Cuba (11 page)

hand on his forehead. He had always liked the sensual

coolness of her fingers. Her touch now seemed

to quiet him. He relaxed again, then tossed

restlessly as the ghosts of the

past paraded through the recesses of his mind.

An hour later, his eyes opened, though they didn’t

focus. Finally the head moved and the eyes sought her

out.

Fidel Castro said nothing, merely looked.

He could feel the narcotic wearing off. The pain was

coming back. He opened his mouth to ask for the doctor,

then thought better of it.

He licked his lips. “I want to make a

videotapeea”…he whispered, barely audible.

“Are you strong enough?”

“For a little while, I could be, I think. It must be

done.”

“What will you say?”

“I don’t know exactly. I need to think about it.”

“When do you wish to do this tape?”

“Soon, I think, or never.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow. Tell the doctor. I must be alert

tomorrow, if only for a little while.”

“Why?”

“I want-to dictate my political will.”

She leaned forward and put her face next to his.

“Can you visit a moment with me?”

“Te quiero, mujer.”

“y yo te adoro, me viejo.”

“We will talk for a little bit, then the doctor and the

needle.”…He was perspiring now, his body becoming

tense.

“I am being selfish. I will call the doctor

now.”

“In a moment. I want to tell you… I love

you. You have been the rock I have held on to the last

few years.”

She wiped away her tears and kissed him. -

Then he said, “I have made many mistakes

in my life, but I have always tried to do what I thought

best for Cuba. Always. Without fail.”

“Why do you think I love you so?”

“I want the Cuban people to remember me well.

They are my children.”

“They will never forget.”

“I must help them march into the future.”

He drew his knees to his chest. His eyes were

bright, perspiration coursed from his forehead and soaked

into the pillow.

“Tomorrowea”…he whispered. “I will think. Get the

doctor now.”

She squeezed his hand, then left the room.

Maximo Sedano spent the evening on his yacht

cruising in sight of Morro Castle. The breeze

blew the tops off occasional waves under a deep

blue sky. Maximo’s two guests looked

decidedly pale as they huddled with him around the

small table near the galley.

“If Castro dies, will the drug smugglers continue

to do business with us”…”…asked Admiral Delgado,

head of the Cuban Navy. For the last fifteen years

he had limited his nautical activities

to visiting patrol boats tied to piers.

“If we can guarantee the continued safety

of their products and their people, of courseea”…Maximo

said.

“We can’t guarantee anythingea”…General Alba,

Chief of Staff of the Cuban Army, said

bitterly. “The whole thing is going to fall apart;

we are going to lose something very sweet.”

It was typical of Delgado and Alba, Maximo

thought, that their very first thought of the future was of their

pocketbooks. Money. These small, petty men

lived for the bribes. Truly, they were unable to see

what lay outside of the tiny circle where they lived

their miserable, corrupt lives.

Alas, the best military man in Cuba under the

age of eighty, the air force chief, died last

month. Castro had yet to name a replacement, and

probably would not.

Maximo sighed. “Nothing lasts foreverea”…he said.

“But

change always presents opportunity, if one knows

where to

look for it. Gentlemen, it all boils down to this:

Who will

rule Cuba when the dust settles after the

funeral?”

” “It won’t be youea”…General Alba said

curtly. “Five of

my regional commanders are in Hector Sedano’s

pocket, and there is little I can do about it unless I

relieve them and put someone else in their

place.”…He gave a tiny shrug. “Castro must

endorse the order. If I make a major move

like that without his consent, he will sack me.”

“He is sick.”

“His aides will sack me, using his autiiority.

I cannot disobey Fidel while he draws breath.

You know that as well as I.”

“Perhaps you should shoot these disloyal subordinatesea”…the

admiral said slowly, eyeing his colleague.

“If you have some loyal men who will wait until the

right momentea”…Maximo added.

“When Castro dies?”

“No. When I give the word. Not until then.”

“I have some loyal men, certainlyea”…the general said.

“I have spread the money around, made sure it got

all the way down the chain. Only a fool plays

the pig or hands great wads of money to someone else

to distribute. My men get their share. The devil of

it is that the disloyal ones think Alejo Vargas

puts it in their pockets. They think he is the good

fairy.”

“Will they obey you without question?”

“The loyal men will obey

me,

yes.”

“And will

you

obey

me?”

Maximo Sedano demanded.

General Alba stared at Maximo impudently.

“I will not lift a finger to put you on the throne as the

new Fidel unless …”…he said roughly, still looking

Maximo straight in the eye, “unless you represent

my interests, which are also the interests of my men, and you

have a chance to win. I don’t think that you have such a

chance.”

“I hear you, Alba. We have worked together for years;

there is enough sugar here for all of us.”…Maximo glanced

at the admiral. “Do you agree?”

“Oh, there’s enough. But money isn’t everything. The

fact is that Alejo Vargas is a blackmailer

and has been

gathering his filth for twenty years. His spies are

everywhere; he sees and hears everything.”

The admiral picked up the thought.

“Vargas has corrupted people you would not suspect, and

those he can’t corrupt, he blackmails. I

give you my honest opinion: You have no chance against this

man.”

“Without friends, I do not, that is true.”

“I tell you now, Maximo, you have no friends who

wish to die with you. Few men do.”

“What I cannot understandea”…the soldier said, “is why

Fidel tolerated your brother’s antics. He

has- been told repeatedly of Hector’s

activities, of the “meetings, the speeches, the

subtle criticism of Fidel and the choices he

made. Why does Fidel tolerate this?”

