my fucking business. My people in Washington say Hawke has returned with his woman to the Caribbean.”
Golgolkin uttered something in guttural and unintelligible Russian.
“He wants to kill this man Hawke for you, Colonel,” Zukov said. “He swears that he will bring you his head or die in the trying.”
Manso threw down the coconut and looked up into the whispering palm fronds, composing himself.
“I’ll have Hawke’s head. Believe me, Zukov, I will. But, for the present, no. Hawke has too many friends in Washington, including the White House. I don’t care how it’s done, but I want this Hawke out of the picture until the time is right for his execution.”
“There is another plan. Rodrigo’s. He says some kind of a kidnapping—”
“Rodrigo has told me this new plan. Execute it. He has a genius for these things, Commander Zukov. He is my most trusted and valued comrade. Keep him close by you.”
“Si, Comandante. He is waiting now aboard the Jose Marti. We shove off for the Exumas in three hours. Immediately after the dedication ceremony.”
“You will not fail me. Nor will Rodrigo. Do you understand me, Zukov?”
Zukov nodded his head.
Manso stuck the machete back inside his belt. As he turned to go, he slammed his fist against Golgolkin’s nose. The sound of the small bones breaking and the resulting gush of blood made him smile for the first time all morning.
“Won’t you join me, Commander?” he asked Zukov. “On this lovely morning?”
Manso and the Russian submarine driver strode off through the palms, leaving Golgolkin blubbering in the sand. They headed in the direction of the large yellow finca. El jefe would be coming around by now. After last evening’s heavy sedation, Manso had ordered the doctors to give him a cocktail injection of methamphetamines at sunrise.
“I must speak of something delicate. I can count on your discretion?”
“It goes without saying.”
“It is regarding my brother, Admiral de Herreras.”
“Si, Comandante?”
“He is—how to say it—unpredictable. You would do well to keep an eye on him. I have told Rodrigo the same thing.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“The navy is his. The Jose Marti is yours. You understand me?”
“Si, Comandante.”
“The Cuban naval officers you’ve interviewed, they are ready to go?”
“They have much to learn, but they are eager.”
“These are your orders,” Manso said, withdrawing a folded sheaf of papers from his pocket. “The Borzoi shakedown cruise now becomes your first active mission as a commander in the Cuban navy.”
“Muchas gracias, Comandante,” he said. “I can never thank you enough for this great opportunity.”
“I leave you to the final preparations for your fabulous submarine’s first real sea duty. I am going now to have a word with el jefe.”
Manso turned to go, stopped, and looked Zukov in the eye.
“One more thing,” he said. “I never want to lay eyes on that fat Russian traitor again. I would dearly love to lop off his ugly head. But he knows this Hawke, and he knows his boat and its location. Use him on your mission, if you can, and then feed him to the fishes. Or I’d be happy to introduce him to Rodrigo and his little silver scissors.”
“He may prove useful,” Zukov said. “Either way, you will never see him again, General.”
Manso walked away, whipping his pistol out of his holster. A magnificent weapon. It was a Sig Sauer nine- millimeter, plated in solid gold with pearl handlegrips. It had been a gift from Escobar. All the pilots had received one on the final Christmas. He had not killed anyone with it yet. Out of habit, he checked the clip to see if it was loaded.
It was.
He found el jefe sitting on the side of his bed with his head in his hands. His breakfast tray, untouched, sat on a table by the open window. Manso pulled up a chair and sat facing the old man.
“Jefe,” Manso said, “I have something to show you.”
The comandante looked up at him, his eyes shot red with blood.
“I have nothing left to see,” he said.
“No. You have this left to see.” Manso handed him a yellowed manila envelope, tied with string.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
His fingers were shaking as he untied the string that sealed the flap. He was muttering something under his breath but Manso didn’t bother to try to understand. He was watching the old man’s eyes as he pulled out a sheaf of faded brown-and-white photographs.
“Mercedes Ochoa,” el jefe said.
“You recognize her.”
“Of course.”
He held the picture up close. Manso had looked at the picture a thousand times. As a boy, it hung on the wall above his bed.
The two young lovers were standing arm in arm outside the camp in the Sierra Maestra. The woman so young, so beautiful. Beaming in the bright sunlight of a jungle clearing. So proud. The man smiling, too, and powerful. A conqueror emerging from the jungle, poised on the verge of perfect vengeance. A victor’s eyes, even before the fight.
“There are other pictures, Jefe,” Manso said. “Keep looking.”
Fidel looked up and saw that Manso had the golden gun aimed squarely at his heart. He looked at all the pictures. He sighed and laid them carefully on the bed.
“So, it’s true then,” Castro said.
“You knew all along?”
“I suspected.”
“My mother was nothing to you. Just another tissue you used and threw away.”
“That is not true.”
“Liar.”
“Think what you want. Shoot me now. But spare Fidelito.”
“Ah, of course. Your real son.”
“I ask you to spare his life.”
“For the good of the country, then, I want you to say to the cameras all the words I have written. Then, if you still want to die—”
“You will grant your father’s last wish? The son will live. The father will die. Do you swear it?”
“I swear it, Father.”
35
Rafael Gomez was on the floor playing dolls with his daughters when the telephone rang.
Rita picked it up on the third ring. She was in the kitchen making Gomer’s favorite Sunday supper, arroz con pollo.
“It’s for you, honey,” she said. He noticed she’d started calling him “honey” and “baby” again. Pretty good progress. He’d cut way back on the suds factor. Nada on the vodka. Came straight from duty to the house with no detours to the USO. No hanky-panky with Rita under the covers yet, but he was getting close. Second base maybe, rounding for third.
Life was good when you were a millionaire. Even if you couldn’t spend it, you knew it was there. “Who is it, sweetie?” Gomer asked. “We’re pretty busy with Barbie and Ken down here. They won’t put on their bathing suits
