"Oh, yeah? Then why didn't you fast?"
"Because," cackled the Master of Sinanju, "I was faster than you. Heh heh. I was faster, therefore I had no need to fast. Heh heh heh."
Chapter 6
Dr. Osvaldo Revuelta considered himself a soldier of the Americas.
He was proud. He was brave. He was a Cuban through and through. There was nothing he would not do to restore his beleaguered nation to its former glory.
When the ragtag guerilleros of the Sierra Maestra began their campaign, he had laid down the shining tools of his lucrative La Plata gynecological practice, absolved himself of his Hippocratic Oath, and taken up arms against them.
It was a terrible day when Fidel rode through the streets of Havana. Dr. Revuelta had gotten on the first Cubana plane to Miami. He had seen how the crowds were with Fidel.
He had thought it would be a temporary thing. But the years had rolled on, slow and terrible. And when he'd realized there would be no soon return to Havana, Dr. Revuelta decided to fight the Fidelistas from a distance.
His first act was to shoot at a Bulgarian tanker. He used a bazooka purchased on the black market. The bazooka rocket punched a neat hole through the bow of the Bulgar ship, which sailed stubbornly on. The government of Bulgaria had protested to the United States.
The FBI came knocking at his door, since Dr. Revuelta had taken to boasting about his act of retaliation to his compatriots in the watering holes of Little Havana.
"Yes, I did shoot the Bulgar bastardos with my bazooka," he admitted forthrightly. "What of it? They are the allies of our great enemy, Fidel." And he spat at the feet of the two unblinking FBI men.
"You'll have to come with us," one said with a toneless politeness.
"Jou have use for me, perhaps?" Revuelta said eagerly. "I will gladly lead the charge up San Juan Hill, eh?"
"I'm sorry, Dr. Revuelta. You are under arrest."
"Por que? Why? I have done nothing illegal."
"You fired a bazooka at a ship of foreign registry while standing on U.S. soil. A clear violation of the Neutrality Act."
"Hah! Jou are wrong! I was in my cabin cruiser. She is a speedy yob, that ship. I call her What a Country! Is true, no?"
The FBI men did not laugh. They barely moved. And they continued to insist that Revuelta was under arrest.
Dr. Revuelta went with them. He answered their tiresome questions truthfully, and when he saw that-amazement of amazements-they were taking this matter very seriously, he pretended to break down.
"I am anguished with shame," he said mournfully. "Jou are correct. I have done a terrible thing, and now my friends are about to commit a worse act of heinousness."
The chief FBI interrogator became very interested indeed. "What act?" he had asked.
"My compatriots. Fellow exiles. They are placing bombs in ships down at the docks."
"Which ships?"
"I will take jou there." He dabbed at his dark eyes. "I am so remorseful."
A drab sedan whisked them to the docks. As they got out, Dr. Revuelta lifted his manacled hands and brought them down on the chief interrogator's crewcut head. The man had crumpled like a trenchcoat crammed with potatoes. The driver was harder to conquer. Dr. Revuelta had to punch and kick him many times, and still he did not lose consciousness.
As the man lay stunned, Dr. Revuelta rushed along the docks, trying to unlock the handcuffs with the tiny key he had rummaged from the first man's pockets.
He was looking for Spanish names on the ships. When he came to the Santander, he smiled broadly and started up the gangplank.
Halfway up, the handcuffs finally came loose and he flung them with all his might into the filthy water by the bow.
The sound brought all hands to the bow rail in search of stowaways. This was distraction enough for Dr. Revuelta to slip aboard and find a place to hide.
When the Santander docked in Pernambuco, Brazil, Dr. Revuelta walked off the boat as he did everything: boldly. No one questioned him.
In Pernambuco he continued his work, certain that he would not be criticized for his continued counterrevolutionary activities by the United States government, which was altogether too sensitive about these matters.
He learned different when the Cubana Airlines jet exploded over the Gulf of Mexico and seventy-three Cubans died. The United States denounced it as a terrorist action.
"Terrorista!" Dr. Revuelta had screamed from his palatial seaside hacienda. "It is counterrevolution! How can they call me terrorista?"
Dr. Revuelta happened to ask this question in a Pernambuco bistro, and soon the Brazilian security police were knocking on his door.
Fortunately, he spotted them from his bedroom window. Dr. Revuelta slipped out the back and hurried down to the docks. This time he stowed away on the freighter Garaucan. It took him back to Miami where, now white-haired and thin, he picked up where he had left off.
This was in 1984, and Miami had changed. Little Havana was no longer strung along Southwest 8th Street, but spread out over virtually all of Miami. This was after the Mariel boat lift. The Marielitos had swollen the Cuban population until Miami was virtually Cuban.
And in that rich environment, Dr. Osvaldo Revuelta began to recruit for Ultima Hora-the antiFidel guerilleros who would be his instrument of terror.
They trained in the swamps. They set out for Cuba in boats. Sometimes they landed and blew up power lines and telephone poles. Other times they simply released propaganda messages in bottles.
Sometimes they did not return.
Dr. Revuelta never went with them. He was a soldier of the Americas, but more, he was a leader of soldiers of the Americas. Leaders who did not come back from battle did not live to lead.
Emboldened by the new spirit of Miami, where the minorities had become the majority and Spanish was the lingua franca-despite the nervous referendum that had established English as the official language of Dade County-Dr. Revuelta began to boast once more.
It was another mistake. He loudly claimed credit for the Cubana bombing, believing that sympathies had shifted, and overlooked but one minor detail: that the passengers of the flight had had relatives and the relatives-or some of these-had come to Miami to escape oppression. He was reported to the FBI. This time by fellow Cubans.
On this occasion, the government tried Dr. Osvaldo Revuelta in the courts and sentenced him to jail. The Justice Department had wanted to deport him as an undesirable alien, but no country would take Dr. Revuelta.
Except Cuba. Havana let it be known that Dr. Revuelta was very much desired in Havana.
This time, Dr. Revuelta did not attempt escape. He knew Cuban justice. Besides, the judge had given him but five years. As it turned out, he served only two. Political pressures forced his early release.
But it had been a humiliating early release. The U.S. government had demanded he sign a letter renouncing terrorism.
"What foolishness is this?" he demanded of his Cuban lawyer. "A man who was determined enough to blow up a civilian airliner would not hesitate to renege on a written pledge such as this."
"Perhaps they wish only to cover their asses," the lawyer had suggested.
"Que?"