Maria had plucked and cleaned the chickens and was busy cooking. Fariñas offered Pitt a glass of aguardiente, a harsh, locally fermented rum, which he downed with gratitude.
“To your kindness to strangers,” Pitt said when his host filled their glasses again.
“You are most welcome.”
“Salvador, may I ask if you have a telephone?”
Fariñas shook his head. “We are fortunate to have reliable plumbing and electricity, but the phone lines haven’t reached us. And Maria refuses to purchase a cell phone.”
“It’s urgent I make an international call.”
“I can take you to Santa Cruz del Norte after supper. You should be able to make a call from there.”
Maria stepped from the kitchen with her paella-like dish, arroz con pollo.
“Please, sit down. And, Salvador, please open a bottle of Soroa for our guest.” She turned to Pitt. “It’s a local white wine I think you will enjoy.”
They sat and ate. Having not eaten a full meal in two days, Pitt devoured three platefuls of the chicken and rice. “You are as excellent a chef as you are a painter, Maria.”
“That is kind of you to say. You know, Mr. Pitt, there are rumors that President Castro has been murdered.”
“Yes, I have also heard that.”
“A guard at the roadblock said an American has been implicated and had escaped custody in the area.”
Pitt looked her in the eye. “I would be that American. And I assure you I had nothing to do with Castro’s death. But I may know who did.”
Maria looked at him with a hint of disappointment.
Her husband guffawed. “You needn’t worry, Mr. Pitt, about Maria turning you over to the Army. Many years ago, she served three years in custody for a painting that was deemed disrespectful to the state.”
“It is true.” Maria’s eyes filled with fire. “An imbecile Army colonel running the Ministry of Culture took offense to a painting I did of a gun emplacement filled with flowers. They destroyed my studio and confiscated all of my work, locked it away in the ministry building.” She pointed to the lone canvas. “That is the only painting I kept hidden from them.”
“Why don’t you paint again?” Pitt asked.
An inward look crossed Maria’s face. “When they stole my work, they stole a part of me, a part of who I am. I set down my brush that day and vowed never to paint again as long as the state suppressed my work.”
She looked at Pitt with envy. “Cuba has lived for too long fighting a blanket of oppression against its own spirit. Perhaps change is finally in the air. I pray the change will be only for the good.”
“When power is up for grabs,” Pitt said, “the first casualty is often liberty.”
“There are always dark forces at play, it seems. Tell me, Mr. Pitt, what are you doing in Cuba?”
Pitt described his search for the mercury poisoning and his capture by the Sea Raker. He relayed the urgency of halting the destruction of the thermal vents. His anguish showed when he mentioned his daughter was still being held captive.
“We will help you return to your ship,” Maria said. “Salvador, help me wash the dishes and then we will take Mr. Pitt to Santa Cruz.”
Pitt helped clear the plates, then ambled to the picture window, where a seaman’s telescope was trained on the waterfront. The sun was low as he gazed out the window and noticed a large luxury yacht moored offshore. Taking a closer look through the telescope, he spotted an odd banner flying over the bridge. Focusing the lens, he was startled to see the flag featured a red bear clutching an ax in its teeth.
“Are you ready to leave?” Fariñas approached with the car keys.
“A slight change of plans.” Pitt pointed out the window. “Can you get me to that yacht moored in the bay?”
Fariñas gazed at the vessel and nodded. “I have a cousin with a boat who can run you over. You sure they’ll let you aboard?”
Pitt smiled. “I’ll bet a Bentley that they will.”
63
Precisely thirty miles due south of Key West, two boats approached each other for a late-afternoon rendezvous. Both were nondescript cabin cruisers, the likes of which flooded the Florida coastlines every summer weekend. But rather than being sailed by half-drunk doctors sporting sunburns, both were crewed by professional security men carrying concealed weapons. Three miles distant, a pair of Apache attack helicopters kept a discreet eye on the proceedings.
The boats approached each other cautiously like a pair of wary boxers facing off in the ring for the first time. A light breeze ruffled small flags above each pilothouse, one Cuban and the other American.
As crewmen swapped lines and tied the boats side by side, Vice President James Sandecker emerged from the cabin of the American boat and stepped to the side rail. He extended a hand to a gray-haired man on the other boat.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” Sandecker said.
Raúl Castro shook Sandecker’s hand with a firm grip. “It is an honor, Mr. Vice President.”
“Please, call me James. May I come aboard?”
“Of course.” Castro maintained his grip on Sandecker’s hand as the Vice President hopped boats. The Cuban president regarded Sandecker up close, noting he was shorter than he appeared on television. But there was something of a revolutionary fire in the man’s blue eyes that he instantly admired.
“Call me Raúl,” he said. “Come, let us sit on the stern deck and talk.”
Sandecker waved off his Secret Service detail, and Castro did the same to his men. The two leaders stepped to the stern and sat beneath a shade canopy.
“Bring us some rum brandies,” Castro called to an aide before addressing Sandecker.
“James, I thank you for agreeing to see me. I never expected that the government of the United States would warn me of a threat on my life. On account of you, I am alive today. I would like to thank you, and your President, for saving me from death.”
“The President was disturbed when our intelligence people pieced together the details of the assassination attempt, particularly since it occurred out of your country. The President and I are pleased you are safe and well.” Sandecker cleared his throat. “The President feels this would be a good opportunity to advance our relationship from the shadows of the Cold War.”
Castro nodded, staring out with a distant gaze. “This, too, has been heavy on my heart since my brother died. At one time, my country needed Fidel as much as he needed the people. But that day is long past. For all of the good that Fidel accomplished, he didn’t allow Cuba to grow. It is past time for our people to prosper.”
He looked Sandecker in the eye. “James, as you know, I have announced I will not seek reelection in 2018. I intend to appoint Foreign Minister Ruiz to succeed me. He is a strong proponent of introducing market economics and improving relations with your country.”
He took a deep breath. “In my remaining days in office, I have decided to pave the way for his initiatives.”
“We have a two-and-a-half-century history of free market democracy. We can help lead you down the right path.”
A burden seemed to lift from the shoulders of the old Marxist. “It is not an easy thing to abandon the road of the past, but at the same time, it can be liberating.”
An aide arrived with the rum brandies, and the two drank a toast to their improved relations.
“Raúl, I have a question,” Sandecker said. “Unofficial reports are circulating widely that you were killed in the Cayman Islands. Why have you not gone public and dispelled those rumors?”
Castro’s eyes clouded with anger. “We still don’t know who hired the mercenaries to conduct the attack. If those responsible believe I am dead, they will soon act in a way that identifies their guilt.”