by Cuba (lit)
center of the street.
"Haltff"...the senior officer shouted. He was a
major. "You are entering a military area! You can go
no farther!"
Ocho didn't even slow his pace. The soldiers
had to join the crowd to keep from being trampled.
"You! Stop these people! This is a secure area,
by order of Alejo Vargas.".
"We will not stop."...Ocho laughed. "Do you think you can
stop the sun from rising?"
The soldiers hurried along, trying to talk
to Ocho, who refused to slow his pace.
"You are El Ocho"..."...one of the younger soldiers asked.
"The days of Vargas are over, my friendea"...Ocho
explained. "Give away your gun and come along with
us."
The sheer numbers and weight of the people pushing along
frightened the major, who had a pistol in his hand.
Even as his subordinates handed their
weapons to the nearest people in civilian clothes, he
placed himself in front of Ocho, who didn't stop
walking,
"I order you to stop, Sedanoff"...he shouted, and
pointed" the pistol at Ocho's head.
"You would make me a martyour, would you"..."...Ocho asked
the major, who was trying to match Ocho's stride.
"Look around you, man. No one can stop them."
The major fired the pistol into the air. His face was
drawn and pale, almost bloodless. "Stop or I
shoot you down, as God is my witness."
"Mi amigo,"
said Ocho Sedano, "for days at sea I was ready
to die; all the fear drained from me. There is none in
my heart now. My death will not stop these people: nothing can
stop the turning of the earth. Still, if you feel you
must kill me, make your peace with God and pull the
trigger."
Then he smiled.
El Ocho was a madman, the major realized. Or
a saint. The major wiped at the perspiration on his
forehead, and handed Ocho the pistol.
Ocho passed the weapon on. He put his arm around
the major's shoulders. "Comeea"...he said.-"We will
walk to the promised land together."
Like a wall of water rushing along a dry arroyo,
the human river flowed along the avenue toward the
university as airplanes droned through the darkness
overhead.
In the foyer of the science building, Alejo Vargas
heard the airplanes. He looked at the
politicians and young soldiers who waited
silently behind him, blocking the doors to the stairs
and the elevator, and he looked at his aides, who were
nervously looking out windows, trying not to fidget.
Where was Santana?
The man should be here: he was Alej6 Vargas's one
loyal friend on this earth.
Vargas paced back and forth, stood in the doorway
and listened to the airplanes, wondered if the troops
he had hidden in the surrounding buildings were loyal,
would still fight. Over two thousand heavily armed men were
waiting for the Americans. This time the Yanquis would
not escape: this time there would be prisoners to parade
before the cameras, vanquished foes to kneel at his
feet as Cuba cheered. This time ...
A car rocketed up to the front of the building and a
man leaped out, a uniformed colonel with the
"Department of State Security. He ran up the
stairs, came running through the door, saw
Vargas and ran toward him.
"The televisionea"...he said breathlessly. "On the
television, they are showing a tape of Fidel."
"Yes"..."...sd Vargas, his brows knitting.
"Fidel made the tape before he died. He wants
Hector Sedano to be the president after him."
"What"..."...Vargas didn't believe a word of it.
"They run the tape, which takes about six minutes,
then run it again, over and over and over."
"That's impossibleea"...Vargas said, turning toward the
politicians, who had moved closer. "Fidel
made no such tape before he died. He wanted
to make a tape naming me as his successor, but
his-illness prevented it."
"They are showing a tape on televisionea"...the
colonel insisted. "Fidel says the nation must
change, and Hector Sedano is the man to lead that
change."
"It's a trickff"...Vargas roared. "The Yanqui
CIA is playing a trick on us."
Every face was openly skeptical.
"Fidel is dead! Don't you people understand that"..."...A
rising symphony of babbling voices and helicopter
noises came through the open door.
"What is happening"..."...Vargas demanded,
turning in that direction. "Where are the soldiers?"
He saw heads climbing the- stairs, many heads,
then a mob of people in civilian clothes and army
uniforms poured through the doorway, forcing their way in.
The room filled rapidly.
People in the doorway stood aside for two men who
walked through together, one a tall, rangy young man and the
other of medium height, wearing a one-piece faded
prison jumpsuit.
They stopped in front of Vargas.
Hector's voice was plainly audible to every person
in the room when he said, "Alejo Vargas, I
arrest you in the name of the Cuban people for the murder of
Raiil Castro."tilde Vargas's hand darted
inside his jacket for a pistol, but before he could get
it out a dozen hands reached for him, pulled him to the
floor, and took the weapon from him.
