“Fairly mild understatement,” Hawke said.
“He alludes now to his health. Everyone knows of his recent illnesses. He says he has the will but doesn’t have the energy to continue. He says he’s stepping aside for health reasons and—he starts to say something else, and they cut him off.”
“Health reasons meaning someone off camera has a bloody pistol aimed at his head,” Hawke interjected.
“No doubt,” Ambrose agreed. “A chap from the American State Department called. I told him you couldn’t be disturbed. I spoke with him for a few moments. According to him, it’s a full-blown military coup, all right.”
“Who’s this lovely ponytailed fellow we’re seeing now?”
Ambrose took a deep breath. Whether he was prepared to admit it or not, Alex Hawke was finally confronting his demons face-to-face.
“This is General Manso de Herreras, Alex,” Ambrose said. “Castro’s right-hand man. Former minister of state security. Apparently he’s just promoted himself to general. He’s now head of all the armed forces.”
“Man look just like a woman,” Stoke blurted out in the dark. “Man look like he wearing makeup.”
“What does the general have to say for himself?” Hawke asked, leaning forward in his chair and staring intently at the face on the screen. He’d seen something there, Ambrose quietly observed.
“General de Herreras says he is deeply honored that el comandante has elevated him to the great responsibilities of military chief and has placed such trust in him.”
“Bullshit,” Stoke said.
“Indeed,” Ambrose continued. “He is proud to be part of a new leadership that will bring Cuba forward to her rightful place in this new century. The new government will announce many social and economic reforms in the coming days, weeks, and months.”
“Could you freeze-frame this guy right here, Ambrose?” Hawke asked.
“Certainly.”
The picture froze on a close-up of de Herreras. His heavily lidded eyes conveyed a cold ruthlessness that was startling.
“What is it, Alex?”
“I’ve seen this man before,” Hawke said, pressing the fingertips of both hands against his eyes and heaving a deep sigh.
“Are you all right, Alex?” Congreve asked.
“Perfect.”
“Manso de Herreras. It must sound familiar?” Ambrose said.
“Yes. That must be it. De Herreras. Name of that chap in Blackhawke’s letter, isn’t it? The one carried all that buried booty we’re trying to find.”
Then he got to his feet and went to the rear of the room where a steward poured him a cup of hot coffee. He then walked forward again until he was about four feet from the large screen, staring up at the face frozen there for two long minutes.
“Are you all right, Alex?” Congreve finally asked, imagining what dreadful thoughts must be going through his friend’s mind. Hawke didn’t reply and, after a few seconds, Ambrose said, “Alex? Everything all right?”
“Couldn’t be better,” Alex said, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“Shall I continue to pause?”
“No,” Hawke said. He returned to his chair and collapsed into it. “I’ve seen enough of this bloody bastard for now. Please roll the tape.”
“This part is interesting,” Ambrose said, hitting the Play button once more. Alex had clearly made the Manso connection. But he was not yet ready for a psychological showdown.
“What does he say?”
“He says never again will Cuba need to rely on the strength of false allies who promise much and then disappear. Cuba’s own might will be felt by anyone who threatens her self-interest.”
“We certainly know what he means by that,” Hawke said. “That bloody submarine. He’s taken delivery, or he wouldn’t tip his hand.”
Ambrose continued translating.
“Cuba will no longer tolerate the injustices it has suffered at the hands of the Americans. He is demanding that the American blockade of Cuba be lifted immediately. He is also declaring that the U.S. Naval Station at Guantánamo is an insult to Cuba’s sovereignty that will no longer be tolerated. America will be given a deadline to evacuate or face extreme consequences. Further statements on these matters will be issued by the new government tomorrow.”
“Jesus Christ,” Hawke said. “A rogue state with an invisible submarine bearing forty MIRV nuclear warheads ninety miles from Miami.”
“Chilling thought, isn’t it? Here he introduces the new president of Cuba,” Ambrose said, as a new face appeared on the screen.
“Who the fuck is that guy?” Stoke said. “Looks like goddamn Zorro in a three-piece suit.”
“That,” Ambrose said, “is el nuevo presidente de Cuba, Fulgencio Batista. Grandson of the man Castro overthrew some forty years ago.”
“Where’d they dig him up?” Hawke asked.
“Grew up in Spain. Went to Harvard College, and then Wharton School of Finance. Renounced his U.S. citizenship and took his family to Cuba six months ago. Prior to that, he was a partner at Goldman, Sachs on Wall Street. Had a farm in back-country Greenwich, Connecticut, and played golf every Saturday at the Stanwich Club.”
“Really? From partner at Goldman to president of Cuba? Bad career move,” Hawke said. “What’s Batista Junior got to say for himself?”
“More glowing rhetoric about a new day dawning.”
“That’s it?” Hawke asked.
“Basically.”
“And the forces loyal to Fidel?”
“Most likely executed or imprisoned. If you can still find any.”
“The Cuban people themselves? What’s the reaction?”
“Alex, after forty years of lies, fear, and torture, these people don’t believe a word anyone says. Anyone. They don’t trust their own children. Life will just go on. I guarantee you, they won’t even discuss these political events with their closest friends. Someone might chat up his own mum if he really trusts her, but that’s about it.”
Hawke flipped a switch that slowly brought up the hidden ceiling lights. He swiveled his big leather armchair around and faced Ambrose, Stokely, and Sutherland, who were all scattered two or three rows back.
“How do you know so much about this band of brigands, Ambrose?”
“The secretary of state also called immediately after the Cuban broadcast. We had a long chat. You were sleeping. I told her about the tragic events of the day. She asked me to convey her deepest sympathies. She didn’t want to disturb you, but asked if you’d call as soon as you’d seen this tape.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“There is going to be a meeting tomorrow afternoon. She’s assembled a team to deal with the crisis. You’re not going to like this. They’re all aboard the aircraft carrier John F. Kennedy, currently en route to Guantánamo. The meeting is at five P.M. She knows that you won’t want to come but insists you must.”
“Why, may I ask?” said Hawke, plainly infuriated. It was precisely what he’d told Conch he did not want to do.
“Apparently the British minister for Latin American affairs went directly to the president. He says that since it was a British citizen who ‘cracked this thing wide open,’ namely you, he wants the British represented. The president elected you.”
“Well, he simply ain’t going,” Stokely said. “We going back out to look for Vicky. He’s taking his plane, I’m taking the Zodiac. Soon as it gets light.”
“The meeting aboard the Kennedy isn’t until five tomorrow afternoon, Alex,” Ambrose said.