Cuba (5 page)

selfrighteous, suspicious, trigger-happy, and

absolutely ruthless. Fidel Alejandro Castro

Ruz came out of that mold: Alejo Vargas,

Hector knew, was merely another. He

could

not make this observation to Mercedes, whom Hector

suspected of loving Fidelhe needed her

cooperation.

Alfredo Garcia found a seat near the

ticket-taker’s booth from where he could see the

shadowy figure on the top row of the bleachers. He

was so nervous he twitched.

Like Hector Sedano, he too was in awe of the

news he had just learned: Fidel Castro was dying.

Alfredo Garcia trembled as he thought about it. That

priest in the top row of the bleachers was one of the

contenders for power in post-Castro Cuba. There were

others of course, Alejo Vargas, the Minister of

Interior and head of the secret police,

prominently among them.

Yes, Garcia talked to the secret police of

Alejo Vargas he had to. No one could refuse

the Department of State Security, least of all a

fugitive from American justice seeking

sanctuary.

And of course he cooperated on an ongoing basis.

Vargas’s spies were everywhere, witnessed every conversation,

every meal, every waking moment… or so it seemed. One

could never be certain what the secret police

knew from other sources, what they were just guessing at,

what he was their only source for. Garcia had handled

this reality the only way he could: he answered

direct questions with a bit of the truthif he knew itand

volunteered nothing.

If the secret police knew Alfredo had a

CIA contact they had never let on. They did know

Hector Sedano was a power in the underground although they

seemed to think he was a small fish.

Garcia thought otherwise. He thought Hector

Sedano was the most powerful man in Cuba after

Fidel Castro, even more powerful than Alejo

Vargas.

Why didn’t Hector understand the excruciating

predicament that Alfredo Garcia found himself in?

Certainly Hector knew what it was like to have few

options, or none at all.

Alfredo was a weak man. He had never been able

to

STEPHEN COONTS

resist the temptations of the flesh. God had forgiven

him, of that he was sure, but would Hector Sedano?

As he sat in the darkness watching Hector,

Alfredo Garcia smiled grimly. One of the

contenders for power in po/castro Cuba would

be Hector’s own brother, Maximo Lufs

Sedano, the finance minister. Maximo was Fidel’s

most trusted lieutenant, one of his inner circle.

Three years older than Hector, he had lived

and breathed Castro’s revolution all his life,

willingly standing in the great man’s shadow. Those days

were about over, and Maximo’s friends whispered that he was

readyhe wanted

more.

That was the general street gossip that Garcia heard,

and like most gossip, he thought it probably had a

kernel of truth inside.

For his part, Maximo probably thought his only

serious rival was Alejo Vargas. He was going

to get a bad shock in the near future.

And then there were the exiles. God only knew what

those fools would do when Fidel breathed his last.

Yes, indeed, when Fidel died the fireworks would

begin.

Hector Sedano was taking the last few puffs on

his cigar when his youngest brother, El Ocho, climbed

the bleachers. Ocho settled onto a bench in front

of Hector and leaned back so that he could rest his

feet on the bench in front of him.

“You played well tonight. The home run was a

thing of beauty.”

“It’s just a game.”

“And you play it well.”

Ocho snorted. “Just a gameea”…he repeated.

“All of life is a gameea”…his older brother

told him, and ground out his cigar. .

“Was that Mercedes I saw talking to you earlier?”

“She is here for

Mima’s

birthday.”

Ocho nodded. He seemed to gather himself before he

spoke again.

“My manager, Diego Coca, wants me to go

to the United States.”

Hector let that statement lie there. Sometimes Ocho

said outrageous things to get a reaction. Hector

had quit playing that game years ago.

“Diego says I could play in the major

leagues.”

“Do you believe him?”"

Ocho turned toward his older brother and closest

friend. “Diego is a dreamer. I look good playing

this game because the other players are not so good. The

pitch I hit out tonight was a belt-high fastball right

down the middle. American major league

pitchers don’t throw stuff like that because all those guys

can hit it.”

“Could you pitch there?”

“In Cuba my fastball is a little faster than

everyone else’s. My curve breaks a little more. In

America all the pitchers have a good fastball and

breaking ball. Everyone is better.”

Hector laughed. “So you aren’t interested in going

to America and getting rich, like your uncle

Tomas”…”…Tomas had defected ten years ago

while a team of baseball stars was on a trip

to Mexico City. He now owned five drycleaning

plants in metropolitan Miami. Oh, yes,

Tomas was getting rich!

“I’m not good enough to play in the big leagues.

Diego tells me I am. I think he believes

it. He wants me to go, take him with me, sign a

big contract. I’m his chance.”

“He wants to go with you?”

“That’s right.”

“On a boat?”

“He says he knows a man who has a boat.

He can take us to Florida, where people will be waiting.”

“You believe that?”

“Diego does. That is what is

important.”

“You owe Diego a few hours of sweat on the

baseball field, nothing else.”

STEPHEN COONTS

Ocho didn’t reply. He lay back on his

elbows and wiggled his feet.

“Why don’t you tell me all of it”…”…Hector

suggested gently.

Ocho didn’t look at him. After a bit he said,

“I got Diego’s daughter pregnant. Dora,

the second one.”

“He knows this?”

Ocho nodded affirmatively.

“So marry the girl. This is an embarrassment, not

dishonor. My God,

Mima

was pregnant when Papa married her! Welcome

to the world, Ocho. And congratulations.”

“Diego is the

girl’s father.”

