Fidel's Last Days

by Roland Merullo

Carolina was wondering, among other things, how the woman knew she took her coffee black.

  “I’m Richard V. Volkes, by the way,” the silver-haired man said, holding out one steady hand and enveloping hers in a gentle grip. “Just ‘Volkes’ to the people I associate with. I’m one of the guys who originally put together the organization you work for. I’ve heard a lot of wonderful things about you over the past decade or so—at the Agency and with us—and I’m honored to finally meet you.”

  “The honor is mine,” Carolina said.

  Introduction accomplished, Volkes pulled one of the chairs up and joined her at the small table. He offered her the plate, then took a slice of apple and chewed it contemplatively. “That was an interesting conversation we had on the flight over. Everything I told you—from my love of Cézanne to the conglomerate work being slightly boring—was true. Everything you told me was a fabrication.”

  “And yet we got along so well,” Carolina said.

  “Remarkably well. I felt an instant mutual understanding that’s really rather rare with me.”

  “I’m glad. It’s rare with me, too.”

  “By the way, it took us some work, but we found a person who, with a little assistance, looks remarkably like you. That young woman is wearing clothes like yours now. She will be on route to Prague on the replacement jet in a short while, an empty seat beside her. You’ll spend the night in Spain, and then head for Cuba tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  Volkes nodded, seemed to smile. “Unless you’re having second thoughts.”

  “None.”

  “My turn to be glad.”

  She offered him a slight smile and sipped her coffee. Tomorrow! A hot thrill ran up her spine. She studied her companion, struck again by the otherworldly calm that seemed to emanate from his body. The bright cuff links, the perfectly tailored suit and white shirt, the red and gold silk tie that somehow combined modesty and flair, the neck and wrists that showed signs of being well toned and muscular, even though the man must have been approaching seventy. He had been some kind of athlete in his youth, she guessed, a quarterback, a star pitcher. The sense of calm was something physical, some great confidence in the abilities of his body. But more than that, as well: physical, intellectual, social, almost spiritual. She tried to imagine a situation that would unnerve him.

  “I’m here to answer your questions,” he said. “Answer your questions, give you a measure of information, then send you on your way. So don’t hold back.”

  “What’s the timing? The real schedule.”

  “The real schedule is that you undergo a small change in your appearance—we have the facilities and the people right here, in the airport. This is kind of a side-specialty of ours, in case you haven’t already noticed. You spend a relaxing night at Barcelona’s finest hotel. In the morning you fly to Cuba with a group of Spanish tourists on a six-day junket. You stay in another fine hotel, outside Havana, and pass one small item on to a particular person. Then you fly back here, enjoy a well-earned vacation for a week, return to America, and, once this is all over, you meet with me and my partners to talk about future possibilities.”

  “Why the switch from Prague?”

  “We do everything this way. We shift and obfuscate. We change plans, schedules, people, angles of approach. We work the way the most ordinary county-fair magician works—we create illusions.”

  “Only, in this case, something real is happening beyond the illusions.”

  “Something very real,” he said. He sipped his coffee without letting his eyes leave her face. There was a delicate humor dancing there. She trusted him implicitly. “We’re saving the world.”

  Saving the world. Coming from someone else, the phrase would have seemed preposterous, an absurd boast. Coming from Richard V. Volkes, it carried the weight of fact. “I want to hear more,” she said. “Anything you can tell me, I want to hear.”

  “You’ve heard most of it before, if I’m not mistaken. It’s how we wooed you down from Langley.”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  “In a nutshell, we are three men between the ages of fifty-one and seventy-one. Two of us are businessmen—heads of large conglomerates that are involved in energy and communications work, military hardware, a bit of high-tech, some real estate. We inherited and/or made grand sums of money—our ambitions in that area have long ago been calmed. Our work brought us across each other’s paths fairly frequently, and then, almost twenty years ago, we realized we had a common vision.”

  “Who is the third person? What kind of work is he involved in?”

  “Political work. High-level political work, though his profile in our organization has always been rather modest.”

  “Not a former president or anything like that, then?”

  “He’s still quite active, that’s all I can say . . . not a president, no. Our vision goes something like this: Throughout history there have always been destructive and constructive forces. As the world has grown smaller, those forces have become concentrated. Democracy is on the side of good, as you can imagine. And we support democracy and free-market principles wherever we can. Avidly. At the same time, as you can also no doubt imagine, the democratic process can be cumbersome. The forces of evil know this, and take advantage of it. In certain instances, even the most well-meaning governments act too slowly, or in too much of a mixed fashion. The full might of their goodness cannot be brought to bear. Which is a problem the forces of evil are not burdened by. For instance, our government has a policy of not assassinating political leaders. A moral stance. And yet, think of the lives and trouble that could have been saved if assassinations could be used judiciously.

