Cold Warrior td-91

by Warren Murphy

  Rustling and skulking like a heartless dog, he retreated into the muck of nearby Zapata Swamp and ran all the way to his humble bohio.

  He would alert Habana. Because he was a Cuban, not because he cared anymore about the failed Revolution.

  Less than thirty rods down the road, Xavier stopped running. He remembered that his telephone no longer worked. He could not call Habana. He would have to go to Zapata. And it was too far to run, for an aging Fidelista with the zeal sucked out of him by hunger and privation.

  The President of the Republic of Cuba was wondering where the Revolution had gone wrong.

  He sat in his office in the Palace of the Revolution with his advisers, the men of the mountains who had waged guerrilla warfare with him in the Sierra Maestra.

  "Mi amigos," he began, exhaling clouds of aromatic tobacco smoke. "Be truthful now. Did we fail?"

  "No, Fidel," said his brother, the Vice-President for Life, after a moment's consultation.

  "Yet here we are, our goals unmet. Surely there have been errors? Certainly we have made some mistakes along the way?"

  The advisers looked to one another. They shrugged and looked to their Maximum Leader for guidance.

  "Was it in 1959, when we postponed elections, proclaiming, 'Real democracy is not possible for a hungry people'?" he asked.

  "No," the Minister of Ideology insisted. "For without that decree, Cuba would not have El Magnifico Fidel to guide them to greatness."

  The Maximum Leader nodded soberly. His frown deepened. He puffed thoughtfully.

  "Was it perhaps a year later, when we instituted food rationing, thereby insuring perpetual hunger?"

  "No, Comandante en Jefe," the cultural minister protested. "For had we not instituted rationing in 1960, there would now be no food at all."

  "Good. Good. That is good. I had not thought of that."

  Smiles brightened dark faces. Their leader was pleased. The rum was flowing freely now. They were drinking Cuba Libres.

  "Was it when we announced our Harvest of the Century?"

  "No," he was assured. "For who could have foreseen that the harvest would fail? The Revolution makes workers, not weather. The workers were with us, the weather was not."

  "Good. Good. I like it," said the Maximum Leader, jotting these phrases down on a tiny note pad balanced on one big knee. The stubby pencil looked tiny in his huge fist.

  His brow furrowed once more. "Perhaps we blundered when we sent our soldiers to Africa to fight oppression there. Many died. Many were widowed or left childless."

  "No, Fidel," insisted the Minister of Agriculture. "For if those soldiers were with us today, they would have to be fed. There is little enough food as it is."

  "Excellent point." The big bearded man rolled his fine cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, like a bear with a candy cane. "And what about the time we allowed any Cuban to leave through the port of Mariel?" he asked. "Thousands did. It was an embarrassment. It made Cuba look like a place to flee from."

  "No," said his brother, in his other capacity of Defense Minister. "For they were traitors to Socialism, and what need have we to feed them?"

  "Another excellent point. I shall make a speech tomorrow. It will be about the importance of food to the Revolution."

  The sound of enthusiastic applause rippled around the marble room like unseeable doves.

  Pounding feet came up to the door, and someone on the other side began to knock furiously.

  "El Presidente!" a voice cried. "It is the Americans! They have returned! They are attacking!"

  "Where?"

  "Playa Giron!"

  At the mention of that legendary place of class struggle, the eyes of the presidential advisers went round, their expressions turning sick.

  "We are lost!" they cried, visions of Tripoli and Baghdad flashing through their rum-besotted minds.

  "No," rumbled their Maximum Leader. "This is exactly what the Revolution requires."

  "Que?"

  "An enemy to vanquish."

  The Leader of the Revolution stormed into the two-story home in a Havana suburb that had served as his emergency command post since before the first Bay of Pigs.

  "Report," he snapped.

  A captain seated before a radio took off his earphones and said, "A militia man discovered the incursion three hours ago."

  "Three hours! Why was I not notified before this?"

  "He was unable to contact us by telephone. It had fallen into disrepair."

