Cuba (39 page)

He spent a few seconds hi contemplation of his

revenge when he caught these men.

“Minister, here is Lieutenant G6mez, who

had the duty last night.”

“You saw these men, G6mez?”

‘Two men arrived just seconds after the lights went

out, sir. I saw the colonel for a few seconds

hi a flashlight beam. The driver, no.”

“What did this man look like?”

“He was tall, not fat”

“His accent?”

“None that I noticed, sir.”

“Come, come, Lieutenant. Was he from Cuba, from

Havana or Oriente, or did he speak

Castilian Spanish?”

“From Havana, I thought, sir. He sounded like you and

me.”

“What did he say?”

“That we should start the emergency generator.”

“So you did?”

“Yes, sir. Without power the alarms were disabled, we

could not talk to each other on the telephone, the

security

of-the building was compromised. My men and I went

to the basement and worked on the generator. I came

back upstairs once and reported to the colonel,

told him we were having difficulties; he

said he had faith. When we got the generator going

and went back upstairs, the colonel and his driver

and vehicle were gone.”

“You had never seen this colonel before?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir.”" “Would you recognize him

if you saw him again?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

No, he wouldn’t, Vargas decided. If this

colonel thought there was a glimmer of a chance

Lieutenant G6mez would recognize him then

or later, he would have killed him. G6mez was

alive because he posed no threat.

Vargas dismissed G6mez and called in his

department heads to give them orders.

With no ceremony and no conversation, Mercedes

Sedano was released from the presidential palace.

A butler came to the door, suggested she pack.

The electrical power was still off. It had been off

when she awoke this morning, and she was given stale

bread and water for breakfast.

She put the clothes she wished to keep in two

shopping bags that were on the floor of the closet,

sandwiched the cassettes in between them, and took a last

look around the apartment. The butler returned five

minutes later and led her out. Without

electricity the palace looked dark and grim.

She wanted desperately to be gone, to bring an end

to this phase of her life. She bit her lip to keep

herself under control.

The butler paused in an empty hallway, looked

around to ensure that there were no maids about, then

whispered, “They’ve arrested your brother-in-law

Hector Sedano. He is in La Cabana.”

Then he took her to the door of the palace, said a

barely audible good-bye, and closed the door behind

her.

She walked past the guards and continued down the

street to the bus stop. The electrical power

seemed off everywhere, yet the streets of Havana

hustled and bustled as usual. Didn’t they know

Fidel was dead?

She dared not ask.

On the bus she saw a newspaper lying on a

nearby seat and scanned the front page. The

usual stuff, nothing about Fidel.

So they had not announced his death.

She transferred to another bus, left her clothes

with a friend in a shop on the Malecon. The shop was

closed because of the lack of electricity, but Mercedes

tapped on the window until her friend came

to open the door.

Her friend was very agitated. She drew Mercedes into the

tiny dark storeroom. “I have heard they arrested

Hector. What does it mean?”

“I do not knowea”…Mercedes told her, shaking her

head.

“Hector’s friends are on fireea”…sd the

shopkeeper, “and he has many, many friends. I heard

there was a riot in Mariel after he was arrested. The

newspapers have nothing on it, yet the story is on

everyone’s lips. People are coming in, asking me about it,

because they know I know you.”

Mercedes assured the woman she knew nothing, that

she was as mystified as everyone on the street.

She rode buses through the city to La Cabana.

The guard at the gate recognized her name and sent

a man to fetch the duty officer, a Captain

Franqui. He treated her with respect, took

her to his office, a dark cubicle near the gate,

and sent a note to the commandante. While the note was

being delivered he apologized for the lack of

electricity. “It has not been off this long in

years.”

In five minutes she and Franqui were in the

commandante’s office. He was a

heavy-set, balding officer who looked as if he were

frightened of his own shadow.

“I have my ordersea”…he said. “I cannot admit you.

He is to see no one.”

“Fidel sent meea”…she said simply, without

inflection. “Hector is my brother-in-law.”

The commandante looked as if wild horses were trying

to tear him in half. Obviously he knew of the

relationship between Mercedes and caret Fidel. The

blood drained from his florid comface as he weighed

his fear of Fidel against his fear of Vargas.

Captain Franqui understood the commandante’s

dilemma. “Perhaps, if I may be so bold, sir,

it might be best if you were indisposed, at lunch

perhaps, and I acted on my own initiative in light

of the lady’s impeccable credentials.”

The commandante grasped at this straw. “I cannot be

everywhere or make every decision, can I?”

“No,

sit.

If you will excuse us”…”…Captain Franqui took

Mercedes’s elbow and steered her expertly from the

office into the hallway.

“I myself am an admirer of Hector

Sedanoea”…Captain Franqui confided as they

walked. “He is a great patriot and a man of

God. Surely he will serve Cuba well in the

years ahead.”

After several minutes of platitudes, she found

herself standing hi front of Hector’s cell

in

the isolation wing. None of the other cells contained people.

Captain Franqui disappeared, leaving the two of

them alone.

“Are they listening”…”…she whispered.

“Probably notea”…he said. “The electricity is

off, and they would need it to listen.”

“How long*h you been here?”

“Two days. For two days I’ve been sitting

alone hi this hole. No one comes to see me.”

‘They will admit no one. I told them Fidel had

sent me, and the commandante was afraid to refuse.”

“Ah, yes, Fidel.”

“He is dead.”

“I am sorry, Mercedesea”…he said softly, so

softly she almost missed his words.

