Cuba (36 page)

took a chemical timer from his belt, a device about

the size and shape of a fountain pen, and inserted it into the

plastique. The timer was already set to explode as

near to 1:30 A.m. as possible.

After setting the timers, they climbed down to the ground,

then ascended the other two legs. In minutes they were

back on the ground.

They locked the padlock, closed up the back of the

van, and drove away.

“One moreea”…Poveda said. He wished he had a map

or diagram, but all that had been left behind in

Florida. There he and Cabrera and the U.s.

Army power grid expert had labored for days over

satellite reconnaissance photos,

photographs taken from the ground by not-so-innocent

tourists, and computer-generated diagrams. They

selected the target towers and committed their locations

to memory. Not a single sheet of paper

left the room with them.

So now Cabrera pointed down one street and

Poveda motioned toward another. The men chuckled.

“I am very sureea”…Poveda said. “Two blocks

down, right turn, then on for a half mile.”

“Okay.”

“I am glad it was tonightea”…Cabrera said. “The

charges had been in place too long, the new

padlocks were there too long, I was getting

nervousyou know what I mean, my friend?”

Poveda grunted. He knew. His stomach felt as

if it were tied in a knot. He hadn’t felt this

uptight about an operation since his first one, fifteen

years ago, when he was very young. He had been

to Cuba many times since, eight as he recalled, and

none of them were as tense as that first time, until now.

The Cubans had almost caught him and his partner that

time. The partner was eventually caught six years

later and died under interrogation, or so they heard

months after that. Poveda had promised himself then and

there that he would never be taken alive, that he would not

die in a Cuban prison.

Communists! He made a spitting motion out the open

window. The communists took everything from the people hi

Cuba who had worked and saved and built for the

future, and gave it to the people who had not. Now look

at the place! Everyone poor, everyone on the edge

of starvation, the cities and towns and factories

rotting from lack of investment. The communists ran off

the people who could make Cuba grow, the people the nation needed

to feed everyone else. Ah, these bastards deserved

their misery, and by God they had had some. Universal

destitution was Castro’s legacy, his gift

to generations yet unborn.

Poveda was a pessimist. He knew that soon

Castro would be dead and things would change in Cuba.

“They’ll forget Fidel’s faults, remember just

the goodea”…he told Cabrera, for the hundredth time.

“You wait and see. In a hundred years the church

will make him a saint.”

“Saint Fidel.”…Cabrera laughed.

“I shit you not. That is the way of the world. The people he

pissed on the most will call him blessed.”

“Saint or devil, we’ll fuck the son of a

bitch a little

tonightea”…Cabrera said as the van pulled up to the last

tower.

Poveda killed the van’s engine and lights and the two

men got out. Silence.

“Awful quiet, don’t you think”…”…Poveda

asked.

Cabrera stood by the van’s rear doors, listening,

looking around. Poveda dug in his pocket for the key

to the padlock, inserted it.

It wouldn’t fit. He tried another.

“What’s wrong?”

“Key doesn’t seem to want to go in this lock.”

“Let’s get the fuck outta here, manea”…Cabrera

said, and started for the van’s passenger door.

A spotlight hit them.

“Put up your handsea”…boomed a voice on a

loudspeaker.

Poveda dropped to his knees, pulled a 9-mm

pistol from his pocket. He didn’t hesitatehe

aimed at the spotlight and started shooting.

Something hit him in the back. He was down beside the

rear tire trying to rise when he realized he had

been shot. People shooting from two directions, muzzle

flashes, thuds of bullets smacking into the van like

hailstones. A groan from Cabrera.

“I’m hit, Enrique.”

“Bad?”

“I think… I think so.”…He grunted as another

bullet audibly smacked into his body.

The bullet that hit Poveda had come out his

stomach. He could feel the wetness, the spreading

warmth as blood poured from the exit wound. Not a lot

of pain yet, but a huge gaping hole in his belly.

He lifted the pistol, pointed it at Arquimidez

Cabrera, his best friend. There, he could see the back

of his head. He fired once; Cabrera’s head

slammed forward into the dirt. Then he put the barrel

flush against the side of his own head and pulled the

trigger.

Sitting in the back of a van just down the street from the

Ministry of Interior, William Henry Chance

watched the second hand of his watch sweep toward the

twelve. It passed 1:30 A.m. and swept

on.

The lights stayed on. Carmellini was looking at his

own watch.

“What the hell is wrong now”…”…Carmellini asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, Lord.”

They sat there in the van looking at the lights of the

city.

“It went badea”…Tommy Carmellini said. “Time for

us to boogie.”

“We’ll give them a few minutes.”

“Jesus, when it doesn’t go down as

planned, something is wrong. What are you waiting for,

a phone call from Fidel? Let’s bail out while

our asses are still firmly attached.”

“If I had any brains I wouldn’t be in this

businessea”…Chance replied tartly.

His watch read exactly ten seconds after 1:32

A.m. when the lights of downtown Havana

flickered. “All rightea”…Carmellini said, and whacked

his leg with his hand.

The lights flickered, dimmed, came back on,

then went completely out. All the lights. Only

automobile headlights broke the total darkness.

‘That’s it. Let’s goea”…Chance said to Tommy

Carmellini. They opened the back of the van and

climbed out while the driver of the van started the

engine. Chance walked the few steps back to an old

Russian Lada parked at the curb behind the van and

got into the passenger seat. Carmellini started the car

and turned on the headlights while the van pulled

away from the curb.