  "Then he had failed Socialism. He should have maintained the instrument better. He understood its importance. Have him shot."

  "But he was a hero of the first Bay of Pigs, Comrade Fidel."

  "And he was a failure of the second," the Cuban president said dismissively. "Tell me of the campaign."

  "I have ordered the invaders destroyed to the last man."

  "Mulo! What good are dead invaders?"

  "Dead invaders cannot establish beachheads."

  "And dead invaders cannot be interrogated!" El Lider snapped. "I want prisoners, not corpses!"

  "Si, comrade." The captain returned to his World War II surplus radio set and began issuing rapid orders in Spanish. He listened through headphones and looked up to the hulking figure of his comandante en jefe.

  "Grito Batallion reports that the invasion has been quelled. They have taken prisoners."

  "Have them brought to me. No, I have a better idea. I will go to them. In a tank. We will bring cameras, and show me leaping off a tank at the battle site. It will be as it was in 1961. What need have the people for meat, when Fidel entertains them so lavishly?"

  "Si."

  There were only five surviving prisoners, he found when he entered the shack on the beach. The Maximum Leader was disappointed. Five was not much of an audience. He decided against televising their interrogation over TeleRebelde live. It would be recorded instead, and selected portions aired as it suited him.

  They were, he was disappointed to learn, not Americanos but Cubans. He would rather have had Americanos. They were more valuable.

  He began to speak. He paced back and forth, one hand crooked at the small of his back and the other busy stabbing the air with a Romeo y Julieta cigar.

  "You are gusanos-worms!" he told them in Spanish. "You are betrayers!"

  The men looked at one another, abashed.

  Good, good, thought Fidel. He would shame them as he did the thousand-some invaders of 1961.

  He had had those ones assembled in the Palencio de los Desportes-the Sports Palace. For four days he had lectured them, browbeaten them, humiliated them as the cameras rolled, recording every drop of traitorous sweat. They had wept. They had begged for forgiveness. And in the end, they had spontaneously stood up and given him a standing ovation.

  Here, he would do all this again. Since there were only five survivors, it would take but the afternoon.

  "You have allowed yourself to be puppets!" he continued. "Puppets of the imperialistas! You are men without conscience, lacking even a single ball between your spineless legs!"

  They winced at his lashing words. The fear was in their eyes. Pleased, he pressed on.

  "You have come to the paradise of the Caribbean to despoil it. Or so you parasites thought. Instead, you have tasted the bitter gall of your defeat on the sweet Socialist sands of our beach. You are fools and lackies of fools!"

  A stiff-backed Cuban major cleared his throat. Annoyed, the Leader of the Revolution glowered at him. He paused and then nodded, giving the man leave to speak.

  "Comrade Fidel. These men . . ."

  "Spit it out!" he snapped.

  "They do not speak Spanish," the major said. "We have already determined this."

  The President's right eyebrow crawled upward. His left, hesitating, joined it.

  He whirled on the five nervous prisoners.

  "This is true?" he howled in English. "You do not speak the mother tongue of your fathers?"

  They shook their heads furiously.
At least they remain scared, Fidel thought.

  "What manner of Cubans are these, who storm our shores now?" he raged.

  One of the invaders spoke.

  "Second-generation ones," he said simply.

  El Lider Maximo blinked. His mouth went slack, making his rangy gray beard bunch up on his olivedrab chest like a cloud of steel wool dashing itself against a mountainside.

  "Madre!" he grumbled. "I will waste no time with such as you!" he snapped, knowing his English was not equal to a five-hour harangue. Besides, the language was not nearly eloquent enough for his purposes. "Tell me who has sent you here!"

  The men remained stonily silent. For the first time, he noticed under their camouflage paint how young they were. Mere boys, it seemed.

  "Tell me!" he roared.

  The mouths of the prisoners thinned resolutely.

  "Have them tortured, and call me when they are prepared to speak," he snapped, storming from the beach.

  It is not like the old days, he thought huffily as he left the shack.

