“Wonderful,” he murmured.
“In the United States we have a saying, ‘to sing for your supper,’” said Carrie.
“You speak Spanish?”
“Fluently, Doctor. I took a dual honors degree in political science and Spanish at Oxford. I also spent two years at the embassy in Madrid.
Selman-Housein-looked shocked at the profanity, then shrugged. He offered a brief smile, put down his knife and fork again and repeated the ritual of the wine and the linen napkin. He stared down the table at Black and wagged a disapproving index finger back and forth.
“I am offended,” he said primly. “In Cuba no man or woman would treat their guest this way.”
“This isn’t Cuba, Doctor. It’s North Carolina, and you’re not a guest—you are a defector and a traitor to your country.”
“How you talk is not hospitable anywhere, Senor Black.”
“Hospitality is over. It’s been a week and you’ve told us nothing. If you’re playing some sort of game, it ends now.”
“There is no game, Senor Black. Of this I assure you, and I am no traitor. I am a refugee and that is the status I will claim if you continue to speak to me so rudely.”
“A status you’ll never get, you arrogant little shit,” said Carrie pleasantly. “I’ll make sure of that, believe me.”
“This is America,” protested Selman-Housein. “You cannot do that. There are laws.”
“You’re wrong about that,” said Black. “This isn’t America. This isn’t even Guantanamo. This is nowhere and nobody knows you’re here. This is
There was a long silence. Finally the doctor reached out and picked up the bottle of burgundy. He examined the label briefly, then poured the remainder of the bottle into his glass.
“Mr. Black, Miss Pilkington, do either of you or the agencies you represent have the slightest idea of what will happen when our great leader,
Carrie shrugged. “The presumption within the CIA is that his brother, Raul, will take over the reins but that the country will be run as a military oligarchy. Which is exactly how it is run now. My personal theory is that it will be ruled by the La Hermandad dos Cavaleiros de Cristo. The Brotherhood.”
“You know of La Hermandad?”
“I do. My superiors think they’re a fantasy.”
“They are no fantasy, senora. They are quite real. We who are not members of their
“The Devils,” said Black.
“Yes, but the Devils have become frightened because they know the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That when Fidel dies they will not have the power to stop what is coming.”
“And what would that be?” Carrie sighed. Black smiled. The good doctor really was long-winded, but after a week of inane conversations about everything
“There are eleven million people in Cuba. Of those, at least two million live in Havana—the real figure may be closer to three million, but no census taker has dared set foot in the
“The health care system is a bad joke. State-of-the-art hospitals and excellent doctors for those who can pay—tourists and members of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, but for the rest, verminous bedding and black market drugs. Food is running out, but to fish in the rivers or the sea invites jail. Farmers without shoes or electricity eat, but the people of Havana and the other towns and cities starve. With Venezuela in an uproar, Cuba’s only supply of fuel is now in jeopardy. It is all coming to an end.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“When Fidel dies, there will be a demonstration by many dissidents. I could not tell you which groups, but there will be such a demonstration and someone will die at the hands of the Secret Police. That death will lead to anger and more demonstrations. Those demonstrations will lead to riots. All this will happen in one day or perhaps two at most and they will be riots the like of which you have never seen before.
“There are fewer than twenty thousand men and women in the Cuban armed forces. A few helicopters, perhaps a dozen. If called upon, at least half of those men and women in the Cuban armed forces will refuse to fire on their fellow Cubans.” The doctor laughed again and drank the last of his wine. “Especially with guns that have no bullets and tanks that have no fuel or lubricating oil.”
Selman-Housein smiled gently, his eyes behind his spectacles softening for a moment. Black even thought he saw tears welling up. “On New Year’s Eve in 1959, there were riots in Havana as Batista fled the city, but they were good riots, riots to cut the rot from the country’s core like a tumor in the brain.
“I know. I was seventeen years old then, and like everyone else we rioted with joy.” He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked up, blinking. “There will be no joy in the riots that will come. There will only be madness. It is the motto of our country come to pass—
Carrie shrugged. “It all sounds very dramatic, Doctor, but when you get right down to it, what are you telling us? More nothing. Fidel Castro could live for years.”
“Fidel Castro will be dead in thirteen days,” the doctor answered. “And I have given the Brotherhood the means of killing him without leaving any trace. When the deed is done, they will begin their
“Operation Vengeance? What exactly is that?” Black asked.
“On the twelfth of April 1962, President John F. Kennedy promised that the United States would never intervene militarily in Cuba’s affairs. It is a promise that has been kept by every American president since that day. That promise is about to be broken.”
“How?” Carrie Pilkington queried, an urgent note in her voice.
“The Brotherhood is planning a terrorist attack on the United States that will make your nine-eleven pale into insignificance. Hundreds of thousands will die and there is no way to stop it.”
PART TWO
IGNITION
12
The
