But then he realized that's what he, Speshnev, Speshnev of Spain who'd learned at the toe of Levitsky, the master, that's what he would do. Castro would not. Castro was too vain for cleverness, too narcissistic for the oblique. He wanted simply to blow something up and make himself famous, that's how limited his poor imagination was. Never trust a man who can't play a good variation on the Ruy-Lopez defense.
Nevertheless, Speshnev spent a day down there, finding only sweating men and tough foremen and American bosses, plus plenty of armed guards. The Americans were taking no chances with their property, however ill-gotten it was, carnival or no carnival; men with guns lurked everywhere. Nobody would attempt anything there. Not even the maniac Castro.
Roger and Frenchy had better contacts. They met with the political department of Domino. They dined with the head of security at United Fruit, and key executives. They met with representatives of Bacardi in the Bacardi mansion. They consulted with their sources at Cuban Military Intelligence, in the castle-like barracks called Moncada.
Everywhere, they received the same news, if it was news at all under the blare of carnival. It was nothing definite. It could never be sourced or tracked. It didn't come from snitches or networks. It was more a feeling that the pagan revelry would make a wonderful cover for an angry strike. Everyone would be drunk, everyone stupid, everyone (or most everyone) sexually spent and in that state of listless bliss that follows the act. Maybe it was pure intuition, or pure superstition. Maybe it was sunspots acting up far out in dark space, causing men of earth to act madly. Maybe it was summer, getting hotter by the moment, and people began to fabricate to escape the heavy press of air under the influence of rum and the bare flesh of women's shoulders, the beauty of their legs, the smoothness of their skins.
But stilclass="underline" someone overheard someone saying it was coming.
Yes, carnival.
No. Something else.
It. It! You idiot, it!
When?
In carnival.
Who is the leader?
You know who.
Say his name!
The name is forbidden. I cannot say. Everywhere ears are listening, so I cannot say. But nevertheless it is coming…
One night after dinner with the same Bill and Ted whom they had vanquished on the tennis court so many months ago, the four men sat on the terrace of one of the United Fruit mansions up in Vista Alegre, on a hill above the town. They sipped mojitos, drawing on immense and zesty cigars from the nearby Fabrica de Tabaco Cesar Escalante, enjoying the cool shimmer of a summer night in the Antilles, the spray of stars, the soft sea breeze, the sounds, from far off on the Calle Herrera of mambo beat-beat-beating of a jungle tom-tom as the revelers tuned up for the real letting-go yet another night down the pike.
"I hope you boys are up to this," Ted said.
"We are," said Roger.
"Roger, you and Walter play a mean game of tennis, that I know. But…this is a bigger game. The company has millions tied up. Its entire posture on the market is based on the political stability of our operations down here. I suppose we can reconfigure to Panama or someplace in Central eventually, but, Roger…I just hope you're up to snuff on this one."
"Sir," said Roger, "we saw this one coming months ago. We've been moving actively to counter it. We're ready. We can't preempt because our mandate won't allow it but it won't be Pearl Harbor either, where we're caught with our thumb up our ass. If anything happens, you can bet we'll be in operational mode fast. We know where it's coming from, we have put some extraordinary measures in place. Your bananas are safe. Your pineapples will be untouched. Your sugarcane will go unburned."
"Here," said Bill. "I'll drink to the empire of the banana. I'll drink to bananas forever in the U.S. of A. And I'll drink to these two young guys, who I'm sure will be as tough on the playing fields of politics as they are on the tennis court."
Walter-everyone still called him this, though "Frenchy" was beginning to catch on with a certain soignee crowd-sat quietly through Roger's report. He had been doing the journeyman's labor, liaising with cops and spooks and gangsters, calling plantation foremen and simpatico college professors and the like while Roger toured, lobbied, represented, looked glamorous and savvy and cool. Walter had not slept in three days, and he yearned for a good night's sleep.
"What do we know?" Ted asked. "Not the bullshit you give the papers or the ambassador, but the inside stuff, the skinny."
The funny part was that poor Roger didn't know either. He had no head for details.
"Walter, can you brief the boys?"
"Sure, Roger. We know that a certain fiery radical leader, who had already attracted a large if unorganized following for his astute publicity ability and talent for speechifying, was nearly killed by the Secret Police about a month ago, not far from here. He escaped. It appears to have been a botched operation set up clumsily by the Secret Police Political Section, without authorization from anybody. He disappeared, presumably into the slums of Santiago or possibly one of the neighboring towns or farms. We had been watching him some time."
"You know where he is now?"
"Er, not really. He's smart, he's clever, he's treacherous, he's now supremely motivated and presumably mentally destablized. He was never the coolest cucumber in the fridge and something like this could turn him cuckoo. But we're not trying to prevent him from acting; we're not praying we skate by this time. Oh, no. Our hope is that he does try something. And we think he will. He lacks patience. For all his talent, he's a rather shallow man. If he does this thing, whatever it is, we are positioned to deal with it swiftly."
"How, Mr. Short?"
"Sorry, sir. Can't tell you. Top secret."
"Not even a hint?"
"No, sir."
"Well," said Roger, "we have a man who's a specialist in these matters. You might call him our numero uno manhunter. If there's a trail, he'll follow it. If there's a shot, he'll make it. And there will be a shot."
You fucking idiot! Frenchy thought behind a face as bland as a nickel. You have just given up everything to impress two schmoes from a banana company.
"Here, here!" said Ted. "Here's to the shooter."
"Here's to the man who gets it done for keeps," said Bill.
"Here's to an American hero," said Roger.
"Here's to a professional," said Frenchy. They all raised their glasses, drank deeply, and sat back to enjoy the night and the unperturbable future.
Chapter 38
The crowds were everywhere, just getting warmed up for Sunday night's craziness. Poking its way through them, the car was stopped at least twice by outlaw mambo bands and their followers, who surged into the streets to provide the atmosphere of anarchy necessary to lubricate the proceedings.
"Mr. Jones, I hope you can keep your mind on your work with all those babes around," said the younger officer, eyeing the flesh jiggling by, loosely packed into brief dresses.
"Mr. Jones knows what he's doing. Roger wouldn't have picked him otherwise," Lieutenant Dan said, with an obsequious look back at Earl, who felt involved as a go-between in some strange ritual between Dan and Roger he couldn't begin to understand.
The two naval officers ultimately delivered Earl to the Hotel Casa Grande. It looked like a white wedding cake turned upside down, all square and creamy and shuttered up tight but with a vast marble-floored porch fronting the green square in central Santiago, whose space had been seized by the entire human race preparing to lose its soul.
He waited in line for twenty minutes because the place was so crammed, and he worried there'd be no room for him. But there was; and he was led upstairs. It was an extremely nice room, maybe the nicest he'd ever been in. He tried not to be impressed; he tried not to think, Wish Junie were here now. He took a shower, ignored the music, grabbed a night's sleep, and the next morning went looking for field gear, on the sound principle you can't go manhunting in street clothes.