Soto never raised his voice. “Fidel will survive with or without the Russians. Hard currency now will give him time to pursue what we planned in the mountains in ’56.”
“Christ, listen to him!” Foley exploded. “Lassiter, help me out here. Earn your fee.”
“Senor Soto,” I said, “you are a man of high ideals. Becoming an international criminal will not advance your cause.”
Soto shook his head sadly. “The international criminals are the Western nations. For hundreds of years, they have exploited the peoples of Latin America, Africa, and Asia. They stole the gold and silver, plundered the sugar, coffee, cacao, tea, and cotton. They have endless thirst for the raw materials of the third world. Your own government commits heinous acts of international terrorism in pursuit of oil. But no force on earth can shackle human dignity and freedom forever. Jose Marti said that ‘rights are taken, not asked for; they are wrested, not begged for.’”
Foley slammed his fist down, sending the coffeepot skittering across the table and crashing to the floor. “Bullshit! I’ve been to a hundred countries, and I’ve had it up to here with that third-world bullshit. In case you been asleep the last few years, let me give you some news: The Iron Curtain has fallen down.”
“Cuba hasn’t fallen,” Soto said. “Fidel will lead us to our destiny.”
Robert Foley ran a hand through his short brown hair and seemed to be sizing up his situation. He didn’t ask for his lawyer’s advice. The U.S. government had approved the deal, but Soto was threatening to blow it. From every indication, he wanted to steal the art, leaving Foley high and dry, and depriving a deserving lawyer of a ten- million-dollar fee.
Unless Soto was bluffing.
Maybe he didn’t have any authority from Castro. Maybe he was out of his mind. If Fidel wanted the art, why weren’t there troops surrounding this old tug right now? That’s what I was about to advise my client when I heard a noise above us. A shout in Spanish, the thump of boots on steel, three dozen men descending ladders to the hold. The hatch swung open, and they fanned out into a semicircle with military precision. The men wore fatigues and combat boots and carried Kalashnikov rifles.
Foley sat still as a statue while a Cuban officer approached. The officer said something in Spanish. Soto nodded. Two soldiers came forward and positioned themselves on either side of Foley, who finally stirred. “First bastard who lays a hand on me is gonna lose a vital organ.”
The officer leaned close and whispered to Soto, allowing him to remain seated, showing him respect.
Foley’s voice grew louder. “Soto, I got a deal with the Company. You can’t go freelancing, you crazy bastard!” Foley’s eyes darted from the soldiers to me. “Lassiter, what the fuck’s going on?”
Soto had told me, but I hadn’t been listening. Now it was clear. “Senor Soto detests the Russians,” I said, “and it doesn’t matter who’s in charge: Gorbachev, Yanayev, Yeltsin, or a committee of Siberian polar bears. The Matisse that hangs in his study, Satyr and Nymph, reminds him of Russia and Cuba in just that order. He hates Cuba’s dependence on the Russians. He wants Cuba to be a free, independent socialist state, not under the thumb of the Russians or the Americans, because both are corrupt.” I looked at Soto. “How my doing?”
“You are a more thoughtful man than I had believed. What are your politics?”
“Don’t have any. I distrust all politicians, but I’ve always believed in the American dream. I believe anybody with guts and brains who’s willing to work hard can make it.”
“The sad truth,” Soto said, “is that there is little difference between American capitalism and Russian socialism, even when there was such a thing. The essence of capitalism is profit from the sweat of others, and so too was the essence of Russian communism. The elite in Russia were just as fat as the robber barons in the States, and the poor were just as poor. Gorbachev’s perestroika merely mimicked the West.”
Foley barked a laugh. “Wake up, Soto. The Russians need the Americans.”
“To go to a market economy, that is true. But it is shameful for an avowed Marxist to do so. And why did the old guard seek to oust Gorbachev? To reform their socialist society to conform to the founding principles, to say with Lenin that ‘the state is the proletariat, the advance guard of the working class’? No! They believed the system is theirs for the plundering. In Russia, as in the States, it does not matter who is in charge. Each is equally corrupt.”
Foley eyed the two soldiers who hovered over him. “Soto, you know what you hate. The Russians and the Americans like each other. We have the same desires, the same needs.”
“ Si, you all need to be rich. But to be rich, some must be poor. Who is to speak for them?”
“Who appointed you? Why don’t you hold an election here and see how many votes Fidel gets, or did you see what happened in Nicaragua and decide not to risk it?”
Soto showed a sad, tolerant smile. “Lenin also said that ‘liberty is so precious that it must be rationed.’ There will come a time for free elections, but only after Cuba is already free, not when it is quarantined by your government and indentured to the corrupt Russians. The Americans now say Cuba should follow Russia’s example, but should we prostitute ourselves again to be handmaiden to both the Russians and the Americans? Or should we be strong and independent? Should we-”
“Make a revolutionary statement the world will never forget,’’ I said.
Foley threw up his hands. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You’d better ask Senor Soto. It’s his line.”
“It is not your concern,” Soto said. He snapped orders to the officer in rapid-fire Spanish. The two soldiers grabbed Foley by each arm and lifted him from his chair.
Soto’s voice was soothing. “You will not be harmed, Senor Foley. There is a hacienda for you in Cienfuegos. Two hundred acres not far from the bay. You can watch the pesetero ferries and the cargo ships unloading at the fertilizer plant.”
Foley struggled unsuccessfully to free his arms. “Fertilizer plant! What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve got a villa waiting for me in Lausanne.”
“Not feasible, I’m afraid. Your property here is adjacent to our first nuclear power plant. It is quite scenic, really, right on the water. You will live comfortably there on a pension as if you were a retired colonel in the Cuban army. Life will not be luxurious, but neither will you starve.”
“Starve! There’s two hundred million dollars being wired today to my account on Grand Cayman.”
“No,” Soto said, “I countermanded that order. The money will be wired to your account in Aruba.”
Foley rubbed his chin. His eyes were moist. “I don’t have an account in Aruba.”
“Ah, how unfortunate. Perhaps the account number I provided Langley was incorrect. I suppose we will have to impound the funds for safekeeping.”
We again.
“You thief, you cocksucking communist crook!” The soldiers tugged at Foley, pulling him toward the hatch. I remembered Foley subduing Kharchenko so effortlessly, but now, surrounded by troops with automatic weapons, his body went slack, his feet dragging across the deck. The last words I heard him say were to me. “Lassiter, what are you going to do about these bastards?”
I didn’t know.
“Sue them?” I suggested.
26
Severo Soto didn’t say where we were headed. After the soldiers left with Foley, there was only a skeleton crew left on the freighter. All Cubans in camouflage gear. Maybe the Polish crew got a hacienda next to Foley’s. Soto stood on the bridge with the captain, a wiry, leather-skinned man with white hair and grease-stained clothes.
The captain coaxed the Polonez from the dock and we chugged eastward. Gulls dipped and cawed and taunted us from their feathery heights. At first, I thought Soto was taking our precious cargo to a more remote site at the eastern end of the island. Las Tunas maybe. Then I watched the position of the sun off the port side. We were headed northeast, riding the Gulf Stream across the Straits of Florida. A strong southeasterly wind whipped up
