by Cuba (lit)
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 suresomething is
up."
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 niceea"...Chance said, and took the chair indicated
by Alejo Vargas. At a nearby desk sat
Vargas's Chief of Staff, Colonel Pablo
Santafla, 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, Generalea"...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 departmentsea"...Vargas began.
"That is correct, General. As you probably
know, I represent a consortium of stockholders
in several of the major American caret 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 companies 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.
"Alejoea"...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, Senor 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, senor, 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
clientsea"...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."
"Indeedea"...sd 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."
Chance moved his shoulders up and down a millimeter,
settled deeper into his chair. "The American
public is gradually giving up the cigarette
habit. In a few years the only Americans
smoking will be rebellious youth and addicted
geriatrics."
Chance leaned forward slightly in his chair and looked
Alejo Vargas straight in the eye. "The
future of the cigarette industry is to sell
American brands to non-Americans.
All over the world people in developing countries want
the image American cigarettes present:
prosperity, sex appeal, luxury, a rising
status in the world. These images are no
accident. They have been carefully created and
nurtured at great expense by the American
cigarette companies."
Chance paused here to see if his host had anything
to say. He didn't. Alejo Vargas sat
silently with a blank, expressionless face. Not a
single muscle revealed a clue about its owner's
thoughts. Through the years Alejo had had a lot of
experience listening to Castro's long-winded
expositions.
William Henry Chance summed up: "Minister,
under the benevolent eye of a government that wants the
industry to succeed, the prospects for profit are
will grow the tobacco, process it, advertise, and
sell the cigarettes. Cubans could own part of the
companies, which would pay taxes and employ Cubans
at a living wage. Here is a product that could be
produced locally and sold worldwide. Cigarettes
could be gold for Cuba in the twenty-first century."
Now Alejo Vargas smiled. "I like you,
Senor Chance. I like your style."
"You can't fool meea"...Chance shot back. "You like my
message,"
"Cuba needs industries in addition to sugar."
"The key, General, is a stable government that will
protect the industry. Let me be frank: my
clients have a great deal of money to invest, but they will
not do so without the clear, unequivocal prospect
of a stable government that will guarantee their right to do
business and earn a fair profit."
"Any promises or guarantees must come from the
proper ministries of our government, witheathe consent of
our president, Seflor Castroea"...Alejo
Vargas said from the depths of his padded leather chair.
"It is the future of Cuba I wish to discuss with
you, General. I state unequivocally that my
clients will not invest a dime in Cuba until such
time as the American, government lifts the
economic embargo. Candidly, the embargo will not be
lifted as long as Castro remains in office."
"Your candor deserves equal honesty on my
partea"...General Vargas said. "Castro will remain in
office until he chooses to leave of his own free
will or until he dies. Do not be
mistakenregardless of what drivel you hear from the
exiles, Fidel Castro is universally
admired, loved, revered as a great patriot
by virtually everyone in Cuba. There is no
opposition, no movement to remove him... disnone of
that."
"It is the distant future I wish to discuss with
you."
"Very distantea"...the general said. *
"After Castro."
"I do not have a crystal ball, Sefior Chance.
I may not live so long."
"Nor I, sir. But very likely the cigarette
industry will still be in business and looking for new
opportunities to grow."
"Perhapsea"...Alejo Vargas admitted, and cocked his
head slightly. He had seen transcripts of
Chance's telephone calls to the. United States
and a transcript of the conversations that had taken place
in his room. The man hadn't said one word about
Castro's health nor had anyone mentioned it to him.
Still, it was a remarkable coincidence that he was here in
Havana talking about post-Castro Cuba, and
Castro was dying.
Alejo Vargas didn't believe in
coincidences. His instincts told him that William
Henry Chance was not who he appeared to be. As he
listened to Chance talk about cigarette marketing and
demographics in the Third World, he removed the
file on Chance from his desk drawer. Holding the
file in his lap where Chance could not see it, he
carefully reviewed the information it contained. The
photographs he could not scrutinize closely but
he was willing to accept them as genuine. Mr.
William Henry Chance of New York City was
probably a senior partner in a large law
firmafter looking once more at the file Vargas
would have been shocked if he weren't. All the right
things were
in the file. At least the file collectors were
thorough, if nothing else, Vargas thought. Still,
Chance's position and profession might be an
elaborate cover.
When he finished with the file Vargas returned it to the
desk drawer just as Chance was summing up. The lawyer
had charts and graphs. Vargas didn't even glance
at them. He studied Chance's eyes, the way they
focused, how they moved, how the muscles tensed and
relaxed as he talked.
