through a press of loud, cigar-smoking lobbyists and politicos and saw Alex waiting for her at the cozy little bar.
23
Fidel Castro had gone pale as death.
He had not said a word in the last hour, which was fine with Manso. He still had his big black Cohiba stuck between his teeth, but had never gotten around to lighting the trademark cigar. He sat hunched against the window, staring down at his green island. His silence had become as ominous as the furious diatribe that preceded it.
Through the forward cockpit window, you could see lush mountains and valleys rushing beneath your feet. To the south, you could already see the blue waters of the Guacanayabo Bay, now tinged with the gold of the setting sun. Endless echelons of whitecaps were rolling in, row after row breaking upon the white beaches. He was almost home.
Beyond, Manso could see a pale green hump of land lying about a mile off the town of Manzanillo. The island known as Telarana. He could only imagine the state his men on the ground must be in, seeing the approach of the familiar olive-green chopper. It would signal the end of all their endless planning and plotting. Events now would take on a life of their own. Every move they made would write a line in history.
Manso himself would be happy just to get this goddamn machine on the ground. His nerves were like strings of barbed wire running from the base of his skull down his arms to his fingers. He had a death grip on the control stick of an aircraft that demanded a light touch.
In the last half hour, Manso had lost anything even resembling a light touch. The chopper was pitching and yawing as he corrected, overcorrected, and then overcompensated for every correction.
It’s like flying in combat, Manso tried to tell himself; you have to keep your wits about you. Steel your nerves and fly the plane. He had many happy memories of his days as a narco, flying for Pablo. The Colombian army and the americanos had shot up his planes many times. He always counted the holes in his wings and fuselage once he’d returned to one of the cartel’s secret airstrips.
All the pilots considered their drug runs “combat.” In their minds they were at war with the norteamericanos. The gunpowder their planes carried was white and it killed an enemy not only willing to die, but to pay outrageous fortunes for the privilege. In their jungle hideouts, they would laugh at the stupidity and poor marksmanship of the U.S.-sponsored government soldiers.
This was just another combat mission, he told himself.
But what about when your adversary was seated only two feet away?
“Save yourself, Manso, my son,” the leader said, breaking the silence. “Tell me where this bomb is hidden, and I will put a stop to this insanity. I will see to it that you and your family are allowed to leave the country safely.”
“Too late, Comandante.”
“You can buy a fancy mansion in Miami and fill it with whores, just like Batista.”
“It’s too late for these lies, Comandante.”
“Lies? No. Not to you, Manso. I have always treated you as a son. I am not a father who would harm his son. No matter how disgracefully he would betray me.”
“I am sorry for so much pain between us. But our country has suffered much pain in much silence for long enough. Something had to be done. Someone had to do it. I am only sorry that it had to be me.”
“What exactly is it you think you’re doing, Manso? Do you even know the answer to that question?”
“I am taking the first steps toward saving what is left of our beloved Cuba, Comandante.”
“So the son stabs the father and anoints himself savior. It’s too biblical for words. Even in Hollywood they would call this shit.”
“Your life will be spared. And, of course, your son, Fidelito. I promise you that. I have bought a beautiful finca for you in Oriente.”
“You promise me? Your life is as worthless as your promises. You were never a revolutionary. You have no political philosophy, no idealism. Money is your religion. You are nothing but a highly paid killer, a terrorist. And you should kill yourself before I do. I guarantee it will be less painful.”
“I learned much from Pablo during my time in the jungle, Comandante. Terrorism is the atomic bomb for poor people. It is the only way for poor people to strike back. The old experiment must make way for the new. The old one is over.”
“For you it is, I can promise.”
“We will be landing at Telarana in twenty minutes. My guard will escort you to the main house. I have set up a television studio at Telarana, Comandante,” Manso said. “After you have had some refreshments, you will be escorted to the station where you will address the nation.”
“You will be hunted down like a dog and killed like one before the eyes of your family.”
“You will tell them that the revolucion has been a great political success. But, sadly, you have come to believe, not an economic one. So, after great thought, and with the good of your country at heart, you have decided to step down. It is time for a new generation of leadership.”
“Leadership? This is a farce!”
Castro turned toward Manso and spat in his face.
Manso ignored the saliva dribbling down his cheek and said calmly, “Si, Comandante, spit. Spit until you are dry. It’s the only weapon you have left.”
“Fool. I have the hearts of my country. I have my army. You are a dead man when this is over.”
“The few remaining officers loyal to you will be imprisoned. My men are prepared to seize control of all telephone, television, and radio stations. It will happen as soon as you address the nation and announce that you are stepping aside. When I said the word mango over the radio, the wheels started turning.”
Castro reddened. That particular song not only mocked him and his green fatigues, it said that though the mango was still green it was ripe and ready to fall down.
“And as for the hearts of our country,” Manso continued, “their hearts have too long been the prisoners of their stomachs. I will feed one and so win the other.”
“You are nothing. No one. I made you. I will unmake you. The country will spit you out. And then spit on your grave. Just as I spit on you now.” Castro unbuckled himself, leaned over, and spat on Manso again, square in the face.
“No, Comandante, they will not,” Manso said, ignoring the attack once more. “The entire country, like the army, is successfully brainwashed. You have erased cause and effect in the mind of the populace. You have achieved a magnificent success in that regard, no one will dispute. The result is a total lack of loyalty. Of values. Of beliefs. We could install an illiterate jinetera, a stupid whore, as presidente and the whole of the country would bow down.”
“It sounds like exactly what you intend to do, Colonel Manso de Herreras. It sounds as if it is you who is to be the new presidente.”
Manso knew better than to rise to the bait.
“After you have told the nation your decision, I will speak. I will tell the people that our new government has your blessings. That we remain united against the Americans. I will name the new presidente. We will then be giving the americanos exactly thirty hours to lift the paralyzing blockade and evacuate every last soul from Guantanamo Naval Station.”
“And why the hell should they listen to you, little pissant?”
“I have initiated certain reprisals if they do not.”
“Idiot! The americanos will take any provocation as a declaration of war. They will bomb our country into a fucking parking lot. Do you understand nothing? Does your pitiful memory not even stretch back to the year oh-two, when the Amerians flattened what was left of Afghanistan? The Soviet traitors have left us completely exposed and vulnerable! The americanos have been praying for just such an excuse as yours!”
“The Americans will not touch us.”
“May I ask why not?”