Maximo Sedano spent the night aboard his yacht
in Havana Harbor. He heard the planes and the
explosions of bombs falling around La Cabana
Prison, but he didn't go ashore. He had worked
until night fell hunting for the gold that he was
sure lay on the floor of Havana Harbor.
He found a great deal of junk and trash, but no
gold.
As the bombs were falling he drank some rum, idly
studied the skyline, thought about gold.
Thirty-seven tons of gold. My God, what a
man could do with a fortune like that! Cars, yachts,
women, all the good things hi life.
He was filthy from the muck and pollution of the harbor.
The water tank on the boat was not large, so he
sponged off as best he could and- resolved to take a
shower ashore at the first opportunity.
The next morning he began diving as soon as the
sun came up. Boats came and went and Maximo
worked steadily. He changed tanks once.
The work was maddening. The most probable location for the
gold was the marina anchorage, where Fidel and Che
must have spent the nights they were anchored. Here is where
they must have dumped the gold overboard!
Yet it wasn't on the floor of the harbor. He
thought mud and sediment might have covered the ingots, but
even when he dug, he could find nothing.
He wasn't being systematic enough, he decided as
he lay exhausted on the deck of his boat, his
broken fingers aching like bad teeth.
He knew he couldn't go on today, so he took the
>
dinghy and motored ashore. He had his empty
tanks along for the harbormaster to fill.
Tired, working one-handed, Maximo took several
minutes to get the small boat tied up and the empty
air tanks onto the dock. He picked them up and
carried them toward the harbormaster's shack.
The man was sitting inside reading a newspaper.
"Can you fill these"..."...Maximo asked.
The harbormaster looked up to see who was asking, then
brightened. "Senor Sedano, of course. I am so
delighted to hear about your brother. Congratulations."
"What?"
The look of surprise on his face must have shocked
the harbormaster, who held out the newspaper.
"Surely you knowea"...he said. "Your brother Hector
is the new president of Cuba."
Maximo took the paper, sank down into the only
empty chair, stared at the headlines.
"What a nightff"...sd the harbormaster, beaming like the
sun. "History in the making. Hector and El
Ocho, what a team!"
"Amazing."
"And look! The newspaper published a letter from your
sister-in-law, Mercedes. Forty years ago
Fidel hid the peso gold under the floor of the
presidential palace. It's still there, every ounce of
it. Sixty
tons of gold
the nation owns, eh! Isn't that amazing?"
The gray U.s. Navy ammo ship anchored in the
bay and put a launch into the water. The coxswain
brought the small boat around to a gangway. In a
few minutes the trill of a bosun's pipe could be
heard, then a series of bells over the ship's
loudspeaker.
A group of officers and sailors in white uniforms
came down the gangway and climbed aboard the
launch.
The town of Antilla, Cuba, lay baking in the
sun. The
waterfront was lined with fishing craft. The only
ships at the pier were two small coasters, about a
thousand tons each. The launch maneuvered against the
pier and Rear Admiral Jake Grafton stepped
ashore. Gil Pascal and Toad Tarkington
followed him onto the pier.
"That's the warehouse over thereea"...Toad said, and
pointed.
Jake just nodded. He waited as a knot of
Cubans came walking out on the pier toward him.
"Where"...ness the translator?"
"Right here, sirea"...sd an enlisted man, who
stepped forward beside Jake. He too was togged out in
his best white uniform.
After the usual diplomatic greetings, Jake,
Captain Pascal, and the translator went with the
Cubans toward the warehouse, leaving Toad alone
on the pier.
Tarkington strolled along, looking here and there, his
arms folded behind his back.
He was standing near the head of the pier when he heard a
noise. He stepped to the edge, leaned over.
A man in a black diving suit covered with muck
and slime was dragging his gear out from under the pier into the
sun.
"I was wondering where you guys wereea"...Toad said
conversationally.
"Some days you're the pigeon, some days you're the
statueea"...the navy SEAL said. "Three days we've
been living under here like harbor rats, watching that
warehouse. We searched it the first night, Commanderthe
warheads were in there. And they're still there; the Cubans
haven't taken anything out."
"Where's your partner in crime?"
"Over on the other side of those coasters. He'll
be along in a bit. Think we could get a ride out
to the ship? I've been dreaming of a hot
shower, a hot meal, and a clean bunk."
"I think that can be arranged."...Toad reached down,
helped lift the diving gear onto the pier.
When the SEAL was standing on the pier beside him, dripping
onto the splintered boards, Toad said, "How'd you
like your Cuban vacation?"
