“Five sentences?” Toad Tarkington asked when he had had his chance to read the message. “Only five sentences?”
Reading naval messages was an art, of course. One had to consider the identity and personality of the sender, the receiver, the situation, any correspondence that had passed before …. The situation in Washington was the unknown here, Jake concluded. If the CNO had been at liberty to say more, he would have: Jake knew the CNO. The lack of guidance or illumination told Jake that the chief of naval operations wanted him to be ready for anything.
“We’ll have to do the best we can with what we have,” the admiral said now to Pascal and Tarkington. “I want a plan: we need someone watching at all times, a quick reaction force that can meet any initial incursion with force, a reserve force to throw into the fray to absolutely deny access, and flash messages ready to go informing Washington of what we have done.”
Toad and Gil Pascal nodded. A plan like this with the forces that the admiral had at his disposal would be simple to construct. No surprises there.
“There is always the possibility that we may not be able to prevent hostiles from getting to the warheads, if they choose to try. We also need a plan addressing that contingency.”
“Surely this nightmare won’t come to pass,” Gil Pascal said. “Your assessment of the risk differs remarkedly from that of the National Security Council.”
“I’m sure the powers that be think it quite unlikely anybody will try to prevent us from removing the weapons from Cuba, and I agree. On the other hand, they must know something they can’t share with us. If the risk were zero, they wouldn’t have sent us here with orders to monitor, whatever the hell that is. Gentlemen, I just want to be ready if indeed we win the lottery and our number comes up.”
Toad thoughtfully put the message from Washington back into its red folder. He pursed his lips, then said thoughtfully, “One thing is for sure — something is up.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Alejo Vargas thought he had the finest office in Havana, indeed, in all of Cuba, and perhaps he did. He had the whole corner of the top floor, with lots of glass. Through the large windows one got a fine view across the rooftops of Morro Castle and the channel leading into Havana Harbor from the sea. The desk was mahogany, the chairs leather, the carpet Persian.
William Henry Chance paused to take in the view, then nodded appreciatively. He turned, saw the old United Fruit Company safe in the corner, now standing open, and the display of gold and silver coins from the Spanish Main under glass. He paused again, ran his eye over the coins just long enough to compliment his host.
“Very nice,” Chance said, and took the chair indicated by Alejo Vargas. At a nearby desk sat Vargas’s Chief of Staff, Colonel Pablo Santana, who nodded at Chance when he looked his way, but said nothing.
Colonel Santana was dark, with coal black eyes and black hair combed straight back; he had some slave and Indian somewhere in his bloodline. He slit the throats and pulled the trigger for Alejo Vargas whenever those chores needed to be done.
Chance forced himself to ignore Santana and look at his host. “I appreciate you taking the time from your busy day to see me, General,” the American said, and gave Vargas a frank, winning smile.
Chance was tall and angular, with craggy good looks, and dressed in a light gray suit of a quality one could not obtain in Cuba for love or money. He appeared perfectly at ease, as if he owned the building and were calling on a tenant.
No wonder the Russians lost the race to the Americans, Vargas thought ruefully. A true Latin male, he was acutely aware of his own physical and social shortcomings, his lack of grace and self-assurance, so he was quick to appreciate the desired qualities in others.
“I understand you have been discussing a business arrangement for the future with officials of several departments,” Vargas began.
“That is correct, General. As you probably know, I represent a consortium of stockholders in several of the major American tobacco companies. My errand is discreet, not for public discussion.”
Vargas certainly did know. He had a complete dossier on William Henry Chance in the upper right-hand drawer of his desk, a dossier decorated with a half dozen photos, photocopies of all the pages of Chance’s passport, and one of his entry in Who’s Who. A senior partner in a major New York law firm, Chance had represented tobacco companies for twenty-five years. That Chance was the man in Havana talking to the Cuban government was a sure signal that major money was behind him.
Indeed, Chance was in Vargas’s office today because Fidel Castro had asked Vargas to see him.
“Alejo,” Fidel had said, “our future depends on Cuba getting a piece of the world economy. The Americans have kept us isolated too long. If we can make it profitable for the Americans to lift the embargo, sooner or later they will. The Yankees can smell money for miles.”
If William Henry Chance knew that Castro had personally asked Vargas to see him, he gave no sign.
The less he understands about our government, the better, Vargas thought. He cleared his throat, and said, “I am sure you understand our concern, Señor Chance. Cuba is a poor nation, dependent on sugarcane as the mainstay of the economy, a crop that is, as usual, a glut on the world market. Your client’s proposal, as I understand it, is to cultivate tobacco in Cuba instead of sugarcane.”
Chance gave the tiniest nod. A trace of a grin showed on his lips. He glanced at Santana, who was scrutinizing him with professional interest, the way a cat examines a mouse.
“Your comprehension is perfect, General.”
“Through the years, señor, the price of tobacco on the world market has been even lower than that of sugar.”
“This meeting shall be a great help to my clients,” Chance declared. “Here today I will show you the many benefits that will accrue in the future to the nation that keeps an open mind about tobacco. I am not talking about cigar leaf, you understand, which is a tiny percentage of the world market. I am talking about cigarette tobacco.”
“The price of which will collapse in America when the American government ends its subsidy to American tobacco farmers.”
“Indeed,” said William Henry Chance. “The United States government will soon cease supporting the price. But of greater interest to our clients, the government will increasingly regulate and tax the cigarette business. Plainly stated, the government is hostile to our industry. The current administration has stated that their eventual goal is to put the industry out of business.”
Chance moved his shoulders up and down a millimeter, settled deeper into his chair. “The American public is gradually giving up the cigarette habit. In a few years the only Americans smoking will be rebellious youth and addicted geriatrics.”
Chance leaned forward slightly in his chair and looked Alejo Vargas straight in the eye. “The future of the cigarette industry is to sell American brands to non-Americans. All over the world people in developing countries want the image American cigarettes present: prosperity, sex appeal, luxury, a rising status in the world. These images are no accident. They have been carefully created and nurtured at great expense by the American cigarette companies.”
Chance paused here to see if his host had anything. to say. He didn’t. Alejo Vargas sat silently with a blank, expressionless face. Not a single muscle revealed a clue about its owner’s thoughts. Through the years Alejo had had a lot of experience listening to Castro’s long-winded expositions.