Cuba (20 page)

orders. The Americans listened to every radio

transmission on telephone frequencies and would

soon know as much about his business as he did. He

sat silently as the limo carried him through the afternoon

traffic to the ministry.

There he called his most trusted

lieutenants to his office and issued orders.

Bring Admiral Delgado and General Alba to this

office immediately. Find and arrest Hector Sedano.

Alejo Vargas stood at the window looking at

Mono Castle and the sea beyond. Far out from shore he

could just make out the deep blue of the Gulf Stream,

which appeared as a thin blue line just under the horizon.

An overcast layer was moving in from the southeast and a

breeze was picking up.

A historic day … Fidel Castro, the towering

giant of Cuban history was dead. The end of an

era, Vargas thought, and the beginning of a new one, one

he would dominate.

Despite the timing surprise, Vargas really had

no choice: he was going to have to go forward with his plan.

He had concluded a month or so ago that the only

course open to him upon the death of Castro was to create

a situation that would induce the Cuban people to rally around

him. He would need boldness and a fierce resolve

if he were to have a chance of success, but he was just the

man to risk everything on one roll of the dice. After

he personally loaded them.

Colonel Santana brought an American

artillery shell to Havana yesterday, one removed

Nuestra Senora de Coldn.

The thing was in the basement of the ministry now, under armed

guard. The Cuban leadership had known for years that

the Americans had CBW weapons stored at

Guantanamo. Now the Americans were removing the

things, but too late! Thanks to El Gato,

Vargas had one he could show the world. Soon he

hoped to have a great many more.

Alejo Vargas took a deep breath, stretched

mightily, helped himself to a’cigar. He lit it,

inhaled the smoke, and blew it out through his nose. Then

he laughed.

“I want a little house with a garden. Every day food

to eat. Children. A doctor to make them well when they

get sick. A man who loves me. Is that so

much?”

Dora’s mouth was so dry she didn’t

enunciate her words clearly, but Ocho knew what

she meant. They lay head to head under the awning in the

shade as the

Angel del Mar

pitched and rolled endlessly in the long sea swells.

Surrounded by a universe of water they couldn’t

drink, the twenty-six humans aboard the boat were

tortured by thirst and baked by the sun. Many

had bad sunburns now, raw places where the skin

had blistered and peeled off, leaving oozing sores.

The old fisherman dipped buckets of water from the

sea and poured salt water over the burns. He

gently poured sea water on the small children, who had

long ago ceased crying. Perhaps the water would be

absorbed by their dehydrated tissues. If not, it

would at least help keep them cool, ease their

suffering somewhat.

Near Dora a woman was repeating the Rosary,

over and over, mumbling it. Now and then another

woman joined in for a few minutes, then fell

silent until the spirit moved her again.

It seemed as if everyone left alive had lost

someone to the sea that first night. The cries and grief

were almost more than people could bear when they realized who had

been lost, and that they were gone forever. Mothers cried,

daughters were so distraught they shook, the hopelessness

hit everyone like a hammer. The mother of the captain, who

saw him dead, shot hi the back, could neither move

nor speak. As Dora talked, Ocho watched the

woman, who sat

now at the foot of the mainmast, holding on to it with one

hand and a daughter or daughter-in-law with the other.

Every now and then Ocho sat or stood and

searched the horizon. Nothing. Not a boat, not land,

not a ship. Nothing.

Oh, three airplanes had gone over, two jets

way up high making contrails and a twin-engine

plane perhaps two miles up mat had crossed the

sky straight as a string, without the slightest waver as

it passed within a half mile

of Angel del Mar,

rolling her guts out in die swells.

To see the airplanes, with their people riding inside,

safe, full of food and drink, on their way from

someplace to somewhere else, while we poor

creatures are trapped here on this miserable boat,

condemned to die slowly of thirst and exposure…

Surely the boat would be found soon… by somebody!

Anybody! How can the Americans not see us?

How?

Do they see us and not care?

Ocho was standing, watching for other ships and listening

to Dora talk of the house she wanted, with the flowers

by the door, when he realized that the dark place he

could see to the west was a rain squall.

“Rainea”…he whispered.

“Rain.”

He shouted the word, pointed.

The squall was upon them before anyone could muster the

energy to do anything. The people stood with their mourns open

as raindrops pounded them and soaked their clothes and

ran off the awning and along the deck, to disappear into the

scuppers.

“The awning! Quickly. Make a container from the awning

to trap the water!”

Ocho untied one corner with fingers that were all

thumbs, the old fisherman did another comer, and they

held the corners up, trapping water.

They had a few gallons when the rain ceased

falling.

Several of the men tried to lean over, drink from the

awning.

“No. Children first.”

Ocho managed to catch one man by the back of the neck

and throw him to the deck.

“Children first.”

One by one the children were allowed to drink all they could

hold. Then the women.

Several of the men got a swallow or two each,

then the water was gone.

Ocho sat down, wiped the sweat and water from his

hair and sucked it from his fingers. The only water he

had gotten had been from holding his mourn

open.

Dora had drunk her fill. Now she lay on

the deck with her eyes closed.

Diego Coca had even gotten a swallow.

He looked about with venomous eyes, then lay down

beside his daughter.

“We must rig the awning so that it will catch water

if die rain comes againea”…Ocho said to the old

fisherman.

They worked at it, cut a hole in the low place

in the canvas and put a five-gallon bucket under

die hole.

