Coonts, Stephen - Jake Grafton 7 - Cuba

by Cuba (lit)

  left the room.

  The bank was quiet. Footsteps were lost on the

  vast wood and stone floors. Humans seemed to be

  the intruders here, temporary visitors who came

  and went while the bank endured the storms of the

  centuries, a monument to the power of capital.

  Five pleasant minutes passed, then five more.

  Maximo was in no hurry. He was prepared to wait

  quite a while for $53 million, even if it took

  all day. Or several days. After all,

  he had waited a lifetime so far. But he wouldn't have

  to wait long. The clerk would be back momentarily.

  And he was.

  He came in, looked at Maximo with an odd

  expression, handed him back the transfer card with just

  the slightest hint of a bow.

  "I am sorry, sefior, but the balance of this account

  is so low that the transfer is impossible to honor."

  Maximo gaped uncomprehendingly. He

  swallowed, then said, "What did you say?"

  "I am sorry, sefior, but there has been some

  mistake."

  "Not on my partea"...Maximo replied heatedly.

  The clerk gave a tight little professional smile.

  "The bank's records are perfectly clear."...He

  held out the transfer card. "This account contains just a

  few dollars over one thousand."

  Maximo couldn't believe his ears. "Where did the

  money go?"

  "Obviously, due to the bank secrecy laws I

  have limited discretion about what I can say."

  Maximo Sedano leaped across the table at the man,

  grabbed him by his lapels.

  "Where did-the money go, fool"..."...he roared.

  "Someone with the proper authorization ordered the money

  transferred, senor. That much is obvious. I can

  say no more."

  And the clerk wriggled from his grasp.

  The story was the same at the next two banks

  Maximo Sedano visited. Each account contained just

  a few dollars above the minimum amount necessary

  to maintain the account.

  The horror of his position hit Maximo tike

  a hammer. Not only was there no money here for him,

  Alejo Vargas would kill him when he got back

  to Cuba.

  He told the bank officer at the last bank he

  visited that he wanted to make a telephone call,

  and he wanted the bank officer there to talk to the

  person at the other end.

  He called Vargas at home, caught him before

  he went to his office.

  After he had explained about the accounts, he asked

  the bank officer to verify what he had said. The

  officer refused to touch the telephone. "The bank

  secrecy laws are very strictea"...he said

  self-righteously. Maximo wanted to strangle him.

  Vargas had of course listened to this little exchange.

  "There is no moneyea"...Maximo told the

  secret-police chief. "Someone has stolen it."

  "You assea"...Vargas hissed.

  "You

  have stolen the money.

  You

  are the finance minister."

  "Call the other banks, Alejoea"...he urged.

  "They are here in Zurich. I will give you their names

  and the account numbers. Listen to what the bank officers

  have to say."

  "You are a capital ass, Sedano. The Swiss

  bankers will not talk to me. The money was deposited

  in Switzerland precisely

  because

  those bastards will talk to no one."

  "I will call you from their office and have them speak to you."

  "Have you lost your mind? What are you playing at?"

  This was a scene from a nightmare.

  "If I had the money I would not set foot in

  Cuba again, Vargas. We both know that. Use your

  head! I don't have the money: I'm coming home."

  He tried to slam the instrument into its cradle and

  missed, sent it skittering off the table. Fumbling,

  he picked it up by the cord, hung the thing properly

  on the cradle.

  The account officer looked at him with professional

  solicitude, much like an undertaker smiling at die

  next of kin.

  Perhaps the banks have stolen Fidel's money,

  Maximo thought.

  These Swiss bastards pocketed the Jews' money;

  maybe they are keeping Fidel's.

  He opened his mouth to say that very thing to the account officer

  sitting across the table, then thought better of it He

  picked up his attache"...case with the pistol in it and

  walked slowly out of the bank.

  The van took Hector Sedano to La Cabana

  fortress hi Havana. It stopped hi a dark

  courtyard where other men were waiting. They took him

  into the prison, down long corridors, through iron

  doors that opened before him and closed after him, until

  finally they stood before an empty cell hi the

  isolation area of the prison. Here they demanded his

  clothes, his shoes, his watch, die things in his

  pockets. When he stood naked someone gave him a

  one-piece jumpsuit. Wearing only that, he was

  thrust into die cell and the door was locked behind him.

  The journey from (he everyday world of people and

  voices and cares and concerns to the stark,

  vile reality of a prison cell is one of the most

  violent transitions in this life. The present and the

  future had been ripped from Hector Sedano,

  leaving only his memories of the past.

  Hector was well aware of the fact that he could be

  physically abused, beaten, even executed, at the

  whim of whoever had ordered him jailed. People disappeared

  in Cuban prisons, never to be heard from again.