"I want better accommodations for my next
visit."
As the president of the United States feared, the
aftermath of the second Cuban missile crisis, as
the press called it, was a political disaster in
Washington, with howls of outrage from the press and
demands from frightened senators and congressmen for
investigations and the resignations of everyone in the
executive branch.
The president watched General Tater Totten
retire from a distance, didn't go to the small
Pentagon ceremony, let the White House
spinmeisters whisper that Totten was somehow partially
responsible for the journey to the brink of the abyss.
Sensing that he couldn't win a whisper war, Totten
kept his mouth shut and departed with dignity.
Amid the impassioned breast-beating and public
denunciations, the director of the CIA decided that
he too had had enough of Washington. He had
a final conversation with the president in the Oval
Office after he submitted his resignation but before the
White House announced his departure.
"Sorry to see you goea"...the president muttered
politely, not meaning a word of it. The director
nodded knowingly.
"Don't know if this congressional investigation can be
derailed or notea"...the president said, not willing
to look the director in the eye. "A lot of what
happened will be classified forever, so I don't
really see what they stand to gain by stirring through the
ashes."
"They'll investigate anywayea"...the director
predicted gloomily. "That's what I want
to talk to you about. At one of those meetings during the
crisis you asked for the name of our top man in
Cuba, and I wrote it down for you. I don't know
if you ever looked at that name, but it would
be absolute disaster if that person's name were revealed
to a congressional investigator."
"After you wrote it down, I looked at the nameea"...the
president said, speaking slowly. "Not at the
meeting, but later. Didn't expect to recognize
it, but then was amazed that the last name was the same as the
priest who was thrown in prison."
"Mercedes Sedano was Castro's mistress and an
intelligence treasure. She told us of drug
deals, Vargas's blackmail files, Fidel's
secret bank accounts.... When she wanted the
tape made of Fidel naming Hector as his
successor, there wasn't time to go through the usual
drops and cutouts, so she went directly to the
American Interest Section of the Swiss
embassy. None of this must come out, Mr.
President. If the Cubans find out she was
whispering to us, Hector Sedano's government might
fall. And she might lose her life."
"That sheet of paper no longer existsea"...the
president said. "I suggest you destroy the
files."
A few minutes later as the director was preparing
to leave, the president said, "I have never understood
spies. Why did that woman betray her country?"
Th
e director blinked like an owl. "I don't know
that she didea"...he replied, and walked out of the Oval
Office for the last time.
On a Wednesday morning in November Tommy
Carmellini parked his car in a large parking garage
in downtown Denver and got his backpack from the
trunk.
The weather was gorgeous, a sunny, mild day with
air so clear the peaks of the Rockies looked
close enough to touch. Autumn leaves lay packed in
gutters and windrows waiting for tomorrow's wind to blow them
around.
Carmellini walked two blocks to the Sixteenth
Street mall. While he was waiting for a free
shuttle bus he bought a copy of the
Denver Post
from a vending machine. Like so many of the young people, he was
dressed in tennis
shoes, faded jeans, and a threadbare pullover
sweater. An unzipped windbreaker was tied around his
waist. A backpack hung over one shoulder. The
shuttle bus stopped at the end of every block to let
people on and off. Hanging from a strap, Carmellini
kept his backpack pressed against the rear window of the
bus.
At the western end of the mall Carmellini let himself
be swept along with the flow of people into the regional bus
depot. He found a bus to Boulder, climbed
aboard, and dropped the fare into the change box, then
eased into a window seat five rows behind the driver.
He kept his backpack on his lap.
The bus filled quickly. In minutes the
driver closed the door and pulled out of the station.
Tommy Carmellini opened the newspaper and
examined the front page. All U.s. sanctions
against travel and commerce with Cuba were lifted, and the
U.s. was opening an embassy in Havana. There
was a photo of the president of the United States
shaking hands with Hector Sedano at a news
conference in Washington.
Tommy flipped through the paper. On page four he
found a short item reporting a Florida grand
jury indictment of El Gato, a Cuban exile
living in Miami, charging him with selling unnamed
equipment to the Cuban government in violation of the
laws existing at the time. According to the newspaper, El
Gato was the only person indicted.
Carmellini folded the paper and tucked it in the seat
pocket in front of him.
Cuba was long ago and far away. Of course he still
read the news and classified summaries, and heard
people talking about Cuba and the people he met there.
Microsoft and Intel were building big factories
in Havana, and Phillip Morris was buying one
