“Predator spy photos, taken yesterday. About an hour after you identified the purchaser as Telaraсa, we got a Predator in the air out of Gitmo. Look. There’s the southeast coast of Cuba. That’s the town of Manzanillo. On Guacanayabo Bay. There’s Telaraсa, that small island off the coast, do you see it?”
“Yes,” Hawke said, rising and taking the pictures to the window where the light was stronger. “A lot of construction. Looks like barracks, warehouses. And, here, mobile scud launchers.”
“Yes. We think they’re recently purchased massive numbers of Russian scuds. There’s also a large white structure at the mouth of the river, do you see that?”
“Yes, it looks huge. What is it?”
“Navy at the Pentagon says it’s some kind of amphitheater. I think it’s a submarine pen disguised to look like a public building. Certainly wide enough for the beam of a Boomerang. We really don’t know, Alex,” the secretary said.
“The plot, as they say, sickens. The new Cuba—a dog or a rat in every pot and a half-billion-dollar invisible nuclear submarine in every garage.”
“Alex?” Something in her tone had changed.
“Yes?” He looked into her incredibly beautiful brown eyes for an extra second and then turned back to the window.
“Look at me.”
“Bad idea.”
“Turn around and look at me.”
“Terrible idea, Conch.”
As a charter member of the bad idea club, he knew one when he saw one coming. And his intense desire to unbutton that tight pink sweater was definitely not a good idea. He didn’t need this now. Especially now, in fact. He was in love. And the woman he loved was lying in the hospital. Christ.
“I can’t do it, Conch. I won’t do it,” he said. He heard a rustle of papers and folders being gathered up behind him. When he turned around, she was headed for the door.
“Conch?”
She paused and turned to look at him. The expression on her face was all business.
“The president has asked me to form an emergency task force to deal with this,” she said. “I’ve asked the two men you met in my office to head it up. He sent me here to ask you to be part of the team.”
“Consuelo, you know I’m always at your disposal. But if you look carefully at my rйsumй, you’ll see the telltale notation, ‘Doesn’t work well with others.’ ”
“I expected that. But this is obviously a matter of enormous consequence to the president. We simply cannot have this goddamn thing floating around out there, a couple of miles off Miami Beach. He is deeply appreciative of your stunning success in the Caribbean. Hell, we all are.”
“He was kind enough to call.”
“You found out who bought it. Now all we’ve got to do is find and neutralize the sonofabitch. I promised him I’d secure your help. See it through to the end.”
“Really? That’s a fairly staggering thing for you to do, Conch.”
“Isn’t it? I take so much for granted. I just never learn.”
“Conch, listen. I was a sorry little shit, dreadful. Forgive me one day?”
“Yeah, well, I hated the way we ended. You caught me looking, I’ll give you that much. No warning signs. Nothing. It really hurt, okay? I felt like you never even gave me a chance. Gave us a chance.”
“Yes. Well, if you really think about it, we never—”
“Please shut up, Hawke. You’re really crappy at this kind of stuff.”
Alex had no reply for that.
“What’s your schedule look like?” she asked, all business once more.
“I’m headed right back down to the Exumas. Vicky’s had a mild concussion and could use a couple of weeks away from her office anyway. I’m taking her to the islands for two weeks aboard Blackhawke.”
“Lucky girl.”
“I’m flying down this afternoon. When I get there, I’m your man. Whatever I can do. Just don’t drag me into another one of those bloody task force meetings.”
“Remember what you did at the last one?”
“No. I try to forget these things.”
“Halfway through, you stood up and announced that, while you were enjoying the meeting immensely, you had to leave because you had a leg of lamb in the oven.”
“Ah, yes. Mustn’t overcook lamb. Quite a good one, wasn’t it?”
“Okay, my man.” The secretary of state grabbed her coat from the back of a chair and headed for the door without looking back.
“ ’Bye, Conch.”
“Scoot over and borrow a cup of sugar anytime,” she said, pulling the door closed behind her.
31
Manso and his two brothers, Carlos and Juanito, stood together at the very end of a long jetty. Waves were breaking over the rocks, soaking the three men to the skin. There was no moon and no stars, only the raging sea. It was a miserable Cuban night. It was a magnificent Cuban night.
Manso, shivering in the cold rain, was aglow inside. He’d done it. They had all done it. The country would soon learn that a new Cuba was about to be born. Right now, looking at their exuberant smiles, he felt like this small band of brothers were the three happiest men in all of Cuba.
They stood on the concrete jetty, just at the base of a newly installed red channel marker. Every three seconds it flashed, splashing the three men with brilliant red light. A green marker flashed at the end of the other jetty, a halo of light some two hundred yards across the mouth of the river in the darkness.
It was almost midnight and raining hard, but they didn’t care. In the long, tortuous history of their country, this was a moment of historic importance. The de Herreras brothers were euphoric as they peered through the slashing rain, out across the black water.
“Anything?” Manso asked.
“I thought I saw something,” Carlos said, “but I think it’s only salt water in my eyes.” He took a swig from a silver flask and stuck the container back inside his jacket.
“You’re going to see something, mi hermano,” Juanito said, laughing and clapping him on the back. “You are definitely going to see a great big something!” All three men had night-vision binoculars hanging from their necks.
Nothing.
“The television was a disaster,” Manso said, after a few more moments of scanning the black horizon with his binoculars. “He was a wild man, even with the sedatives. I had the announcer say that he was rescheduled for tomorrow. I don’t think he’s going to cooperate.”
“Who cares?” Carlos asked. “He’s irrelevant. Right now, all the Cuban people know is that he missed a telecast. Unfortunate. But remember that they saw him at the Yacht Club only this morning. The Granma reporter was there, so it will be in the paper. If he ultimately refuses to go before the cameras, so what? You and Fulgencio will announce the change of government and that’s the end of it. Everything else is accomplished.”
“It’s better if Fidel does it, Carlitos,” Juanito insisted. “Easier for all of us. In the long run, the people won’t care. But, for now, I—”
“Listen. I have an idea,” Manso said. “I was talking after supper to the video technician. He tells me we can make him say whatever we want.”
“Of course we can always do that.” Carlos laughed. “Rodrigo and his silver scissors can make anyone say anything.”
“I don’t mean that way, Carlitos,” Manso said, looking at his crazy brother Carlos with eyes like black stones.
“You mean there is another way?” Juanito asked.
“There is a way to digitally alter his speech and lip movements,” Manso said. “As long as it’s kept very short.”
“How short?” Juanito asked. “You mean, like, ‘I quit, here’s the new guy’?” He laughed and took another pull on his flask.
“My God, look at that,” Carlos said. “Look!”
“Turn on the lights!” Manso said. Carlos flipped a switch mounted on the base of the channel marker and massive banks of floodlights above them lit up the storm-torn night.