How closely would Fidel check the order?
The man is sick, drugged, dying. He is barely conscious. Unless he has the numbers of the accounts in the Bank of Cuba by his bedside, he’ll be none the wiser.
But what if he does? What if he has the numbers written down in a book or diary and hands the transfer order to Mercedes to check? What then?
Fifty-three million. More money than God has.
He remembered the old days when he was young, when Castro walked the earth like Jesus Christ with a Cuban accent. Ah, the fire of the revolution, how the true believers were going to change the world!
Instead, time changed them, America bled them, and life defeated them.
Maximo had been loyal to Fidel and the revolution. No one could ever say he was not. He had been with Fidel since he was twenty-four years old, just back from the university in Spain. He had endured the good times and the bad, never uttered a single word of criticism. He had faith in Fidel, proclaimed it publicly and demanded it of others.
Now Castro was dying. In just a few days he would be beyond regrets.
Fifty-three million.
The pounding the overloaded boat had taken bucking the heavy Gulf Stream swells opened the seams somewhat, and now the fisherman was pumping out the water with the bilge pump, which received its power from the engine-driven generator.
“As long as we can keep the engine running, as long as the seams don’t open any more than they are, we’ll be all right.”
“How much fuel do we have on board?”
The fisherman went to check.
Ocho was at the helm, steering almost due east. With the wind and sea behind her, the Angel del Mar rode better. Now the motion was a rocking as the swells swept under the stern. Very little roll from side to side.
Of the eighty-four people who had been aboard when the boat left the harbor in Cuba, twenty-six remained alive. The captain’s body lay against the wheelhouse wall.
Ocho found Diego’s pistol and put it in his belt. He physically carried Diego from the wheelhouse and tossed him on the deck.
Fifty-seven living human beings, men, women, and babies, had gone into the sea. There was no way in the world to go back to try to rescue them. Even if he and the fisherman could find those people in the water, in the darkness, in this sea, the pounding of heading back into the swells would probably cause the boat to take on more water, endangering the lives of those who remained aboard.
No, the people swept overboard were lost to their fate, whatever that might be.
The living twenty-six would soon join them, Ocho told himself. The boat was heading east, away from Florida.
Perhaps if the sea calmed somewhat, they should bring the boat to a more southerly heading and return to Cuba.
That, he decided, was their only chance.
Cuba. They would have to return.
Why wait? Every sea mile increased the likelihood of the engine quitting or the boat sinking.
He turned the helm a bit, worked the boat’s bow to a more southerly heading. The roll became more pronounced. The wind came more over the right stern quarter.
How long until dawn? An hour or two?
The door to the wheelhouse opened. Diego was standing there, the whites of his eyes glistening in the dim light. “Turn back toward Florida! No one wants to go back to Cuba.”
“It’s the only way. We’ll all die trying to make it to Florida in this sea.”
“I was dead in Cuba all those years,” Diego Coca shouted. “I refuse to go go back! I refuse.”
Ocho hit him in the mouth. One mighty jab with his left hand as he twisted his body, so all his weight was behind the punch. Diego went down backward, hit his head on the deck coaming, and lay still.
Dora wailed, crawled toward her unconscious father.
Ocho closed the door to the wheelhouse, brought the boat back to its southeast heading.
Soon the door opened again and the fisherman stepped inside. “We have fuel for another ten or twelve hours. No more than that.”
“We’ll be back in Cuba then.”
“That’s our only chance.”
The stars in the east were fading when the engine quit. After trying for a minute to start the engine, the fisherman dashed below.
Ocho abandoned the helm. The boat rolled sickeningly in the swells.
At least the swells were smaller than they were earlier in the night, in the middle of the Gulf Stream.
The fisherman came up on deck after fifteen minutes, his clothes soaked in diesel fuel. “It’s no use,” he said. “The engine has had it.”
“What about the water in the bilges? Is it still coming in?”
“We’ll have to take turns on the hand pump.”
“What are we going to do about the engine?” Ocho asked.
The fisherman didn’t reply, merely stood looking at the swells as the sky grew light in the east.
CHAPTER SIX
The van drove up to the massive, 250-feet-tall extra-high-voltage tower beside the drainage canal on the southern outskirts of Havana and backed up toward it. The base of the tower was surrounded by a ten-foot-high-chain link fence with barbed wire on top. The access door in the fence was, of course, padlocked.
The driver of the van and his passenger were both wearing one-piece overalls. They stretched, looked at the wires far above, and scratched their heads while they surveyed the ramshackle four-story apartment buildings that backed up to the canal. One of the men extracted a pack of cigarettes from his overalls and lit one. The nearest apartments were at least sixty meters away, although for safety reasons the distance should have been much more. Each of the extra-high-voltage (EHV) lines overhead carried 500,000 volts.
The driver of the van was Enrique Poveda. His passenger was Arquimidez Cabrera. Both men were citizens of the United States, sons of Cuban exiles, and bitter enemies of the Castro regime.
Poveda had parked the van so that the rear doors, when open, almost touched the gate in the chain-link fence. Now he reached into the van, seized a set of bolt cutters, and applied the jaws to the padlock on the gate. One tremendous squeeze and the bar of the padlock snapped.
