by Wilbur Smith
"I propose that we let our arch-enemy do the job for us. I propose that we orchestrate in America and Western Europe a campaign to destroy the South African economy. Let our enemies prepare the ground for us, and plant the seeds of revolution. We will harvest the fruits." 'How do you suggest we go about this?"
"You know that we have excellent penetration of the American Democratic Party. We have access at the highest-possible levels to the American media.
Our influence in such organizations as the NAACP and the Trans Africa Foundation is pervasive. I propose that we make South Africa and apartheid a rallying cry for the American left. They are looking for a cause to unite them. We will give them that cause. We will make South Africa a domestic political issue in the United States of America. The black Americans will flock to the standard and, to secure their votes, the Democratic Party will follow them. We will orchestrate a campaign in the ghettos and on the campuses of America for comprehensive mandatory sanctions that will destroy the South African economy and bring its government crashing down in ruins, unable any longer to protect itself or to keep its security forces in the field. When that happens we will step in and place our own surrogate government in power." They were silent awhile, contemplating this startling vision. Aleksei Yudenich coughed and asked quietly: 'How much will this cost - in financial terms?" 'Billions of dollars,' Ramsey admitted and, when Yudenich's expression tightened, he went on: 'Billions of American dollars, Comrade Minister. We will let the Democratic Party call the tune for us and the American people pay the piper." Minister Yudenich smiled for the first time that afternoon. The discussions lasted another two hours before Yuri Borodin rang the bell to summon his aide.
"Vodka,' he said.
It came on a silver tray, the bottle thickly crusted with frost from the freezer.
Aleksei Yudenich gave them the first of many toasts.
"The Democratic Party of America!' And they laughed and drained their glasses and shook hands and clapped each other's back.
Director Borodin moved slightly, until he and Ramsey Machado were standing shoulder to shoulder. It was a gesture that was not lost on any of them. He was aligning himself with his brilliant young subordinate.
Katrina's flat was in one of the more pleasant sections of the city. From her bedroom window there was a view of Gorky Park and the amusement-ground.
On the skyline the big Ferris wheel, lit with myriad fairy-lights, revolved slowly against the cold grey clouds as Ramsey stepped out of the Chaika and went in through the front entrance of the apartment-building.
It was a relic from pre-revolutionary Tsarist Russia, a wedding-cake of a building in rococo style. There was no lift, and Ramsey climbed the stairs to the sixth floor. The exercise helped clear the vodka fumes from his brain.
Katrina's mother had lovingly prepared the thick pork sausage with a side-dish of cabbage - always cabbage. The entire apartment-block smelt of boiled cabbage.
Katrina's parents treated Ramsey with servile and fawning respect. Her mother served Ramsey with the greater portion of the sausage, while Katrina poured pepper vodka into his tumbler. When they had eaten, Katrina's parents took the child with them and went to watch television in a neighbour's apartment, discreetly leaving Ramsey and Katrina to say their farewells.
"I shall miss you,' Katrina whispered, as she led him to the single bed in her tiny room and let the skirt of her tunic fall around her ankles.
"Please return soon." They had an hour before Ramsey had to leave for the airport. Her skin was velvety smooth and warm to his touch. There were tiny blue veins radiating out from around her large rosy brown nipples. There was plenty of time for Ramsey to make it really good for her.
He left her with barely enough strength to totter to the door. The threadbare dressing-gown was clutched around her flawless shoulders, and her crisp curls were in tangled disarray.
At the door, she leant heavily against him and kissed him deeply. "Come back to me soon, please. Oh, pleasev At this time of night there was very little traffic on the airport road, only a few rumbling military trucks. The journey took less than half an hour.
Ramsey travelled so often that he had his own regime for minimizing the adverse effects of jet-lag. He neither ate nor touched alcohol during the flight, and he had trained himself to sleep in any circumstance. A man who could fall asleep on a bed of jagged Ethiopian rock in a temperature of forty-two degrees, or in the hothouse of a dripping Central American rainforest with centipedes crawling over his skin, could do so even in the torturous seat of an Ilyushin passenger-jet.
Although the sun burnt down with a peculiar brilliance and dampened his open sports-shirt along the spine and at the armpits, it was by his reckoning a Moscow winter midnight and not a balmy Caribbean noon when he stepped off the plane at Havana's Jose Marti Airport. He made the local connection on a scheduled flight, an old prop-driven Dakota that flew him down to Cienfuegos.
