Yes.”
“And the tobacco deal with the Americans? What did Hector say when you told him about it?”
“Just listened.”
“The birthday party, Maximo came?”
“Yes. Brought a box of French chocolates and his wife, who wore a Paris frock.”
Fidel’s lips twisted. He could imagine what the other people at the party thought of that. Maximo could charm foreign bankers and squeeze a peso until it squealed, but he was no politician.
“Did you warn Hector about Alejo?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He made light of it.”
Fidel thought about that. Remembered the cigar and took another puff.
“He thinks the threat will be the generals,” he said finally, “but it won’t. The generals don’t know it, but the troops will follow Hector. Alejo Vargas is his most dangerous opponent, and if Hector Sedano doesn’t understand that, they will bury him a few days after they bury me.”
“Admiral, next weekend when we’re in the Virgin Islands, what say we put the barge in the water and go water-skiing?”
The person asking the question was the admiral’s aide, a young lieutenant who flew an F/A-18 on her last cruise. Her boyfriend was still in one of the Hornet squadrons; the last time Jake Grafton approved the barge adventure, the boyfriend was invited to go along.
Now Jake sighed. “I’m not sure where we’re going to. be next weekend, Beth.” He had no intention of getting very far from Guantánamo Bay while those warheads were still in that warehouse, but of course he couldn’t say that. “Check with ops, Commander Tarkington.”
“Yes, sir,” Beth said, trying to hide her disappointment.
The new Chief of Staff, Captain Gil Pascal, Toad Tarkington, and the admiral had put their heads together, carefully listed the forces available should an emergency arise, and drafted a contingency plan. “Nothing’s happened in all these years,” Jake told them, “but Washington must have had a reason for telling us to keep an eye on the place. They must know something we don’t.”
Gil Pascal met the admiral’s gaze. He had reported to the staff just a week ago. “Sir, as I recall, the orders said to ‘monitor’ the loading of the weapons onto the container ship.”
“‘Monitor’?” muttered Jake Grafton. “What the hell does that mean? Is that some kind of New Age bureaucrat word? It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I guess my question really is, how much force are you willing to use without authorization from Washington?”
A faint smile crossed the lips of Toad Tarkington. Only a man who didn’t know the admiral would ask that question. Anyone who started shooting in Jake Grafton’s bailiwick had better be ready for a war, Toad thought. He had managed to wipe off the smile by the time the admiral answered:
“Whatever it takes to keep those warheads in American hands.”
Pascal took his time ordering his thoughts. “Shouldn’t we be talking contingencies with Washington, Admiral?”
Jake Grafton opened a top-secret message folder that lay on his desk in front of him. “I already sent a query to CNO. This is the answer.”
He passed the message to Pascal. “Monitor weapons on-load diligently, using your best judgment,” the message read, “but do not deviate from normal routine. Revealing presence of chemical and biological weapons in Cuba not in the national interest. Risks of transfer have been carefully considered at the highest level. Should risk assessment change you will be informed.” The final sentence referred to the original message.
“Five sentences?” Toad Tarkington asked when he had had his chance to read the message. “Only five sentences?”
Reading naval messages was an art, of course. One had to consider the identity and personality of the sender, the receiver, the situation, any correspondence that had passed before … . The situation in Washington was the unknown here, Jake concluded. If the CNO had been at liberty to say more, he would have: Jake knew the CNO. The lack of guidance or illumination told Jake that the chief of naval operations wanted him to be ready for anything.
“We’ll have to do the best we can with what we have,” the admiral said now to Pascal and Tarkington. “I want a plan: we need someone watching at all times, a quick reaction force that can meet any initial incursion with force, a reserve force to throw into the fray to absolutely deny access, and flash messages ready to go informing Washington of what we have done.”
Toad and Gil Pascal nodded. A plan like this with the forces that the admiral had at his disposal would be simple to construct. No surprises there.
“There is always the possibility that we may not be able to prevent hostiles from getting to the warheads, if they choose to try. We also need a plan addressing that contingency.”
“Surely this nightmare won’t come to pass,” Gil Pascal said. “Your assessment of the risk differs remarkedly from that of the National Security Council.”
