The night the Soviet Union came apart, Comandante Zorilla was walking the beach of his childhood, dazed and restless. He walked all night. Buzzards flew overhead, as if over a cooling corpse. There had been buzzards overhead in the days before the Revolution, he knew, but now they seemed a portent of the exhausted carcass that his isolated homeland had become.
Zorilla was sucking on a length of sugarcane, the rich brown sucrose juice fueling his nervous state.
He did not remember collapsing. Not even to this very day.
The doctor was leaning over him when he came around.
"You are all right," said the kindly old doctor-one of the last of the good ones because he, like all that was left in Cuba that was good, was pre-Revolution.
"No more sugarcane for you," the doctor said.
"Why not?"
"You have diabetes," said the doctor, handing Comandante Zorilla a plastic packet containing a vial of insulin and two disposable needles.
"Do not throw away your needles," the doctor directed. "Clean them in alcohol."
"There is no alcohol to be had," Zorilla had protested.
The doctor shrugged forlornly. "Do not concern yourself, because soon there will be no more insulin, as well."
"Will I die?"
The kindly old doctor smiled. "Son, we will all die. Some sooner than others.
That night, Comandante Zorilla lay on his bunk, listening to a transistor radio whose sole battery he had hoarded for years. He was listening to Radio Marti.
"It was announced tonight by MININT that meat rations have been cut to one a month. President Fidel Castro Ruz has decreed that Cubans will subsist on sugarcane rather than sell them to the Russian Commonwealth at ruinous prices. According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture projections, the sugarcane harvest for the previous year was poor, and expectations for a good one this year are minimal."
That night, Comandante Zorilla packed all that mattered to him: some U.S. dollars he had acquired, and his dwindling insulin supply.
As a military man, he was privy to much intelligence. He knew, for instance, the schedule of U.S. Caribbean cruise ships, although everyone knew these to some degree. For ordinary Cubans took to makeshift rafts and pushed out into shark-infested waters, knowing that if the winds were right they would be sighted by the passing ships, which always picked them up.
And if they were not, they would die.
Comandante Leopoldo Zorilla knew he was going to die anyway. So he stole a Soviet rubber raft from supply and inflated it on the beach. The inflating canister sputtered out with the raft only half-filled. Zorilla was forced to use a bicycle pump to finish the job. The handle cracked at the penultimate pump.
"Nothing in Cuba works anymore," he complained, and shoved off into the night.
It was a moonless night in April. The air was moist and free. And Leopoldo Zorilla-no longer comandante, except of his own soul-lay there dreaming of what it would be like when he reached Miami and defected.
His mind held many military secrets. Enough to expose all of Cuba's weak spots. Choke points. Ill-guarded landing spots. He was but one man, but he could lay Castro's Cuba naked and exposed to liberators.
It would be sweet, this revenge he contemplated.
When the Caribbean sun heaved out of the too-blue waters, Leopoldo Zorilla was astonished to see that he was not alone on the open sea here in the Windward Passage.
All about him, other rafts floated. He looked around wonderingly. It was like a Sargasso Sea of rafts. Mostly, inflated inner tubes floored with mangrove branches. Or rubber tires too bald to serve any other useful purpose.
The balselaros, as they were called, greeted the sun with reverential silence, for all knew that when the sun set, they would either be free or they would be lost forever.
The cruise ship Beasley Adventure hove into view at high noon, when the rays burned hottest.
It was magnificently white and multistoried, like a palace afloat.
Those who could, stood up and waved at the ship with their straw hats. Zorilla waved with his sunburned hands.
The great ship hove to, and landing stages were lowered.
They were taken aboard as if it were an ordinary thing.
Leopoldo Zorilla presented himself to the white-uniformed captain.
"I am former Comandate Leopoldo Zorilla of the Cuban Air Force," he said, his voice choking, for this was contrary to his upbringing.