Lugging his own valise from the airport building, he bargained with the driver of one of the vintage Detroit model taxis standing at the "Piqueras' rank and took the ride out to the military cantonment of Buenaventura.
On the way they skirted the sparkling water of the Bahia de Cochinos and passed the museum dedicated to the battle of the Bay of Pigs. It always gave him a satisfied glow of achievement when he recalled his own rele in that salutary humiliation of the American barbarians.
It was late afternoon when the taxi dropped him at the gates of the Buenaventura camp. The day's activity was coming to an end, and columns of the Che Guevara paratrooper regiment were marching back to barracks. These were crack troops in brown fatigues, trained especially for an assault rele in any theatre of the world, but since the last meeting of the Politburo in Havana they had been exercising and training for deployment in Africa.
Ramsey paused to watch a unit of them pass by. Young men and women, they were singing one of the revolutionary songs that he remembered so well from the bitter days in the Sierra Maestra. 'Land of the Landless' was the title and the lyric made his skin prickle even though it was all so long ago. He showed his pass at the gate to the married officers' quarters.
Ramsey was dressed in sports-shirt and light cotton slacks with open sandals on his feet, but the sergeant of the guard saluted him deferentially when he recognized his name and rank. Ramsey was one of the eighty-two heroes.
Their names were recited in the schoolrooms and sung in the bodegas.
His cottage was one in a row of identical two-bedroomed flat-roofed adobe-walled dwellings set amongst the palms above the beach. The calm waters of the Bay of Pigs sparkled between the long curved stems of the palms.
Adra Olivares was sweeping the narrow front veranda, but when he was still a hundred paces distant she looked up and saw him and her expression smoothed into neutrality.
"Welcome, Comrade Colonel,' she said quietly, as he stepped up on to the veranda' and although she cast down her gaze she could not conceal the fear in her eyes.
"Where is Nicholas?' he asked as he dropped his valise on the concrete floor, and in reply she looked away down towards the beach.
There was a group of children frolicking at the edge of the water. Their shrill excited cries carried above the clatter of the trade wind in the palm fronds. The children were all wearing bathing-suits, and their bodies were brown and sleek with sun and water.
Nicholas stood a little apart from the other children, and Ramsey felt his heart turn over as he recognized his son. It was only within the last year that he had begun to think of him that way. Before that it had always been 'the child' and in his departmental reports it had been 'the child of Red Rose'. Insidiously it had become 'my son', but only in his mind. The words were never spoken or written down.
Ramsey left the veranda of the cottage and drifted down through the palms to the beach. At the high-water mark he sat on the low sea-wall and watched his son.
Nicholas was just three years of age. He was precocious and physically well developed for his ag
e. He would grow to be tall; already his limbs were long and coltish without any trace of baby fat. He stood with one hip thrust out, his weight all on one leg, his hand upon the hip in a pose that called to mind Michelangelo's 'David'.
Ramsey's interest in the child had been awakened only after it became clear that he was exceptionally intelligent. The reports from his teacher at the camp nursery school had been euphoric. His drawings and his speech were those of a child many years older. Until that time Ramsey had taken no active part in the child's upbringing. He had arranged this accommodation for Adra Olivares and Nicholas through the DGA in Havana. Adra was now a lieutenant in the organization of state security.
Ramsey had arranged that also. It was necessary for her to have officer's rank in order to qualify for one of the Buenaventura cottages, and to enable Nicholas to attend the military creche and nursery school.
For the first two years Ramsey had not seen the child, although the various reports from the military clinic and the education department had passed over his desk when he prepared despatches for Red Rose. Eventually these reports and the accompanying photographs had piqued his interest. He had made the journey down to Buenaventura from the capital.
It seemed that the child recognized him immediately. He had hidden behind Adra's legs and peered out at Ramsey fearfully. The last time he had seen his father was in that white-tiled operating-theatre in the Buenaventura military clinic when Ramsey had staged his partial drowning in front of the camera to coerce Red Rose into accepting his authority. Nicholas had been only a few weeks old at the 24e time. It was impossible that he could remember the incident - and yet his reaction to Ramsey had been too intense to be merely coincidental.
Ramsey had been taken unawares by his own response to the child's terror. He was accustomed to other people's trepidation in his presence. It seldom needed one of his ruthless demonstrations to instil fear in those around him, but this had been different.
