Cuba (9 page)

After a minute or so the pain eased somewhat and he

puffed at the cigar, which was still smoldering.

Whoever came after him was going to have to make his peace

with the United States. They were going to have to be

selective about America’s gifts, rejecting the

bad while learning to profit from the good things, the

gifts America had to give to the world.

That had been his worst failinghe himself had never

learned how to safely handle the American

elephant, make the beast do his bidding. His

successors would have to for the sake of the Cuban people.

Cuba would never be anything if it remained a long,

narrow sugarcane field and way point for cocaine

smugglers. If that was all there was, everyone on the

island might as well set sail for Miami.

Maybe he should have left, said good-bye, thrown up

his hands and retired to the Costa del Sol.

Next time. Next time he would retire young, let

the Cubans make it on their own.

Like every man who ever walked the earth, Castro had

been trapped by his own mistakes. The choices

he made early in the game were irreversible. He

and the Cuban people had been forced to live with the

consequences. Life is like that, he reflected.

Everyone must make his choices,

wise or foolish, good or bad, and live with them;

there is no going back.

There is always the possibility of

redemption, of course, but one cannot unmake the past.

We have only the present. Only this moment.

When the pain came this time, the cigar dropped from his

fingers.

He lay in the bed groaning, trying not to scream for the

nurse. If he did, she would give him an

injection, which would put him to sleep. The needle was

going to give him peace during his final days, but he

wasn’t ready for it yet.

The pain had eased somewhat when he felt a hand on

his forehead. He opened his eyes. Mercedes.

“You dropped your cigar on the floorea”…she

whispered.

“I know.”

“Shall I call the nurse?”

“Not for a while.”

She used a damp cloth to wipe the perspiration from his

face. The cloth felt good.

“Light the cigar.”

She did so, put it in his hand. He managed one

tiny puff.

“You talked to Hector?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He was surprised. He didn’t know it

would

be

so soon.”

“That was your impression?”

“Yes.”

“And the tobacco deal with the Americans? What did

Hector say when you told him about it?”

“Just listened.”

“The birthday party, Maximo came?”

“Yes. Brought a box of French chocolates and his

wife, who wore a Paris frock.”

Fidel’s lips twisted. He could imagine what the

other people at the party thought of that. Maximo could charm

foreign bankers and squeeze a peso until it

squealed, but he was no politician.

“Did you warn Hector about Alejo?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He made light of it.”

Fidel thought about that. Remembered the cigar and took

another puff.

“He thinks the threat will be the generalsea”…he said

finally, “but it won’t. The generals don’t know it,

but the troops will follow Hector. Alejo

Vargas is his most dangerous opponent,

and if Hector Sedano doesn’t understand that, they will

bury him a few days after they bury me.”

“Admiral, next weekend when we’re in the

Virgin Islands, what say we put the barge in the

water and go waterskiing?”

The person asking the question was the admiral’s aide, a

young lieutenant who flew an FirstA-18 on her

last cruise. Her boyfriend was still in one of the

Hornet squadrons; the last time Jake

Grafton approved the barge adventure, the

boyfriend was invited to go along.

Now Jake sighed. “I’m not sure where we’re

going to be next weekend, Beth.”…He had no

intention of getting very far from Guantanamo Bay

while those warheads were still in that warehouse, but of

course he couldn’t say that. “Check with ops,

Commander Tarkington.”

“Yes, sirea”…Beth said, trying to hide her

disappointment.

The new Chief of Staff, Captain Gil

Pascal, Toad Tarkington, and the admiral had

put their heads together, carefully listed the forces

available should an emergency arise, and drafted a

contingency plan. “Nothing’s happened in all these

yearsea”…Jake told them, “but Washington

must have had a reason for telling us to keep an eye

on the place. They must know something we don’t.”

Gil Pascal met the admiral’s gaze. He

had reported to the staff just a week ago. “Sir,

as I recall, the orders said to ‘monitor” the

loading of the weapons onto the container ship.”

“”Monitor”"…”…muttered Jake Grafton.

“What the hell does that mean? Is that some kind of

New Age bureaucrat word? It doesn’t mean

anything.”

“I guess my question really is, how much force are you

willing to use without authorization from Washington?”

A faint smile crossed the lips of Toad

Tarkington. Only a man who didn’t know the

admiral would ask that question. Anyone who started

shooting in Jake Grafton’s bailiwick had

better be ready for a war, Toad, thought. He had

managed to wipe off the smile by the time the admiral

answered:

“Whatever it takes to keep those warheads in

American hands.”

Pascal took his time ordering his thoughts. “Shouldn’t

we be talking contingencies with Washington,

Admiral?”

Jake Grafton opened a top-secret message

folder that lay on his desk in front of him. “I

already sent a query to CNO. This is the answer.”

He passed the message to Pascal. “Monitor

weapons onload diligently, using your best

judgmentea”…the message read, “but do not deviate from

normal routine. Revealing presence of chemical and

biological weapons in Cuba not in the national

interest. Risks of transfer have been carefully

considered at the highest level. Should risk

assessment change you will be informed.”…The final sentence

referred to the original message.

“Five sentences”…”…Toad Tarkington asked when he

had had his chance to read the message. “Only five

sentences?”

Reading naval messages was an art, of course.

