RW15 - Seize the Day

by Richard Marcinko

  My plan was audacious, aggressive, and over the top. Way over the top.

  My kind of plan. No one in their right mind would expect someone to sneak into the hospital and pretend to be Fidel Castro. Which made it the most obvious thing for me to do.

  A minute or so later, I heard Red laugh. That was my signal—I opened the door and ducked quickly across the hall to the stairs. I slipped into the stairwell, then down the steps, moving as quietly as I could and barely breathing. The hypo with Fidel’s truth serum was in my pants pocket; my PK was in the holster at my right.

  The door to the stairs was at the far end of the corridor, two rooms beyond Fidel’s. I sat down on the third step and waited.

  It took Red nearly a half hour to find the cafeteria, get some food, and return. There’s no trouble with waiting except for the waiting . . . and the thinking, and stomach juices that go with it. I tried not to think and willed my stomach to stop grumbling. No yoga master breathed deeper or more slowly than I did, sitting on those steps.

  And then suddenly I heard a woman’s voice in the hall—Red’s.

  Laughing, she said, “Come now, eat something,” loud enough for me to hear.

  It was my cue. I rose, took one last slow breath, and stepped out into the hallway.

  ( IV )

  First step—through the door.

  Second step—in the middle of the hall. Two soldiers, twenty feet away, leaning over a tray of treats Red had just brought.

  Leering over a treat Red had just brought.

  Third step—Fidel’s door.

  And in.

  My heart rate must have increased a hundred beats with every step.

  And then I was there. Door closed behind me. Just me and the hemisphere’s greatest Cold War villain, lying on the bed.

  Mouth open. Snoring.

  Kind of anticlimactic, actually. A letdown.

  He looked pathetically weak up close. His skin was even paler than in the videos of the press conference I’d studied. His lips were parched and looked like brittle plastic. His breathing was labored. He wasn’t hooked up to any machines, but there was a sick smell in the room, more like decay than medicine.

  If I had come to kill him, I might have thought twice about it.

  Nah.

  I would have offed him in a heartbeat. Which would have been pretty quick, since mine was still pumping a million miles a minute.

  I glanced around the room. The lamp had been turned low, but there was plenty of light to see. I pulled open the top drawer of the bureau opposite the bed. It was filled with pajamas.

  The next drawer down had an old accordion file bound with a piece of elastic, the sort of thing an accountant or bookkeeper sometimes uses to keep records together. I almost passed it by, then decided I should check it out.

  A DVD sat at the side, next to a folder of yellowed clippings from The New York Times. The words “last broadcast” were written in Spanish on the cover.

  ( V )

  I know what you’re thinking:

  Did you remember to take the DVD with you, Dick, just in case something like this happened?

  I may not be a Boy Scout, but I do like their motto: Be Prepared.

  And I like this motto even better: Better to be lucky than good.

  But I said it was a DVD, not necessarily the DVD. The only way to be sure it was the right DVD was to play it.

  You’d think the richest man in Cuba could afford a DVD setup, and you’d be right. He had one right by his bed. I tiptoed over to it, turned it on, and replaced the disc that had been sitting inside.

  (The Greatest Moments in Yankee Baseball History. I kid you not. Maybe there is something to the Red Sox claim that they’re the Evil Empire.)

  The television came on, the scene exactly the same as the one I had filmed a few weeks before.

  The only problem was that Fidel was apparently hard of hearing, and had left the volume of his television on high. The set blared for a moment before I had a chance to kill the power.

  Behind me, Fidel stirred.

  “Who are you?” he said grumpily

  I turned slowly and gave him my best Fidel glare. He practically jumped back in the bed.

  “You look like you saw a ghost,” I told him. I spoke in English.

  “Q-q-qué?”

  “I’m here to answer your questions,” I said, sticking to English. He used Spanish.

  “My questions?”

  I nodded solemnly.

  “Are you me?” he asked. “Is this a dream? Why are you speaking English?”

  “I don’t speak any language,” I said. “My thoughts are your thoughts.”

  “I’m dead?” He looked like he was going to cry.

  I didn’t answer. He reached over to touch me, then suddenly grabbed my shirt.

  “You are me,” he said. “I am dead. Or I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming. This is a dream. This is a dream, isn’t it?”

  Again, I didn’t answer.

  “Did they die? Did it work?” he said. “My plan. Did the Yankees all die?”

  “Your plan was flawed,” I told him. “The plan . . . it was hardly worth the name.”

  “What?”

  “What were you thinking? To kill all the Americans.”

  “You’re just a nightmare,” he said. “Or a trick—something my enemies sent. Guard! Guar . . . ddddd . . .”

  As we’d been talking, I’d slipped the needle from my pocket and brought it close to his arm. As soon as he started looking belligerent, I stabbed him.

  The drug worked quicker than I thought.

  It was also more potent.

  “What was the plan?” I asked.

  “Ggggg . . .”

  “The plan. What were you doing to the Americans?”

  “G . . .”

