Cuba (10 page)

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

enormous. In the future the cigarette companies

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

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

revolution the average wage was ten dollars a

month, girls from all over Cuba flocked

to Havana to prostitute themselves on the streets,

everything necessary for a decent life was outrageously

expensive or

unavailable at any price. The social justice

that the communists had promised was as far

away as ever: the pain and misery that blighted and made

wretched millions of lives had not brought that goal

one step closer.

The tourist attractions were the supreme irony, of

course. These monuments to greed and sins of the flesh were

owned and operated by the socialist state to attract

hard currency. The dollars were brought in and spent

here by decadent capitalists who earned the money

exploiting the workers of the world somewhere else.

If Karl Marx only knew. With the banners of

social justice flying in the blue tropic sky,

the Cubans had joined the Pied Piper of the Sierra

Maestra as he marched bravely down the road

to hell. The crumbling buildings, decrepit old

cars, hookers on every discorner, universal

hopelessness it looked as if the whole parade had

almost arrived. caret

Very curious, William Henry Chance thought.

Curious as hell.

From this vantage point he could see all of it, his

whole life, as if it were a play being performed before

him. The memories came back vivid and clear,

the scenes scrolling before his eyes. The mistakes and

lost opportunities and petty vendettas played

endlessly, inevitably, and he lived it

all again, powerless to change a word or gesture.

He was in pain these days, a lot of it, and the doctor

this morning had given him a strong narcotic. Now

he floated, half-asleep, the pain that had doubled

him into the fetal position now a tolerable dull

ache. Even as his mind raced, his body relaxed.

Mercedes Sedano sat in a chair in the darkened

room beside the bed, looking into the gloomy darkness and

lost in her own thoughts.

She reached for Fidel when he moaned and put her