'Meaning I am worrying about long-term.'
'Long-term?'
'You see, that's your flaw, Walter. You're a good nuts-and-bolts man, I give you that. But you have to see a larger picture, see where it's all going.'
'I can never seem to remember that.'
'It is this Earl. He said last night he just wanted to go home.'
'Well, Roge, I mean, he'd just been in a gunfight, he'd just gotten shot. Possibly he was a little, you know, down. You know, his pep dipstick was reading a quart low.'
But Roger didn't see a joke.
'Look, I'm worried that this is not shaping up the way we anticipated. We've invested a lot in this man. I want something to happen. This isn't the Big Noise we wanted to make. This was someone else's Big Noise and it will upset a lot of people at United Fruit and Domino Sugar and Bacardi and Hershey's and Curtis. We need to make our Big Noise.'
'Roge, I think it's going swell. Look, he's going to be in that hospital another week, he'll rest up, his morale will improve, his sense of duty become clear again. And when he gets out we can put a full-court press on him. We've got this assassination attempt as proof of subversion and guerilla activity. We link it to Castro, we make the case to Earl, and we are all set. It's in the bag and?'
' Stop it!'
Roger hated emotional outbursts, loss of control, anger, the quiver in the voice, the tremble in the fingers, the dryness in the lips, the secret thump of an agitated heart. He hated all that. But now he could not stop himself.
'I am tired of your con-job answers. You always have an answer. You're never at a loss for words. You always pretend to know. I'm tired of it. You assist. You make sure that what policies I set, you make certain they happen.'
'Of course, Roge, I merely?'
'You merely were doing your hustle again. I hate it. I'm sick of it. This Earl thing-it's your hustle. Let me make that clear. We have a responsibility. We have something we have to do and it's got to be done soon, and with Earl, and it has to be a permanent, total solution to our problem, a successful conclusion to our mission. The Big Noise. Do you get it?'
'Of course, Roger.'
'My next ticket is West Berlin. That is the real action. I need a feather in my cap. Now the question is, are you coming, or do you go onto the Langley scrap heap of failed assistants, of young promising fellows who just didn't quite work out and ended up in analysis or training or admin? Which is it, Walter? You can come with me, you can stay behind. It's up to you.'
'Roger, I'll deliver. Earl will deliver.'
There was an urgent rap at the door.
The two men exchanged looks, then Frenchy rose and opened it, to admit Lt. Dan Benning, in an agitated state.
'You really ought to have a radio on.'
'What's going on?'
'The Cuban army has attacked a gangster named El Colorado at his house in Centro Havana. Tanks, armored cars, machine guns. There's a battle going on downtown right now!'
Chapter 24
Speshnev and the young man Castro sat at a sidewalk cafe in Centro, sipping coffee as the tanks rumbled by.
'Pah!' said Speshnev. 'These are not tanks. I have seen tanks. In Spain, there were tanks. The German Panzers were huge and carried immense armor and armament. Now those were tanks!'
These tanks were American M4 Shermans, obsolete by a decade and somehow seconded to the Cuban national army for defense of the island against threat of invasion by, er, Haiti. They rumbled down La Rampa before turning onto 23rd, for Vedado, just a block or two away, where the battle still raged.
'It took them long enough to get here,' Speshnev continued in his rant. 'Good heavens, your people are so slow. It is the Spanish disease. Siesta, siesta, always the siesta. That is your curse. It's an abomination.'
The tanks would signify the last phase of the battle. A squad of Batista's prize assault troops had attempted to broach the house several hours earlier, but withering automatic fire killed half and drove the others back. The house was sprayed with machine gun fire-its noise rattled off the windowpanes all over town-and when whoever was in charge decided enough was enough, that everyone inside was dead, he sent in two squads of asaltos. Half were killed, half driven away.
So then it was wait and snipe, wait and snipe, for hours, until at last the tanks arrived. Now they were here. It would soon be over.
'Isn't this a little dangerous?' asked Castro. Now and then a ricochet would whine by, loosed by who knew which side and off of how many bounces. Most people were behind cover, but Speshnev insisted on pretending it was a calm summer day. He sat drinking his sweet coffee. The waiter wore a pot on his head and scuttled along the ground like a crab, but continued in his profession, rather heroically.
'No,' said Speshnev, 'it is not a little dangerous. It is in fact very dangerous. You can never tell which freakish way a bullet or a chunk of shrapnel or a wave of concussion will bounce. At any moment, we could die. Waiter! Another coffee, please, pronto.'
'Si, senor,' came the meek call from within.
'Then why do we sit here? Is this to test my courage? Are you trying to prove me a coward? I am not a coward, but I see no point in pointless, flamboyant risk for no gain.'
'Well, then, let me explain. All in all, what is happening so close by is an interesting object lesson for a young man who seeks to enter the profession in which you claim such an interest. Far more beneficial for you, I would say, than your awful chess, at which you show no progress and even less aptitude than before.'
'I play Ping-Pong. Do you play Ping-Pong?'
'Of course not,' Speshnev sniffed. 'It's an idiotic game.'
'It's actually rather fast and exciting and?'
'You are trying to change the subject. Shut that mouth and listen and try and learn. What is the moral of the day?'
'Don't fight tanks with machine guns?'
'That is the moral of any day. No, this day.'
'I suppose?'
The world ended in noise. Then it came back again, just as it had been.
It was the sound of a Sherman's 75mm cannon firing. It seemed to momentarily suck the atmosphere from the planet and all within the cone of its percussion waves flinched, young Castro especially, for the pain seemed to drive two sharp needles into his ears.
'Eeee-gods!' he said.
'Yes,' Speshnev said, 'war is loud. Battle is tremendous. It is not for the?'
But another explosion followed, as loud, and then the sense of sitting and talking in a cafe was gone totally, as one shell boomed, then another, in steady succession, ever so painfully loud. The Shermans were firing salvos, the shells detonating in the wreckage of the once beautiful house. Dust and smoke filled the air, and the vibrations from each individual blast seemed to linger and mount as yet more shells were fired. The cannonade went on for a solid three minutes. Castro put his fingers in his ears and his face down on the table to avoid dust. The agent simply sipped his strong sweet coffee, seemingly unperturbed.
At last it was over.
'My mother!' said Castro. 'That was something.'
'Yes it was, and back to the subject please.'