  Fidel smiled—then his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fell back on the pillow.

  I could fill five pages with the curses that came from my mouth over the next three or four minutes as I tried to revive him.

  I would have tried longer, except that I heard a key turning in the door.

  Fidel undoubtedly had the biggest room in the hospital, but it was still pretty small. The closet was nothing more than pressboard partition with a curtain over it. It was too small to hide me. The bathroom was nearly as cramped, but at least it had a door that went all the way to the floor. I stepped back into it, squeezing into the corner as a nurse and doctor came in, with Red at their heels.

  “This door was not to be locked,” said the doctor.

  “The president must have locked it himself,” said the nurse.

  “He is not to lock it,” said the doctor. “Do you understand?”

  “You tell him. I have a family to consider.”

  I held my breath. Red stood near the bathroom; she’d figured out where I was hiding and planned on running interference if it came to that.

  But if it did come to that, we’d both be doing more running than interfering.

  The nurse took out an infrared thermometer and checked Fidel’s temperature while the doctor wrapped a blood pressure cuff around el Jefe’s arm. His temperature was normal; his blood pressure a little low, probably because of my injection.

  Apparently Fidel had been suffering from high blood pressure, because the doctor took the reading twice. Then he told the nurse excitedly that the new drugs were working miracles; the president’s blood pressure was now within normal limits, maybe even a little low.

  “I’ll have to show José,” he said, and he hurried out of the room.

  The nurse tucked Fidel in, then left.

  “Dick?” whispered Red.

  “Go,” I told her. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  The other nurse poked her head back into the room.

  “I’m coming,” said Red, leaving quickly and closing the door behind her.

  I went back over to Fidel.

  “Wake up and tell me what you did to the Americans, you bastard.” I shook him, bu
t he didn’t stir. “Come on. What do you have planned? What is it?”

  The doctor took far less time than I thought he would, and the only warning I had that he was coming was the scratch of his shoes on the floor right outside the door. I was just stepping into the bathroom when he and his colleague came in.

  The other man didn’t seem particularly impressed. A sedative, he said, could have produced the same result. The first doctor admitted this was true, but swore that none had been administered.

  “I think you are mistaken,” said the second doctor.

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “A mistake is not a lie. A mistake is simply an error.”

  “I shouldn’t have showed you anything. I was going to share credit. Now I’ll take it all.”

  “You’re an ass,” said the second doctor. He stepped over to the bathroom, flipping on the light switch as he started to enter.

  “You’re calling me an ass? Do so to my face.”

  The other doctor stopped about three feet from me, if that.

  “Come on, you,” said the first doctor. “What is it you are saying?”

  The second doctor spun around and faced him.

  “I think that a mistake is different from a lie. I don’t think you are a liar.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “You should record the results. I will witness it.”

  “We should have two witnesses.”

  “Get another while I take a leak.”

  I had my pistol ready to pop him. That was the easy part; from there I’d have to wing it.

  “I wouldn’t use the president’s bathroom,” said the first. “It’s unprofessional. And if he wakes . . .”

  “Yes, true. True.”

  With that, they both left.

  My colon could have used a bit of relief by then as well, but there was no time for anything but getting the hell out of there.

  If the soldiers were looking in my direction—if they were even still out there—I have no idea. All I know is I stepped lively, with great purpose, as I strode from Fidel’s room to the staircase. I hustled up the steps, then caught my breath.

  From here, everything would be easy. I’d return to the room, change into my undertaker’s uniform, then meet Red in the basement. The only unsettled question was which of the soldiers to wheel out as a corpse.

  I’d had an incredible string of good luck—and as I said, it’s better to be lucky than good.

  But as I put my hand to the door, Mr. Murphy decided that string had run out.

  “The president has been kidnapped!” screamed the duty nurse, running into the hall. “The president has been kidnapped! Call the soldiers! Call the guards!”

  ( VI )

  I grabbed for the door, trying to pull it open and get out in the hall and tell them I’d been sleepwalking or something. But Murphy had greased the doorknob and my fingers slipped off.

  Maybe it was my own sweat. In any event, by the time I finally did grab the damn thing, an alarm was sounding through the hospital.

  A door in the stairwell somewhere below me opened and feet started double-timing upward. I stepped out into the hall. I couldn’t see the duty nurse, but I could hear her screaming hysterically into the phone at the nurses’ station, saying el Jefe had been kidnapped.

  Using either the stairs or the elevator was now out of the question, certainly the way I was dressed. I slipped back into the room where Red had wheeled me, and saw that the nurse had pulled the sheet off the bed, taking the clothes I’d hid there, as evidence I guess.

  There was no sense staying here, but I couldn’t use the elevator or the stairs. I slipped into the room on the right side of the hall, opposite the one where I’d been, and pulled out the sat phone.

  Red answered on the second ring.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m on the top floor, in the room opposite the one you left me in.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “No. Don’t do that. Get out of the hospital.”

  “What?”

  “Leave. Call Danny and see where Trace and Doc are. If they’re still in-country, I may need them to get the helicopter and pick me up on the roof.”

