by Glen Carter
“I can imagine,” Jack said, seething.
Manteez got up, a signal that the meeting was now over. “Unfortunately, finding those responsible for the murder of your friend will take a much lower priority.”
Doyle didn’t like it, but what choice did he have?
45
The official offices of the President of Cuba were housed in a low-rise brick building located just behind the towering memorial to Jose Marti and Revolution Square. It was a building that attracted little attention and held no cache on the landscape of Havana’s revolutionary landmarks. Photographs were forbidden and the curious who wandered too close were warned away.
At that moment, deep inside the well-guarded building, Richard Wolff was one of five men seated at a long conference table in a room of mahogany and Cuban marble.
Wolff brought a paper napkin across the back of his neck and waited for General Cayo Vega to finish his briefing.
“Las Damos de Blanca.”
“Ladies in White?”
“Ce,” the general responded. “Trying, somewhat successfully, to attract the attention of your media.”
Wolff nodded. “And?”
“There were arrests. Not many. Just enough to remind the malcontents that violent protest won’t be tolerated.”
Wolff knew the Ladies in White were in no way to blame for the violence, but at least five of them were badly beaten by procommunist demonstrators, not far from where he was sitting. It was another indication of simmering discontent. “They want what?”
Vega snorted. “Compensation for the discomfort suffered by their husbands while they were in the custody of the state.”
“For criticizing the government.”
“They were common criminals. Trying to incite a coup.”
As if on cue, a vintage air conditioner coughed and died.The temperature spiked.
“Didn’t one of those men starve himself to death?”
Vega glared at him, but would not answer.
Wolff stopped there.No point in pissing off the general.The man was Ortega’s compromise to the hardliners, the carrot at the end of his stick.More a club than a stick, considering that Ortega represented the destruction of everything they believed in.The old warhorse wasn’t one of the original eighty or so revolutionaries, but he wasn’t far behind. Back in the day he had been handpicked by Castro to tighten the leash on dissidents. He did that with his jails and torture. Vega held a lot of cards in that iron fist, even in the post-Castro administration. Still,Wolff wasn’t clear on why Vega had bought into Ortega’s vision.Maybe it was the spectre of civil war. Bloodshed on a scale that even General Cayo Vega no longer had any stomach for.
Slayer shot Wolff a look. Back off, sir.
Wolff returned the stare. Roger that.
The three others in the room were the chief of the National Revolutionary Police as well as the heads of the Federal Emergency Service and National Health Care. All had a part to play in what was about to happen. Controlling protest was the task of the NRP. They usually did a good job, maybe not so good with the Ladies in White. The Health Minister, a tall thin man with round spectacles, cleared his throat. It took him five minutes to provide his update while Wolff and Slayer listened intently. If, God forbid, anything happened to the President,Havana Hospital was ready. An operatory was standing by, staffed by the most talented surgeons in Cuba. American health-care advisors from the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, had been in country for days and had given the hospital their seal of approval. Wolff was well aware that C-130s loaded with drugs and surgical equipment had been arriving unofficially in Cuba for weeks now.The post-embargo world was already taking form.
Meetings like this one happened on a daily basis since Wolff arrived. Every contingency had been seared into the collective brain, the President’s schedule of meetings and photo-ops was set and nothing was left to chance.Wolff knew it all, but what made him really nervous, left him sick to his stomach, was Revolution Square. That’s where he and Slayer were headed next.
46
Doyle saw her not far away on the street corner, flapping her arms at a cab, outside the same building he had just exited. She was hard to miss in tight blue jeans and a black summer top that seemed to set her long blonde hair on fire. A cab pulled up and Lilia Brechkovsky jumped in.
Jack grabbed the door before she could close it. “Going my way?”
Lilia looked up at him and broke into a large bright smile. “Of course. Jump in.”
Jack got situated, the cabbie took off, and then he turned to her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Lilia tilted her head.
“Going my way?”
Lilia laughed. Raspy but delicate. “The hotel, I’m assuming.”
“Good,” Jack replied.
She smiled and then told the driver where they were headed.
The old city’s smells wafted in. The fumes from jerry-rigged engines.The sweet odours from trees and flowers. Hot grease and frying food. And whatever Lilia was wearing.
A moment later, Lilia answered her cellphone. Jack didn’t understand Russian, but it sounded like work. She was a reporter on a story. He wondered what Lilia was telling themback home—what angle she was running. At them orgue.
Lilia ended her call. “Editors,” she hissed.“They think they know everything from their comfortable little work stations. Puppet masters who understand nothing about the real world.” She looked at Jack with her large beautiful eyes. “You don’t know how lucky you are.” Lucky was the last thing Jack was feeling. He couldn’t shake the image of Malloy’s body. He decided he’d keep that to himself.
“You’re a big name,” Lilia continued. “The star of the show. Everyone bows to the talent.”
Jack forced a laugh.
“No?”
“I wish.” Jack said. “Is there something going on at the morgue that the other reporters are missing?”
Lilia grinned. “Do the others include your wife?”
Touché.
Without getting an answer, Lilia slipped into thought. After a moment she leaned forward and in perfect Spanish told the driver they wouldn’t be going back to the hotel after all.
