Will Black watched him from the other side of the table and wondered if the good doctor had a tapeworm. One way or another, a man who drank that much without showing the slightest effect had to have a liver the size of a Volkswagen.
The doctor put down his knife and fork, took a sip of wine and smiled pleasantly at Black and Carrie Pilkington. “In truth, mi amigo y mi amiga, I must say, the Central Intelligence Agency feeds its defectors well, and in such a delightful environment.” He paused. “I do miss Senor Kingman, though; he was muy divertido…entertaining?”
Kingman had returned to Washington after the first three days of the doctor’s filibustering. His excuse for leaving was to make a personal report on the situation to Joseph Patchin, but all the telephones at Oak Farm were secure and encrypted and there was also a video link.
Black was reasonably sure the real reason the deputy director had left was that he thought the Cuban’s constant beating around the bush was because he had nothing of value to disclose and was simply looking for a free ride. Consequently the doctor wasn’t worth his valuable time. Both Black and Carrie had tried to convince him about Carrie’s theory that Selman-Housein was stalling because he was on some sort of prearranged schedule, but Kingman dismissed the whole idea out of hand.
“This isn’t some fanciful story about Masonic treasures buried under the streets of New York, Miss Pilkington,” he’d chided. “This is serious business.” Kingman had laughed, jeering. “If there was a secret society of ancient knights running Cuba, don’t you think the CIA would know about it?”
Black had to stop himself from reminding Kingman that, among other things, the CIA hadn’t seen the collapse of the entire Soviet Union coming, had backed the nascent groups that became al Qaeda in Afghanistan, and that both the CIA and MI6 consistently ignored the Iraqi threat to Kuwait going back to the 1960s, despite all the James Bond films or Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan. In the final analysis, neither agency was very good at winkling out the secrets of other countries.
In the Oak Farm dining room, Selman-Housein picked up his knife and fork again and began slicing up a roast potato. He speared a morsel with his fork, popped it into his mouth and chewed happily for a moment.
“Wonderful,” he murmured.
“In the United States we have a saying, ‘to sing for your supper,’” said Carrie.
“Qué?” Selman-Housein said, frowning.
“Ganarse el pan,” explained Black.
“You speak Spanish?”
“Fluently, Doctor. I took a dual honors degree in political science and Spanish at Oxford. I also spent two years at the embassy in Madrid. Así que no me jodas, Doctore, ahora mismo!”
Selman-Housein-looked shocked at the profanity, then shrugged. He offered a brief smile, put down his knife and fork again and repeated the ritual of the wine and the linen napkin. He stared down the table at Black and wagged a disapproving index finger back and forth.
“I am offended,” he said primly. “In Cuba no man or woman would treat their guest this way.”
“This isn’t Cuba, Doctor. It’s North Carolina, and you’re not a guest—you are a defector and a traitor to your country.”
“How you talk is not hospitable anywhere, Senor Black.”
“Hospitality is over. It’s been a week and you’ve told us nothing. If you’re playing some sort of game, it ends now.”
“There is no game, Senor Black. Of this I assure you, and I am no traitor. I am a refugee and that is the status I will claim if you continue to speak to me so rudely.”
“A status you’ll never get, you arrogant little shit,” said Carrie pleasantly. “I’ll make sure of that, believe me.”
“This is America,” protested Selman-Housein. “You cannot do that. There are laws.”
“You’re wrong about that,” said Black. “This isn’t America. This isn’t even Guantánamo. This is nowhere and nobody knows you’re here. This is un agujero negro, Doctor, a black hole. You don’t exist and there are no laws. Carrie and I could snap our fingers and you’d disappear. Poof! If that’s what you want, then consider that plate in front of you your own personal Last Supper.”
There was a long silence. Finally the doctor reached out and picked up the bottle of burgundy. He examined the label briefly, then poured the remainder of the bottle into his glass.
“Mr. Black, Miss Pilkington, do either of you or the agencies you represent have the slightest idea of what will happen when our great leader, que Dios tenga en su Gloria, finally dies?”
Carrie shrugged. “The presumption within the CIA is that his brother, Raul, will take over the reins but that the country will be run as a military oligarchy. Which is exactly how it is run now. My personal theory is that it will be ruled by the La Hermandad dos Cavaleiros de Cristo. The Brotherhood.”
“You know of La Hermandad?”
“I do. My superiors think they’re a fantasy.”
“They are no fantasy, senora. They are quite real. We who are not members of their sociedad secreta call them something else: Los Diablos.”
“The Devils,” said Black.
“Yes, but the Devils have become frightened because they know the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That when Fidel dies they will not have the power to stop what is coming.”
“And what would that be?” Carrie sighed. Black smiled. The good doctor really was long-winded, but after a week of inane conversations about everything but Cuban politics, he was willing to let the man talk all he wanted.
“There are eleven million people in Cuba. Of those, at least two million live in Havana—the real figure may be closer to three million, but no census taker has dared set foot in the baracoas, the slums, for more than a decade.” The doctor gave a hollow laugh. “Fidel says there are no slums in Havana, so that is that, I suppose.” He shook his head and took a long swallow of wine. “The birthrate in Cuba is almost nonexistent. The whole population grows older each year.
“The health care system is a bad joke. State-of-the-art hospitals and excellent doctors for those who can pay—tourists and members of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, but for the rest, verminous bedding and black market drugs. Food is running out, but to fish in the rivers or the sea invites jail. Farmers without shoes or electricity eat, but the people of Havana and the other towns and cities starve. With Venezuela in an uproar, Cuba’s only supply of fuel is now in jeopardy. It is all coming to an end.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“When Fidel dies, there will be a demonstration by many dissidents. I could not tell you which groups, but there will be such a demonstration and someone will die at the hands of the Secret Police. That death will lead to anger and more demonstrations. Those demonstrations will lead to riots. All this will happen in one day or perhaps two at most and they will be riots the like of which you have never seen before.
“There are fewer than twenty thousand men and women in the Cuban armed forces. A few helicopters, perhaps a dozen. If called upon, at least half of those men and women in the Cuban armed forces will refuse to fire on their fellow Cubans.” The doctor laughed again and drank the last of his wine. “Especially with guns that have no bullets and tanks that have no fuel or lubricating oil.”
Selman-Housein smiled gently, his eyes behind his spectacles softening for a moment. Black even thought he saw tears welling up. “On New Year’s Eve in 1959, there were riots in Havana as Batista fled the city, but they were good riots, riots to cut the rot from the country’s core like a tumor in the brain.