Cuba (18 page)

Cuban soldiers to die in Angola, demanded that

generation after generation give their blood to fulfill your

destiny as Cuba’s savior. You have impoverished a

nation, reduced them to beggary to salve your ego. I

spit on you and all that you would have us become.”

And he did.

Fidel brought a hand up to wipe away the

spittle. “Fuck youff”…he whispered.

“And you too,

Lider Maximal”

Vargas shot back. “I do not pretend to be

God’s other son, strutting in green fatigues and

spouting platitudes while the people worship me. But

enough of this. Before we get to the camera, tell me where the

gold is.”

“The gold?”

STEPHEN COONTS

“The gold, Fidel. The gold from the peso coins

that the Ministry of Finance melted down into ingots, the

gold ingots that you and Che and Edis Lopez and

Jos6 Otero carried away. How much gold was

there? Forty or fifty tons? You certainly

didn’t spend it on the people of Cuba. Where is it?”

A grimace twisted Castro’s lips, “You’ll

never find it, that’s for certain. Edis and Jos6

died within weeks of Che. I am the only living

person who knows where mat gold is; I am taking

the secret to my grave.”

“The gold isn’t yours.”

“Nor is it yours, you son of a pig.”

“We will let you watch us cut up Mercedes. We

will make a tiny incision on her abdomen, pull out

a loop of small intestine. I will ask you questions, and

every time you refuse to answer Colonel Santana will

pull out more intestine. You will tell us everything we

want-to know or we will see what her insides

look like. Colonel?”

Santana grabbed Mercedes by the arms. With one hand

he grabbed the front of her dress and ripped it from

her body.

Fidel Castro’s jaw moved. Then he went

limp, slumping in his chair.

“Fideir

Mercedes screamed.

Vargas leaped for Castro, pried open his jaw and

raked a piece of celluloid from his mouth with his

finger.

“Poisonea”…he said disgustedly. He felt

Castro’s wrist for a pulse.

“Stone cold dead.”…He tossed down the wrist and

turned toward Mercedes.

“You

gave him the poison! He had the capsule in his

mouth.”

Alejo Vargas slapped her as hard as he could.

“And this is for insulting my mother,

puta backslash was

He slapped her again so hard she went to her knees,

the side of her face numb. “If you do it again I

will cut your tongue outea”…he added, his voice almost a

hiss.

Then Vargas took a deep breath and steadied himself.

The sight of Fidel Castro’s corpse drained the

rage from bun and filled him with adrenaline, ready

for the race to his destiny. He had waited all his

life for this moment and now it was here.

“Listen to misea”…the technician said, and

handed the earphones to William Henry Chance. They

were crammed into a tiny van with the logo of the

Communications Ministry on the side. The van was

parked on a side street near Chance’s hotel, but

with an excellent view of the Interior Ministry.

Chance put on the headphones.

“We recorded this stuff early mis morningea”…the

technician told Chance’s associate, Tommy

Carmeltini. “Getting to you without stirring up the

Cubans was the trick. Wait until you hear this

stuff.”

“What is it”…”…Cannellini asked.

“Vargas and his thug, Santana, hi the

minister’s office. They’re talking about a speech

they want Castro to make in front of cameras.

A political will, Vargas called it They are

writing it, debating the wording.”

“What do they want it to sayour

“They want Castro to name Vargas as his

successor, his heir.”*

“Will he do that?”‘

“They seem to think he will.”

“Have we heard anything back from Washington about that

ship referencethe

Coldnl… Nuestra Senora de Co

backslash 6nThat

“No. Something like that will take days to percolate through

the bureaucracy.”

“I was hoping the reference to North Koreans and

biological warheads would light a fire under

somebody.”

“It always takes a while before we smell the

smoke of burning trousers.”

CarmelUni watched Chance’s face as he

listened to the

STEPHEN COONTS

tape. William Henry Chance, attorney and

CIA agent, certainly didn’t look like a man

who would be at home in the shadow world of spies and

espionage. But then appearances were often deceiving.

Carmellini had been a burglarmore or less

semi-retiredattending the Stanford University

Law School when he was visited one day by a

CIA recruiter, a woman who took him to lunch

in the student union cafeteria and asked him about

bis plans for the future. He still remembered the

conversation. He was going into business, he said.

Maybe politics. He thought that someday he might

run for public office.

“A prosecution for stealing the Peabody

diamond from the Museum of Natural History in

Washington would probably crimp your plans,

wouldn’t it?”‘ she said sweetly.

He gaped. Sat there like a fool with his mouth hanging

open, the brain completely stalled.

He had seen her credentials, which certainly looked

official enough. Central Intelligence Agency.

The Government with a capital G. But there had never

been the slightest hint that anyone was on his trail.

Not even a sniff.

“It would do thatea”…he managed.

After a bit, the question of how she knew formed hi his

mind, and he began trying to figure out how to ask it

hi a nonincriminating way.

“You’re wondering, I supposeea”…she said

matter-of-factly between sips of her coffee, “how

we learned of your involvement.”

Unable to help himself, he nodded yes.

“Your pal talked. The Miami PD got him

on another burglary, so he threw you to the wolves

to get a lighter sentence.”

Well, there it was. His very best friend in the whole world

and the only guy who knew everything had sold him out.

“You need some better friendsea”…she said. “Your friend is

a pretty small-caliber guy. A real

loser. He got eight

years on the state charge. Moving stolen property

across state lines is a federal crime of course,

and Justice hasn’t decided if they will

prosecute.”