Cabrera threw the remnants of the padlock into the back of the van. He opened the gate in the fence, set a new, open padlock on the hasp, and stood looking up at the tower.
The best way to cut the power lines the tower carried would be to climb the tower and set shaped charges around the insulators. Unfortunately, the lines carried so much juice that the hot zones around the wires were eleven feet in diameter, more in humid weather. No, the only practical way to cut the lines was to drop the towers, which would not be difficult. A shaped charge on each leg should do the job nicely. Cabrera looked at the angle of the wires leading into the tower, and the angle away. Yes, once the legs were severed, the weight and tension of the line should pull the tower down to the side away from the canal, into this open area, where the lines would either short out on the ground or break from the strain of carrying their own weight.
Timing the explosions would be a problem. This close to all that energy, a radio-controlled electrical detonator was out of the question. Chemical timers would be best, ones that ignited the detonators after a preset time, although chemical timers were not as precise as mechanical ones.
All that was for a later day, however. The decision on when the tower must come down had yet to be made, so today Cabrera and Poveda would merely set the charges. They would return later to set the timers and detonators.
Poveda finished his cigarette and strapped on his tool belt. This was the fourth tower today. Only this one and one more to go.
“You ready?” he asked Cabrera.
“Let’s do it.”
Ocho Sedano lived with his older brother Julio, Julio’s wife, and their two children in a tiny apartment atop a garage just a few hundred yards from Dona Maria’s house. Julio worked in the garage repairing American cars. The cars were antiques from the 1950s and there were no spare part
s, so Julio made parts or cannibalized them from the carcasses behind the garage, cars too far gone for any mechanic to save. When he wasn’t playing baseball, Ocho helped.
Hector found his brother Julio working in the shop by the light of several naked bulbs. “Where is Ocho?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
Julio was replacing the valves of an ancient straight eight under the hood of an Oldsmobile. The light was terrible, but he was working by feel so it didn’t really matter. He straightened now, scowled at his older brother.
“He has gone to try his luck in America.”
“You didn’t try to stop him?”
Julio looked about at the dimly lit shop, the dirt floor, the shabby old cars. He wiped his hands on a dirty rag that hung from his belt. “No, I didn’t.”
“What if he drowns out there in the Gulf Stream?”
“I have prayed for him.”
“That’s it? Your little brother? A prayer?”
“What do you think I should have done, Hector? Tell the boy that he was living smack in the middle of a communist paradise, that he should be happy here, happy with his labor and his crust? Bah! He wants something more from life, something for himself, for his children.”
“If he dies—”
“Look around you, Hector. Look at this squalid, filthy hovel. Look at the way we live! Most of Cuba lives this way, except for a precious few like dear Maximo, who eats the bread that other men earn. You saw him yesterday at Mima’s—nothing’s too good for our dedicated revolutionary, Maximo Sedano, Fidel’s right-hand ass-wipe man.” Julio snorted scornfully, then leaned back under the hood of the Olds. “I told Ocho to go with God. I prayed for him.”
“What if he dies out there?”
“Everybody has to die—you, me, Fidel, Ocho, all of us—that’s just the way it is. They ought to teach you that in church. At least if Ocho dies he won’t have to listen to any more of Fidel’s bullshit. He won’t have to listen to yours, either. God knows, bullshit is the only thing on this island we have a lot of.”
“Have you told Mima that he left?”
“I was going to keep my mouth shut until I had something to tell her.” Julio turned his head to look at Hector around the edge of the car’s hood. “Ocho is a grown man. He has taken his life in his own two hands, which is his right. He’ll live or die. He’ll get to America or he won’t.”
“He should have waited. I asked him to wait.”
“For what?” Julio demanded.
Hector turned to leave the garage.
“What are we waiting for, Hector? The second coming?”
Julio came to the door and called after Hector as he walked away down the street: “How long do I have to wait to feed my sons? Tell me! I have waited all my life. I am sick and tired of waiting. I want to know now—how much longer?”
Hector turned in the road and walked back toward Julio. “Enough! Enough!” he roared, his voice carrying. “You squat here in this hovel waiting for life to get better, waiting for someone else to make it better! You have no courage—you are not a man! If the future depends on rabbits like you Cuba will always be a sewer!”
Then Hector turned and stalked away, his head down, his shoulders bent forward, as if he were walking into a great wind.
The Officers’ Club at Guantánamo Bay Naval Station was sited on a small hill overlooking the harbor. From the patio Toad Tarkington and Rita Moravia could see the carrier swinging on her anchor near the mouth of the bay.
These days the O Club was usually sparsely populated. The base was now a military backwater, no longer a vital part of the U.S. military establishment. For the last few years the primary function of the base was to house Cuban refugees picked up at sea.
Still, the deep blue Caribbean water and low yellow hills under a periwinkle sky packed picture-postcard charm. With cactus and palm trees and magnificent sunny days, the place reminded Toad of southern California. If the Cubans ever got their act together politically, he thought, this place would boom like southern California, with condos and high-tech industries sprouting like weeds. Hordes of people waving money would come here from Philly and New Jersey to retire. This place had Florida beat all to hell.
