“People stopped believing in the lies. How do you say, the people and the government became…isolated from each other. First the Russians came and brought their KGB, then the Chinese and then finally we had no one. Nothing worked. There was no food, no coffee, no parts to replace the aircraft and the tanks. There was only the black market and the generals smuggling drugs. We traded doctors and engineers to Venezuela for gasoline, but that was all. No one cared about Fidel or Raul. They only believed in the Secret Police in their big houses with swimming pools in Atabey. Like a famous writer said… ‘El emperador ya no responde a su teléfono.’ The emperor no longer answers his telephone. Fidel is over. There are two Cubas now, the people and the generals, each general with…su propio pedazo de la torta. His own piece of the pie, yes? There is no government at all.”
“The Middle Ages,” said Holliday quietly. Eddie was telling him that Cuba had collapsed into fiefdoms, lords and vassals, masters and slaves; it was the ultimate expression of rich and poor; Blade Runner where the technology stopped dead in 1959. A Clockwork Orange in a 1958 Edsel. Anarchy.
“Sí,” answered Eddie with a sneer, “and not one black man among them.” He shook his head sadly. “This is not a revolution I can believe in. It is not a revolution anyone believes in anymore. Fidel speaks, but there are no ears to listen.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Just remember that anyone who walks behind you who looks like he is eating well is probably Secret Police, and bring a great many of those American dollars with you…. There will be lots of soborno to pay.”
“Bribes?”
“Sí, mi colonel, lots of bribes.”
5
They met the man at La Taberna de la Muralles, a café and bar on a small cobbled plaza in Old Havana, the following day at lunchtime. He was in his fifties, with a rugged, clean-shaven face that had seen a lot of sun. He wore a porkpie hat that made him look a little bit like Gene Hackman in the French Connection, dark glasses and he had a napkin tucked into his white silk guayabera shirt as he ate a plate of assorted pastelitos—Cuban puff pastry stuffed with savory fillings. His gleaming hair looked too perfectly black to be true.
“Who is he?” Holliday asked as they approached his table on the crowded outdoor patio.
“His name is Cesar Diaz. He is a policeman, a detective, in fact,” said Eddie.
“We’re buying information from a cop?” Holliday asked.
“He is the brother of my sister’s husband,” explained Eddie.
“Still…,” worried Holliday.
“The police are as poor as the people they’re supposed to serve. Five pesos a month doesn’t buy anything on the black market. They have to make their way just like everyone else.”
They sat down and Eddie did the introductions. Diaz offered them pastries from his plate, but they declined. He ordered coffee for them all, wiped the sugar off his lips with his makeshift bib and sat back in his chair. He really was beginning to look like Popeye Doyle.
“Eddie Cabrera, it has been a very long time,” said Diaz, speaking slightly accented English.
“Africa,” said Eddie. “Other places more recently.”
“There are some people in the Dirección de Inteligencia who would be interested to know you are back in Cuba. You must know that, of course.”
“And if you so much as whispered my name, you must know what would happen to your brothers and your uncles and your aunts and your good friend Tomas who you play dominos with, even that dog of yours—what is his name?”
“Romeo.” Diaz smiled. “You have turned very hard, Eddie. I must say this.”
“Try fighting with Ochoa Sánchez in Angola—that would make you hard, too.”
“Ochoa was executed in the Tropas Especiales.”
“Everyone is executed eventually who disagrees with Fidel. Which is why I stayed in Africa.”
“Probably a wise move.”
“I thought so.”
“But now you are home again,” said Diaz. “And you want something.”
“That’s right.” Eddie nodded. The coffee arrived, the real thing in tiny cups—thick and strong and black.
“So tell me,” said Diaz, sipping. He took a red-and-white package of Populars from the pocket of his guayabera and lit one with what looked suspiciously like a gold Dunhill lighter, or at least a pretty good knockoff. Holliday noticed that the detective was wearing a stainless steel Omega Constellation on his left wrist. Whatever the detective was doing for money was clearly quite lucrative.
“My brother, Domingo, has disappeared,” Eddie said flatly.
“A lot of people are disappearing these days.” Diaz shrugged, smoking. “You have been away too long, Eddie; things have changed. Fidel gives lectures on the television about robots and Mars and how atomic bombs all over the world are leaking their radiation into the air, which is causing the hurricanes to get worse each year. He thinks American drones fly over his house all day looking for ways to poison his food. Raul dreams of his farm in Spain. The generals fight to see who will be the next comandante. The rest of Cuba thinks it wants to go to Miami.” He shrugged again. “Not to mention that Domingo had the misfortune to work for the Operations Division of the Ministry of the Interior and who knows what that means? There was even a rumor he worked at Lourdes and at Mantanzas.”
Holliday had heard of Lourdes; it was a giant signal intelligence operation built by the Russians and completed by the Chinese. Effectively it was the Cuban version of the NSA, a giant ear, listening to America. He’d never heard of Mantanzas, so he asked.
“You know the CIA operates a training camp for new agents called the Farm?”
“I think I’ve heard of it,” said Holliday evasively. In fact, he’d once been an instructor at the installation at Camp Peary in the Virginia countryside. He didn’t dare mention it.
“That is what Mantanzas is,” said Diaz, stubbing out his cigarette. “Carlos the Jackal trained there in 1962.”
“You have no idea where he is?” Holliday asked.
“No, senor,” said Diaz, shaking his head.
“Can you ask questions, perhaps?”
“Careful questions. For a price.”
“What price?”
“A thousand. U.S dollars, of course, to start.”
“How about five hundred?”
“For now.”
Holliday took ten fresh twenties out of his wallet and laid them neatly on the table. Diaz covered them with his big hand and slid them out of sight.
“That is not five hundred dollars, senor,” said the cop.
“No. It’s two hundred. Another three when you bring us some information we can use.”
“How do I contact you?”
“Tell my sister you wish to talk. She will know how to reach me. I will choose the place,” said Eddie. “Vamos a necesitar armas.”
“What kind of weapons?” asked Diaz blandly, lighting another Popular.
“Pistolas,” said Eddie.
“Makarov?”
“Two, with fifty rounds and an extra clip each.”
“A thousand.”
“Mierde,” scoffed Eddie. “I can get an AK-47 for a hundred and eighty dollars in Mozambique and still with the greased paper on it. Do better, Cesar, and maybe there will be more business we can do together. Two hundred each, pay when we get them.”
“Are you sure we can trust this guy to get us guns?” asked Holliday. “Maybe he’s setting us up.”