William Henry Chance summed up: “Minister, under the benevolent eye of a government that wants the industry to succeed, the prospects for profit are enormous. In the future the cigarette companies will grow the tobacco, process it, advertise, and sell the cigarettes. Cubans could own part of the companies, which would pay taxes and employ Cubans at a living wage. Here is a product that could be produced locally and sold worldwide. Cigarettes could be gold for Cuba in the twenty-first century.”
Now Alejo Vargas smiled. “I like you, Señor Chance. I like your style.”
“You can’t fool me,” Chance shot back. “You like my message.”
“Cuba needs industries in addition to sugar.”
“The key, General, is a stable government that will protect the industry. Let me be frank: my clients have a great deal of money to invest, but they will not do so without the clear, unequivocal prospect of a stable government that will guarantee their right to do business and earn a fair profit.”
“Any promises or guarantees must come from the proper ministries of our government, with the consent of our president, Señor Castro,” Alejo Vargas said from the depths of his padded leather chair.
“It is the future of Cuba I wish to discuss with you, General. I state unequivocally that my clients will not invest a dime in Cuba until such time as the American government lifts the economic embargo. Candidly, the embargo will not be lifted as long as Castro remains in office.”
“Your candor deserves equal honesty on my part,” General Vargas said. “Castro will remain in office until he chooses to leave of his own free will or until he dies. Do not be mistaken — regardless of what drivel you hear from the exiles, Fidel Castro is universally admired, loved, revered as a great patriot by virtually everyone in Cuba. There is no opposition, no movement to remove him … none of that.”
“It is the distant future I wish to discuss with you.”
“Very distant,” the general said.
“After Castro.”
“I do not have a crystal ball, Señor Chance. I may not live so long.”
“Nor I, sir. But very likely the cigarette industry will still be in business and looking for new opportunities to grow.”
“Perhaps,” Alejo Vargas admitted, and cocked his head slightly. He had seen transcripts of Chance’s telephone calls to the United States and a transcript of the conversations that had taken place in his room. The man hadn’t said one word about Castro’s health nor had anyone mentioned it to him.
Still, it was a remarkable coincidence that he was here in Havana talking about post-Castro Cuba, and Castro was dying.
Alejo Vargas didn’t believe in coincidences. His instincts told him that William Henry Chance was not who he appeared to be. As he listened to Chance talk about-cigarette marketing and demographics in the Third World, he removed the file on Chance from his desk drawer. Holding the file in his lap where Chance could not see it, he carefully reviewed the information it contained. The photographs he could not scrutinize closely but he was willing to accept them as genuine. Mr. William Henry Chance of New York City was probably a senior partner in a large law firm — after looking once more at the file Vargas would have been shocked if he weren’t. All the right things were in the file. At least the file collectors were thorough, if nothing else, Vargas thought. Still, Chance’s position and profession might be an elaborate cover.
When he finished with the file Vargas returned it to the desk drawer just as Chance was summing up. The lawyer had charts and graphs. Vargas didn’t even glance at them. He studied Chance’s eyes, the way they focused, how they moved, how the muscles tensed and relaxed as he talked.
It was possible, Vargas decided. William Henry Chance might be CIA.
Thirty minutes later when Chance was packing his charts and graphs to leave he pulled a small package from his briefcase and offered it to Vargas. “Here’s something you might enjoy, General. Sort of an executive pacifier. These things are hot right now in the States so I picked up a few at the airport.”
Vargas unwrapped the tissue paper. He was looking at a small plastic frame from which three odd-shaped crystals dangled, suspended by strings.
“These crystals are man-made and react to differential heating,” Chance explained. “You put this on the windowsill and the crystals dance around, refracting the sunlight. Very colorful.”
“Thank you,” Vargas said mechanically, and sat the toy on his desk.
When Chance was gone Colonel Santana called an aide, who examined the device visually, then took it away to be examined electronically.
An hour later the aide returned with the toy in hand. “It is what it appears to be, sir, merely three lumps of oddly shaped crystal on strings. The crystals and frame are entirely solid; they contain nothing.”
“Americans! Executive pacifier!” Vargas said contemptuously.
Colonel Santana put the toy on a south-facing windowsill, watched the crystals dance in the sun for a moment, then forgot about it.
William Henry Chance took his time walking to his hotel, the Nacional, a classic 1930s masterpiece near Havana harbor. He left his locked briefcase in his room, then went downstairs to the hotel restaurant, which charged truly stupendous amounts of American dollars for very modest food. In fact, the only currency the hotel staff would accept was American dollars. Colorful wooden panels and ceramic accents, and peacocks wandering around like refugees from an aviary, gave the place an over-the-top Caribbean look, Chance thought, sort of South Miami Beach racheted one notch too tight.
Chance ordered a sea bass, blackened and grilled, black beans and rice, avocados, and a mojito, a delicious concoction of lime juice, sugar, mint leaves, and rum — just what the doctor ordered to prevent scurvy. He savored the fish, sipped a second mojito, contemplated the state of the universe and his fellow diners.
The hotel staff, he knew, were employees of the Cuban secret police. When they weren’t rushing here and there with daiquiris and fruit drinks they worked for Vargas, spied on the guests, listened to their conversations, searched their luggage, filled out written reports.
Chance knew the routine. He also knew that the Cubans would learn nothing by watching him because there was nothing to learn.
As he drank his second mojito he carefully reviewed everything Vargas had said during his interview. He thought about the general’s face, the total lack of expression when the demise of Fidel Castro was discussed.
Of course Alejo Vargas knew that Castro was dying. He must know. What Vargas didn’t know was that the CIA was equally aware of Castro’s medical condition.
When Chance finished dinner he went out on the street for a walk. First he had to work his way through the crowd of Cubans loafing around the entrance to the hotel. Knots of poor, bored Cubans with nothing to do and nowhere to go thronged the sidewalks in front of every nightclub and casino listening to the music that floated out through open doors and windows. Occasionally people danced or sang, but mostly they just passed the time chatting and watching the tourists, and beggars and prostitutes trying to extract dollars from them.
Several blocks away Chance stopped to buy bread. The man who sold him the bread gave him a peso in change.
One peso meant yes, two meant no.
Chance smiled, nodded his thanks, and walked on.
The crystal device was working. The vibrations of human voices in the room changed the motion of the crystals in predictable, minute amounts. When a powerful optical device was focused on the crystals, the refracted light was processed through a computer into human speech. The crystals were a totally passive listening device.