  The parallels between his situation and that of Christ

  while awaiting his crucifixion immediately leaped

  to Hector's Jesuit mind. Not far behind was the

  realization that Fidel Castro had also been

  imprisoned before the revolution.

  Perhaps prison is a natural stage in the Me

  of a revolutionary. Imprisonment by the old regime

  for one's beliefs was de facto recognition that the

  beliefs were dangerous and the person who held them a

  worthy enemy. The person imprisoned was

  automatically elevated in stature and respect

  These thoughts swirled through Hector's mind as he

  sat on a hard wooden bunk without blankets and

  gave in to his emotions. He found himself shaking with

  anger. He paced, he pounded on the walls with his

  fists until they were raw.

  Finally he threw himself on the bunk and

  lay staring into the gloom.

  Angel del Mar

  pitched and rolled viciously as she wallowed

  helplessly in the swells. In every direction nothing

  could be seen but sea and cloudy sky. The sky was

  completely covered now with cloud, the wind was picking

  up, and the swells were getting bigger, with a shorter

  period between them. Aboard the boat, many people lay on

  their stomach and hugged the heaving deck.

  Everyone on board suffered from the lack of water,

  some to a greater degree than others. Ocho Sedano,

  who had had only a few mouthfuls since the boat


  left Cuba and had pushed himself relentlessly, without

  mercy, was desperate.

  His eyes felt like burning coals, his skin

  seemed on fire, his tongue a thick, lifeless

  lump of dead flesh in a cracked, dry mouth.

  He wasn't perspiring much now. Of all his

  symptoms, that one worried him the most. As an

  athlete he knew the importance of regulating

  body temperature.

  Dora lay in the shade cast by the wheelhouse and said

  nothing. She had been sick a time or two, vomit

  stained her dress. She seemed to be resting easier

  now.

  Beside her lay her father, Diego Coca. He was

  conscious, his eyes fierce and bright, his jaw swollen

  and misshapen. He hadn't moved in hours,

  unwilling to let anyone else have his spot in the

  shade.

  Ocho sat heavily near Dora, scanned the sea

  slowly and carefully.

  My

  God, there must be a ship! A ship or boatsomething

  to give us food and water...

  In all this sea there must be hundreds of fishing

  boats and yachts, dozens of freighters,

  smugglers, American Coast Guard cutters

  hunting smugglers, warships... Where the hell are

  they? Where are all these goddamn boats and ships?

  From time to time he heard jets flying over, occasionally

  saw one below the clouds, but they stayed high,

  disappeared into the sea haze.

  Under the mast an old woman sat weeping. She was

  the one who grieved for the. captain, for some of the people who

  were washed overboard that first night She wept

  silently, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in

  gasps.

  He wanted to hug her, to comfort her, but mere was nothing

  he could say. His brother Hector would have

  known what to say, but Ocho did not.

  He looked longingly at Dora, Dora who was

  once beautiful, and he could think of nothing to say

  to her. Nothing.

  All the promise that life held, and they had thrown

  it away on a wild, stupid, doomed chance.

  Diego had led

  them, prodded them, demanded they go, and still he could think

  of nothing to say to Diego.

  He was so tired, so lethargic. He had pumped

  for hours, just keeping up with the water. If the water

  came in any faster... well, he didn't want

  to mink about it. They would all die then. They would have

  little chance swimming in the open sea.

  Ocho slumped over onto the moving deck. He

  was so tired, if he could just sleep, sleep....

  The old fisherman shook him awake. The sun was

  setting, the boat still rolling her guts out in the

  swell.

  "A fish..."...He held it up, about eighteen or

  twenty inches long. "No way to cook it, have to eat

  it raw. Keep up your strength."

  With two quick swipes of his knife, the fisherman

  produced two bleeding fillets. He offered one

  to Ocho, who closed his eyes and bit into the

  raw fish. He chewed.

  Someone was clawing at him, tearing at the fish.

  He opened his eyes. Diego Coca was stuffing a

  piece of the fish in his swollen mouth.

  The old man kicked Diego in the stomach,

  doubled him over, then pried his jaws apart and

  extracted the unchewed fish.

  "He's manning the pump that keeps you afloat,

  you son of a bitch. He has to eat or every one of us

  will die."

  Diego got a grip on the fisherman's knife

  and lunged for him.

  He grabbed for the slippery flesh, swung

  wildly with the knife.

  This time the old man kicked him hi the arm. The

  knife bounced once on the deck, then landed at an

  angle with the blade sticking into the wood, quivering.

  The fisherman waited for the boat to roll, then

  kicked Diego in the head. He went over

  backward and bis head made a hollow thunk as it

  hit the wooden deck. He went limp and lay

  unmoving.