It quickly became plain that at that moment in his

life, the CIA was his best career choice.

After finishing law school, Carmellini spent a

year in the covert operations section of the agency. Now

he was an associate of William Henry Chance,

who had been with the CIA ever since he left the army

after the Vietnam War. The cover was impecca2oth

men were really practicing attorneys and CIA

operatives on the side.

Carmellini remembered the first tune he met

William Henry Chance. He was running a

ten-kilometer race hi Virginia one weekend

when Chance came galloping up beside him, barely

sweating, and suggested they have lunch afterward.

Chance mentioned a name, Carmellini’s boss at the

agency. “He said you were a pretty good

runnerea”…Chance said, then began lengthening his stride.

Tommy Carmellini managed to stay with Chance

all the way to the tape but it was a hell of a workout

Chance didn’t work at running; he loped

along, all lean meat, bone, and sinew, a

natural long-distance runner. Carmellini, on the

other hand, was built more like a running back or

middle linebacker.

About half of Carmellini’s time was spent on

agency matters, half on the firm’s business.

He was a better covert warrior than he was a

lawyer, so he had to work hard to keep up with the bright

young associates who had not the slightest idea that

Carmellini or Chance were also employed by the CIA.

Sitting in a telephone company van hi the

middle of Havana listening to intercepted conversations,

Tommy Carmellini wondered if he should have told

the CIA to stick it. He would probably be getting

out of prison about now, free and clear.

And broke, of course. His friend had fenced the

diamond

and spent all the money, never intending to give

Carmellini his share.

On the table were a set of photos the technicians

had taken of the University of Havana science

building. They had had the place under surveillance

for the last two days.

Carmellini looked at the photos critically, as

if he were going to burgle the joint. There were

guards at every entrance, some electronic alarms:

getting in would take some doing.

After a while Chance handed the headphones to a

technician. He sat looking at Carmellini with a

frown on his face.

“I think Vargas plans to kill Fidelea”…Chance

said finally.

“When?”

“Soon. Very soon. Today or tomorrow, I would

imagine.”

“And then?”‘

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The men left alive aboard

Angel del Mar

were unable to get the engine restarted, so it drifted

helplessly with the wind and swell. Ocho took his

turn in the tiny, cramped engine compartment. Something

down inside the engine was broken, perhaps the

crankshaft. Rotating the propeller shaft by hand

made a clunky noise; at a certain point in the

shaft’s rotation it became extremely difficult

to turn. Admitting finally that repairing the motor was

hopeless, Ocho backed out of the small compartment. His

place was taken by someone else who wanted

to satisfy himself personally that the engine was

indeed beyond repair.

After a while they all gave up and shut the door.

Without the engine they had to work the bilge pump

manually. Fifteen minutes of intense effort

cleared the bilges of water. With daylight coming through the

hatch one could just see the water seeping in between the

planks where the sea had pounded the caulking loose.

It took about fifteen minutes for the bilges

to fill, then they had to be

pumped again. A quarter hour of work, a quarter hour

of rest.

“If we can just keep pumpingea”…the old fisherman

said, “we stay afloat.”

“If the water doesn’t come in any

fasterea”…Ocho added. He was young and strong, so he

spent hours sitting here in the bilge working the pump,

watching the water come in.

Twenty-six people remained alive. The captain’s

body was still hi the wheelhouse, where he had fallen.

No one wanted to take responsibility for moving

bun.

After a morning working the bilge pump, Ocho

Sedano stood braced against the wheelhouse and, shading

his eyes, looked carefully in all directions. The

view was the same as it was yesterday,

swells that ran off to the horizon, and above it all

a sky crowded with puffy little clouds.

At least the sea had subsided somewhat. The wind

no longer tore whitecaps off the waves. The

breeze seemed steady, maybe eight or ten

knots out of the southwest.

One suspected the boat was drifting northeast,

riding the Gulf Stream. The nearest land in that

direction was the Bahamas.

The United States was north, or perhaps

northwest-now. A whole continent was just over the

horizon, with people, cities, restaurants, farms,

mountains, rivers… if only they could get there.

Well, someone would see this boat drifting before

too long. Someone in a plane or fishing boat,

perhaps an American coast guard cutter or navy

ship looking for drug smugglers. They would see the

Angel del Mar

drifting helplessly, give the people stranded on her

water and food, then take them to Guantinamo Bay

and make them walk through the gate back to Cuba.

Or maybe they would be taken to hospitals in

America.

Already some of these people needed hospitals. They had

vomited too much, been without water for too

long. They had become dehydrated, then-

electrolytes dangerously out of balance, and if

left unattended would die. Just

like the people swept over me side last night.

Of course, knowing all this, there was absolutely

nothing Ocho Sedano could do. He too felt the

ravages of thirst, felt the aching of the empty knot

hi his stomach. Fortunately he had not been

seasick, had not retched his guts out until he had

only the dry heaves like so many of these others lying

helpless in the sun.

The wheelhouse cast a little shade, so he dragged

several people in out of the sun. Maybe that would help a

little.

The sea seemed to keep the boat broadside to it,

so the shade didn’t move around too much, which was a

blessing.

There wasn’t room in die shade for everyone.

“The sailea”…sd the fisherman. “There is an old

piece of canvas around the boom. Let’s see if

we can get it up.”

They worked with the canvas in the afternoon sun for over an