“Infidel! You will have no government because you won’t live long enough to preside, you filthy—”
Castro must have pulled his revolver from its holster because he now had it jammed into Manso’s temple.
“It is a fitting way to end the struggle, Manso,” Fidel said, his voice barely under control. “I kill the ignoble traitor who would murder our noble revoluciуn!”
He pressed the gun to Manso’s temple and pulled the trigger.
“The gun is empty, jefe,” Manso said. “Don’t waste your time.”
Castro heard the hammer’s harmless click five more times before he screamed in frustration and threw the useless weapon at Manso’s head, barely missing him.
“How?” he asked.
“Don Julio,” Manso said. “Your beloved manservant. This morning, very early, before we left for the dedication, he removed the cartridges while you were busy.
“Don Julio! No! He, of all men, would never betray—”
“You, of all men, should not be surprised at who any man will betray for the right amount of money, Comandante.”
Castro lunged for the control stick and wrested control of the cyclic from Manso. He shoved it forward.
“I will go down then, Manso. But we go down together!” Castro screamed over the jet turbine engine’s roar.
The helicopter instantly went into a precipitous dive. Manso screamed and fought for the cyclic. But Castro had a death grip on the control stick. The old man was ready to die, Manso could see it in his eyes. The green mountains rushed up to meet them as the chopper began its sickening death spiral.
24
Hawke was standing at the bar with a martini glass in his hand. The other hand was stuck in the pocket of his dinner jacket. Unlike those of most men she knew, Alex’s hands were always naturally quiet. A good sign. A sign of inner calm, she thought.
He looked pretty good in his tuxedo. Very Mel Gibson, she decided, with his black hair slicked back in waves from his forehead and the deep tan he’d acquired down in the Caribbean. He didn’t see her coming.
She planted a big wet one on his unsuspecting cheek.
“Hey, sailor,” Vicky said, taking the stool next to him, “buy a lady a drink?”
Hawke smiled, and said, “Name your poison, darling.”
“Yours looks lethal enough. My daddy called those ‘see-throughs.’ I’ll have one, too,” Vicky said. “Used to be, Daddy never would drink liquor he couldn’t see through. Now, all he drinks is bourbon. He says gin brings out unpleasant qualities in a man. ‘Loudmouth soup,’ he calls it. And when he flew on an airplane, he always took a flask.”
“Why?”
“He said he just plain didn’t trust airplane gin.”
“My beautiful girl.”
“Yes?”
“Did you come here with him very often?”
“Yes. All the time. It’s my most favorite place in Washington. That’s why I was so surprised when you suggested it.”
“I hoped you’d like it. Does your father get to Washington much?”
“I wish. Ever since he went back home to Seven Oaks, it’s been tough to get him out of his rocker on the front veranda. He’s got some old hunting dogs and he likes to stomp around his fields with them, looking for quail or pheasant. That’s about the extent of his current travels.”
“I’ve never been to Louisiana,” Hawke said. “Perhaps we could go down and visit him sometime.”
“I’d like that very much. You’d love Seven Oaks. It’s smack dab on the Mississippi River, on the River Road, about twenty miles south of Baton Rouge.”
“It all sounds very Scarlett O’Hara.”
“A whole lot of good things in the South have gone with the wind, but not Seven Oaks. I had a heavenly childhood. There’s a reason for all those stories about the Mississippi. It’s a storybook river. Daddy loved politics, but he hated living in Washington. He once said that if he owned Washington and Hell, he’d rent out Washington and live in Hell.”
Hawke smiled and reached across the table to squeeze Vicky’s hand. Seeing her here where she’d had so many cheerful hours with her father was wonderful.
Hawke signaled the bartender and ordered her drink.
“I’m very happy to be here with you tonight,” he said, putting his hand to her cheek and caressing it.
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” Vicky said, trying to hide the effect his touch had on her. Her martini arrived and Hawke raised his glass.
“Who shall we toast?” Vicky asked.
“Let’s see. How about Tom, Huck, and Vicky? Or was it Becky?”
“You are a total and complete piece of work, you know that, Hawke?” Vicky said, laughing. She clinked her glass against his, and said, “Cheers. I need this.”
“A brutal day at the office, Doc? Anything you can talk about?”
“A new patient,” Vicky said, swirling her olive around in the vodka. “Poor guy. He’s suffering from an addiction. Incurable.”
“Really? Odd. I should think you could cure anyone of anything. I read in The Washingtonian, the magazine so prominently displayed all over your reception room, that you are considered one of the best doctors in town.”
“Some addictions are best left untreated. Let me borrow your pen, honey.”
Hawke pulled a slim gold pen from his inside pocket.
“Thanks,” Vicky said, and began scribbling all over the menu. Female behavior at times was mystifying, as he’d told Stokely on the way in from the airport. But then again, as a woman, he supposed she was entitled.
“Monsieur Hawke,” the obsequious little maоtre d’ said, “your table is ready.”
He followed Vicky into the small dining room, unable to take his eyes off the movement of her body under the swishing red silk skirt. Pleats. What was it about pleats?
When they’d been seated, the waiter arrived. He was an ancient white-haired gentleman wearing white gloves.
“Why, good evening, Mr. Hawke! You too, Miz Vicky,” he said. “Lord, I haven’t seen you since you was a little thing. Look at you! You grown into a beautiful woman.”
“Herbert! I can’t believe you’re still here.”
“I can’t either, Miz Vicky. I just turned ninety-two years old today and still going strong.”
“Happy Birthday! Alex, Herbert was a great friend of Daddy’s and always took care of me when I came here.”
“I imagine he did,” Hawke said, rising to shake the old fellow’s hand. “He’s certainly taken good care of me. Happy Birthday, Herbert.”
“Thank you, suh. You know, Miz Vicky,” Herbert said, “this old place ain’t ever been the same since your daddy left town. I still remember him playing the piano and telling his jokes. Have everybody in the place laughing.”
“And you used to let me slide across the parquet dance floor in my socks. It was just like ice skating.”
“Lord, we had us a good time, didn’t we?” Herbert said, a smile lighting up his soft brown eyes. “Can I bring you all something more to drink?”
“That would be great, Herbert,” Vicky said. “Two Ketel One martinis straight up, please.”
After the elderly waiter left, there was a long silence in which Hawke simply sat there staring at her. Vicky was not one easily embarrassed by silences at the table, but the intensity of his stare finally got to her. She noticed that he still had his right hand stuffed into the pocket of his dinner jacket.
“Gun in your pocket, big boy? Or, you all just happy to see me?” she asked, unable to think of anything more original.
“No gun,” he said. “Just this.” He pulled a small black velvet box out of his pocket and placed it on the table. He saw the look in her eyes, and said, “Don’t worry, Doc, it won’t bite. Open it.”
She reached for the velvet box. “Oh, Alex, I—”
“Miz Vicky?” The waiter had somehow reappeared at their table.
“Yes?” Vicky said. “What is it, Herbert?”