“Given the information in my report, such an accident might well be expected.”
“Then we understand each other,” said Castro, stroking his beard.
Now Castro rose, folded his hands, and swayed on his heels.
“Go,” he said, looking at his large Russian watch. “I have more important things. You’ll be taken to the airport.”
Rostnikov said nothing as he walked carefully to the door. Then he took a deep breath and turned.
“One more thing,” he said. “The Santería are not to be accused of the crime.”
Castro nodded.
“It was a poor plan, Russian. Between us and no one else I tell you. The Santería will not be accused. There are too many torn edges in this situation. It is best to be done with them and rid of your Shemenkov.”
“Gracias,” said Rostnikov.
“De nada. It is dangerous to have too many secrets,” said Castro. “Sometimes it is the only thing that can keep you alive. Still, it is dangerous. Secrets come to light and are misunderstood. I am too busy now to worry about how I will be viewed by history. I will leave it to journalists and scholars to distort and misjudge what I have done. We have not met.”
“We have not met,” said Rostnikov.
Castro took a step toward Porfiry Petrovich and looked into his eyes.
“I believe you,” he said.
Fidel Castro turned his back, and Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov went into the hall. He was led back to the street and into the waiting car where Elena was waiting. Someone closed the door behind him and the car took off smoothly.
“What …?” Elena began.
“An official asking a few questions,” said Rostnikov. “We are leaving Cuba.”
The flight back was not comfortable. Rostnikov sat on the aisle. Elena sat next to him, also on the aisle. The seat belts didn’t work properly. The food was some Danish cookies and small ham sandwiches on hard rolls. The coffee was fine. Rostnikov slept briefly, waking in time to coax his leg back to life. Elena both slept and pretended to sleep. When she was awake, she worked on her report. The flight was late and conversation nonexistent until they were a few hundred miles from Moscow.
“Elena Timofeyeva,” Rostnikov said, “I require a shave. I will attempt one in the washroom. If I fail to return in ten minutes, you will know I have cut my throat. Please tell them in Moscow that it was an accident, not suicide.”
Elena nodded dutifully.
“It was a joke,” Rostnikov said.
“Yes, I know.”
“You did well,” Rostnikov said.
Elena tried a smile.
“We leave Havana behind us,” he said. “I would prefer to speak no further of it or those we met outside of our official report. And please, put in the report only what is essential for those in Moscow. Confessions are for the holy in the corners of churches.”
“Yes,” she said.
He patted her shoulder.
“Good,” he said. “I think Iosef will be very happy to see you. Perhaps you can come to dinner tomorrow night.”
“I would like that,” she said as he made his way swayingly down the aisle toward the toilet.
A little over two hours later, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov made his way up the stairs of his apartment building dragging his leg and suitcase behind him. It was late and Sarah would be sleeping, but he would have to wake her because the door was bolted from within.
He put the suitcase down and knocked gently. He was preparing to knock even louder when the bolt slid and the door opened.
She stood there in her robe, lights on behind her.
“I’m home,” he said, and took her in his arms, determined not to weep.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-b4374f-87a3-fd4b-b7ac-ceb9-106e-94a130
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 04.09.2008
Created using: calibre 0.9.36, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Stuart M. Kaminsky
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Hard Currency ir-9 Page 23