  “Now, I know what you are thinking. Allende. Diem. The trouble that has been caused when this method is not used judiciously. Well, without sounding immodest, we believe we are wiser than that. We don’t kill people for the lark of it. We rarely kill at all, in fact. Extremely rarely. Most of our projects are more subtle. We have, it is true, gone into Afghanistan and the former Burma and eliminated warlords and drug lords, quietly, efficiently. More typically, when the Soviet Union was first breaking apart, we were able to shift certain resources—oil, mainly, but diamonds and tungsten, too—away from the hands of certain people. Even the well-informed specialist might not notice such a shift. Even government and business analysts might not notice it at first. They’ll feel the results, naturally—one piece of one market remains open where it would have been closed. One African or South American nation is more predisposed to democratic principles than it would have been had we not acted to help advance the career of a particular minister or colonel, or discourage the career of someone else.

  “Naturally enough, our work sometimes overlaps with the work of our government. You met one of our friends in government, I believe.”

  “Edmund Lincoln? With friends like that . . .”

  “That encounter was what we might call a ‘feint.’ ”

  “F-E?”

  “F-E. A layer of illusion. A trick.”

  “Who were we tricking, his bodyguards?” she said, but before the last word was in the air between them she had her answer. Volkes observed her moment of understanding with a keen, bemused interest, then looked away long enough to spread some Roquefort on two crackers. He handed her one, the sly amusement playing at the edges of his eyes. Before she brought the cracker to her mouth she said, “Oleg.”

  A sunny smile broke across Volkes’s face and for a moment he was a young man again, disturbingly handsome, capable of anything. He nodded once, happily.

  “What about my ex-husband?”

  “What about him?”

  “Oscar told me Oleg was D-7. First, is that accurate? And second, is Oscar involved in this or was my little encounter with him just an accident, another feint?”

  “Oleg Rodriguez works for and reports, indirectly, to Fidel Castro. If your ex-husband told you that, he is correct.”

  “And what about my uncle?”


  “What about him?”

  “Is he part of . . . do you work with him?”

  “Roberto Anzar has his own sources—of funding and of information. We know who he is, of course. Some of us have done business with him, but not this kind of business. He does not know who we are—very few people know who we are. And, yes, since he is intimately involved in Cuba and since we needed him not to interfere with this stage of the project, your visit with him was a distraction. Or, more correctly, a covering of one of our flanks.”

  “Where is Oleg now?”

  “Oleg is doing what he has been doing for the past eleven years. We will let this particular line play itself out, and then, at the proper moment, Oleg, unfortunately, will have to be . . . how should I say it . . . retired without pension.”

  She realized Volkes wouldn’t have told her this unless he trusted her absolutely. And he wouldn’t trust her absolutely unless she’d been vetted and checked, over a period of years, in a hundred ways. “But he knows I’m going to Cuba.”

  “Yes, correct. However, he thinks you are going in several months’ time. Right now, he believes you are headed to Prague to pick up a ceramic pistol that will pass through airport inspections without trouble. And he thinks you will be leaving Prague in two weeks, after enduring some kind of special training. Which means Castro and his D-7 expect you to arrive at the airport in several months with a gun well hidden in your luggage. Which means that, thanks to Oleg, they have people following you as you make your way to Prague. Only now they will be following this woman who looks remarkably like you. As a matter of fact, fifteen minutes after you were called aside by Spanish security and walked into this part of the airport, your double walked out. Before they realize that she is not you—if they ever realize it—the deed will be done.”

  “She’s wearing what I’m wearing?”

  “Exactly, down to the gold earrings. We photographed you when you left your apartment this morning, and had everything prepared.”

  “She speaks fluent Spanish?”

  “Sí. We tested her on your ex-husband, if you’d like to know. And from a distance of ten or twelve feet he called to her, using your name.”

  “Still. D-7 is going to be on high alert.”

  “The highest.”

  “They know there is a plot against Castro.”

  “Yes.”

  “And they know it will be a woman of a certain age and size bringing something that will kill him.”

  “Yes.”

  “So I’m a sitting duck, basically. The only defense is that they think I’ll be arriving two or three months from now instead of tomorrow night, and I’ll look a little different.”

  “And have a different passport.”

  “Why don’t we just have someone there shoot Fidel?”

  “That’s the first thing you’ve asked that has disappointed me.”

  “All right. Question withdrawn.”

  “We have found, over the years, that the best way to fool a sophisticated security organization is to almost not fool it. Any kind of bureaucracy—DGI included—functions in a predictable way. If DGI believes there is a plot against Castro, and if DGI and D-7 believe they have excellent information about that plot, from an unimpeachable source—Oleg, in this case—then there is a fair chance they will neglect to do what they usually do, which is to keep their antennae alert to other possibilities.”

  “A feint,” she said, watching him.

  He went on, “The risks—to you, to us—are obvious. However, if everyone does what they are supposed to do, the risks are rather small and the odds of success quite high. If, knowing all this, you wish to withdraw, you have our understanding and your career with us will not be negatively affected.”

  “A few more questions before my yes or no, all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “How will Fidel die?”

  “Topical ointment. Administered by his personal physician to help with some scarring from the removal of cancerous lesions. He’ll be told it will help prevent a recurrence. The Comandante, as you know, tends to look for ways to confirm his belief in his own immortality.”

  “Sounds like a very special ointment.”