"Fine, fine," said the captain rather carelessly. "Welcome to our ship. We dock in an hour. Immigration will be there to process you."
"But I am a defector. I have many military secrets in my head."
"Tell it to the INS."
"But I am a military man, like you."
The Yanqui captain almost laughed in his face.
"I'm just a plain old commercial captain. Now if you'll excuse me . . ."
Zorilla had been left stunned. What an ignorant dandy this man is, he had thought. Did he not realize how important a defector Zorilla was?
He did not. Zorilla found himself herded into a hold with the others, like two-legged cattle. The food was good though, and he ate greedily.
At the dock, Immigration authorities came to take charge of them. They did not look pleased with this harvest of defectors.
When one of them came to him with forms to be filled out, Leopoldo Zorilla snapped to attention and saluted, saying, "I am former Deputy Comandante Leopoldo Zorilla of the Cuban Air Force, requesting asylum."
"Fine. Here's your entry form."
"I know many military secrets of value."
"Fill it out in triplicate, please."
"I have knowledge that would bring down the Havana government, if properly applied."
"Turn it in to the man in white."
"But-"
The bored immigration man moved on. Then, as if understanding for the first time, he stepped back. He looked Zorilla in the eye for the first time, and Zorilla thought, He is slow-witted. He understands now.
"Almost forgot. Here's your pencil."
Stunned into wordlessness, Zorilla accepted the yellow stub of a pencil. His tongue thick in his gaping mouth, he filled out the form. In triplicate.
With the others, he was taken to the Immigration Service's Krome Avenue Detention Center to be processed. There he was given blue coveralls and more forms to fill out.
For two months Leopoldo Zorilla told his story to any who would listen, and waited for a higher U.S. official to come and take charge of him. He had heard whispers of Cuban pilots who received handsome stipends in return for defecting. He had spit on the memory of those traitors in days gone by. Now, all he cared about was getting his very own stipend.
But there were no stipends for Leopoldo Zorilla. Nor did any high-ranking U.S. official show up to take charge of his case.
Instead, after the obligatory two-month cooling-off period had passed, he and those with whom he had shared a Spartan barracks existence were summoned to a room and given green cards.
"What is this 'green card'?" he asked. "Residency permit. You can get work."
"I do not wish to work. I wish to reveal the secrets of Cuba military machine," Zorilla protested.
"Not interested."
"But I have been told of the vast sums my junior officers have received for flying their MIGs into this country."
"You got a MIG on you?" the processor asked.
"No . . ." Zorilla admitted.
He pointed. "Get your clothes and wait in one of those vans."
Dejectedly, Zorilla did as he was told. These men were dolts! As bad as the functionaries in Havana, who would refuse to change a light-bulb if it were not their assigned task to do so.
Leopoldo Zorilla hitched a ride to Washington and attempted to interest the CIA, the FBI, and the Pentagon in what he knew.
He was rebuffed at each institution. With the exception of the Pentagon, which offered him a janitorial job at $5.40 an hour.
Depressed and defeated, Zorilla
had returned to Florida and an unknowable future.
It was not so bad. The Cuban community had virtually taken over Miami. The mayor was Cuban. A senator was Hispanic. It was, Zorilla thought, like Havana would have been if that bearded monster had not thrown a monkey wrench into the clock of time itself.
He got a job in a restaurant, and although the work was menial and hurt his pride, Zorilla was told that he was in the land of opportunity and good fortune was sure to come his way.
It did. One day a man named Drake walked into the restaurant and offered him more than just a job.
"I understand you know some things about current Cuban defenses," he said in a smooth, low voice.
"This is true. Why do you ask?"
"The Director would like to speak with you."
And it had been just as his fellow Cuban-Americans had promised. Leopoldo Zorilla laid down his busboy's plastic tray and became a leader of men once more. A soldier of the Americas.
That had been a year ago. A good time. A new beginning.
But now, it had all been dashed to pieces.
