The Alpha account belonged to the Communist Party of Cuba, it was run by a representative of the PPC, and its take was thirty-five percent of Mendy's net profit.
The Beta account was the Army's plum, run by a top colonel, and its take was also thirty-five percent.
The Gamma account, with fifteen percent, was somewhat different from the others in that it was under the direction of a senior official from the Ministry of Sugar, and was used to help influence prices on the world sugar market.
The Delta account, with fifteen percent, was the property of the DGI, and was always run by a sensitive. That was my next assignment. I stopped talking, and looked at Chavez expectantly.
"What about the bank accounts?" he asked.
"Each division has its own numbered bank account in Switzerland, and all monies are channeled there first for transfer to Cuba.
I must have been smiling, for he said, "You find this amusing?"
"Somewhat. Don't you?"
"Not at all."
"The Communist Party of Cuba is trading on the New York Stock Exchange, and you don't find that at least… ironic?"
The geniality vanished, and he turned cold: cold eyes, cold thin lips, cold fingers that formed a steeple in front of his face. "If Jesus Christ were alive today, he'd be a member of the Communist Party. Jesus said, 'Give up your property, and follow me.' Fidel says, 'Give your property to the revolution, and then follow me.' Now, that's irony. What you're talking about is economic reality. Do you understand the difference?"
"Yes, compañero." It was that Jesuit training of his. "We haven't discussed the Tau account yet."
His eyes narrowed. "What do you know about the Tau?"
"The way I understand it, nine percent of the DGI money in the Delta account is rolled over into a separate and a distinct account, the Tau, for use in special operations overseas. Do you have any instructions for me on that?"
"The Tau account is no concern of yours."
That confused me. "If I'm handling Delta, don't I have to know about Tau?"
"Someone in Geneva handles Tau. Forget about it."
"That's contrary to procedure," I protested. "If I'm going to have the responsibility, I have to have control."
He shook his head.
I didn't like it. My ass was on the line if something happened to that money. I said stiffly, "I must ask why."
"Why? You ask a lot of questions."
"I've only asked one."
"Sometimes one is one too many."
"I still have to ask it."
He looked amused. "Are you familiar with the teachings of Saint Augustine?"
"No."
"I thought not. Let me tell you a little story about him. It seems that a group of theologians once approached that holy man, who was then the bishop of Hippo, and asked him a question that had been bothering them. What, they asked, had God been thinking about just before he created the heavens and the earth. The good bishop reflected, and do you know what he said?"
"No, compañero."
" Saint Augustine said that God was thinking about making a hell for people who ask such questions." He smiled faintly. "Now, is there anything else that you'd like to ask?"
I shook my head. If any man could make a hell for me, it was Patrício Chavez.
"Good. Now, you may have wondered why I wanted to give you this assignment personally." I nodded. "Have you also wondered why the head of the Delta division is always a sensitive?"
The question confused me. "I assumed that it was for intelligence-gathering purposes. Our particular… talents."
Chavez frowned. "Please, between ourselves, we can dispense with that fiction. We both know how little true intelligence is gathered in Miami." I kept a straight face. He was as much as saying that we did it just to keep the boss happy. He could say it, but I couldn't. "Don't misunderstand," he went on, "I want you to keep on doing your little tricks over there. Exercise your particular talent, as you put it, and send me all the juicy gossip you dig up, but remember to keep your priorities straight. Your main job is to keep an eye on Jaime Figueroa. The son of a bitch has been stealing us blind."
"Figueroa? The managing director?" I didn't know what to say. "But he's one of ours. He's DGI."
"That doesn't make him an angel, does it?" Chavez was back in his genial mode, treating me as a confidant. "By now you should have learned that in this business you trust nobody. Figueroa is a thief, I'm convinced of it. He's skimming money off the top of the operation."
"A serious charge."
"The man is a master at making money disappear. That's why I always have a sensitive there, to get into his head and see what he's doing."
"Have you caught him in anything?"
Chavez shook his head angrily. "Not yet. He's a clever devil. Even with a tap on his head, he's getting away with it. I would have gotten rid of him long ago, but the man has friends, important friends. I need proof, and the day I get that proof Jaime Figueroa goes to the wall." He pointed a finger at me. "Get me that proof and you can name your next assignment. I can be generous to those who work with me."
"This man is stealing from the state," I said, and my voice must have shown how shocked I was.
Chavez nodded his approval of my indignation. "That is exactly what he is doing, and I want you to help me to prove it."
I sat there, stunned. This may sound naive to you, Snake, but the idea sickened me. Figueroa was stealing money from Cuba. You knew me back then, I was never much of a flag waver, but at that point in my life I was a lot less cynical than I am now. I was still in love with my country then, because… Let me tell you something about Cuba.
You want to tell me that Cuba is a police-state dictatorship? You're right. You want to tell me that life in Cuba is oppressive, with no free press and no dissent? You're right. You want to tell me that my own outfit, the DGI, was controlled from Moscow by the KGB? Right again.
But if you want to tell me that the average Cuban isn't better off today than he was before the revolution, then you're wrong. Dead wrong. I'm talking about medical services, I'm talking about education, I'm talking about job security. Much better off, and I know what I'm talking about. After all, I'm what they used to call a true son of the revolution, because I was born on the first of January, 1959. The date doesn't mean anything to you? Okay, Yankee, a little history lesson. On January 1, 1959, Fidel Castro toppled the government of the dictator Batista, and rolled into Havana at the head of a rag-tag army at the precise moment when, some fifty miles to the east in the province of Matanzas, my mother grunted, groaned, and gave me birth.
The precise moment? Maybe not, but close enough so that from my earliest days I was called a true son of the revolution. Everyone who was born on that day was called a true son or daughter of the revolution, and you want to hear something else? I was born in a log cabin. How about that for proletarian roots? If I had been born in America that would have insured my future as a politician, but to tell you the truth, where I came from every raggedy-assed kid was born in a bohio, the Cuban version of a log cabin. Trees for the framework, strips of palm for the sides, fronds to thatch the roof, two rooms inside and the kitchen out back. That was your standard working-model bohio: no running water, no electricity, beans and rice at noontime, rice and beans at night. That's how this son of the revolution was raised, along with three brothers and two sisters, by a mother who slaved for us and a father who cut cane in the fields. I tried to live up to my name. I joined the UJC, and later the Young Pioneers. I listened carefully when my teachers explained the revolution to us, listened to the leaders from the CDR, listened to the torrents of words that poured out of the radio whenever Fidel decided to stage one of those mind-numbing four-hour extravaganzas. I marched in all the demonstrations and parades, I banged on the drum, I waved the banner, and I shouted "Venceremos" until my throat went sore. And while I was doing that, my father cut cane in the fields.