whipping.'
Is there such a thing as a good whipping?'
Depends on who's doing the whipping, master.'
I like an old-fashioned girl,' observed Tom. Shall we leave? I've a sudden urge to make you disobedient.'
The next day Celia accompanied Tom on a walking tour east of the Prado, Havana's favourite promenade. Two roads, Agramonte and Zuluetta, paralleled the Prado and sloped gently down to the waterfront and the fort of San Salvador de la Punta, and between these was a wide open park that led up to an equestrian statue of one of Castro's revolutionary predecessors, Maximo Gomez. At the south end of the plaza, beyond a semi-derelict watchtower that was a fragment of the old city walls, was the presidential palace. This enormous, wedding-cake of a building, with its domed cupola, high arched windows, gap-toothed colonnade, and Tiffany interior had been home to all of Cuba's presidents since 1917. Castro preferred to stay elsewhere: on the twenty-third floor of the Habana Libre; at an apartment on llth Street, in Vedado, or on 22nd, in an apartment formerly owned by Santos Trafficante; there was even a villa in Miramar, and a small fisherman's cottage in the port of Cojimar. But the prime minister still spoke to his people from the twenty-foot-high balcony on the front of the palace's ornate, almost ecclesiastical facade. Even now the television cameras and radio microphones were setting up to broadcast the Big Barbudo's speech that night.
Tom's sniper's eyes took in the layout of the open plaza. Immediately to the west of the palace stood the old Corona cigar factory, a four-storey Italianate building, pale green, which was the way Tom had felt the last time he smoked a large cigar. The factory's rooftop and corner windows commanded an excellent view of the balcony, but as a vantage point it suffered the drawback of being a little obvious. Still, on the west side of the plaza, a pair of eight-storey terracotta-coloured apartment blocks immediately opposite the factory looked a better bet, with a wide variety of windows, balconies, and different-level rooftops to choose from. Further north were a pair of white office buildings, from the upper storeys of which Tom felt he could easily pick out a target on the presidential balcony. But it seemed probable that all four buildings would host a large number of spectators for any speech by the prime minister. The use of any such apartment would undoubtedly have required that Tom first kill the occupant, with all the risks that such a course of action entailed.
The eastern side of the plaza offered fewer sniping possibilities, which, to Tom's eyes, made it more interesting. The fewer possible vantage points, the less likely it would be that anyone would decide to look there first, in the event of Castro's assassination. One eight-storey apartment block - plenty of windows - stood north of a church immediately to the east of the palace. But it was the church, the Iglesia del Santa Angel Custodio, atop a rock known as Angel Hill, that interested Tom most of all. This neo-Gothic church, with its winter forest of white pinnacles, looked like a better prospect for a concealed shot at the balcony. A man might easily hide in such a petrified white forest.
Tom and Celia both crossed themselves as they passed through the entrance on Cuarteles.
I never figured you for a tourist,' remarked Celia, watching Tom's keen eyes take in the statues and the stained-glass windows.
Me? My middle name is Baedeker.'
So does it interest you that JosE Marti was baptised here?'
I'll make a note of that. Another revolutionary.'
Celia shrugged. It's what happens when you need a revolution.' She looked around the mahogany interior and sighed her admiration. It's beautiful, isn't it?'
Tom pointed up at the painted ceiling. How do we get up the tower?'
This way,' she said, leading. It's not the original. That was toppled during the last century. By a hurricane.'
The two-storey tower provided what looked like an easy access to the rooftop of the church, from the rear of which Tom thought he could kneel behind one of the candle-shaped pinnacles to make his shot. He took several photographs. A distance of less than one hundred yards separated church from palace. It was not a difficult bit of shooting in the daytime. But at night, with a southerly breeze off the Gulf of Mexico - or, for that matter, a westerly off the Bay of Havana - it was a shot that would require quite a heavy load, a bullet like Sierra's 168-grain Matchking. Probably the balcony would be floodlit, so there would be no problem with the scope; during the Korean War Tom had hit head-size targets at one hundred yards with only one second of illumination. He was confident he could make the shot. It was the set-up he didn't like.
Escaping from the church rooftop with the plaza full of G2 - the Cuban Intelligence Service - and soldiers would not be easy. Could he dress up as a priest perhaps? Unlike the mob, the Catholic Church was still free to work its racket, and there were plenty of priests in evidence throughout Havana. Surely no one would suspect a priest. Tom had some reservations about the wisdom of shooting from the church. But it looked like a safer proposition than working out of one of the apartment buildings, or the cigar factory.
Outside, on the steps of the church, Tom took some more photographs, although in Celia's eyes he seemed quite unimpressed with her hometown's famous landmarks. He used a superwide Haselblad single-reflex fitted with a thirty-eight-millimetre lens that gave a ninety-degree angle over the plaza. It was hardly a typical camera for a tourist, she thought, even an American. She began to suggest some of the other sights that were to be seen in old Havana.
Would you like to see the Columbus Cathedral? He's not buried there any more, but it's still worth seeing. It's only a short distance from here.'
Tom grunted and took another photograph of the plaza and its buildings, his mind still fizzing with marksmanship and ballistics.
Threading her arm through his, she said, Or maybe you would like to take me back to your hotel room? I enjoyed it last night, although my behind is still a little sore.'
Tom smiled vaguely. The Hilton,' he said abruptly. The Habana Libre, or whatever it's called now. I think I'd like to go there.
You want to go and see a hotel?'
Come on. Let's find a taxi.'
Celia shrugged and followed Tom down the steps of the church. It was true, he spoke very good Spanish, even looked a little Hispanic, but he was, she reflected sadly, still a yanqui, with a yanqui's small horizons. In spite of all the beautiful and historic buildings Havana had to offer the tourist, he still preferred to go and see another deluxe yanqui hotel and no doubt marvel at the expense of such opulence and luxury. She would never understand Americans.
Just as surprising to Celia's mind was Tom's desire to hear the Maximum Leader speak in public. Like most Cuban women of her age, Celia had got over her early infatuation with Fidel Castro. Back in January 1959 she had been in the Plaza to hear him make his very first speech to the people of Havana following a meeting with President Urrutia - the only time the Prime Minister had made a short speech. If only he had held on to that brevity. Just a few months later Castro had made a speech on television that had lasted for seven hours, without a break. Life, Celia told Tom, was too short to stand around listening to a man who could rouse his audience to a state of complete indifference. But Tom was adamant.
Besides,' he added. There's an experiment I'd like to conduct.'
You're crazy,' she said, after he had told her what he planned to do. They'll arrest you. They'll put you up against the wall and shoot you. Me too, probably, if I'm seen with you.
Tom shrugged. Then don't be. Wait for me at the Hotel Plaza. In the rooftop bar.'
I'll be there,' she said angrily. But I don't expect to see you again.'
You will,' said Tom. But just in case you lose your nerve waiting for me, here's the money I owe you.'
Celia took the dollars and squeezed them down the front of her brassiere. Then he was gone.
Crazy American,' she said, telling herself that now she had been paid she was under no obligation to meet him anywhere. But she was still in the fifth-floor azotea of the Plaza, with its splendid view of the old Bacardi building - an excellent place to hear every word spoken from the balcony of the presidential palace - when, at ten minutes after ten, the Big Barbudo began to speak.
Listening to the speech from the Agramonte side of the crowded plaza, Tom was surprised at how gentle and high-pitched the leader's voice was. He had been expecting someone who sounded tougher, as befitted a guerrilla leader and heavy smoker of large cigars. Even so, the content of the speech - which was about the ten days Castro had spent in New York - lacked for nothing in its harsh criticism of the American way of life. The United States was