“I’m sure the powers that be think it quite unlikely anybody will try to prevent us from removing the weapons from Cuba, and I agree. On the other hand, they must know something they can’t share with us. If the risk were zero, they wouldn’t have sent us here with orders to monitor, whatever the hell that is. Gentlemen, I just want to be ready if indeed we win the lottery and our number comes up.”
Toad thoughtfully put the message from Washington back into its red folder. He pursed his lips, then said thoughtfully, “One thing is for sure—something is up.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Alejo Vargas thought he had the finest office in Havana, indeed, in all of Cuba, and perhaps he did. He had the whole corner of the top floor, with lots of glass. Through the large windows one got a fine view across the rooftops of Morro Castle and the channel leading into Havana Harbor from the sea. The desk was mahogany, the chairs leather, the carpet Persian.
William Henry Chance paused to take in the view, then nodded appreciatively. He turned, saw the old United Fruit Company safe in the corner, now standing open, and the display of gold and silver coins from the Spanish Main under glass. He paused again, ran his eye over the coins just long enough to compliment his host.
“Very nice,” Chance said, and took the chair indicated by Alejo Vargas. At a nearby desk sat Vargas’s Chief of Staff, Colonel Pablo Santana, who nodded at Chance when he looked his way, but said nothing.
Colonel Santana was dark, with coal black eyes and black hair combed straight back; he had some slave and Indian somewhere in his bloodline. He slit the throats and pulled the trigger for Alejo Vargas whenever those chores needed to be done.
Chance forced himself to ignore Santana and look at his host. “I appreciate you taking the time from your busy day to see me, General,” the American said, and gave Vargas a frank, winning smile.
Chance was tall and angular, with craggy good looks, and dressed in a light gray suit of a quality one could not obtain in Cuba for love or money. He appeared perfectly at ease, as if he owned the building and were calling on a tenant.
No wonder the Russians lost the race to the Americans, Vargas thought ruefully. A true Latin male, he was acutely aware of his own physical and social shortcomings, his lack of grace and self-assurance, so he was quick to appreciate the desired qualities in others.
“I understand you have been discussing a business arrangement for the future with officials of several departments,” Vargas began.
“That is correct, General. As you probably know, I represent a consortium of stockholders in several of the major American tobacco companies. My errand is discreet, not for public discussion.”
Vargas certainly did know. He had a complete dossier on William Henry Chance in the upper right-hand drawer of his desk, a dossier decorated with a half dozen photos, photocopies of all the pages of Chance’s passport, and one of his entry in Who’s Who. A senior partner in a major New York law firm, Chance had represented tobacco c
ompanies for twenty-five years. That Chance was the man in Havana talking to the Cuban government was a sure signal that major money was behind him.
Indeed, Chance was in Vargas’s office today because Fidel Castro had asked Vargas to see him.
“Alejo,” Fidel had said, “our future depends on Cuba getting a piece of the world economy. The Americans have kept us isolated too long. If we can make it profitable for the Americans to lift the embargo, sooner or later they will. The Yankees can smell money for miles.”
If William Henry Chance knew that Castro had personally asked Vargas to see him, he gave no sign.
The less he understands about our government, the better, Vargas thought. He cleared his throat, and said, “I am sure you understand our concern, Señor Chance. Cuba is a poor nation, dependent on sugarcane as the mainstay of the economy, a crop that is, as usual, a glut on the world market. Your client’s proposal, as I understand it, is to cultivate tobacco in Cuba instead of sugarcane.”
Chance gave the tiniest nod. A trace of a grin showed on his lips. He glanced at Santana, who was scrutinizing him with professional interest, the way a cat examines a mouse.
“Your comprehension is perfect, General.”
“Through the years, señor, the price of tobacco on the world market has been even lower than that of sugar.”
“This meeting shall be a great help to my clients,” Chance declared. “Here today I will show you the many benefits that will accrue in the future to the nation that keeps an open mind about tobacco. I am not talking about cigar leaf, you understand, which is a tiny percentage of the world market. I am talking about cigarette tobacco.”
“The price of which will collapse in America when the American government ends its subsidy to American tobacco farmers.”
“Indeed,” said William Henry Chance. “The United States government will soon cease supporting the price. But of greater interest to our clients, the government will increasingly regulate and tax the cigarette business. Plainly stated, the government is hostile to our industry. The current administration has stated that their eventual goal is to put the industry out of business.”
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