  It took less than twenty minutes. His cultural minister employed the Russian technique known as "making a snake." It was as simple as it was effective.

  They took the strongest of the prisoners, held him down, and before the eyes of the others, split his tongue down the middle with a sharp knife.

  The blood flowed alarmingly, in crimson rivers.

  The others found their tongues, and began to speak rivers of words.

  The Maximum Leader faced them triumphantly.

  "I knew you lacked balls, but I did not think you were also bereft of spines," he spat. Glaring at one, he added, "You! Who engineered this cowardly, incursion?"

  "Uncle Sam."

  El Presidente, standing straight up, almost staggered at the news. He blinked. He could scarcely believe it. Had the Americanos become so bold? Always before, they had insulated themselves from blame by layers of proxy commanders.

  He turned to the next in line. "What do you say? Speak your leader's name!"

  "Uncle Sam."

  And so it was on down the line.

  "Uncle Sam."

  "Uncle Sam."

  Even the maimed tongueless one gurgled out two bloody words that sounded like "Uncle Sam."

  This came as such a surprise that the grizzled President of Cuba let his cigar fall, hissing, into the pool of blood at his feet.

  He lifted a balled fist to the height of his shoulder, and shook it furiously.

  "Then it is war! At long last, it is war!"

  Chapter 2

  His name was Remo, and he was trying to order duckling.

  The room service manager of the Fontainebleau Hotel, overlooking Miami Beach, was graciously apologetic.

  "I am sorry sir, but the duck is unavailable."

  "Uh-oh," said Remo, his strong face warping in concern.

  "Sir?"

  "My roommate isn't going to like this."

  "Please convey to your roommate our deepest apologies," the room service manager said in an unctuous tone, "but as I said, the duck is unavailable this evening. "

  "This is terrible," Remo said.

  "From time to time there is a problem with our suppliers. It cannot be foreseen, and there is nothing we can do about this."

  "You see, I have a sneaking suspicion my roommate picked this hotel expressly because he liked the duck," Remo said.

  The room service manager's voice grew solicitous. "I shall so inform the head chef. I'm certain he will be gratified."

  "You see, normally we don't check into a hotel a second time. We kinda like to move around, experience new things. But we were here a few months back and my roommate ordered the duck. Now here we are back at your nice hotel; and now no duck."

  "I can assure you it will be on the menu by the end of the week. May I suggest our beef Stroganoff?"

  "You can suggest all you want," Remo countered, "but my roommate and I are allergic to beef."

  "A pity."

  "We eat beef and we go into toxic shock."

  "We would not want that. Would you prefer the lamb-kabobs?"

  "Lamb's greasy."

  "Not our lamb."

  "And lamb makes us hurl."

  "Hurl?"

  "Puke."

  "I shall have to remember the word 'hurl,' " the room service manager said dryly. "It has a certain charming . . . force to it."

  "My roommate and I," Remo went on, "are on highly restricted diets. We eat fish and duck and rice and not much else."

  "In that case, let me suggest the trout Almondine."

  "Good suggesting, but my roommate has his heart set on duck."

  "As I have explained, the duck is unavailable tonight, but it will be available again later in the week. Possibly by Thursday."

  "Don't know if we'll be here that long," Remo said.

  The room service manager's voice dropped several degrees Fahrenheit. "May I make a further suggestion? Why don't you ask your rather finicky roommate if, under the circumstances as I have outlined them, the trout Almondine might not be acceptable after all?"

  "Hang on."

  Remo cupped his hand over the hotel suite phone receiver and called into the next room.

  "Hey, Little Father!"

  "Trout have bones," came a squeaky, querulous voice.

  Remo took his hand off the receiver and said, "He says trout is bony."

  "We bone our trout, sir."

  The squeaky voice came again. "Ask for the duck." "I did. They say they're out."

  "Has every duck in the universe expired?" wondered the squeaky voice.

  "Doubt it," said Remo.

  "Then I shall have the duck. In orange sauce."

  Remo spoke into the receiver. "Says he's really, really set on the duck. And he'd like it in orange sauce."

