“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 Guantanamo 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 Guantanamo. 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.
Alex muttered, “Bloody hell.”
“She predicted you’d say that. Also, she herself may arrive late due to an emergency planning session the president has scheduled at the Little White House in Key West. She’d like you to be on the JFK as her safeguard in case, she said, ‘anybody has any really stupid effing ideas’ close quote.”
Hawke pressed his fingertips to his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
“I suppose I have to go, damn it to hell,” he said after a few long moments. “Ross, can I land a seaplane on a carrier deck?”
“I don’t see why not. Kittyhawke’s pontoons have retractable wheels. All it doesn’t have is a good, sturdy tailhook. I’ll have one installed immediately.”
“Good. Ross, also, please have the radioman send a message to flight ops aboard the Kennedy. Advise them they’re going to have an unusual little visitor dropping in tomorrow afternoon.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
“How long until sunrise?” Hawke asked.
“A few hours.”
“All right,” Hawke said, getting to his feet. “At first light, I’m going back out to find Vicky. Ambrose, would you mind taking a little walk with me aft?”
“Not at all.”
Once the two men reached the stern they stood side by side at the rail staring at the glassy water stretching to the horizon. Hawke finally broke the silence.
“I saw something, Ambrose. On the wall at the club.”
“Yes?”
“I know it means something. I know I should understand it. But I can’t—I can’t see. Or I won’t see. Am I making a complete fool of myself?”
“No, Alex, you’re not.”
“Anyway, see if you can make something of it for me, will you?”
Alex pulled an old Polaroid snapshot, yellow with age, out of his pocket and handed it to his friend.
“I’ll be happy to see what I can come up with, Alex.”
“Thank you, Ambrose. You are the most wonderful friend a man could ever ask for, you know.”
He walked away without waiting for a reply.
40
Ambrose had awoken to the heartbreaking sound of Hawke’s little airplane coughing and sputtering to life. When the noise came to resemble a screaming banshee outside his window, he sat up in bed, yawning, and pulled aside the curtain of the small rectangular port. He watched the silver plane lift off the water and climb into the nighttime sky.
Ambrose was keenly, painfully aware that Alex must know his search for Vicky’s body was hopeless. He also knew that Alex would be up there all day, flying every square mile of ocean within and beyond the search area, praying to find this woman who had seemed to offer him, finally, peace and passion.
He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.
It was useless.
He picked up the brier pipe from his nightstand and jammed it between his teeth. It was both a comfort and a stimulant to thought. He realized despite the tragic events of the day, he was still poking around the edges of the thing that had haunted him for thirty-odd years.
He had slept fitfully, tossing and turning in his bed, unable to erase an image that simply would not go away. The image he saw was black-and-white and compelling. A simple composition. A story. A very old, sad story.
There were three figures in the foreground. A snowstorm of confetti and silver streamers filled the air. The photo was blurred as if some reveler had jostled the photographer at the moment the shot was taken.
Happy New Year.
A beautiful blond woman in a white sarong, diamonds sparkling around her regal white neck. A brilliant tiara in her hair. The woman had a flute of champagne in her raised hand and was smiling. Her other arm was thrown carelessly around the shoulders of a very fat young man with a bald, bullet-shaped head. A heavy golden crucifix was suspended from the thick gold chain around his neck.
There was another man in the foreground of the image. Tall and strikingly handsome in a spotless white dinner jacket, he stared directly into the eye of the beholder. The sober eyes were not amused. Fixed, impatient, not smiling.