If it will just rain again,

Ocho thought, studying the clouds.

Please God, hear our prayer.

“Why are you here, on this boat”…”…the old fisherman

asked Ocho, who stared at him in surprise.

“Why are you here”…”…the fisherman repeated. “You

aren’t tike us.”

Ocho looked around at his fellow sufferers, unable

to fathom the old man’s meaning.

“These people are all losersea”…the old man said,

“including me. We came looking for something we will

never find. Why are you with us?”

“It’s time for someone to relieve Lopez

on the pump. I will do it for a while, then you

relieve me, old man.”

“We are going to die soon, I thinkea”…the old

man said.

Ocho hissed, “There are children listening. Watch your

mouth.”

“When we can pump no more we will swim. Then we will

die. One by one people will drown, or sharks will come.”

%

“Look for a shipea”…Ocho said harshly, and went below.

Sharks! The old windbag, scaring the children like that

Of course sharks were a possibility. Blood or

people thrashing about in the water would attract them, or so

he had always heard. Sharks would rip people apart, pull

them under.

He pumped for a bit over twenty minutes, then

took a break. The water came in fast. After

five minutes he began pumping again. Another

twenty-one minutes of vigorous effort was required

to empty the bilge.

The water was coming in faster than it did yesterday.

Pumping the handle manually seemed to require more

effort too, though he knew he just had less energy.

Pump, pump, pump, take a brief rest in the

stinky bilge, then pump again….

The more tired he grew the more hopeless he felt.

All of them were doomed. Dora, the baby growing within

her, the baby that he had put in her womb …

It was his fault. If he had been man enough to say

no, to not surrender to lust, all these people would still be in

Cuba, they would have a future to look forward to, not

watery death. All the people who had been swept to their

death would still be alive.

Alive!

He had no idea of the horrible things he was setting

in motion when he opened her dress, felt the

ripeness of her body, felt the heat of her.

The guilt weighed on him, made it hard to breathe.

He must do what he could to save them all. That was the

only honorable choice open to him. Save as many as

possible and maybe God would forgive him.

Maybe then he could forgive himself….

And he shouldn’t give up hope yet. As he worked

the pump handle he scolded himself for being so

negative, for not having faith in God, in His

plan for the twenty-six human beings still alive on

Angel del Mar.

Soon a ship would come. The sailors would see the

boat and rescue them. Give them cool, clean

water, all they

could drink; and food. Let each of them eat their

fill. Soon it would come. Any minute now.

He pumped and pumped, sweat burned his eyes and

dripped from his nose, though not so much as he sweated

yesterday. He was very dehydrated. The salt had

built up in his armpits, his groin, and it cut him.

With his free hand he scratched, which only made the

burning worse.

Any minute now a ship will come over the horizon.

Soon…

Maximo Sedano took a taxi from the Zurich

airport to an excellent hotel in the heart of the

financial district where he had stayed on six or

eight previous visits. The hotel was old,

solid, substantial, almost banklike, yet it was

not the primo hotel. This was the last time he stayed

here, he told himself. Eduardo Jos6 Lopez would

stay at the best hotel in town because by God he could

afford it. And because the staff over there had never seen

him as Maximo Sedano.

He would have- to make many adjustments, avoid

photographs, avoid places where prominent

Cubans might see him, like the heart of Madrid

or London or Paris. Of course, if Vargas

was assassinated in the turmoil following

Fidel’s death, he could relax his vigilance

somewhat. Vargas was a bloodhound, a humorless

man with a profound capacity for revenge. Still, if

Vargas came out on top after the succession struggle

in Havana, he would have many things on bis mind, and a

missing ex-finance minister would of necessity be far

down on the list.

Maximo would take his chances. He was hi

Europe, the money was hi the banks just down the

street, the loud and clear call of destiny was ringing

hi bis ears.

He was sipping a drink and thinking about where he

might go for dinner when he heard a knock on the

door.

“Yes?”

“Delivery.”

“I ordered nothing- There has been a

mistake.”

“For the Honorable Maximo Sedano.”

Curious, he opened the door.

The man standing in the hallway was European, with

thinning hair and bulging muscles and a chiseled chin.

And he was holding a pistol in his right hand, one

pointed precisely at Maximo’s solar

plexus.

The man backed Maximo into the room and closed the

door.

“Your passport, please”…”…A German accent.

“I have little money. Take it and go.”

“Sit.”…He gestured toward a chair by the bed with his

pistol. Maximo obeyed, thankfully. His knees

were turning to jelly and he had a powerful urge

to urinate.

“Now the passport.”

Maximo took the diplomatic passport from his

inside pocket and passed it ‘acr. Taking care

to keep the pistol well away from Maximo and still

pointed at his middle, the man reached for the passport

with his left hand.

He glanced at the photo and name, grinned, and

tossed the passport on the bed. The man took a

seat.

“You look white as a sheet, man. Are you going

to pass out?”

He felt dizzy, light-headed. He put his hand

to his forehead, which felt clammy.

“Loosen your tieea”…the German ordered,

“unbutton your collar button, then put your head

between your knees.”

Maximo obeyed.

“Don’t breathe so fast. Get a grip on yourself.

If you aren’t careful you’ll hyperventilate and

pass out.”

Maximo concentrated on breathing slowly. After a

few seconds he felt better. Finally he

straightened up. The pistol was nowhere in sight.