direction. The seconds before he slid up to the top of another wave were the longest ones of his life.
When the boat came into view again, he saw that it had changed course.
Its silhouette had shortened and narrowed, indicating that it was now bow-on to him. Thor was too dehydrated to cry, but he’d never felt more like it in his life.
Five minutes later he was on the deck of the fishing boat staring into four brown, impassive faces and wishing he had taken Spanish in high school instead of Latin.
“Muy interesante,” Santana murmured. He tapped a message with his finger, then glanced across the room at his companion. Libyan Colonel Kaliff Mendiria showed no reaction. “It could be that this is the final element of our plan.
God flies, does he not?” Santana said, intentionally goading the devout Muslim.
Tall, too tall for a Cuban, reaching almost six feet in height, Mendiria was a peculiar dusky color. Brown without looking Cuban, dark without looking black Santana tried to place the coloration and drew a blank.
The Libyan’s hair was short and dark, straight from the looks of it, and clipped close to his head. A few gray patches showed through in odd spots on his head. Not gray from aging, but the peculiar patterning of hair growing back in after a war injury. The Libyan’s face was pockmarked, dominated by a massive nose slightly off center, and a too-full lower lip. The eyes were a startling yellow-green, almost luminescent under anything other than bright sunlight.
The skin around Mendiria’s mouth whitened slightly as his muscles clenched. “As Allah wills,” he said sharply. “It does not matter what happens with this pilot. Our plans are already in place.”
“But don’t you see?” Santana pressed. “The Americans have an obsessively sentimental attachment to their military personnel.
Remember the forces that were downed during their Desert Storm fiasco?
Their pictures were in every newspaper, on every television station for hours on end.
They will be very interested in the fate of this one pilot.”
Mendiria snorted. “If they find out you have him. If you had a proper security program in place, that would not be possible. Now, however, your headquarters leaks like a sieve.”
Santana bolted to his feet. “A sieve that Libya has found more than useful in the past,” he thundered. “Remember, my friend, it was your country who approached us.”
“As though you could have survived without the Soviet money,” Mendiria responded sharply. “Look around you.
Every bit of this building and most of your people were bought and paid for. After centuries of sucking the Soviet’s tit, you needed us.
Needed us more than we needed you.
Without us, you have two choices: anarchy under your good friend Leyta’s leadership or lapdog of the Americans.”
“Bah! Having Libyan troops on Cuba poses more risk to us than it does to you. And the stupid fools on that fishing boat if he heard them talking, there’s every chance that he knows they’re not all Cubans.”
Mendiria raised a lazy hand at the agitated Cuban. “It matters not.
Your next shipment of farm equipment is on schedule, just as we planned.”
“And the only crops it will ever grow are graveyards,” Santana said.
He fingered the sling bolstering his right arm, a reminder of the ejection that had saved his life. It was time America took Cuba just a bit more seriously. “By bringing those missiles to bear on the U.S. just eighty miles away, we can force the President to lift the trade embargoes that now cripple us. With a fair opportunity to sell our agricultural and crop products, Cuba will enter the next century as a great island nation.” He saw the look of amusement on Mendiria’s face.
“Do not laugh,” he said, pointing one finger at the Libyan. “England ruled almost half of the known world at one time. A nation not so much larger than Cuba ruled your own people, as a matter of fact. Have you forgotten so soon how powerful an island nation can be, protected from enemies by the sea?”
“My people will not be the problem,” the Libyan said softly, cold rage growing in his eyes. “But you you little fool. At least next time consult me before you do something rash. Like shooting down any American planes.”
“That was not rash. That was merely payback.” Santana smiled. “And more will follow before I’m satisfied.”
FIVE
“You’re holding our pilot.” Ambassador Wexler’s voice was calm and level, deadly. She held the Cuban ambassador’s gaze, forcing him to meet her eyes.
The man spread his hands apart, palm up, and shrugged lightly. “So you say, Madame Ambassador. You have become uncharacteristically boring on this point. Yet you have no evidence. Do you? Just your bald assertion that Cuba is somehow responsible for this pilot.” He half turned away from her and gestured to the stack of messages on his desk.
“I would know, would I not?”
“We have sources, too,” she replied levelly. “I know you have him.”
The satellite imagery she’d seen earlier that morning was conclusive.
“And you do, too. Let’s quit playing games with each other.” Without waiting for him to offer, she took a seat on the large leather couch dominating one end of the Cuban ambassador’s office. “Tell me why you’re doing this.”
He hesitated for a moment, then followed her to the small seating area.
He chose an armchair at right angles to the couch and lowered himself into it slowly. “I will play your game. For the sake of argument, just why would we want to keep your downed pilot from you? I assume you do have a theory, one no doubt involving a massive conspiracy by my small nation.” He eyed her sardonically.
Ambassador Wexler leaned forward. “This is your third strike. First, downing the civilian aircraft. Second, holding our downed pilot. And third” She paused and gazed at him steadily, looking for any reaction.
“I think you know what number three is.”
He shrugged. “We are in disagreement as to one and two as well. How can I read your mind and know what fantasy you have contrived as reason number three?”
“I think you know all too well,” she answered softly, steel underlying the smooth words. “And it costs nothing for me to confirm what you already know. In a word no, make that two words. Libya. And weapons.”
She leaned back, a grimly satisfied expression on her face.
The Cuban ambassador held the pleasant, charming expression on his face at some cost to him. He could feel the muscles quiver, the mouth threaten to twitch into a scowl. It was just the confirmation she was looking for, he was certain. If, in fact, she needed it at all.
“What would you like me to say?”
“Nothing. At least then you won’t lie to me.” She eyed him sternly.
“What Cuba does as a sovereign nation is her own business. But you know better than to push us too far.
And you have this time. That pilot had better be back in American hands by the end of the day or you’ll suffer the consequences.”
“A threat?” he snapped.
She paced slowly across to the door, paused with her hand on the knob, and turned back to him. “Consider it a promise.”
