He had grown up hating the United States, hating Yanquis who drank and gambled and whored the nights away in Havana. He hated their diplomats, their base at Guantánamo Bay, their smugness, their money … he despised them and all their works, which was unfortunate, because America was a fact of life, like shit. A man could not escape it because it smelled bad.
God had never given him the opportunity to destroy the Yanquis, because if He had …
Fidel Castro was intensely, totally Cuban. He personified the resentment the Cuban people felt because they had spent their lives begging for the scraps that fell from the rich men’s table. Resentment was a vile emotion, like hatred and envy.
Well, he was dying. Weeks, they said. A few weeks, more or less. The cancer was eating him alive.
The painkillers were doing their job — at least he could sit up, think rationally, smoke the forbidden cigars, plan for Cuba’s future.
Cuba had a future, even if he didn’t.
Of course, the United States would play a prominent role in that future. With the great devil Fidel dead, all things were possible. The economic embargo would probably perish with him, a new presidente could bring … what?
He thought about that question as he puffed gingerly on the cigar, letting the smoke trickle out between his lips.
For years Americans had paraded through the government offices in Havana talking about what might be after the economic embargo was lifted by their government Always they had an angle, wanted a special dispensation from the Cuban government … and were willing to pay for it, of course. Pay handsomely. Now. Paper promises … He had enjoyed taking their money.
He had made no plans for a successor, had anointed no one. Some people thought his brother, Raúl, might take over after him, but Raúl was impotente, a lightweight.
He would have to have his say now, while he was very much alive.
But what should the future of Cuba be?
The pain in his bowels doubled him up. He curled up in the bed, groaning, holding tightly to the cigar.
After a minute or so the pain eased somewhat and he puffed at the cigar, which was still smoldering.
Whoever came after him was going to have to make his peace with the United States. They were going to have to be selective about America’s gifts, rejecting the bad while learning to profit from the good things, the gifts America had to give to the world.
That had been his worst failing — he himself had never learned how to safely handle the American elephant, make the beast do his bidding. His successors would have to for the sake of the Cuban people. Cuba would never be anything if it remained a long, narrow sugarcane field and way point for cocaine smugglers. If that was all there was, everyone on the island might as well set sail for Miami.
Maybe he should have left, said good-bye, thrown up his hands and retired to the Costa del Sol.
Next time. Next time he would retire young, let the Cubans make it on their own.
Like every man who ever walked the earth, Castro had been trapped by his own mistakes. The choices he made early in the game were irreversible. He and the Cuban people had been forced to live with the consequences. Life is like that, he reflected. Everyone must make his choices, wise or foolish, good or bad, and live with them; there is no going back.
There is always the possibility of redemption, of course, but one cannot unmake the past. We have only the present. Only this moment.
When the pain came this time, the cigar dropped from his fingers.
He lay in the bed groaning, trying not to scream for the nurse. If he did, she would give him an injection, which would put him to sleep. The needle was going to give him peace during his final days, but he wasn’t ready for it yet.
The pain had eased somewhat when he felt a hand on his forehead. He opened his eyes. Mercedes.
“You dropped your cigar on the floor,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“Shall I call the nurse?”
“Not for a while.”
She used a damp cloth to wipe the perspiration from his face. The cloth felt good.
“Light the cigar.”
She did so, put it in his hand. He managed one tiny puff.
“You talked to Hector?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He was surprised. He didn’t know it would be so soon.”
“That was your impression?”
“Yes.”
“And the tobacco deal with the Americans? What did Hector say when you told him about it?”
“Just listened.”
“The birthday party, Maximo came?”
“Yes. Brought a box of French chocolates and his wife, who wore a Paris frock.”
Fidel’s lips twisted. He could imagine what the other people at the party thought of that. Maximo could charm foreign bankers and squeeze a peso until it squealed, but he was no politician.
“Did you warn Hector about Alejo?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He made light of it.”
Fidel thought about that. Remembered the cigar and took another puff.
“He thinks the threat will be the generals,” he said finally, “but it won’t. The generals don’t know it, but the troops will follow Hector. Alejo Vargas is his most dangerous opponent, and if Hector Sedano doesn’t understand that, they will bury him a few days after they bury me.”
“Admiral, next weekend when we’re in the Virgin Islands, what say we put the barge in the water and go water-skiing?”
The person asking the question was the admiral’s aide, a young lieutenant who flew an F/A-18 on her last cruise. Her boyfriend was still in one of the Hornet squadrons; the last time Jake Grafton approved the barge adventure, the boyfriend was invited to go along.
Now Jake sighed. “I’m not sure where we’re going to. be next weekend, Beth.” He had no intention of getting very far from Guantánamo Bay while those warheads were still in that warehouse, but of course he couldn’t say that. “Check with ops, Commander Tarkington.”
“Yes, sir,” Beth said, trying to hide her disappointment.
The new Chief of Staff, Captain Gil Pascal, Toad Tarkington, and the admiral had put their heads together, carefully listed the forces available should an emergency arise, and drafted a contingency plan. “Nothing’s happened in all these years,” Jake told them, “but Washington must have had a reason for telling us to keep an eye on the place. They must know something we don’t.”
Gil Pascal met the admiral’s gaze. He had reported to the staff just a week ago. “Sir, as I recall, the orders said to ‘monitor’ the loading of the weapons onto the container ship.”
“‘Monitor’?” muttered Jake Grafton. “What the hell does that mean? Is that some kind of New Age bureaucrat word? It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I guess my question really is, how much force are you willing to use without authorization from Washington?”
A faint smile crossed the lips of Toad Tarkington. Only a man who didn’t know the admiral would ask that question. Anyone who started shooting in Jake Grafton’s bailiwick had better be ready for a war, Toad thought. He had managed to wipe off the smile by the time the admiral answered:
“Whatever it takes to keep those warheads in American hands.”
Pascal took his time ordering his thoughts. “Shouldn’t we be talking contingencies with Washington, Admiral?”
Jake Grafton opened a top-secret message folder that lay on his desk in front of him. “I already sent a query to CNO. This is the answer.”
He passed the message to Pascal. “Monitor weapons on-load diligently, using your best judgment,” the message read, “but do not deviate from normal routine. Revealing presence of chemical and biological weapons in Cuba not in the national interest. Risks of transfer have been carefully considered at the highest level. Should risk assessment change you will be informed.” The final sentence referred to the original message.