Vargas nodded, a dip of the head.
“Nor have I asked for money for arranging to steal Nuestra Señora.”
“That is true, but if the operation succeeds, we would have paid a fair amount.”
“I do not want your money.”
“You want something. What?”
El Gato walked a few paces with his hands in his pockets before he spoke. “After Castro I envision a Cuba much more friendly to American interests, more open to a free flow of capital in and out. A great many people in the United States have a great deal of money accumulated that they want to invest in Cuba, which they will do as soon as the United States government allows them to do so, and as soon as the Cuban government guarantees these investors that their investment will not be confiscated or stolen with hidden taxes or demands for graft. A man who could guarantee that his friends would be fairly treated in Cuba could make a lot of money. He would be a patron, if you will. And if he carefully screened his friends, Cuba would get a vetted flow of capable investors who would perform as promised.”
“Something for everyone,” Vargas said.
“Precisely.”
“Just so that I understand — are you suggesting that you want to be that man, el jefecito?”
“I could do it, I believe.”
“The exiles expect to come to Cuba at Castro’s death and take over the country. They want billions in repatriations. I tell you now, you have helped fuel their expectations with your five million dollars.”
What he failed to mention was the fact that the Cuban government had played to the fears of the peons who stayed, telling them they would be thrown from their homes if the exiles ever returned.
El Gato smiled. “Like the exiles, you fail to clearly see the situation. They are Americans. They make more money in America than they ever could in Cuba. They will never return in significant numbers. In fact, if the borders are thrown open, the net human flow will be toward the United States, not back to Cuba. If the American government would allow it, a million Cubans a year would leave this island. You would be wise to let people go where they wish to go.”
“You are saying the exile problem will just disappear?”
“Except for a few bitter old men, yes, I believe it will. The young ones have gotten on with their lives. They have no old scores to settle.”
“So you betray these old ones for your own profit?”
“Señor Vargas, if they wish to nurse old grudges and dream of a time which is long past and will never come again, who am I to tell them no? Most of these people are quite harmless. Those who aren’t can be dealt with when they cause problems. A public apology to dispossessed old people, a plea for healing, a few pesos, and the exiles could be appeased.”
“Assassination plots against Castro and the like?”
“Plots that never get off the ground are harmless. Let them have their meetings and their thunderous denunciations. These people will pass from the scene soon enough.”
Vargas made a gesture of irritation. He had his own opinions and didn’t really wish to hear other people’s. “Colonel Santana will take you and your men to your hotel.”
“Thank you.”
“I can promise you very little, El Gato. I understand that you cannot guarantee the future, but the North Koreans must fulfill their part of our bargain. If they do, there is a chance, just a chance, that I may rule after Castro.”
El Gato waited.
Vargas continued: “I will not forget what you did for me, for Cuba. If the day ever comes when I am in a position to help you, feel free to ask. What I can do then will have to be decided upon that day.”
“That is more than I hoped for,” El Gato said, genuine warmth obvious in his voice. “I thank you for that promise.”
CHAPTER THREE
The F-14 Tomcat hung suspended in an infinite blue sky, over an infinite blue sea. Or so it seemed to Jake Grafton, who sat in the front cockpit taking it all in. Behind him Toad Tarkington was working the radar, searching the sky ahead. The air was dead calm today, so without a visual reference there was no sensation of motion. The puffy clouds on the surface of the sea seemed to be marching uniformly toward the rear of the aircraft, almost as if the sky were spinning under the airplane.
The fighter was cruising at 31,000 feet, heading northwestward parallel with the southern coast of Cuba, about a hundred and fifty miles offshore.
“I sure am glad you got us off the ship, sir,” Tarkington said cheerfully. “A little flying helps clean out the pipes, keeps everything in perspective.”
“That it does,” Jake agreed, and stretched.
He had the best job in the navy, he thought. As a battle group commander he could still fly — indeed, an occasional flight was part of the job description. Yet his flying days would soon be over: in just two months he was scheduled to turn over the command to another admiral and be on his way somewhere.
He searched the empty sky automatically as he thought again about where the next set of orders might send him. If the people in the flag detailing office in the Pentagon had a clue, they certainly weren’t talking.
Ah, it would all work out. The powers that be would send him another set of orders or retire him, and it really didn’t matter much which way it went. Everyone has to move on sooner or later, so why not now?
Maybe he should just submit his retirement papers, get on with the rest of his life.
With his right hand he hit the emergency disconnect for the autopilot, which worked as it should.
Without touching the throttles, Jake Grafton smoothly lifted the nose and began feeding in left stick. Nose climbing, wing dropping … rolling smoothly through the inverted position, though with only seventy degrees of heading change. The nose continued down — keep the roll in! — and the G increased as the fighter came out of the dive and back to the original heading, only 1,400 below the entry altitude. Ta-ta! There you have it — a sloppy barrel roll!
Jake kept the stick back and started a barrel roll to the right.
“Are you okay up there, sir?” Toad Tarkington asked anxiously.
“You ask that of me? The world’s finest aerobatic pilot? Have you no respect?”
“These whifferdills are not quite up to your usual world-class standards, so one wonders. Could it be illness, decrepitude, senility?”
They were passing the inverted positon when Jake said, “Just for that, Tarkington, you can put us on the flight schedule every day so we can practice. An hour and a half of high-G maneuvers seven times a week will tech you to respect your elders.”
“You got that right,” Toad replied, and moaned as if he were in pain as Jake lifted the Tomcat into a loop.
“War Ace One Oh Four, this is Sea Hawk. You have traffic to the northwest, one hundred miles, heading south at about 30,000.”
“Roger, Sea Hawk.”
Coming down the back side of the loop, Jake turned to the northwest.
“Admiral, I know you think I was loafing back here,” Toad said obsequiously, “but I had that guy on the scope. Honest! I was just gonna say something when that E-2 guy beat me to the switch.”
“Sure, Toad. These things happen. If you’re going to nap, next time bring a pillow.”
“This guy is coming south, like he’s out of some base in central Cuba, about our altitude. Heck of a coincidence, huh?”
The F-14 had an optical camera mounted in the nose that was slaved to the radar cross-hairs.
“Tell me when you see him,” Jake murmured.
“Be a couple miles yet. Let’s come right ten degrees just for grins and see what happens.”
Jake again had the fighter on autopilot. He pushed the stick right, then leveled on the new course.
At fifty miles Toad had the other airplane on the screen of his monitor. A silver airplane, fighter size, with the sun glinting off its skin. The electronic countermeasures (ECM) panel lit up as the F-14’s sensors picked up the emissions of the other plane’s radar.