“The time has come for this government to renounce communism, to embrace private enterprise, to act as a referee to ensure that every Cuban has a decent job that pays a living wage and every enterprise pays its fair share of taxes …”
In less than a minute Fidel reached his peroradon:
“Hector Sedano is the man I believe best able to lead our nation into this future.”
The tape ended anticlimactically a few seconds later. A tired, haggard Fidel spoke to someone off-camera, said, “That’s enough.”
Jake Grafton reached out, turned off the television.
Ocho was stunned. “I thought Fidel was dead!”
“He is dead. He made this tape before he died.”
“That was not a live performance?”
“No. A film, a videotape.”
“And you have it!” Ocho’s eyes were wide in amazement. “They must have played the videotape on television, and you copied it. But if it has been on television in Havana, why is Hector in prison?”
“The tape has never been on television,” Jake said. “As far as I know, you are the very first Cuban to see it since it was made.”
Ocho stared, trying to understand. Finally he asked, “What are you going to do with it?”
“I was wondering,” Jake Grafton said, “if you would take it back to the lady who gave it to us. I believe she is your aunt by marriage, Mercedes Sedano?”
“Mercedes!” Ocho gaped. “She was Fidel’s mistress. Why did she give you the tape?”
“You will have to ask her. Will you return the tape to her?”
“Of course. When do you want me to do this?”
“This evening, I think. By the way, are you hungry?”
“Oh, yes. I like the hamburger. Muy bueno.”
Jake and the lieutenant took Ocho to the flag wardroom for lunch. Ocho talked of baseball, of Cuba, of his brother Hector, and Hector’s dreams for a free Cuba. He talked even with his mouth full, so the lieutenant who was translating didn’t get much to eat. Jake let the young Cuban talk.
After lunch the admiral asked for Tommy Carmellini, so Toad Tarkington went looking for him. Carmellini was asleep. He smelled of liquor, which Toad ignored — after all, the man was a civilian.
When Toad got Carmellini into the admiral’s office, he asked the chief petty officer to bring coffee, which Carmellini accepted gratefully.
“I’ve been thinking about your comment,” Jake Grafton said.
“What comment?” Carmellini asked between sips of hot black coffee.
“About Vargas having jugs of cultures under his bed.”
“Umm.” Carmellini drank more coffee. When he saw that the admiral was expecting him to say more, he shrugged. “That was a flippant comment. I’m sorry.”
Jake Grafton scratched his chin. “I thought it was … profound, in a way.”
“How’s that?”
“We can’t burn the island down.”
“That would be impractical,” Carmellini agreed. “We’d have eleven million Cubans to house and feed afterwards.”
“So where does that leave us?”
Tommy Carmellini searched the faces of the naval officers.
“There’s a presidential directive against assassinating heads of state,” the CIA man said cautiously.
“I have seen references to such a directive,” Jake Grafton said, “though I haven’t read the thing.”
“Trust me. It exists.”
“Friend, I believe you. That’s sound public policy and I don’t have anything like that in mind. Our objective is the lab and the cultures: that’s more than enough to keep us busy. You’ve been there before and know the layout. Will you go back with us tonight?”
Tommy Carmellini nodded slowly. “I appreciate your asking, Admiral. I’d be delighted.”
“We are planning a military assault. It is going to be a holy mess, I think. Vargas will probably ambush us on the way in or booby-trap the lab to blow up after we’ve fought our way in there. Maybe both”
“He’s that kind of guy,” Carmellini agreed.
“Hector Sedano’s brother is aboard ship. He was picked up floating in the ocean north of Cuba two days ago after the boat he was on sank. Everyone else aboard drowned or was a victim of shark attack. This kid is either Hector’s brother or a liar of Clintonian dimensions. They call him El Ocho. I want you to talk to him, feel him out. He impressed me as an extremely competent, capable young man. Talk to him, then come back and tell me what you think.”
Toad Tarkington was in the Air Intelligence Center studying satellite images and radar images from an E-3 Sentry AWACS plane flying a race track pattern over the Florida Straits. The University of Havana science building was at the center of all the images.
“What’s happening in Havana?” Jake asked.
“The streets are full of people,” Toad said. “Especially around La Cabana Prison. Do you think they are there to break Hector out?”
“They’re there because he is,” Jake muttered, and used a magnifying glass to study the infrared images of the science building.
Toad pointed at the picture with the tip of a pen. “Tank,” he said. “Vargas is going to be waiting with his guns loaded.”
“Is he taking cultures out of the building? Do any of the specialists in Maryland have any opinions on that?”
“No one has seen any milk trucks. He’d be a fool to haul that stuff through Havana in a regular truck.”
“Desperate men do foolish things,” Jake Grafton said, and laid the magnifying glass back on the table.
As the sun was setting, Jake received a call from the White House. “I just watched that tape of Fidel,” the president said over the encrypted circuit.
“It’s impressive. We are going to deliver it to the woman who gave it to us, see if she can get it on television tonight”
“Maybe that will pan out,” the president said. “The American Interest Section in Havana says that the crowd outside the prison is restless. Local police are nowhere in sight.”
A wave of relief swept over Jake Grafton. “That’s the best news I’ve heard today, sir.”
“I’m really worried about those viruses.”
“Sir, we’ll do what we can.”
“Just what are you going to do, Admiral?”
“Improvise as I go along. Do you really want to know?”
“I guess not,” the president said heavily.
Alejo Vargas was in the office area across the hallway from the lab in the University of Havana science building when General Alba came in with old General Rafael Zerquera, the titular head of the Cuban armed forces, the chief of staff. The old man was at least eighty-five, probably a bit more, and he walked with a cane. With the two military men were several ministers, including Ferrara and the mayor of Havana. Behind them were six young officers, all wearing sidearms.
“Señor Presidente,” General Zerquera began, and looked around the room for a chair. He found one and his aide helped him to it, though Vargas had not invited anyone to sit.
The general looked around slowly, taking everything in. Through the window one could see the air lock across the hallway that led to the sealed laboratory.
“I called your office, called the Ministry of Interior — they could not tell me where you were. The army knew, however.”
Vargas said nothing.
“I saw a missile launched last night — everyone in central Cuba saw or heard it.” The old man shook his head, remembering. “Weapons to destroy cities, kill millions — Fidel knew that if the Yanquis ever found out about the missiles, they would seek to destroy them. He was right. And he knew that if the missiles were ever used on the United States …”
Zerquera cocked his head, looked at Vargas. “So you launched at least one, and it never reached its target”
“What’s done is done,” Vargas snapped. “How do you know the missile did not reach its target?”