Shift: A Novel

was a smile.

“There is evidence and there is evidence—as any spy would know. And yet leaving you to rot in jail is not an attractive option either. It is passive, and I hate to leave things to inertia. Who knows what sort of unrest you might foment among your fellow prisoners?”

In fact the longest single sentence Melchior had uttered during his time in prison had been “I will cut it off and feed it to the rats if it comes within three feet of me,” but he didn’t bother to repeat this to Segundo. For one thing, he was pretty sure Raul already knew every word that had passed his lips in the previous three months. For another, he was starting to feel light-headed again, and was holding onto the curule’s arms with both hands to keep from falling off the back.

“So tell me, Melchior,” Segundo was saying, “have you ever been to Russia?”

Melchior noted the choice of name: not the Soviet Union, but Russia. This wasn’t a political conversation then. Not yet anyway.

“I myself have recently returned from nearly three weeks in that country,” Raul continued. “It is a very curious place. All around you see the mixture of old and new—one of the most ancient and singular of all European empires mixing with the most radical political experiment the world has ever seen.”

Caspar flashed through Melchior’s mind. If all was going to plan, he should’ve been making his was back to the States by now, an American “defector” having been “doubled” by the KGB. He suddenly realized that he might be facing a similar proposition. His heart began to pound in his chest, but, struggling to keep the emotion from his voice, all he said was:

“Radical is usually another word for stupid.”

“I am inclined to agree with you.” Raul’s words surprised Melchior. “It is not a happy place. The will of the government is entirely inflected toward a single goal: conquering or, at any rate, outlasting the enemy. Yet the will of the people is bent in another direction: survival. I myself have always believed that the goal of the state should be its citizens’ happiness or, at any rate, the pursuit of it, as your own Declaration has it. Yet that goal is made unattainable when all forms of self-expression are quashed and the overwhelming majority of the state’s resources are shunted toward the fight against American capitalism. Even the most basic tenet of Communism, that of providing for the proletariat, cannot be realized in such a context. I see you are interested in what I am telling you.”

Like most field agents, Melchior was a practical man. He wasn’t thinking of winning the war against Communism in Cuba, let alone the Soviet Union. He was thinking that this was the kind of intelligence that made a career. Imagine: even as Fidel was attempting to form a military and economic alliance with the Soviet Union, his second in command—his brother!—was trying to undermine it! This was the kind of stuff that got you out of the field—finally!—and into an office. No more twenty-hour flights in the cargo hold of a C-47, no more weeks or months roughing it in the bush, the mountains, the desert, attempting to recruit local support for whatever revolution the Company was backing that day. No more prisons, rats, lice, firing squads. An office, with a window and a picture of the president and an intercom with a secretary at the other end of it! Melchior did his best to remain calm. But how could he not be excited?

“Do not think me disloyal,” Raul continued as if reading Melchior’s thoughts. “I understand why my brother has sought this relationship, and I support it fully. Your presence on Cuban soil is indicative of your nation’s refusal to allow countries to choose their own path. But the Soviet Union is as tolerant of independence as the United States is. Or, to put it another way, Khrushchev seeks an alliance with us not for our sake but for his own. For the sake of his war with your country. And it would be a great—an avoidable—tragedy for Cuba to be consumed in that interaction, like some expendable geopolitical catalyst.”

Melchior remained silent. The implications of Raul’s statement were broad, but it seemed prudent to let Segundo clarify them, rather than overreach and alienate the man.

But Raul fell silent, and regarded Melchior across the broad plain of his desk. His hard little eyes sat uneasily above his soft cheeks, as if manifesting the conflict between the boy he had been and the revolutionary he’d become. Melchior had seen this dichotomy in a dozen, two dozen, countries, and he knew how dangerous it was. A romantic—like, say, Raul’s older brother—will lay down his life for his country but is unlikely to kill you in cold blood, because his heart will trump his politics. A mercenary, like Che Guevara, kills only when necessary but then efficiently and without hesitation. But a divided man—a man like the one sitting on the far side of the desk—is unpredictable. He doesn’t know if he should listen to the whisper of his mother’s voice, telling him to be a good boy, or the roar of the proletariat, telling him to destroy anything that stands in the way of progress. Though he can be turned, it is a dangerous undertaking, because if he once senses what you’re trying to do, he’ll not only kill you, but will go after your friends, your family, and anyone who reminds him of you. Melchior didn’t have family and didn’t really have friends either, but he wouldn’t have minded that promotion. A corner office, a house in the ’burbs, government holidays, and insurance. So he waited.

Finally Raul nodded.

“I admire your prudence. I am a prudent man myself. That is why I have approached you rather than attempt what I am about to describe myself. Better you should be shot if it comes out, rather than me. So. Let me come to the point: Premier Khrushchev has agreed to pay for the construction of a missile-launching facility just outside Cienfuegos, in which he intends to place twenty-five medium range ballistic missiles. As you well know, despite the propaganda your government uses to justify spending so much of its citizens’ tax dollars on its bloated military budget rather than health care or education, the United States enjoys a considerable advantage in the size of its nuclear arsenal over the Soviet Union. But having missiles a little more than a hundred miles off American soil would lessen that advantage considerably. The Soviets could launch an attack from here and still have time to evacuate large portions of their bureaucracy and population from major urban centers before your government could respond.”

Melchior had a good poker face, but even he found it hard to maintain an impassive expression when presented with such startling news. What’s more, Raul’s analysis was exactly correct: if Khrushchev succeeded in placing his missiles here, it would given him tremendous leverage, especially in Eastern Europe. The United States had demonstrated in Hungary in ’56 how loath it was to respond to Soviet aggression; that reluctance would only increase with nuclear horror a few hours from its doorstep, and the Soviet Union buffered by five thousand miles of the Atlantic.

He chose his words carefully. “I’m not sure I understand you. Are you asking me to carry this information to the United States in order to prevent the Russians from installing nukes on Cuban soil?”

Raul shrugged. “I doubt that will be necessary. It is very hard to hide the construction of a missile silo, let alone twenty-five, and I have no doubt that your spy planes will discover them soon, if they haven’t already.”

“Then I’m confused … ”

“I believe the missiles are a diversion. A shell game the likes of which the Russians have been playing for more