  Retrieving his knife, the fisherman ate his chunk

  of raw

  fish in silence. Ocho chewed ravenously,

  letting the moisture bathe his mouth and throat. He

  held each piece in his mouth for several seconds,

  sucking at the juices, then reluctantly

  swallowing it down.

  Dora watched him with feverish eyes. He passed

  her a chunk of the fish and she rammed it into her mouth,

  all of it at once, chewed greedily while eyeing

  the old man, almost as if she were afraid he would

  take it from her.

  After she swallowed it, she tried to grin.

  Ocho averted his eyes.

  "Your turn on the pumpea"...the old man said.

  Diego lay right where he had fallen.

  Ocho got up, went into the wheelhouse and down into the

  engine room. The water in the bilge was sloshing around

  over his shoes as he began working the pump handle, up

  and down, up and down, endlessly.

  Hours later someone came to relieve him, one of the

  men in the captain's family. Ocho staggered up the

  stairs, so exhausted he had trouble making his hands do

  what he wanted.

  The people on deck had more fish. Ocho sat heavily

  by the wheelhouse. In the dim light from the stars and

  moon, he could see people ripping fish apart with their bare

  hands, stuffing flesh into their mouths, wrestling

  to get to fish that jumped over the rail when the boat

  rolled.

  He collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

  One of the butlers unlocked the bedroom door and

  took Mercedes to see Colonel Santana, who

  was standing behind Fidel's desk sorting papers. He

  didn't look up when she first came in. She found

  a chair and sat.

  "The government has not yet decided when or how

  to announce the death of

  el presidente.

  No doubt it will happen hi a few days, but until

  it does you are to remain here, in the residence, and

  talk to no one. Security Department people are on the

  switchboards and will monitor all telephone

  calls. The telephone lines that do not go through the

  switchboard have been disconnected."

  He eyed her askance, then went back to sorting

  papers. "After the official version of Fidel's

  death is written and announced, you will be free to go.

  I remind you now that disputing the official version of

  events is a crime."

  "Everyone swears to your history before you write

  it"..."...she snapped.

  Santana looked at her and smiled.

  "I was searching for the proper words to explain the nub of

  it and they just came to y"...he snapped his fingers"...l that.

  It is a gift, I think. When you say it so

  precisely, I know you understand. Ignorance will not be

  a defense if there is ever a problem."

  Mercedes got up from the chair and left the room.

  She wandered the hallways and reception rooms, the

  private areas, the offices, all now deserted. Every

  square foot was fuUs of memories. She could see

  him talkin
g to people, bending down slightly to hear, for he

  had been a'talj man. She could not remember when

  he had not been the presi-

  dent of Cuba. When she was a girl, he was there.

  As a young woman, he was there. When she married, was

  widowed, when he took her to be his woman ...

  always, all her life there was Fidel.

  Such a man he had been! She was a Latin

  woman, and Fidel had been the epitome of the

  Latin man, a brilliant, athletic man, a

  commanding speaker, a perfect patriot, a man who

  defined machismo. The facets of Fidel's

  personality that the non-Latin world found most

  irritating were those Cubans accepted as hallmarks

  of a man. He was selfrighteous, proud, sure of his

  own importance and place in history, never

  admitted error, and refused to yield when

  humiliated by the outside world. He had struggled,

  endured, won much and lost even more, and in a way that

  non-Latins would never understand, had become the

  personification of Cuba.

  And she had loved him.

  In the room where he died the television cameras and

  lights were still in place, the wires still strung.

  Only Fidel's body was missing.

  She stood looking at the scene, remembering it,

  seeing him again as he was when she had known him best.

  Still magnificent.

  Now the tears came, a clouding of the eyes that she was

  powerless to stop. She found a chair and wept

  silently.

  Her mind wandered off on a journey of its own,

  recalling scenes of her life, moments with her mother,

  her first husband, Fidel....

  The tears had been dry for quite a while when she

  realized with a start that she was still sitting in this room.

  The cameras were there in front of her, mounted on

  heavy, wheeled tripods.

  These cameras must have some kind of film in them,

  videotape. She went to the nearest camera and

  examined it. Tentatively she pushed and

  tugged at buttons, levers, knobs. Finally a

  plate popped open and mere was the videocassette.

  She removed it from the camera and closed the plate.

  There was also a cassette in the second camera.

  With both cassettes concealed in the folds of her

  dress, Mercedes strode from the room.

  A wave breaking over the deck doused Ocho

  Sedano with lukewarm water and woke him from a

  troubled, exhausted steep.

  Angel del Mar

  was riding very low in the water. Even as he realized that

  the bilges must be full, another wave washed over