  “Miraculous.”

  “And I carry the miracle.”

  “As far as the Oriente Hotel in Havana, yes. You hand it over to a man named Ulises. You go to the beach for few days, see a couple of museums. You leave.”

  “And he’ll die while I’m there?”

  “That is our hope. Oleg will die while you are there, also. As will a dozen or so people whom the good half of the world will not miss—Cuban military and intelligence, people who could be troublesome after their leader’s death. We want you to stay there because there might be one or two smaller tasks we’ll need your help with in the aftermath. And because it would arouse suspicion if you went all the way to Cuba merely for one day.”

  “Something has always nagged at me,” Carolina said.

  “Now’s the time.” Volkes sipped his coffee calmly, but never removed his eyes from her. Another test, she thought.

  “Why now? I mean, we’ve lived with Castro all these years, why not just wait for nature to take him? Especially since he’s been having some health troubles of late.”

  “Two reasons. First, despite the reported health troubles, the man could live another ten or even fifteen years, doing the kind of damage he’s been doing, imprisoning people who shouldn’t be in prison, ruining a rich, gorgeous land, exerting a kind of influence-by-example on certain sectors of South American politics. Venezuela comes to mind. We don’t want to see any more innocent people suffer. Second, some of us might not live another ten or fifteen years. We’re at our prime now, in terms of the efficient functioning of the organization, and we want to be proactive rather than sit back and wait to see what will happen.”

  “The country will be thrown into chaos when he’s assassinated.”

  “We think not, but now you are getting into another area of the operation, and that area doesn’t really concern you. We need a yes or no from you now. No, and you vacation in Spain for a week, then head home for a new assignment. No hard feelings. We have alternative plans, as you might imagine. Something else that our Oleg knows nothing about. More confusion for him and the Cuban authorities, more protection for you.

  “Another feint.”

  “Exactly. So, a yes from you and we begin the transformation process.”

  “What if, while I’m there, something goes wrong? Someone doesn’t do what he or she has been trained to do? Someone is captured and informs?”

  “You’re a step ahead of me; very good. If that happens, then you must get to the cove just to the northeast side of a place called Guanabacoa. There is only one pier there, and the pier has a broken piling. You will have a small, battery-operated, single-frequency transmitter. Activate the transmitter on or near that pier and we will have someone ready to rescue you and get you out.”

  Carolina took one breath. “The answer is yes, then.”

  “No hesitation? No other concerns? No moral qualms?”

  “None.”

  “We’re set, then?”

  “Set.”

  “Good. Enjoy this wonderful coffee—it’s Cuban, in fact. I added that as a special touch. Then we’ll get you made over in another little room here we have borrowed from friends, and we’ll send you on your way. Other than the instructions about carrying the ointment, you know everything you need to know. You’ll get an envelope with the vouchers, tickets, new passport, and so on, as you are being driven to the hotel. Destroy what you don’t need, as always. We’ve spent a lot of time and effort vetting you, as you can imagine. I’m happy to know it’s you who will be doing this.”

  “You know about the break-in, then?”

  “Break-ins,” Volkes said. “Plural. Miami and Atlanta. Sorry for that inconvenience. We’ll compensate you for any damage.”

  “It’s nothing. I just wondered if it was Oscar, my
ex, who did it.”

  “Oscar works for us now. Happily, it seems, though he’s at a much lower level than you are.”

  Carolina looked away and smiled, but the smile was another mask.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It’s good that I’m taking you back to your office,” Jose said. They were in the heart of the city now, cutting, in the last daylight, through the small side streets between Avenida Salvador Allende and the children’s hospital. “That will look the least suspicious. Like you forgot something and had to finish it before going back home. Olochon will be too busy to notice in any case. Let me go and see if I can get a message to Rincon.”

  Carlos nodded distractedly. “I am thinking about the man in the cell with Olochon.”

  “Best not to,” Jose said. “We all take our risks.”

  Somehow, the “we” did not sound genuine on Jose’s lips. Carlos could not look at him. Jose had never really said he was working with them, he’d said only, “Rincon approached me even before he approached you,” which was odd in several ways. Even the mention of Rincon’s name could have been merely a lucky guess, a trick to see how he would react. If so, then he had fallen for it and he was dead, and Rincon was dead, and Fidel and Olochon would win yet another victory. What if Rincon was not really involved in a plot, but working with D-7 to rid the government of those who wanted to eliminate Fidel? Stranger things, much stranger things, had happened. Government drivers reporting to D-7 was almost a cliché now, in Castro’s Cuba.

  “You’re worrying about me,” Jose said as they pulled up in front of the Ministry of Health. “My loyalty.”

  Carlos turned to look at him, hesitated one second, and nodded. Jose appeared to be genuinely wounded. “This is what they do to us, Ministro,” he said sorrowfully. “They trust no one, and they teach us to trust no one. It is an infection of the soul.”

  Carlos nodded a second time. Somehow, with this brief conversation, their roles had been reversed. Jose, unshaven, spending every night out on the town, a simple driver, was now the superior. And Carlos was geniunely afraid.