  The last of the oil evaporated from the room service manager's tone.

  "Sir, as I have explained-"

  "Listen, by chance did you hear about the bellboy?"

  "I seldom pay attention to the doings of lower-echelon personnel," the room service manager said bluntly.

  "The poor guy ended up in a body cast."

  "I believe something was mentioned along those lines. Regrettable."

  "He nicked my roommate's trunk carrying it to the elevator," Remo pointed out.

  There was a pregnant pause on the line. "This roommate of yours, by chance would he be an elderly gentleman of Asian extraction?"

  "Oh, I wouldn't call him 'elderly,' " said Remo, knowing that he would be overheard by the occupant of the next room, who was sensitive about his age. "And I think you shouldn't either. That's worse than nicking a trunk."

  "Understood, sir." The tone changed again. This time, it was helpful. "Well, if this is the case, there may be something we can do. Perhaps I could ask the head chef to dig a little deeper into the freezer, as it were. Ah, I trust your roommate would not be offended by frozen duck?"

  "Not unless it showed up on his plate that way."

  "Splendid. Then duck in orange sauce it will be. I assume you would like the same?"

  "Not me. I want the trout Almondine. A side of steamed white rice for both of us, and absolutely pure natural mineral water. Got that?"

  "Your meals shall be delivered within the hour," the room service manager promised. "You have our eternal gratitude for your patience."

  "And you get to keep your mobility," said Remo happily. He hung up. He looked into the mirror. The face that stared back at him was distinguished by two features: the deep set of his dark eyes, and the high cheekbones. It was a strong face. Too angular to be called handsome, yet too regular to be unpleasant. In certain lights, it looked skull-like. When he frowned, it looked cruel.

  Remo wasn't frowning now. He was smiling. He adjusted his smile and put an innocent expression on his face. Then he walked out into the living room of the sumptuous hotel suite, hoping his expression held.

  "I got you the duck," he said brightly.

  The occupant of the ot
her room sat cross-legged on a reed mat before the hotel television set. He didn't stir a hair. Not that there was much hair to be stirred. The back of his head resembled a seamless amber egg decorated by tiny ears, whose tops nudged twin puffs of cloudy white hair set directly above.

  "The duck in this place is greasy," he announced.

  "It is?"

  "It was greasy last time."

  "Want me to call back, have them do it right?" Remo said helpfully.

  "It will do no good. They are incompetent. If we demand they leech out the grease, the duck will come dry."

  "Better greasy duck than dry duck, huh?"

  "Better properly prepared duck."

  Okay, Remo thought, he didn't drag me back here for the duck. It must be something else. Remo decided to get to the point.

  "Little Father, I am curious."

  "So is a monkey."

  "True," said Remo, trying not to be dragged into a fight. "But monkeys can't order room service for their jungle friends. And monkeys don't usually find themselves suddenly rushing off to Miami one morning. Especially since they've been there recently."

  "On what channel does Cheeta Ching come on here?"

  Remo picked up the local TV directory. "Channel 6."

  The Master of Sinanju picked up the remote channel-selector and punched up 6. His face came into view then. It resembled the papyrus death mask of some impossibly ancient pharaoh that had been sucked dry of all moisture. A wisp of beard clung to the papery chin. His age was impossible to gauge. Even his wrinkles seemed wrinkled.

  A low sound emerged from his wattled throat, curious and faintly pleased. "The black box says 6, and behold, Channel 6 appears on the glass screen."

  "I think the cable box is dead."

  "Perhaps we will abide here for a time."

  "Suits me. I'd just like to know why."

  "We are homeless, are we not?"

  "Since Smith kicked us out of our home, yeah. I guess I prefer to think of us as footloose vagabonds."

  "There are many homeless in this sad land."

  "To hear Cheeta Ching tell it, yeah. But what does that have to do with camping out in Miami?"

  "The homeless of this land, how do they come to such a sad state?"

  "Let me see. They lose their jobs. They don't pay the rent."

  "Exactly," said Chiun.