  “Dick—”

  “Move, Red. I don’t want to go out that way, but I will if I have to. You get the hell out.”

  She didn’t answer for so long I thought the phone had died. “OK,” she said finally. Her tone made it clear that leaving was the last thing she wanted to do.

  “Do it.”

  “All right. I’m going.”

  ______

  I knew from the satellite photos that there was a little shedlike entrance to the roof, but I wasn’t sure how to get to it. The stairwell had ended at that level, and the location seemed wrong for it to be the other staircase. Getting there would be too risky now anyway.

  Which left climbing out the window and playing Spiderman, a character I’ve always admired, even if he is a little emo as the kids would put it.

  There was a good chance climbing wouldn’t be necessary.

  Actually, it wasn’t likely it would go that far. I expected that after security raced around like chickens with their heads cut off for a few minutes, logic would set in. A team would respond to Fidel’s floor, where they would find el Jefe sleeping like a sedated baby. Shortly after that, they would venture upstairs to the nurse who had sounded the alarm. She would tell her story. If it weren’t for the bed and the clothes she’d found, the story would be dismissed outright. It still might be. But it was more likely that the security people would start looking for Red, which was why I’d told her to get the hell out of there.

  They’d be looking for me as well. But inside the building, not outside.

  I opened the window and looked around. The roof soffit was about twenty inches above the top of the window, and there wasn’t much of an overhang; I could open the window from the top and climb up without a problem. Except for a narrow crown that ran around the perimeter, the roof was flat. I figured I’d be able to hang back down and close the window.

  I opened the window, pulled myself up, and then hoisted myself to the roof. Turning around, I leaned back and tried to pull the window closed.

  My fingers were about two inches short. As I squirreled around to lean a little farther down, the light came on in the room.

  Back at the restaurant, Doc was polishing off the last of a cherry brandy-filled pineapple for dessert. He still hadn’t found a chance to tell Trace about the credit card. Nor had he been able to detect anything in MacKenzie’s manner that told him she was on to them.

  The others had stuck to coffee. MacKenzie had mentioned that she would drive them to the airport if they wanted. Doc didn’t want, and decided that it might be easier to get rid of her if he suggested leaving right away. They’d be there so early she wouldn’t feel obligated to hang around.

  He looked at his watch, then wondered aloud if they ought to leave.

  “You have four hours,” said MacKenzie, putting her hand on his lightly. “Don’t worry.”

  “They said we should be there at least three hours ahead. I have a lot of gear I have to get through Customs. It’s always a pain.”

  “I’ll whisk you right through.”

  She smiled at him. And the way she did that—sexy, but not quite—convinced him it was time to go.

  Past time.

  “OK, if you think it’s fine,” said Doc.

  He reached his left hand out to get his wineglass, and knocked over his water in the process, sending it over Trace’s lap.

  She jumped up. Sensing he’d done it deliberately, she’d backed from the table.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said Doc. He turned toward her and mouthed the words “time to go.”

  “Damn. You’re a klutz.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll go change in the women’s room,” said Trace.

  “Jeez, I’m really sorry.” Doc rose, positioning himself so MacKenzie wouldn’t b
e able to see Trace when she walked into the hallway for the ladies’ room. When Trace didn’t return, he’d suggest MacKenzie find out if something was wrong. Then he’d hightail it out as well.

  But things never got that far.

  “I’m so sorry your dress is wet,” said MacKenzie, rising herself. “These men will help you find a place to dry it.”

  As she said that, four waiters closed in from the kitchen.

  They were dressed as waiters. But of course they weren’t really waiters.

  “They have some questions for you,” added MacKenzie. “I would strongly suggest you answer them expeditiously.”

  The maître d’ came over and unbuttoned his jacket, showing Trace he had a gun. That was unnecessary, however—the Cuban nearest her was already pointing a rather large pistol at her face.

  “What is this?” said Doc.

  “There was a disturbance in town involving revolutionaries and thieves,” said MacKenzie. “You have an alibi. That alibi is going to drive you directly to the airport.”

  Doc started to protest, but MacKenzie cut him off.

  “You don’t have an option. You can thank me in a different lifetime.”

  Doc, glancing toward the pistol she had removed from her purse, decided to take her word for it.

  ( VII )

  Back when I was a wee rogue, Dr. Norman Vincent Peale developed a series of ideas that he summarized with a slogan called “the power of positive thinking.” It combined prayer, unbridled optimism, and old-fashioned good luck to suggest that you can influence events by thinking positively about them.

  I’ve always believed more in acting than wishing, but I can tell you that no one tried positive thinking any harder than I did as I dangled from the hospital roof while the hospital security types inspected the room I’d just left. The words formed in capital letters in my brain:

  YOU ARE POSITIVELY, ABSOLUTELY NOT GOING TO COME TO THE WINDOW.

  YOU ARE NOT GOING TO NOTICE IT IS OPEN. YOU ARE NOT GOING TO LOOK UPWARD.