47
The Christobal Colon Cemetery was located in the Vedado neighbourhood of Havana and contained nearly a million bodies, leaving so little space that, a few years after being interred, most corpses were routinely unearthed, boxed up, and warehoused to make room for the newly dead.
The cab turned right off San Antonio Chiquito onto Calle 5 and parked a moment later between two tour buses at the cemetery’s magnificent Romanesque entrance. The sidewalk was a swarm of people.
When they exited the cab, they were immediately swept through the portico gate, and onto a landscape of weathered crosses and marble statues.
Lilia hadn’t explained the reason for the diversion, she hadn’t spoken much in the taxi at all, but Jack doubted she was interested in sightseeing. She tugged his elbow and began walking in the opposite direction of the tour group.
They made their way along a broad avenue, past an eternity of crowded gravesites. Lilia took up the role of tour guide.
“Filmmakers, poets, athletes,” she said. “Politicians,musicians, even a Cardinal.They’re all here.”
Jack stared into the face of a wingless angel, forlorn, gently embracing a child at the foot of a tiny grave.
Lilia stopped next to him. “Someone has stolen the angel’swings. How could they?”
“No honour among thieves,” Jack replied. “They won’t need wings where they’re headed.”
“Let’s hope not.” Lilia continued walking.
Five minutes later she stopped, again.
Jack wiped his forehead, wished he’d picked up a bottle of water at the front gate.
They were standing before a fresh mound of dirt, with an unremarkable cross, squeezed between a marble tomb and a grave with a headstone in the shape of a violin.
Jack was about
to ask.
Lilia touched his arm. “The man buried here once saved the world from a full scale nuclear war,” she said solemnly. “And I doubt anyone in your White House has ever known his name.”
His name was Anton Lubov.
“OK.”
“He didn’t care for the spotlight,” she said.
Jack stared down at the black earth and small white cross. “No surprise.”
“Where do I begin?”
“That thing about saving the world.That might be a good start.”
Lilia nodded. “Of course.” She began to speak.“There’s not much to tell about the Cuban missile crisis that hasn’t already been told.”
“Not much, no.”
“You remember how close it came to a nuclear exchange.”
“Thankfully cooler heads prevailed,” Jack replied.
“Not in Havana.”
“Now I’m hooked.”
Lilia sat on a wrought-iron rail surrounding Lubov’s grave. She looked directly into Jack’s eyes. “Castro was pushing for a preemptive strike against Washington.”
Jack was familiar with the history of what happened over that two-week period in 1962. Instead of trying to make a friend of Castro, Washington drove the socialist into the embrace of the communist Kremlin. Soon the tiny island was bristling with Soviet missiles. “Castro was itching for a fight,” Jack said, “and was not being intimidated by Washington’s use of coercive diplomacy.”
Lilia nodded her agreement. “He believed he had nothing to lose in all-out nuclear war, since he was certain Kennedy was going to invade anyway. Castro would have died before losing control.”
“That’s always the problem with maniacs.They’re willing to die and take everyone else with them.” Jack paused a second. “So what does any of this have to do with Anton Lubov?”
Lilia paused before dropping the bombshell. “Castro had acquired the launch codes for a number of the operational missiles based on his island.”
Jacks eyes widened. “You’re serious.”
“Yes,” Lilia replied.
It took a moment to sink in. A bloodthirsty dictator’s finger on the proverbial button. Jack shuddered at the thought.
Suddenly, there was noise behind them. They turned to see a caretaker pushing a cart loaded with gardening tools.He stared at Lilia until it became too rude to continue, and a moment later he was gone.
Jack turned to her. “Lubov,” was all he said.
Lilia jumped in. “Castro had a plan,” she said. “He ordered one of his generals to assemble a special-ops team to take control of two of the launch sites.Neutralizing Soviet personnel wouldn’t have been a problem.After taking control,Castro was planning to quickly launch birds at Washington and New York, thereby forcing what he saw as an inevitable nuclear exchange between the US and the Soviet Union.”
Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing.There were a million questions. Instead, he let her speak.
Lilia took his silence as her cue. “Lubov was the KGB liaison officer at the Havana embassy at the time. To keep a long story short, he got wind of the mission. I don’t know how he did it, but he did. Probably from one of his many sources close to Castro’s inner circle. He got word to Moscow, apparently with only hours to spare. The jig, as they say, was up. The nuke codes were changed immediately, Castro was reigned in, rather roughly I might add. One of our Spetsnaz units paid his general a late night visit. The whole missile crisis played out, thankfully with a non-apocalyptic conclusion.”
“Jesus,” Jack said. He stared with new respect at the heap of dirt in front of them. “What happened to Lubov?” Not so strange a question, Jack thought. Dead yes, but how?
Lilia turned to the dark little grave with its blank cross and an insignificance that brought heartbreak to her face.
Jack was touched by her compassion.
“Castro’s people never discovered him as the spoiler for their plans.He served the Rodina for a lifetime after and eventually retired here. A sad man, really.”
Jack pondered this for a moment. “Saved us all and then died a peaceful death in obscurity. In a way, a nice ending for someone who didn’t like the spotlight.”