One had to consider the identity and personality of the

sender, the receiver, the situation, any correspondence

that had passed before…. The situation in Washington was

the unknown here, Jake concluded. If the CNO had

been at liberty to say more, he would have: Jake

knew the CNO. The lack of guidance or

illumination told Jake that the chief of naval

operations wanted him to be ready for anything.

“We’ll have to do the best we can with what we

have,”

the admiral said now to Pascal and Tarkington. “I

want a plan: we need someone watching at all

times, a quick reaction force that can meet any initial

incursion with force, a reserve force to throw into the fray

to absolutely deny access, and flash messages

ready to go informing Washington of what we have done.”

Toad and Gil Pascal nodded. A plan like this

with the forces that the admiral had at his disposal would be

simple to construct. No surprises there.

“There is always the possibility that we may not be able

to prevent hostiles from getting to the warheads, if they

choose to try. We also need a plan addressing that

contingency.”

“Surely this nightmare won’t come to passea”…Gil

Pascal said. “Your assessment of the risk differs

remarkedly from that of the National Security

Council.”

“I’m sure the powers that be think it quite unlikely

anybody will try to prevent us from removing the

weapons from Cuba, and I agree. On the other

hand, they must know something they can’t share with us. If the

risk were zero, they wouldn’t have sent us here with orders

to monitor, whatever the hell that is. Gentlemen,

I just want to be ready if indeed we win

the lottery and our number comes up.”

Toad thoughtfully put the message from Washington

back into its red folder. He pursed his lips, then

said thoughtfully, “One thing is for suresomething is

up.”

Alejo Vargas thought he had the finest office in

Havana, indeed, in all of Cuba, and perhaps he

did. He had the whole corner of the top floor, with

lots of glass. Through the large windows one got a

fine view across the rooftops of Morro Castle

and the channel leading into Havana Harbor from the sea.

The desk was mahogany, the chairs leather, the

carpet Persian.

William Henry Chance paused to take in the

view, then nodded appreciatively. He turned,

saw the old United Fruit Company safe in the

corner, now standing open, and the display of gold and

silver coins from the Spanish Main under glass.

He paused again, ran his eye over the coins just long

enough to compliment his host.

“Very niceea”…Chance said, and took the chair indicated

by Alejo Vargas. At a nearby desk sat

Vargas’s Chief of Staff, Colonel Pablo

Santafla, who nodded at Chance when he looked his

way, but said nothing.

Colonel Santana was dark, with coal black

eyes and black hair combed straight back; he had

some slave and Indian somewhere in his bloodline. He

slit the throats and pulled the trigger for Alejo

Vargas whenever those chores needed to be done.

Chance forced himself to ignore Santana and look at

his host. “I appreciate you taking the time from your

busy day to see me, Generalea”…the American said,

and gave Vargas a frank, winning smile.

Chance was tall and angular, with

craggy

good looks, and dressed in a light gray suit of a

quality one could not

obtain in Cuba for love or money. He appeared

perfectly at ease, as if he owned the building and

were calling on a tenant.

No wonder the Russians lost the race to the

Americans,

Vargas thought ruefully. A true Latin male,

he was acutely aware of his own physical and

social shortcomings, his lack of grace and

self-assurance, so he was quick to appreciate the

desired qualities in others.

“I understand you have been discussing a business

arrangement for the future with officials of

several departmentsea”…Vargas began.

“That is correct, General. As you probably

know, I represent a consortium of stockholders

in several of the major American caret tobacco

companies. My errand is discreet, not for public

discussion.”

Vargas certainly did know. He had a complete

dossier on William Henry Chance in the upper

right-hand drawer of his desk, a dossier decorated

with a half dozen photos, photocopies of all the

pages of Chance’s passport, and one of his entry in

Who’s Who.

A senior partner in a major New York law

firm, Chance had represented tobacco companies for

twenty-five years. That Chance was the man in

Havana talking to the Cuban government was a sure

signal that major money was behind him.

Indeed, Chance was in Vargas’s office today because

Fidel Castro had asked Vargas to see him.

“Alejoea”…Fidel had said, “our future depends

on Cuba getting a piece of the world economy. The

Americans have kept us isolated too long. If

we can make it profitable for the Americans to lift the

embargo, sooner or later they will. The Yankees

can smell money for miles.”

If William Henry Chance knew that Castro had

personally asked Vargas to see him, he gave no

sign.

The less he understands about our government, the better,

Vargas thought. He cleared his throat, and said, “I

am sure you understand our concern, Senor Chance.

Cuba is a poor nation, dependent on sugarcane

as the mainstay of the

economy, a crop that is, as usual, a glut on

the world market. Your client’s proposal, as I

understand it, is to cultivate tobacco in Cuba

instead of sugarcane.”

Chance gave the tiniest nod. A trace of a grin

showed on his lips. He glanced at Santana, who

was scrutinizing him with professional interest, the way

a cat examines a mouse.

“Your comprehension is perfect, General.”

“Through the years, senor, the price of tobacco on

the world market has been even lower than that of

sugar.”, “This meeting shall be a great help to my

clientsea”…Chance declared. “Here today I will show you the

many benefits that will accrue in the future to the nation that

keeps an open mind about tobacco. I am not

talking about cigar leaf, you understand, which is a

tiny percentage of the world market. I am talking about

cigarette tobacco.”

“The price of which will collapse in America when the

American government ends its subsidy

to American tobacco farmers.”

“Indeedea”…sd William Henry Chance. “The