As the last bitter tear slid down a track on his face to leave a dried, tight, saline line, Comandante Leopoldo Zorilla vowed to make the person responsible pay: The despised Fidel Castro.
The mission would go on.
He pressed his heavy booted foot to the accelerator and, like a robot, held the snaketrack road.
Behind, the shame of his life lay in slow-drying pools of blood.
Ahead, lay his manly destiny.
As he rushed through the Florida night, Leopoldo Zorilla vowed to himself that he would build a monument to the fallen of this terrible night, of the purest granite he could find.
He could do no less. For he knew personally the mothers of many of the glorious dead.
Captain Ernest Maus slipped his magnetic passcard into the slot and entered the quietly humming control room after the door had slid upward.
The humming came from the banks of computers and control consoles. It made the room sound cool. In fact, the temperature hovered around ninety-five degrees. He began to sweat profusely as he walked past the guards in their immaculate white jumpsuits.
He stopped where an old man sat hunched over a computer terminal. The old man was using a mouse to draw a fox in glowing red lines. His hair, visible over the chair back, was the color of snow.
"Director?"
"What is it, Maus?" the Director asked in a chilly voice.
"Dr. Revuelta called the emergency contact number, and left a cryptic message on the machine. Do you authorize contacting him directly?"
The Director used the mouse to make the fox stand up. He gave the fox a Marilyn Monroe face, large breasts, and a wealth of bushy pubic hair.
"Director?"
"Why is it so cold in here?" the Director asked peevishly. clicking the mouse. The fox-girl began to revolve, swaying its generous hips like a hula dancer.
"The heat is on high," Maus reported. "Damn doctors. Said there'd be no aftereffects. If that's so, why am I freezing all the damn time?"
"I'll have the heat increased, Director."
"And go to Threatcon Squeaky. No telling what the cat might drag in."
"And Revuelta?"
"Find out what his problem is. That idiot is probably just jumping at shadows."
The Director made the fox girl's naked rump a size larger. Then two. He chuckled appreciatively.
"I love this thing," he said as Captain Maus left the room, his uniform blouse sticking to his skin.
Chapter 12
Remo Williams drove through the cool Florida night in tight silence.
Beside him, the Master of Sinanju said nothing.
The road ahead ran in straight lines that became cutbacks at unexpected moments. Remo was completely focused on it and his car. He was at one with the car, feeling the tires hug the road through vibrations coming up through the steering column.
The modern automobile was as far removed from the purity that was Sinanju as was Donkey Kong. Still, the reflexes Remo had acquired made him a superb driver.
He had been running without lights for hours, his vision fixed on the distant taillights of Zorilla's car.
They were on Interstate 75, heading north, toward Tampa. Cool, salty breezes were blowing in off the Gulf of Mexico.
Remo turned on the radio and punched up the stations until he got a newscast.
". . . in Florida, military bases and law enforcement agencies are reportedly on a high state of alert in the wake of the Cuban interference of broadcast channels. The Pentagon is being uncharacteristically tight-lipped, but sources here confirm contingency plans are being reviewed for a possible retaliatory action against microwave TV-transmitters on the Cuban mainland."
"Good," Remo muttered. "No, it is not good."
"Why not?" Remo asked Chiun.
"Because the oppressor cannot oppress unless he has external enemies."
The newscaster continued, "According to a Cuban television broadcast monitored in Mexico, Fidel Castro told his people today, 'We will fight them without quarter, with the force of the masses and the law, in the political field and in the ideological field with every means. If the Yanquis come, it will be another Vietnam, only worse.'"
"Guess he never heard of Desert Storm," Remo said.
"If there is one person who wishes for invasion, it is the oppressor," Chiun said.
"Say that again," Remo said, turning off the radio.
"It is very simple, Remo. I know what is happening on that island of sugar. The tyrant cannot feed his people. They clamor for food and grow restive. It is the beginning of the end. Only a miracle can save him now." Chiun turned, his voice pointed. "Or an enemy to be invoked, the better to draw the people around him to protect the man, under the pretense of protecting his throne."
