Steps led down to the beach. She walked along the surf and found a little stand of palms with a great view of the harbor. Soft, powdery white sand in the moonlight. Blackhawke all ablaze out on the horizon. She sat beneath the whispering palms, sipping the rum, enjoying herself immensely, finally drifting into a lovely tropical dream.
Stokely and Ambrose, having searched most of the island, finally found her on the beach about half an hour later, sound asleep under a coconut palm. Stoke threw her over his shoulder and they carried her back to the waiting launch.
“Girl fell asleep,” he said to Brian, who was driving the boat. “Long day. Needs a good night’s rest and she’ll be good as new.”
Vicky woke briefly, said something incomprehensible, and then collapsed with her head on Ambrose’s shoulder. She snored deeply all the way across the bay.
Stoke was right.
It had been a long day. But the long days were really just beginning.
34
At eight o’clock in the morning, Commander Zukov was summoned to the main finca to breakfast alone with General Manso de Herreras. Two heavily armed guards posted outside the dining room waved him inside. Manso was seated at the huge table all alone, drinking a solitary glass of fruit juice. A place setting of solid gold had been set opposite the general and he motioned for Zukov to sit down. He did so, but waved away the approaching waiter. The general stared at him for an eternity before speaking.
“This fucking Russian who sold me the submarine. Golgolkin. You know him?”
“Yes, slightly,” Zukov said. “Black Fleet. Vladivostok. At one time, a promising officer.”
“Then?”
“The clichй Soviet scenario. Peace, vodka, and women. One night he surfaced without periscope surveillance and struck one of our own destroyers in the South China Sea. Considerable loss of life. That was it.”
“He has come here, the idiot, begging for his life.”
“General. Tell me. What has he done?”
“Done? Put everything in jeopardy! Everything! Met with some fucking Englishman named Hawke in the Exumas a week ago. Trying to peddle the second Borzoi, I hear. The Englishman apparently asks a lot of questions and Golgolkin gives a lot of answers. My sources in Washington say the Englishman was in the American capital the very next day! Bastard! I initiated reprisals against this Hawke, using Golgolkin’s contacts at the Russian embassy. But they, too, were disastrous.”
“What will you do?”
“What I always do. Go through, not around.”
“I will deal with Golgolkin. He is an embarrassment.”
“No. Bring him to me. I may have one last use for him.”
Zukov opened the door to the fat Russian’s room without knocking. There were three naked girls in his bed. One leapt up, a short, chubby little thing with enormous breasts bouncing, and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Zukov couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying.
“The majordomo told me you were ill and could not come down for your breakfast,” Zukov said. “You were missed.”
“I am better now,” Golgolkin said, the two men speaking in Russian. Leaning back against the pillows, one fat pink arm around each of the two girls, he said, “Room service.”
“Fidel is scheduled to go before the cameras in three hours. He is refusing to step down. Two of the brothers want to shoot him.”
“I have bigger problems,” the Russian said, and drained a beaker of orange juice and vodka.
“Yes, you do, comrade. El nuevo comandante, General Manso de Herreras, wants to see you. Now.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m to bring you to him. You’d better tell your little playmates goodbye and come with me.”
“Comrade Zukov, I need help. I have made a mess of this. I am probably a dead man. But you owe me, Zukov. You have a submarine under your feet again, thanks to me.”
“I will do what I can, Comrade Golgolkin. That’s all I can promise. I work for the Cubans, now, not the Russians.”
“That fucking Englishman Hawke is responsible for this mess! He made me tell. It wasn’t vodka talking. I swear it. I was going to die. He was going to kill me and Grigory without a thought.”
Zukov looked away from the pitiful spectacle on the bed. He had other things on his mind.
“Get dressed. He’s waiting. I’ll be outside.”
Golgolkin sighed, climbed out of the bed, and pulled on a bathing suit imprinted with cartoon exploding Cuban cigars. He saw his soiled white guayabera on the floor at the foot of the bed and he shouldered himself into it. Fear was rising in his stomach and the sour taste of it overpowered the vodka and orange juice he’d been drinking since sunrise.
Golgolkin did not expect to see the sun set on this day. He turned to the two girls remaining in his bed.
“If I’m still alive at sundown, we’ll go for a nice swim,” he said, patting them both on their heads. He smiled and walked out into the sun. Zukov was just outside his door, leaning against the balcony rail of the finca, smoking a yellow cigarette.
“Want one?” he asked, offering the pack. “Egyptian Deities. You can only find them here.”
“It may be time for me to start smoking,” Golgolkin said. “Life being so unpredictable, eh, comrade?” He took one. Zukov thrust his lighter at him and the man flicked it, lighting the cigarette. The lighter was solid gold, with a ruby hammer and sickle, and Golgolkin turned it over in his hand, the sun striking the red stones.
“There was one pretty good Marx, you know, comrade. Julius Henry Marx. Groucho,” Golgolkin said.
“Follow me,” Zukov said, and strode off, making his way through thick stands of palm trees toward the beach. Golgolkin struggled to keep up, huffing and puffing his cigarette. Most Muscovites find it hard to learn to walk in sand, he’d noticed. Not Zukov.
“Where are we going?”
“To the beach,” Zukov said, expelling a cloud of smoke that wafted back. “You see that big yellow finca over in the trees? With all the guards? That is where they are holding Fidel and his son Fidelito. The Maximum Leader’s future, too, is very uncertain at this point.”
“There is no need to torture me, Zukov.”
“Cheer up, comrade. The odds are in your favor. Two out of three brothers want to kill Fidel. Only one wants to shoot you.”
They arrived at a small crescent of a bay, rimmed with palms leaning almost horizontally out over the surf. Manso sat with his back against one such tree, quietly smoking a cigar. He had his old machete next to him, the blade buried halfway in the sand.
“Please sit,” he said, and Zukov translated the Spanish into Russian.
“Cohiba?” he asked, pulling a crocodile cigar case from his shirt pocket and offering it to both men. “El jefe’s favorite.”
“No, gracias,” Zukov said for both of them. Golgolkin’s complexion was already green enough from the cigarette. A cigar would not help.
“Comrade Golgolkin,” Manso said, leveling his eyes at the arms dealer. “I am sorry to hear that you are not feeling well.”
The Russian nodded. He bent over and placed his hands on his knees. He seemed incapable of speech.
“This should help,” Manso said, and he picked up a large ripe coconut lying in the sand directly in front of Golgolkin.
“The macheteros say the milk of the coconut has miraculous powers,” Manso said. “It can cure practically anything. All you have to do is cut its head off and drink. Like this.”
As Zukov translated this, Manso tossed the coconut high into the air, waited for it to begin its descent, and then whipped his machete from the sand. The blade of Manso’s machete caught the sun as it slashed the falling fruit in mid-air, neatly clipping off the top third of the coconut. Manso caught the coconut itself in his free hand, splashing some milk into Golgolkin’s lap.