Apart from his own mother and his cousin Fidel, he had felt no deep sympathetic response to any of his fellow human beings. He had always deemed this to be one of his great strengths. He was almost impervious to sentimental or emotional considerations. This allowed him to make his decisions and base his actions entirely upon logical and intellectual judgement. When necessary he was able to sacrifice a comrade of many years' standing without flinching and with no futile and debilitating regrets later. He could make tender and unselfish love to a beautiful we an and only hours later, without a moment's hesitation, order her execution. He had trained himself to be above all feeble mundane considerations. He had forged and tempered himself into one of Lenin's steely men, and honed the edges of his strength and resolve into a terrible shining weapon - and then, unexpectedly, he had found this flaw in the metal of his soul.
"A tiny flaw,' he consoled himself, as he sat on the sea-wall in the bright Caribbean sunshine and watched the child. 'Only a hairline crack in the blade, and then only because this is part of me. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, and my hope for immortality." He cast his mind back to that episode in the military clinic. In his imagination he saw once again the infant squirming in the doctor's grip and heard the outraged terrified squeals and the painful choking breath as he lifted the sodden little head from the waters of the tank. He did not flinch from the memory.
At the time, it was necessary, he thought. Never regret the strong, the necessary action, the deed of steel.
The child stooped and picked a shell from the sand at his feet. He turned it in his hands, and bowed his head to examine the iridescent pearly fragment.
Nicholas's curls were dark and dense, and, although damp with sea-salt, the sun struck little reddish sparks from them. He had inherited many features from his mother. Even Ramsey could recognize that chiselled classical nose and the clean sweet line of his jaw. However, the green eyes were Ramsey's eyes.
Suddenly the child threw back his arm and sent the shell skimming out. It hopped across the still water leaving a series of tiny dimples where it touched the surface. Then Nicholas turned away and began to walk alone along the edge of the water, but at that moment there came an anguished squeal from the group of children further up the beach. One of the little girls had been knocked over in the rough and tumble, and she sprawled on the white sand and howled.
"Nicholas!" With a patient sigh Nicholas turned back to her and lifted her to her feet.
She was a pretty little imp, with sand on one cheek and tears welling from her huge dark eyes. Her costume had slid halfway down to her knees revealing the cleft between her chubby pink little buttocks.
Nicholas hauled up her costume for her, restoring her modesty but almost lifting her off her feet in the process, then he led her by the hand to the water. He washed the sand off her cheek and wiped the tears from her eyes.
The girl gave one last convulsive sniff and stopped howling.
She took Nicholas's hand and trotted beside him as he led her up the beach.
"I will take you back to your manuna,' Nicholas was telling her, and then he looked up and saw his father. He stopped abruptly and stared at him.
Ramsey saw the flare of terror in his eyes that was instantly hidden. Then Nicholas lifted his chin in a defiant gesture, and his expression went dead.
Ramsey liked what he saw. It was good that the boy felt fear, for fear was the basis of respect and obedience. It was good also that he could control and hide that fear. 'Me ability to conceal fear was one of the qualities of leadership. Already he showed a strength and resolve far beyond his tender years.
He is my son, Ramsey thought, and raised one hand in a gesture of command.
"Come here, boy,' he said.
The little girl shrank away from him. Then she released Nicholas's hand and fled up the beach, bawling once again, but ihis time for her mother. Ramsey did not even glance in her direction. He often had that effect on children.
Nicholas steeled himself visibly and then came to his father's bidding.
"Good day, Padre.' He held out his hand solemnly.
"Good day, Nicholas.' Ramsey took the proffered hand. He had schooled the child to shake hands like a man, but Adra had taught him the term of address. 'Padre.' He should- not have allowed it, but was pleased that in the end he had done so. It gave him another little twinge of sentimentality to be addressed as Father, but that was an indulgence he could afford.
There were few enough that he allowed himself.
"Sit here.' Ramon indicated the wall beside him, and Nicholas scrambled up and sat with his little legs dangling.
They were silent for a while. Ramsey did not approve of childish chatter.
When he asked finally, 'What have you been doing?' Nicholas considered the question gravely.
"I have been to school every day." 'What do they teach you at school?" "We learn the drills and the songs of the revolution.' Nicholas thought about it a little longer. 'And we paint." They were silent again until Nicholas added helpfully: 'In the afternoons we swim and play soccer, and in the evenings I help Adra with the housework. Then we watch the TV together."
He was three years old, Ramsey reminded himself. A Western child who was asked the same question might have replied 'Nothing' or 'Just stuff.
Nicholas had spoken like a man, a little old man.