"Makes sense. But Castro isn't doing this."
"What has he to lose?"
"I still think it's the CIA. They've had a bug up their ass over this guy since day one."
"They should pass gas then, and be done with it," Chiun said blandly.
"Chiun?"
"Yes?"
"When we get to the head guy, I get Zorilla, too."
"Why?"
"He slaughtered his own men. He deserves to die."
"If all your wishes come true, my son," Chiun said in a low voice, "we will have a very busy night before us."
As they neared Tampa, the taillight angled east. Remo followed onto Interstate 4, as if riding a wheeled lodestone being pulled by another lodestone. The driver never suspected he was being followed.
The countryside changed character. They began to see cattle farms, surprisingly enough. Lakes were common sights.
The signs began to say: LAKELAND. WINTER HAVEN. KISSIMMEE. FURIOSO.
The Master of Sinanju, seeing the last of these, perked up in his seat and said, his voice squeaky with pleasure, "Look, Remo, we are going to Furioso."
"Big hairy deal," Remo growled.
The Master of Sinanju frowned. "It is a big hairy deal to some," he said.
"Not to me."
"We have no time to stop?"
"Chiun, we are not going to you-know-where while we're on a freaking mission."
"Now I know," Chiun said forlornly.
"Know what?"
"That I am unappreciated by ingrates on all sides."
Remo sighed. "Maybe on the way back."
" 'Maybe' is not 'definitely.' "
Silence fell over the darkened car interior.
Somewhere in the night, fires raged. They were passing through fields of orange groves now. The air was filled with a strange mixture of orange blossoms and burning kerosene, and dense with dragons of rolling black smoke.
"What are these fires?" Chiun asked in a doubtful voice.
"Looks like the orange growers got hit by a frost."
"Frost does not burn."
"No," Remo said patiently. "But the growers have millions of dollars tied up in th
eir orchards. They can't afford to lose them to frost. So they burn smudge pots and use electric heaters to save the crop."
"This works? Smoking the fruit?"
"Usually. If the frost doesn't go on too long."
The Master of Sinanju grunted. "Did I ever tell you of the Master who was so foolish that he performed a service for a solitary orange?"
"No. And I think you're making it up."
"I do not make up legends. It was in the time of Cathay. Oranges were unknown to Sinanju, and an emperor of . . ."
Remo tuned out Chiun, and the singsong tone in which he was relating a possibly true story of the early days of the House of Sinanju. He was in no mood for it. All he wanted was for the trail to end and the bodies to start piling up.
Miles short of the outskirts of Furioso, Florida, the fugitive taillights dimmed, flared, and winked out.
"Damn," Remo said.
Chiun pointed into the night. "I see him. Follow."
Remo pulled off the road-he had no idea what road, or where he was exactly-and onto a sandy access road that was nothing more than a knot of switchbacks rank with kudzu weed.
Either side was lined with old billboards. Mostly ads for local theme parks. The kudzu was working its way up those, too.
"This isn't a posted road," Remo said.
"It is a road," Chiun countered. "That is enough."
For nearly a mile they negotiated the road. Ahead, the night horizon was a jagged line of strange shapes.
Chiun examined this critically. "What vista is this?"
"Search me," Remo said.
Chiun pouted his lower lip, his hazel eyes thoughtful.
The road came to a dead halt at the end of a pond bordered with wilting pink camilla blossoms.
Remo eased to a stop in time to keep the front tires from slipping into the water.
"What the hell?" he muttered. "Where'd he go?"
They got out, shades of black in a deeper blackness.
"See anything, Little Father?"
"No," Chiun said thinly.
Remo looked for tracks. There were none. In fact, his own car had made no impression in the sand. Remo knelt. The sand, he found, was actually glued in place. Glued over asphalt.
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