all leaky about a pretty view or even a beautiful woman, was he? He shook his head, trying to clear it. Something about this place that—
He had turned and started to go below when it hit him. A kind of chill ran through him, then a shudder so severe it rattled his bones. He staggered, reached out, and gripped the rail with both hands. He’d gone all lightheaded and short of breath. Seeing his knuckles go white on the rail, he realized he was literally holding on for dear life. Had he actually blacked out?
He managed a few deep, slow breaths and it seemed to calm him a little. Still, his heart was jackhammering in his chest. Was this what a heart attack felt like? A stroke? Good Lord, it couldn’t be! He was only thirty-seven years old. He exercised like a fiend, smoked only the occasional cigar, drank only the odd cocktail or two. He was fond of his wine, true, but that was good for you, wasn’t it? he asked himself, weaving his way over to the banquette where he collapsed.
If this was some severe illness announcing itself, the timing couldn’t be worse. He clasped his hand to the back of his neck, squeezing hard, feeling the spike of panic abate just a bit.
He’d been thinking, while shaving just this very morning, that he’d never felt better in his life. In a world besieged by dirty little wars and full of evil, dangerous people, he was doing his duty. Work he felt was vitally important. At the same time, he’d managed to rebuild his family fortune and fund causes and charities he believed in.
And, at last, he’d met a beautiful woman he couldn’t get off his mind, Dr. Victoria Sweet. Doc, he’d taken to calling her. She wasn’t practicing much medicine anymore. She’d been a pediatrician, specializing in children’s neurological disorders. Then she’d published a children’s book called Whirl-o-Drome that had become an enormous success on both sides of the ocean. Hawke had adored the story. And so had the public. There was talk of Hollywood.
He leaned his head back on the cushion and looked up into the night sky. He remembered the rainy night Vicky had read the thing aloud. It was soon after they’d met. And he remembered telling her that such wonderful stories would probably do more, for far greater numbers of children, than her medical practice might ever accomplish. Especially Whirl-o-Drome.
It was a tale of a child’s enduring love. A young boy, whose father’s Spitfire has been shot down in flames during the Battle of Britain, is sent to live in a seaside village with his aunt. Every night, he goes down to an old amusement park by the sea and rides the Whirl-o-Drome, an ancient merry-go-round with toy airplanes secured at the ends of long poles. The little planes spin round and round, and climb or dive when the children use the airplane’s control stick.
One night, just before closing and after many, many rides, the boy’s little silver plane comes to life. The lights inside the cockpit suddenly illuminate. Needles are spinning on the dials. Tiny red lights are winking out on the wing tips. Suddenly, the boy hears static and a faint voice. It’s coming from the headphones of an old leather flying helmet that has somehow appeared between his feet. He places the helmet on his head and pulls the goggles down over his eyes. Suddenly, a button he’s never seen before begins to glow bright red at the center of the console. The voice in the headphones tells him to push the red button in front of him. He does, and the little airplane disengages from the arm of the ride, and the boy soars out over the sea.
“Climb, climb!” says the strangely familiar voice in his earphones, and the boy pulls back on the stick, soaring higher and higher. Finally, he bursts through a canyon of clouds into clear starlit air. He sees an old Spitfire doing barrel rolls in the moonlight. He races to catch up with the plane and sees the number on its wing.
Number Seven. His father’s number.
“Timmy? Is that you?” the voice in his earphones says. The voice sounds an awful lot like—
“Y-yes?”
“See that big bright moon on the horizon? You stay right off my starboard wing and follow me all the way there. There’s something I want you to see!”
“Are you really—Number Seven? Because Number Seven was my father’s plane and—”
“It’s me, Timmy,” the voice said. “It’s your father. You can find me up here most nights, if you’ll just believe in your little plane.”
It was a lovely tale.
“Skipper?” Tommy Quick said. “Sorry to bother you. But the guests have arrived.”
“Ah, yes. The guests. Thank you, Tom. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
He realized his heart was still racing. He willed the image of Vicky to appear out there before him. He let her smiling eyes finally cause the triphammer of his heart to slow gradually to a near normal pace. What on earth was the matter with him? He wouldn’t admit it, even to himself, but this wasn’t the first time he’d suffered one of these little, what did they call them, seizures. They’d begun shortly after Blackhawke had arrived in the Caribbean. Ironic. People came here to relax.
After a little while, he felt somewhat like his old self once again. He sprang from the banquette and headed for his stateroom to shower and dress for dinner. He looked at his watch on his way down the aft stairway. He had maybe ten minutes to collect himself before it was time to go down and suffer his insufferable guests.
13
The huge twin rotor blades of the olive-green Kamov-26 helicopter started spinning rapidly as Manso spooled up the revs of the jet turbine engine. He looked over at his lone passenger, Fidel Castro.
“All buckled in, Comandante?” he asked over the intercom. Both of them were wearing headphones with speakers. It was the only way you could communicate because of the turbine engine’s whine.
“Si, Manso. Vamonos!” Castro said.
Manso flipped a switch that killed any transmission in the leader’s headphones.
“Havana Control, this is Alpha Bravo Hotel One,” Manso said. “Do you copy?”
“Copy loud and clear, Alpha Bravo, you’re clear for takeoff. Over.” Manso recognized the silky voice of Rodrigo del Rio, owner of the Club Mao-Mao and, more importantly, Castro’s former deputy head of State Security. Now he’d been bought and paid for by Manso. His loyalty to Manso was unquestioned. Only this morning, the air traffic controller typically in the tower at this time of day had been stabbed to death in his bed by del Rio. Rodrigo had used his weapon of choice, a gleaming pair of silver scissors that had earned him the nickname Scissorhands.
“Roger that, tower,” Manso said.
He took a deep breath and said the three code words that would change Cuba forever. Upon hearing the code, Rodrigo, in concert with Manso’s brothers Juan, General of the Army of the West, and Carlos, Commander in Chief of the Navy, would unleash their forces. They would initiate the first military takeover of Cuba in forty-some years.
“Mango is airborne.”
“We copy that, Alpha Bravo,” Rodrigo said. “Mango in the air. Over.”
Safety checks complete, rotors engaged, the Kamov-26 rose vertically some forty feet into the air. Manso tilted the nose over to initiate forward velocity and roared across the bay. The old yacht club fell away quickly, but Manso liked to fly low, almost brushing the tops of the sailboat masts in the marina.
The skippers on the fishing trawlers all knew el jefe’s chopper on sight, and he saw many of them lift their caps and wave as Manso executed a sharp looping turn to the southeast and headed back across the Malecon that ran along the bay, climbing up over Morro Castle and the crumbling city of Havana.
“The speech, it was excellent, Comandante,” Manso said, once they were out over the countryside.
Castro turned and gave him a look. Manso knew as the words were coming out that it had been a foolish remark. They’d known each other too long for such trivialities. Castro had an innate genius when it came to selling himself. It had allowed him to dazzle millions of people around the world. This speech was simply more anti- American self-promotion, done brilliantly, nothing new.
Beads of sweat had popped out on Manso’s brow and threatened to run down into his eyes. He realized he was too nervous for small talk. Tense. It would be wise to just shut up and fly.
“Gracias,” Castro said, the word dripping sarcasm, and turned to gaze out the window at his failed utopia, falling away beneath him as the chopper gained altitude. God knows what he’s thinking, Manso thought, surreptitiously eyeing his leader. Look at him. He has confronted and defeated ten American presidents. He has