He voiced this opinion to Rita, the only other person on the patio. It was early in the afternoon; the two of them had ridden the first liberty boat in after the ship anchored. Jake Grafton sent them packing because today was their anniversary.
They had a room reserved at the BOQ for tonight. They intended to eat a relaxed dinner at the club, just the two of them, then retire for a private celebration.
“The Cubans may not want hordes from Philly and Hoboken and Ashtabula moving in,” Rita objected.
“I wouldn’t mind having a little place in one of these villages around here my own self,” Toad said, gesturing vaguely to the west or north. “Do some fishing, lay around getting old and fat and tan, let life flow by. Maybe build a golf course, spend my old age selling balls and watering greens. This looks like world-class golf country to me. Aaah, someday.”
“Someday, buster,” Rita said, grinning. Toad liked to entertain her with talk about retirement, about loafing away the days reading novels and newspapers and playing golf, yet by ten o’clock on a lazy Sunday morning in the States he was bored stiff. He played golf once every other year, if it didn’t rain.
Now he sipped his beer and inhaled a few mighty lungfuls of this clean, clear, perfect air. “Feel that sun! Ain’t life delicious, woman?”
They had a nice dinner of Cuban cuisine, a fresh fish, beans and rice. By that time the club was filling up with junior officers from the squadrons aboard ship, in for liberty. The noise from the bars was becoming raucous when Toad and Rita finished their dinner and headed back to the patio with cups of coffee.
“Maybe I better check on my chicks,” Rita said, and detoured for the bar.
Toad paused in the doorway, staring into the dark room, which was made darker by the brilliant sunlight shining outside the windows.
“Commander Tarkington!” Two of the young pilots came over to where Toad stood with his coffee cup. “Join us for a few minutes, won’t you? We’re drinking shooters. Have one with us.”
Rita was already standing by the table. Toad allowed himself to be persuaded.
A trayful of brimming shot glasses sat on the small round table. As Toad watched, one of these fools set the liquor in the glasses on fire with a butane cigarette lighter.
“Okay, Commander, show us how it’s done!”
Toad looked at Rita, who was studying him with a noncommittal raised eyebrow.
He sat down, one of the youngsters placed a glass in front of him. The blue flame was burning nicely.
It had been years since he did this. Was it Rota, that time he got so blind drunk he passed out while waiting for the taxi? Ah, but the navy was politically correct now. Nobody got drunk anymore.
Toad steadied himself, took a deep breath, exhaled, and poured the burning brandy down his throat. It seemed to burn all the way down. Some of the liquid trickled from his lips, still on fire, but he licked it up with his tongue. Was he burning? He didn’t think so. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand just to make sure.
The members of his audience were gazing at him with openmouthed astonishment. “Jesus, sir! We always blow the fire out before we drink it.”
Toad didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You goddamn pussies,” he said, and tossed off another one.
“Our anniversary, and you’re drunk!”
Toad Tarkington felt like he had been hit by a large truck, an eighteen wheeler, at least. He turned in the bathroom door and looked carefully at his spouse. He squinted to make his eyes focus better.
“I am not drunk! A bit tipsy, I will grant you that. But not drunk.” He swelled his chest and tried to look sober. “Those puppies, thinking they could drink an old dog like me under the table.” He snorted his derision. “‘We blow the fire out before we drink.’
Ha, ha, and ha!”
Rita was sooo mad! “Oh, you—”
“Excuse me.” Toad held up a finger. “Just a minute or two; and we will continue this discussion until you have said everything that needs to be said. There is undoubtedly a lot of it and I am sure it will take a while. Just one little minute.” He closed the bathroom door and retched into the commode. Then he swabbed his forehead with a wet washcloth.
He felt better. He stared at himself in the mirror.
You look like hell, you damned fool.
He took a long drink of water, swabbed his face with a towel, then opened the door, and said, “Okay, you were saying?”
She wasn’t there. The room was empty.
Even her bag was gone.
He lay down in the bed. Oh, that felt gooood. Maybe he should just lie here for a few minutes until she cooled off and he sobered up completely, then he would find her and apologize.
The room was whirling around, but when he rolled on his side it steadied out somewhat and he drifted right off.
Jake Grafton was alone at a table in the corner of the O Club dining room when Rita Moravia saw him and came over. He stood while she seated herself.
“You’re by yourself? Where’s Toad?”
“Sleeping it off. He was in the bar with your young studs and had four drinks. Four! He’s whacked.”
Jake Grafton chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve seen him drink more than an occasional beer or glass of wine with dinner in years.”
“He doesn’t,” she said. “Poor guy can’t handle it anymore.”
“Heck of an anniversary celebration,” Jake said, eyeing her.
“I’ve been lucky,” Rita said simply. “Toad Tarkington and I were made for each other. I don’t know how the powers that rule the universe figure out who marries whom, but I sure got lucky.”
“I know what you mean,” Jake said. Then he smiled, and Rita knew he was thinking of his wife, Callie. Jake Grafton always smiled when he thought of her.
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