Lilia shook her head. “No, Jack. Lubov was murdered.”
Jack waited.
“By an assassin named Vasily Rusakova. He’s one of the best sniper’s Russia has ever produced. And we’re sure he’s got another target.”
Jack sat ramrod straight.
48
Richard Wolff hung up the secure telephone with a snap that brought stares from everyone in the room, including Slayer, his second-in-command.
“Bad news?”
“It’s no go on the marines,”Wolff said. “An American military presence would colour the event.”
Slayer nodded. “Vega’s hand, no doubt. Doesn’twantAmerican uniforms on Cuban soil.”
“Likely so,” Wolff said. “Bad optics having a foreign power’s armed forces stomping all over your sovereignty in front of the whole world.”
“Damn the optics.”
Wolff shook his head. “We’re here as friends, remember. Not invaders.”
They had two entire floors at Hotel Nacional, which had been a favourite of the mob. Only there were no beds and no whores.
Most doors were open. People spilled into the hallway juggling cellphones, files, and coffee cups.
At least half a dozen agencies were on the ground. Defence, State, and the US Information Agency, which handled the hundreds of domestic and foreign reporters covering the story. Even the Immigration and Naturalization and Customs Services had inspectors running around.There were passports and other re-entry issues to deal with for everyone American—even POTUS.
In one corner of Wolff’s suite, a counter intelligence officer was on his phone, listening intently to a daily briefing from the NSA. He looked grim. He always did.Wolff would hear from him later.
On the other side of the suite the hazardous materials lead was cursing into the mouthpiece of his secure phone.The latest threat assessment revealed a block of C-4 was unaccounted for at a Cuban army depot. More than enough to ruin game day.
Wolff showed his worry. Reached for a piece of fruit, but then retreated from it.
Slayer motioned his boss over.
On a large table a map was spread wide. Slayer stabbed at it. “Entry points here, here, and several more at the southern end of Revolution Square.” He stared earnestly at Wolff, who nodded vigorously. Slayer continued. “Metal detectors and body scanners will be located at all points of entry. If anyone just looks wrong, they’ll be sent packing.”
“What about explosives detection?”Wolff said, with a glance at the guy trying to locate the missing C-4.
Slayer followed his gaze.“We’re good to go with IMS,” he reported. Ion Mobility Spectrometers were already in place.
Wolff preferred bomb-sniffing dogs and he said so.
Slayer nodded. “I’m a big dog man, too. But, lets face it, the spectrometers are built to bemore accurate on the detection taggants.”
“Go on,”Wolff said, for the moment satisfied.
Slayer continued with his briefing.The square had been swept and cleaned.Manhole covers were welded shut. High vantage points were locked and secured. Hundreds of Cuban bureaucrats who normally toiled in the buildings surrounding Revolution Square were told to stay home. Everyone else was met with locked doors, even the apartment dwellers nearby.There had been barely enough time for the advance teams,much less the preadvance personnel,which made the progress so far all the more remarkable.
“Everyone in country,”Wolff asked.
“Getting there.” Slayer said.
Jose Marti International was a parking lot of aircraft. DOD had a fleet of C-5s and C-141s on the tarmac, emptied of their human cargo and tons of equipment.Heavily guarded heads of state were arriving in droves. A separate meeting was being hosted by Pilious Ortega to discuss trade issues and drug interdiction. American media stars arrived ab
oard corporate jets with their producers and makeup staff. What they couldn’t bring with them—the fly-packs, the editing equipment, the lights, and Plexiglas wind-proof anchor enclosures—was flown in aboard cargo charters along with hordes of technical personnel.
No amount of money could secure a hotel room. There were simply none available. Word was the Japanese Nipon Network had purchased an entire resort and then cleared out two floors for its news and technical crews.
The locals, according to Slayer, were doing their jobs. Vega’s people were actually pretty good and things were running smoothly. A visit by the President anywhere involved as much hardwork for the indigenous authorities as it did the Secret Service. If they didn’t pull their weight it meant the service faced an impossible task.Wolff figured they had almost as much at stake—America was about to become their new, rich friend.
The bomb guy working the phone gave a victory shout. The missing C-4 had been accounted for.The ordinance guy on the other end of the phone apologized.
Wolff breathed a sigh of relief.Another crisis averted. It had been one after another.
Slayer stepped away from the table to take a call.The man was a dynamo but even he was showing his fatigue. Hell. Wolff couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten eight hours. He walked to the window and stood there, his head buzzing with the million things that needed to be done. It was easier to concentrate on the broad strokes, but Wolff tensed at the thought that some small, seemingly insignificant detail was waiting to bite him in the ass.
Wolff reached into his pocket and popped open a bottle of Tums. The devil was always in the details.
49
Jack Doyle and Lilia Brechkovsky looked like the perfect couple.He was dark and handsome; she was blonde and stunningly beautiful. To passers-by, they appeared to be a couple of tourists enjoying the shade of a humongous tree in Parque Central.Which couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Jack listened intently as Lilia spoke.
“Anton Lubov was a remarkable man,” she said, sipping a cold drink.