“I will talk to himea”…Hector said. “You are both

young, with hot blood in your veins. Surely he will

understand. I will promise him that you will do the right thing by this

girl. You will stand up with her in church, love her,

cherish her….”

“Diego wants the best for her, for the baby, for

me.”

“For himself.”

“And for himself, yes. He wants us to go on his friend’s

boat to America. I will play baseball and earn

much money and we will live the good life in America.

That is his dream.”

“I seeea”…sd Hector Sedano, and leaned back

against the fence. “Is it yours?”

“I haven’t told anyone elseea”…Ocho said,

meaning the family.

“Are you going to tell

Mimal”

“Not on her birthday. I thought maybe you could tell

her, after we get to America.”

“Estd loco,

Ocho. This boat… you could all drown.

Hundredsthousands of people have drowned out there. The sea

swallows them. They leave here and are never heard from

again.”

Ocho studied his toes.

“If they catch you, the Americans will send you

back. They don’t want boat people.”

“Diego Coca says that”

“Damn Diego Coca! The Cuban

Navy will probably catch you before you get out of

sight of

Mima’s

house. Pray that they do, that you don’t die out there in

the Gulf Stream. And if you are lucky enough

to survive the trip to Florida, the Americans will

arrest you, put you in a camp at Guantanamo

Bay. Even if you get back to Cuba, the

government won’t let you play baseball again.

You’ll spend your life in the fields chopping

cane. Think about

thatl”

Ocho sat silently, listening to the insects.

“Did you give Diego Coca money”…”…Hector

asked.

“Yes.”

“Want to tell me how much?”

“No.”

“You’re financing his dream, Ocho.”

“At least he’s got one.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means what I said. At least Diego Coca

has a dream. He doesn’t want to sit rotting

on this goddamned island while life passes him

by. He doesn’t want that for his daughter

or her kid.”

“He doesn’t want that for himself.”

Ocho threw up his hands.

Hector pressed on, relentlessly. “Diego

Coca should get on that boat and follow his dream,

if that is his dream. You and Dora should get married.

Announce the wedding tomorrow at

Mima’s

party^the people are your flesh and blood. Cuba is your

country, your heritage. You owe these people and this country

all that you are, all that you will ever be.”

“Cuba is

your

dream, Hector.”

“And what is yours? I ask you a second time.”

Ocho shook his head like a mighty bull. “I do not

wish to spend my life plotting against the government,

making speeches, waiting to be arrested, dreaming of a

Utopia that will never be. That is life wasted.”

Hector thought before he answered. “What you say is

true. Yet until things change in Cuba it is

impossible to dream other dreams.”

Ocho Sedano got to his feet. He was a tall,

lanky young man with long, ropy muscles.

“Just wanted you to knowea”…he said.

“A man must have a dream that is larger than he is

or life has little meaning.”

“Didn’t figure you would think it was a good idea.”

“I don’t.”

“Or else you would have gone yourself.”

“Ocho, I ask you a personal favor. Wait

two weeks. Don’t go for two weeks. See how

the world looks in two weeks before you get on that

boat.”

Hector could see the pain etched on Ocho’s

face. The younger man looked him straight in the

eye.

“The boat won’t wait.”

“I ask this as your brother, who has never asked you

for anything. I ask you for

Mima,

who cherishes you, and for Papa, who watches you from

heaven. Have the grace to say yes to my request.

Two weeks.”

“The boat won’t wait, Hector. Diego

wants this. Dora wants this. I have no choice.”

With that Ocho turned and leaped lightly from bench to bench

until he got to the field. He walked across the

dark, deserted diamond and disappeared into the home

team’s dugout.

Although he was born in Cuba, El Gate’s

parents took him to Miami when he was a toddler,

before the Cuban revo* lution. He had

absolutely no memory of Cuba. In fact,

he thought of himself as an American. English was the

language he knew best, the language he thought

in. He had learned Spanish at home as a

youngster, understood it well, and spoke it with a

flavored accent. Still, hearing nothing but Cuban

Spanish spoken around him for days gave him a bit

of cultural shock.

He and two of his bodyguards had flown to Mexico

City,

V

CUBA

then to

Havana.

He had always kept His contacts with the Cuban

government a deep, dark, jealously guarded

secret, but rumors had reached him, rumors that

Castro was sick, that important changes in

Cuba were in the wind. The rumors had the feel of

truth; his instincts told him.

El Gato, the Cat, didn’t get rich

by ignoring his instincts. He decided to go to Cuba and

take the risk of explaining it away later. If the

exiles in Florida ever got the idea that he had

double-crossed them, money or no money, they would

take their revenge.

Courage was one of El Gate’s long suits.

He didn’t accumulate a fortune worth almost a

half billion dollars by being timid. So he and his

bodyguards boarded the plane. That was almost a week

ago. He had been steadily losing money in the

casinos every day since while waiting. Now the waiting

was over.

Tonight he was to see the man he came to meet,

Alejo Vargas. In five minutes.

He checked his watch, then pocketed his chips and

walked for. the door of the club, the Tropicana, the

jewel of Havana. His bodyguards joined him, like

shadows.

El Gato left the casino via the back entrance.

The three men walked a block to a large black

limousine sitting by the curb and climbed into the rear

seats.

Two men were sitting on the front-facing seats.

“El Gato, welcome to Havana. I confess,

I didn’t think we would ever meet on

Cuban comsoil.”

“Miracles never cease, Senor Vargas. The

world turns, the sun rises and sets and we all

get older day by day. Wise men change with the times.”

“Quite so. This is Colonel Santana, head of the

Department of State Security:”

El Gato nodded politely at Santana, then