“It had to happen. He and I both knew it,

accepted it.”

Hector sighed. “That explains my

arrest, then.”

‘Two days ago.”

“The cancer finally, eh?”

“Poison! He poisoned himself rather than make a

tape naming Vargas as his successor.”

Hector crossed himself.

“It was not a sinea”…she said, desperate to explain.

“He merely speeded things up a few days.”

Hector leaned forward, let his forehead touch the

cool steel bars.

“I heard there was a riot in Mariel after you were

arrested.”…Her voice was very soft, a whisper in

church.

“I did not know that.”

“A fr’told me.”

“Have you heard from Ocho?”

“Nothing. Is he not at home?”

“He went on a boat with some others. They were going

to America.”

“I have heard nothing.”

Hector sagged, fought to stay erect. He looked

so … so different from Fidel, Mercedes thought.

He was not tall, vigorous, oozing machismo. And

yet Fidel thought Hector could lead Cuba!

She got as close to the bars as she could, and

whispered, “I need to talk to the Americans as

soon as possible. Should I see the little man you

gave the Swiss bank account numbers to? The

stadium keeper?”

“He might betray you. He talks to Vargas

too. I tried to frighten him, and may have succeeded

too well.”

“Who, then?”

“Go to the American mission. Ask for the cultural

aide, I think his name is Bouchard. He is

CIA, I believe.”

“Fidel signed bank transfer orders for

Maximo, who went flying off to Switzerland, just as

we thought he would. I have not heard if he got the

money.”

“He will not come back if he gets itea”…Hector

said.

“Maximo would steal itea”…she agreed. “But do you think

the Americans will ever give the money back?”

“I have heard their courts are fair. I would rather try

to get the money back from them than from Maximo.”

She nodded at that.

“Why do you want to talk to the Americans

now”…”…Hector asked.

She told him.

The secret police had the bodies of the two

saboteurs laid out in the basement of police

headquarters when Vargas saw them. Two

Latin-looking males who had spent many years in the

United States, from the look of their dental work.

Exiles, probably.

Vargas examined their clothes, which were in a pile, and

stirred through the contents of the van. He examined the

chemical timers and C-4 shaped charges, the guns

and electrical tape, and tossed everything back on

the table.

CIA.

No doubt in bis mind.

Four extra-high-voltage towers had collapsed,

killing power to the two substations that fed central

Havana and the government office buildings located

there.

A neat and tidy operation.

And as soon as the power went off, a team of

burglars entered the Interior Ministry and robbed the

safe in his office, carrying away files that he had

spent twenty years collecting.

The Americans.

And he had not an iota of proof, nor would he ever

get any.

The burglars also stole bis laptop computer, and the

thought of its loss gave him pause. Certainly not

as valuable as the files, the laptop had many things

on it he wished the Americans did not have.

He had used the computer to derive the

trajectories for the missiles” guidance

systems, which had to be reprogram-

med when the warheads were changed, the new biological

warheads being significantly lighter than the old

nuclear ones. Still, if the Americans didn’t know

about the missiles, perhaps they wouldn’t pay much

attention to that file.

What the burglary showed, Alejo Vargas

concluded, was that time was short. The Americans could

move fast and decisivelyto win the game he was

going to have to move faster.

I’m ready,

he told himself.

Now is the hour.

“I am Bouchard, the cultural attache.”

Mercedes Sedano smiled, shook the offered hand.

“Please sit down.”…Bouchard looked

embarrassed, as if he rarely entertained

visitors in this small office, which was packed with

Cuban magazines and newspapers. Four

candles sat atop the piles. “The power is still

out,” he said by way of explanation. “And the emergency

generator ran out of fuel an hour ago.”

“I don’t know how to begin, Doctorea”…she said.

“I am not a real doctorea”…he said

apologetically. “I am a scholar.”

“My brother-in-law is Hector

Sedanoea”…she explained. “He said I should come

to you.”

“My work is strictly cultural, senora. I

work for the American state department studying the

culture of Cuba. I cannot imagine how I could be

of service to you, or anybody else. I write

studies of Cuban music, literature,

drama….”

“I know nothing about die branches of the American

governmentea”…she said.

Bouchard smiled. “I know very little myselfea”…he

confided.

“You still haven’t asked why I am here.”

“I ask now, sefiora. What may I do for

you?”

“My brother-in-law, Hector Sedano, says

you work for the CIA. He”

Bouchard was horrified. His hands came

up, palms out.

“Senora, you have been severely misinformed. As I

have just explained, I am a scholar who”

“Yes, yes. I understand. But I have a problem that”

He clapped his hands over his ears. “No, no,

no. You have made a great mistakeea”…he said.

She sat calmly, waiting for him to lower his hands.

When he saw that she was not going to speak, he did so.

“I must show you my workea”…Bouchard said, and dug into a

drawer. He came up with a handful of paper, which he

thrust at her. “I recently completed a major

study of”

She refused to touch the paper. “Fidel Castro

is deadea”…she said.

Bouchard froze. After a few seconds he

remembered the paper in his hand and laid it on top

of the nearest pile.

“I was there when he died. We were filming a statement

to the Cuban people, a political will, if you

please.”…She produced two videotapes from her

large purse and laid them on the nearest pile.

“He died before he finished his speechea”…she

explained. “Which is inconvenient and, in a larger

sense, tragic.”

“I

assure

you, Sefiora Sedano, that I am a poor