It was possible, Vargas decided.
William Henry Chance might be
CIA.. plus
Thirty minutes later when Chance was packing his
charts and graphs to leave he pulled a small
package from his briefcase and offered it to Vargas.
"Here's something you might enjoy, General. Sort of
an executive pacifier. These things are hot right
now in the States so I picked up 'a few at the
airport."
Vargas unwrapped the tissue paper. He was
looking at a small plastic frame from which three
odd-shaped crystals dangled, suspended by strings.
"These crystals are man-made and react
to differential heatingea"...Chance explained. "You put this
on the windowsill and the crystals dance around,
refracting the sunlight. Very colorful."
"Thank youea"...Vargas said mechanically, and sat the
toy on his desk.
When Chance was gone Colonel Santana called
an aide, who examined the device visually, then
took it away to be examined electronically.
An hour later the aide returned with the toy in hand.
"It is what it appears to be, sir, merely three
lumps of oddly shaped crystal on strings. The
crystals and frame are entirely solid;
they contain nothing."
"Americans! Executive pacifierff"...Vargas
said contemptuously.
Colonel Santana put the toy on a
south-facing windowsill, watched the crystals dance in
the sun for a moment, then forgot about it.
William Henry Chance took his time walking to his
hotel, the Nacional, a classic 1930's
masterpiece near Havana harbor. He left his
locked briefcase in his room, then went
downstairs to the hotel restaurant, which charged
truly stupendous amounts of American dollars for
very modest food. In fact, the only currency the
hotel staff would accept was American dollars.
Colorful wooden panels and ceramic accents, and
peacocks wandering around like refugees from an aviary,
gave the place an over-the-top Caribbean look,
Chance thought, sort of South Miami Beach racheted
one notch too tight.
Chance ordered a sea bass, blackened and grilled,
black beans and rice, avocados, and a
mojito,
a delicious concoction of lime juice, sugar,
mint leaves, and rumjust what the doctor
ordered to prevent scurvy. He savored the fish,
sipped a second
mojito,
contemplated the state of the universe and his fellow
diners.
The hotel staff, he knew, were employees of the
Cuban secret police. When they weren't rushing
here and there with daiquiris and fruit drinks they worked
for Yargas, spied on the guests, listened to their
conversations,, searched their luggage, filled out
written reports.
Chance knew the routine. He also knew that the
Cubans would learn nothing by watching him because there was
nothing to learn.
As he drank his second
&n
bsp; mojito
he carefully reviewed everything Vargas had said
during his interview. He thought about the general's
face, the total lack of expression when the
demise of Fidel Castro was discussed.
Of course Alejo Vargas knew that Castro was
dying. He must know. What Vargas didn't know was
that the CIA was equally aware of Castro's medical
condition.
When Chance finished dinner he went out on the
street for a walk. First he had to work his way through the
crowd of Cubans loafing around the entrance to the
hotel. Knots of poor, bored Cubans with
nothing to do and nowhere to
go thronged the sidewalks in front of every nightclub
and casino listening to the music that floated out through open
doors and windows. Occasionally people danced or sang,
but mostly they just passed the time chatting and watching the
tourists, and beggars and prostitutes trying
to extract dollars from them.
Several blocks away Chance stopped to buy bread.
The man who sold him the bread gave him a peso
in change.
One peso meant yes, two meant no.
Chance smiled, nodded his thanks, and walked on.
The crystal device was working. The vibrations of
human voices in the room changed the motion of the
crystals in predictable, minute amounts. When a
powerful optical device was focused on the
crystals, the refracted light was processed through a
computer into human speech. The crystals were a
totally passive listening device.
So far so good, Chance reflected, and walked on
aimlessly, for the exercise, drinking in the sights,
sounds, and smells of Havana. She was like
a painted old whore, he thought, trying to keep up
appearances. The tourist attractions were gay and
lively, temples of hedonism set in a gray
communist wasteland.
Outside the tourist area the city reeked of
destitution and decay. The crumbling, rotting
buildings were choked to the rafters with people, often four
families to every apartment. The people fought daily
battles to get enough food and basics to sustain
life. Away from the clubs and hotels, the faces
of the people were gloomy, drawn, without hope.
The poison of communism had done its work here, as it
had in every nation that had ever embraced it. After the
revolution the government expropriated almost all
private property, from the vast estates of the rich
to the corner grocery. Hopeless, grinding poverty
became nearly universal. Forty years after the