The two agents drove down the street toward the

Ministry of Interior, a hulking immensity even

darker than the night.

The three guards at the main entrance of the Ministry

were illuminated by the headlights when Tommy

Carmellini

drove up. He killed the engine and pocketed the

key as William Henry Chance got out on the

passenger side.

Of course the guards had seen Chance’s uniform from the

car’s interior light while the door was opennow they

flashed the beam of a flashlight upon him. Then they

saluted.

Chance was dressed in the uniform of a Security

Department colonel. He had been to the building

several days ago in the daytime wearing civilian

clothes: he thought it highly unlikely mat anyone

who had seen nun then would recognize him now. It

was a risk he was willing to take. Still, his stomach

felt as if he had swallowed a rock as he

returned the guards” salute, and spoke:

“We were just a block away when the power failed all

over this district.”

“Yes, Colonel. Just a minute or two ago.”

“And you are?”

“Lieutenant G6mez, sir, the duty

officer.”

“Have you taken steps to start the emergency generator,

Goodmez?”

“Ahh… I was about to do so, Colonel.

It is in the basement. I was waiting to see if the

power would come back on immediately. Often these Outages

last but moments and”

“The darkness seems widespread, Gomez. Let

us start the generator.”

“Of course, Colonel.”…The lieutenant began

giving directions to his two enlisted men, who

obviously knew nothing about the emergency generator.

The lieutenant began by telling them which room the

generator was in.

Chance interrupted again. “Perhaps you would like to take them

there, supervise the start-up, Lieutenant. My

driver and I will guard the front entrance until you

return.”

“Of course, Colonel.”…With his flashlight beam

leading the way, the lieutenant and the two enlisted men

made for the stairs.

Carmellini opened the trunk of the car, extracted a

duffel

bag, which he swung over one shoulder. Without a word

to Chance he disappeared into the dark interior of the

building.

Carmellini took the main staircase to the top

floor of the building, then strode quickly down the

hall to Alejo Vargas’s private

office. The door was locked, of course.

Working in total darkness, Carmellini ran his hands

over the door. One lock, near the handle. From the

bag he extracted a small light driven by a

battery unit that hooked on his belt. He donned

a headband, then stuck the light to the headband with a

piece of Velcro.

He checked his watch. It was 1:36 A.m.

He examined the lock, felt in the bag for his

picks.

Hmmm. This one, perhaps. He inserted it into the lock.

No.

This one? Yes.

The latex gloves didn’t seem to affect his

feel for the lock.

Carmellini had always enjoyed pick work. The

exquisite feel necessary, the patience required, the

pressure of time usually, the treasure waiting to be

discovered on the other side of the door… the CIA

had been a damned lucky break. Without that break

he would have certainly wound up in prison sooner or

later when his luck ran out, because no one’s luck

lasts forever.

He inserted a smaller pick, felt for the contacts

…

And twisted, using the strength of his fingers.

The bolt opened.

He stowed the picks, picked up the duffel bag, and

opened the door.

Dark office, with the only light coming through the windows,

the glow of headlights on the street below, somewhere the

flicker of a fire.

The safe sat in the corner away from the windows. It

was old, and huge, at least six feet tall,

three feet wide and three feet deep. Painted

on the door of the safe was a pas-

toral scene; above the landscape arranged in a

semicircle were the words “United Fruit

Company.”

After a quick glance at the safe, Carmellini turned

his attention to the rest of the room. He searched quickly

and methodically. First the drawers of the desk. One of

them held a pistol, one a bottle of expensive

scotch whiskey and several glasses, one pens and

pencils and a blank pad of paper. Several lists

of names, phone numbers, addresses …

The lower right drawer of the desk was locked. A

small, cheap furniture lock. He opened it with a

knife, began examining files. The files seemed

to be on senior people hi the government,

girlfriends, vices, lies told, bribes offered and

accepted, that kind of thing.

He flipped through the files quickly, stacked them on

the desk, and moved oa.

The crystals were on the windowsill. A rack of

books was below the window. A cursory check

revealed no files peeking out between the books.

The displays of old coins didn’t even rate a

glance. Back before he worked for the government the coins

would have made his juices flow, but not now.

On to the credenza. Many files in there. Carmellini

sampled them, looking for anything on biology,

weapons, strange code names. When he saw something

he didn’t understand he opened the file and glanced at

the papers inside. Peoplemost of these files were

on people. Unfortunately Tommy didn’t

recognize the names. He added the files to the stack

on the desk.

Now he discame to the safe. They must have lifted it

to this floor with a crane before the windows

viere

installed, he thought He checked every square inch of the

exterior to see if the safe was wired. No

wires.

Tommy Carmellini tried the handle.

No.

Turned the circular combination dial ever so carefully

to the right, maintaining pressure on the handle. If the

safe

had been closed hastily, all the tumblers might not

have gone home. He took his time.

No. The safe was locked.

He checked his watch. Now 1:47.

The lights would come on soon, powered by the emergency

generator.

He opened the duffel bag and began extracting

items. The first item he removed was a

telescoping rod which he extended and positioned over

the safe’s combination dial; he secured it there with

clamps placed on each side of the safe. Working

quickly, witiMio lost motion, he clamped a

small electric motor to the rod, then adjusted the

jaws protruding from the motor so that they grasped the

dial of the safe.