“I asked him that question onceea”…Maximo said, “a

year or so ago. Believe me, he has been

carefully briefed on Hector Sedano.”

“What did he say?”

“He said Hector was a barometer. The people’s

reactions to his message told Fidel how

unhappy they were with him, with the government. People

routinely lie to government clerks, but if they go out

of their way to listen to Hector Sedano make a

speech, that means something. For my part, I think

Fidel wisely considers what the Church might

think. Like it or not, Hector is a

priest. Fidel has carefully reached out to the

Vatican the last few yearshe cannot afford

to antagonize the pope.”

“Are you saying he doesn’t care what Hector

says?”

“Three or four years ago when Hector first

came to his attention, I think Fidel found him

extremely irritating. Believe me, I warned

Hector repeatedly, tried to get him to use

reason, to control his tongue. He ignored me.

Flouted me.

“I think Fidel intended to imprison Hector

when he had said enough to convict himself with his own mouth. I

told Hector he was playing with fire. But as

Fidel got sicker, I think he lost interest.

He just listens to the reports now,

asks a few questions about the size of the crowds, who was

there, and goes on to another subject.”

“Surely Fidel doesn’t intend that Hector

Sedano rule after him”…”…Admiral Delgado

asked, his disapproval of Castro’s attitude quite

plain.

“If we are to have a chance at the prize, we must

strike when Fidel breathes his lastea”…Maximo said.

“And quickly. Alejo Vargas must be

assassinated within hours of Castro’s death. Within

minutes.”

“We would have to kill Santana tooea”…the general

said. “I have trouble “sleeping nights knowing he is out

there listening to everything, planning, scheming at

Alejo’s side.”

“Who is going to do this killing”…”…the admiral asked.

“No one spoke.

“Our problem is going to be staying aliveea”…the

general said, “because Alejo Vargas and Santana will

eliminate us at the slightest hint that we might be

a threat.”

“What about Hector?”

“Hector will have to dodge his own bullets.”

“You are sheepea”…Maximo muttered, loud enough for them

to hear, “without the courage to take your fate in your

own hands. The wolves will rip out your throats.”

Toad Tarkington and his wife, Lieutenant

Commander Rita Moravia, were seated in the back

corner of the main wardroom aboard

United States,

drinking after-dinner coffee and conversing in low tones.

A naval test pilot, Rita was on an

exchange tour with the Marine squadron aboard

Kearsarge

so that she could gain operational experience on the

tiltrotor Osprey prior to its introduction

into navy squadrons.

As usual when he was around Rita, Toad

Tarkington had a smile on his face. He felt

good.

Life is good,

he thought as he watched her tell him what their son,

Tyler, now four years old, had said in his most

recent letter. She had received the missive earlier

today. Of course Tyler wrote it with the help of

Rita’s parents, who looked after him when Rita and

Toad were both at sea.

Yes,

life is good!

It flows along, and if you surround yourself with interesting

people and interesting problems, it’s worth living. Toad

grinned “broadly, vastly content.

“May I join you”…”…Toad and Rita looked up,

and saw the new chief of staff standing there with a cup of

coffee in his hands.

“Please do, Captain. Have you met my wife,

Rita Moravia?”

Gil Pascal hadn’t. He and Rita shook

hands, said all the usual

getting-acquainted things.

After they discussed the command that the captain had just

left, Pascal said, “I understand that you two have known

Admiral Grafton for some years.”

“Oh, yesea”…Toad agreed. “I was just a

lieutenant in an F-14 outfit when I first

met him. He was the air wing commander, aboard this very

ship in fact. We went to the Med that time, had a

run-in with El Hakim.”

“I remember the incidentea”…Pascal said. “The

ship went to the yard for a year and a half when she got

back to the States. And Admiral Grafton was

awarded the Medal of Honor.”

Toad just nodded. “Rita met the admiral a few

months later in Washington,” Toad said, trying

to move the conversation along. Conversations about El

Hakim made him uncomfortable. That was long ago and

far away, when he was single. Now, he realized with a

jolt, things were much differenthe had Rita and Tyler.

He was thinking about how being a family man changed his

outlook when he heard Rita say, “Toad has

served with Admiral Grafton ever since then.

Somehow he’s always found a billet that allowed him

to do that.”

“You know Admiral Grafton pretty

well thenea”…Pascal said to Toad.

“He’s the second best friend I have in this

lifeea”…Toad replied lightly. He was smiling,

and deadly serious. “Rita is

numero uno,

Jake Grafton is number two.”

From there the conversation turned to Rita’s current as-

signment, evaluation of the new V-22 Osprey.

After a few minutes Toad asked Rita, “May

I get you more coffee?”

At her nod, Toad excused himself, took both

cups and went toward the coffee urn on a side

table. Normally a steward served the coffee, but just

now they were cleaning up after the evening meal.

Captain Pascal asked, “Have your husband’s

assignments hurt his career?”

Rita knew what he meant. Toad had not

followed the classic career path that was supposed

to lead to major command, then flag rank.

“Perhaps.”…She gave a minute shrug. “He made

his choice. Jake Grafton appeals to a different

side of Toad’s personality than I do.”

“Oh, of courseea”…sd the captain, feeling his way.

“Spouses and friends, very different, quite understandable …”

“Jake Grafton can trade nuances with the

best bureaucrats in the business, and he can attack

a problem in a brutally direct manner.”…Rita

searched for words, then added, “He always tries to do the

right thing, regardless of the personal consequences. I

think that is the quality Toad admires the most.”

“I seeea”…sd the chief of staff, but it was obvious