Toad turned to the chart on the bulkhead. “Where do you want them to look?”
“From the north coast of Cuba north into the Bahamas. Look along the coast of Hispaniola, all the way to Puerto Rico. Do the Turks and Caicos. Have the crews photograph every ship they see. Have NSA establish current ship tracks, then match up what the air crews see with what the satellite sees. Then let’s run the current plot backward.”
“Someone got a lucky break with the rain storm,” Toad commented. “Maybe they were playing for the break, maybe it just happened.”
“Send a top secret message to the Gitmo base commander. Find out everything they know about the crew of that ship.”
Jake Grafton tapped the chart. “The president gave everyone in uniform their marching orders. Find that ship.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Maximo Sedano flashed his diplomatic passport at the immigration officer in the Madrid airport and was waved through after a perfunctory glance. His suitcase was checked through to Zurich, and of course customs passed his attaché case without inspection. Traveling as a diplomat certainly had its advantages — airport security did not even x-ray a diplomat’s carry-on bags.
The Cuban minister of finance wandered the airport terminal luxuriating in the ambiance of Europe. The shops were full of delicacies, books, tobacco, clothes, liquor, the women were well turned out, the sights and smells were of civilization and prosperity and good living.
In spite of himself, Maximo Sedano sighed deeply. Ah, yes …
Spain or one of the Spanish islands would be his choice for retirement. With Europe at his feet, what more could a man want? And retirement seemed to Maximo to be almost within reach.
What was the phrase? “Fire in the belly”? Some Yanqui politician said to win office one must have fire in the belly.
After a morning of thinking about it, Maximo concluded he didn’t have the fire. After Fidel died, Fidel’s brother, Raúl or Maximo’s brother Hector, or Alejo Vargas, or anyone else who could kill his rivals could rule Cuba — Maximo had given up trying for that prize. He’d take the money.
And all the things money can buy: villas, beautiful women, yachts, gourmet food, fine wine, beautiful women … Someone else could stand in the Plaza de la Revolucion in Havana and revel in the cheers of the crowd.
He filed aboard the plane to Zurich and settled cheerfully into his seat. He smiled at the flight attendant and beamed at the man across the aisle.
Life is good, Maximo told himself, and unconsciously fingered his breast pocket, where the cards were that contained Fidel’s signature and thumbprints.
Why go back?
Fifty-three or — four million American dollars was more than enough. To hell with the gold!
As the jet accelerated down the runway, Maximo told himself that the only smart thing was to take the money and retire. Now was the hour. Reel in the fish on the line — don’t let it off the hook to cast for another.
He could transfer the money, spend three or four days shuffling it around, then leave Zurich on the Argentine passport as Eduardo José López. Maximo Sedano would cease to exist.
Off to Ibiza, buy a small cottage overlooking the sea, find a willing woman, not too young, not too old …
Yes.
He would do it.
The sudden death of Fidel Castro caught Alejo Vargas off guard. The dictator’s death was supposed to be days, even weeks, away. Unfortunately Vargas’s political position was precarious, to say the least. He really could have used Fidel’s endorsement, however obtained. At least now no one would get it.
Although he had lived his whole life in his brother’s shadow, Raúl Castro nominally held the reins of government. Alejo Vargas thought that without Fidel, Raúl was completely out on a limb, without a political constituency of his own.
While he tried to analyze the moves on the board, Vargas had Colonel Santana lock Mercedes in a bedroom, seal the presidential palace, and put a security man on the telephone switchboard. He didn’t want the news of Fidel’s death to get out before he was ready.
Vargas left Santana in charge of the palace and took his limo back to the ministry. Of course he refrained from using the telephone in his limo to issue orders. The Americans listened to every radio transmission on telephone frequencies and would soon know as much about his business as he did. He sat silently as the limo carried him through the afternoon traffic to the ministry.
There he called his most trusted lieutenants to his office and issued orders. Bring Admiral Delgado and General Alba to this office immediately. Find and arrest Hector Sedano.
Alejo Vargas stood at the window looking at Morro Castle and the sea beyond. Far out from shore he could just make out the deep blue of the Gulf Stream, which appeared as a thin blue line just under the horizon. An overcast layer was moving in from the southeast and a breeze was picking up.
A historic day … Fidel Castro, the towering giant of Cuban history was dead. The end of an era, Vargas thought, and the beginning of a new one, one he would dominate.
Despite the timing surprise, Vargas really had no choice: he was going to have to go forward with his plan. He had concluded a month or so ago that the only course open to him upon the death of Castro was to create a situation that would induce the Cuban people to rally around him. He would need boldness and a fierce resolve if he were to have a chance of success, but he was just the man to risk everything on one roll of the dice. After he personally loaded them.
Colonel Santana brought an American artillery shell to Havana yesterday, one removed from Nuestra Señora de Colón. The thing was in the basement of the ministry now, under armed guard. The Cuban leadership had known for years that the Americans had CBW weapons stored at Guantanamo. Now the Americans were removing the things, but too late! Thanks to El Gato, Vargas had one he could show the world. Soon he hoped to have a great many more.
Alejo Vargas took a deep breath, stretched mightily, helped himself to a cigar. He lit it, inhaled the smoke, and blew it out through his nose. Then he laughed.
“I want a little house with a garden. Every day food to eat. Children. A doctor to make them well when they get sick. A man who loves me. Is that so much?”
Dora’s mouth was so dry she didn’t enunciate her words clearly, but Ocho knew what she meant. They lay head to head under the awning in the shade as the Angel del Mar pitched and rolled endlessly in the long sea swells.
Surrounded by a universe of water they couldn’t drink, the twenty-six humans aboard the boat were tortured by thirst and baked by the sun. Many had bad sunburns now, raw places where the skin had blistered and peeled off, leaving oozing sores. The old fisherman dipped buckets of water from the sea and poured salt water over the burns. He gently poured sea water on the small children, who had long ago ceased crying. Perhaps the water would be absorbed by their dehydrated tissues. If not, it would at least help keep them cool, ease their suffering somewhat.
Near Dora a woman was repeating the Rosary, over and over, mumbling it. Now and then another woman joined in for a few minutes, then fell silent until the spirit moved her again.
It seemed as if everyone left alive had lost someone to the sea that first night. The cries and grief were almost more than people could bear when they realized who had been lost, and that they were gone forever. Mothers cried, daughters were so distraught they shook, the hopelessness hit everyone like a hammer. The mother of the captain, who saw him dead, shot in the back, could neither move nor speak. As Dora talked, Ocho watched the woman, who sat now at the foot of the mainmast, holding on to it with one hand and a daughter or daughter-in-law with the other.