Hard Currency

“Povlevich? The KGB agent?” asked Castro. “We are helping him defect to Colombia. He was cheap. Russians are cheap, Rostnikov.”

“Not all,” said Porfiry Petrovich. He wanted to rise now because his leg pain had returned, but he did not want to appear defiant.

“And not all Cubans. We were very expensive.” Castro laughed. “Billions. Billions. And what did we give you in return? Medical services, useless missile bases, vows of friendship. We used you.”

“And now it is over,” said Rostnikov.

“Perhaps not. We will survive,” said Castro, standing erect, his voice rising as he spoke. “We will survive or die in the streets before we give in to capitalism. Socialism or Death. Resista. Resista. Resista. Socialism or Death.”

“Perhaps they are the same thing,” said Rostnikov.

Castro shook his head and examined Rostnikov.

“You are mad,” said Castro.

“I am tired. Perhaps I am also mad.”

“Can you be bought, Russian?”

Rostnikov said nothing.

“No,” said Castro. “You can’t be bought. You can’t be persuaded. You can be killed. Anyone can be killed. I see in your eyes what you are thinking. You hide it well but yes, I can be killed too. Many have tried, many, but they are the ones who have died. What will be the outcome of this situation, Russian?”

Rostnikov had to stand. He struggled out of his chair and steadied himself.

“I will return to Moscow and give a full report to my superior.”

“Colonel Snitkonoy,” said Castro. “Yes.”

“A full report confirming the guilt of Igor Shemenkov. The colonel will bring it to the council. The council will consider and then decide to file my report quietly in a drawer. To do otherwise would mean another confrontation with you. You would deny it. We would look like bullies trying to give reasons for separating from what many believe is your inevitable downfall. And Shemenkov will remain here, useless to you.”

“There are other scenarios,” said Castro.

“I prefer not to consider them.”

“One only then,” said Castro. “Shemenkov is freed. Our police are convinced by your arguments. Shemenkov returns to Russia believing that he has adequate cover. And then, perhaps, he has an accident.”

“Given the information in my report, such an accident might well be expected.”

“Then we understand each other,” said Castro, stroking his beard.

Now Castro rose, folded his hands, and swayed on his heels.

“Go,” he said, looking at his large Russian watch. “I have more important things. You’ll be taken to the airport.”

Rostnikov said nothing as he walked carefully to the door. Then he took a deep breath and turned.

“One more thing,” he said. “The Santería are not to be accused of the crime.”

Castro nodded.

“It was a poor plan, Russian. Between us and no one else I tell you. The Santería will not be accused. There are too many torn edges in this situation. It is best to be done with them and rid of your Shemenkov.”

“Gracias,” said Rostnikov.

“De nada. It is dangerous to have too many secrets,” said Castro. “Sometimes it is the only thing that can keep you alive. Still, it is dangerous. Secrets come to light and are misunderstood. I am too busy now to worry about how I will be viewed by history. I will leave it to journalists and scholars to distort and misjudge what I have done. We have not met.”

“We have not met,” said Rostnikov.

Castro took a step toward Porfiry Petrovich and looked into his eyes.

“I believe you,” he said.

Fidel Castro turned his back, and Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov went into the hall. He was led back to the street and into the waiting car where Elena was waiting. Someone closed the door behind him and the car took off smoothly.

“What …?” Elena began.

“An official asking a few questions,” said Rostnikov. “We are leaving Cuba.”

The flight back was not comfortable. Rostnikov sat on the aisle. Elena sat next to him, also on the aisle. The seat belts didn’t work properly. The food was some Danish cookies and small ham sandwiches on hard rolls. The coffee was fine. Rostnikov slept briefly, waking in time to coax his leg back to life. Elena both slept and pretended to sleep. When she was awake, she worked on her report. The flight was late and conversation nonexistent until they were a few hundred miles from Moscow.

“Elena Timofeyeva,” Rostnikov said, “I require a shave. I will attempt one in the washroom. If I fail to return in ten minutes, you will know I have cut my throat. Please tell them in Moscow that it was an accident, not suicide.”

Elena nodded dutifully.

“It was a joke,” Rostnikov said.

“Yes, I know.”

“You did well,” Rostnikov said.

Elena tried a smile.

“We leave Havana behind us,” he said. “I would prefer to speak no further of it or those we met outside of our official report. And please, put in the report only what is essential for those in Moscow. Confessions are for the holy in the corners of churches.”

“Yes,” she said.

He patted her shoulder.

“Good,” he said. “I think Iosef will be very happy to see you. Perhaps you can come to dinner tomorrow night.”

“I would like that,” she said as he made his way swayingly down the aisle toward the toilet.

A little over two hours later, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov made his way up the stairs of his apartment building dragging his leg and suitcase behind him. It was late and Sarah would be sleeping, but he would have to wake her because the door was bolted from within.

He put the suitcase down and knocked gently. He was preparing to knock even louder when the bolt slid and the door opened.

She stood there in her robe, lights on behind her.

“I’m home,” he said, and took her in his arms, determined not to weep.