A milk jug. A one-gallon plastic milk jug without a cap, floating upside down. Apparently intact. He lifted the milky white plastic jug from the sea, let the water drain out, then lowered it into the water. The thing made a powerful float.
He pulled it toward him.
Hard to hold on to, but very buoyant.
How could he hold it, use the power of its buoyancy to keep himself afloat through the night?
Inside his shirt? He worked the jug down, tried to get it under his shirt. The thing escaped once, shot out of the water. He snagged it, tried it again.
The second time he got it under his shirt. The thing tried to push him over backward, but if he leaned into it, he could keep his weight pretty much balanced over it. Then he could just float, ride without effort.
As long as he could keep the open neck facing downward, the jug would keep him up.
Ocho was celebrating his good fortune when a swell tipped him over. He fought back upright, adjusted the jug in the evening light.
Maybe he should just forget the jug — he seemed to be working as hard staying over it as he did treading water.
With the last rays of the sun in his face, he decided to keep the jug, learn to ride it.
“I’m going to be rescued,” he said silently to himself, “going to be rescued. I must just have patience.”
After a bit he added, “And faith in the Lord.”
Ocho was a Catholic, of course, but he had never been one to pray much. He wondered if he should pray now. Surely God knew about the mess he was in — what could he conceivably tell Him that He didn’t already know?
In the twilight the water became dark. Still restless, still rising and falling, but dark and black as the grave.
He would probably die this night. Sometime during the night he would go to sleep and drown or a shark would rip at him or he would just run out of will. He was oh so very tired, a lethargy that weighed on every muscle.
Tonight, he thought.
But I don’t want to die. I want to live!
Please, God, let me live one more day. If I am not rescued tomorrow, then let me die tomorrow night.
That was a reasonable request. His strength would give out by tomorrow night anyway.
The last of the light faded from the sky, and he was alone on the face of the sea.
La Cabana Prison was an old pile of masonry. In the hot, humid climate of Cuba the interior was cool, a welcome respite from the heat. Yet in the dark corridors filled with stagnant air the odor of mold and decay seemed almost overpowering. The iron bars and grates and cell doors were wet with condensation and covered with layers of rust.
During the day small windows with nearly opaque, dirty glass admitted what light there was. At night naked bulbs hanging where two corridors met or an iron gate barred the way lit the interior; and for whole stretches of corridors and cells there was no light at all.
Hector Sedano saw the flashlight even before he heard people coming along the corridor. One flashlight and two or three, maybe even four people — it was difficult to tell.
The flashlight led the visitors to this cell, and it turned to pin him on the cot.
“There he is.”
“I will talk to him alone.”
“Yes, Señor Presidente.”
One man remained standing in the semidarkness outside the cell after the others left. After the flashlight Hector’s eyes adjusted slowly. Now he could see him — Alejo Vargas.
Vargas lit a short cigarillo. As he struck the match Hector closed his eyes, and kept them closed until he smelled tobacco smoke and heard Vargas’s voice.
“Father Sedano, we meet again.”
Hector thought that remark didn’t deserve a reply.
“I seem to recall a conversation we had, what — two or three years ago?” Vargas said thoughtfully. “I told you that religion and politics don’t mix.”
“You even had a biblical quote ready to fire at me, Mark twelve-seventeen. Most unexpected.”
“You didn’t take my advice.”
“No.”
“You don’t often follow advice, do you?”
“No.”
“I came here tonight to see if you wish to make your peace with Caesar and join my cabinet, perhaps as our ambassador to the Church.”
“You’re the president now?”
“Temporarily. Until the election.”
“Then the title will become permanent.”
“I don’t think anyone will want to run against me.”
“Perhaps not.”
“But let’s take it a day at a time. Temporary acting president Vargas asks you to serve your country in this capacity.”
“And if I say no?”
“I want to sleep with a clean conscience, which is why I came here tonight to make the offer.”
“Your conscience is easily cleansed if that is all it takes.”
“It does not trouble me too much.”
“A man who lives as you do, a lively conscience would hurt worse than a bad tooth.”
“So your answer is no.”
“That it is.”
“But at least you considered my offer, so I can sleep knowing you chose your own fate.”
“My fate is in God’s hands.”
“Ah, if only I had the time to discuss religion with you, an intelligent, learned man. Time does not allow me that luxury. Still, I have one other little thing to discuss with you, and I caution you, this is not the time for a yes or no answer. This thing you must think about very carefully and give me your answer later.”
Sedano scratched his head. Vargas probably couldn’t see past the glow of his cigarillo tip, so it didn’t matter much what he did.
“I want to know what Fidel did with the gold from the pesos. I want you to tell me.”
“Me? I was six years old when he melted the gold, if he did.”
“I think you know. I think Fidel told Mercedes, and Mercedes told you. So I have come to ask you where it is. Will you tell me?”
“She didn’t tell me about gold.”
“I should not have asked so quickly. I told myself I would not do that, then I did. I apologize. I will ask you later, when you have had time to think about the question and all the implications.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“Well, think about it; that is all I ask. Of course I will talk to Mercedes. I think she also told you or the CIA about Fidel’s Swiss bank accounts. When Maximo went to get the money it was not there. I would like to have been there to see the look on Maximo’s face — ah, yes, that was a moment, my friend!”
He chuckled, then drew on the cigarillo, made the tip glow.
“Maximo thinks the Swiss stole it; he is very gullible. I smell the CIA. The CIA could reach into Swiss banks as easily as you and I breathe.”
“The world is quite complex.”
“Isn’t it?” Vargas sighed. “All the strings lead to Mercedes. She knew too much for her own good. I think she will do the right thing. She is a loyal patriot. With Colonel Santana asking the questions, I have faith that she will do what is best for Cuba.”
Hector could feel the sweat beading up on his forehead. He made sure his voice was under his complete control before he spoke. “For Cuba?”
“For Cuba, yes. Cuba and me, our interests are identical. I want the gold, Father, and I intend to get it. As you sit here rotting, you think about that.”
Alejo Vargas turned and walked away, still puffing on the cigarillo.
The smell of the tobacco smoke lingered in the cell for hours. Hector fancied that he could still smell it when daylight began shining through the window high in the wall at the end of the corridor.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The submariners put the computer in a plastic garbage bag to keep it dry, then put bag and computer into a backpack that one of the sailors had for his liberty gear. William Henry Chance put on the backpack and the sailors adjusted the straps.