“Well, I will say one thing,” Hawke said. “That has to be the shortest speech Castro ever gave.”
They had gathered in the ship’s darkened screening room, scattered about on large, overstuffed leather chairs, to watch the tape originally broadcast on the Cuban National Television station.
“Please rewind it and replay with the sound turned down a little,” Hawke said. “And if you’d be so kind as to give me a simultaneous translation, Ambrose? Needn’t be word for word.”
Castro appeared on the screen. He was seated at a small table, staring into the camera. He looked ten years older than his recent pictures, haggard and worn. There were deep black circles under his eyes, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.
As Castro started speaking, Ambrose said, “He begins by expressing his enormous gratitude for the sacrifices the heroic Cuban people have made during the time of the struggle. He goes on to say that he knows it has been difficult for them, but that it was in service of a great cause. He says that the revolution, while it has been a great political success, has not been a great economic success.”
“Fairly mild understatement,” Hawke said.
“He alludes now to his health. Everyone knows of his recent illnesses. He says he has the will but doesn’t have the energy to continue. He says he’s stepping aside for health reasons and—he starts to say something else, and they cut him off.”
“Health reasons meaning someone off camera has a bloody pistol aimed at his head,” Hawke interjected.
“No doubt,” Ambrose agreed. “A chap from the American State Department called. I told him you couldn’t be disturbed. I spoke with him for a few moments. According to him, it’s a full-blown military coup, all right.”
“Who’s this lovely ponytailed fellow we’re seeing now?”
Ambrose took a deep breath. Whether he was prepared to admit it or not, Alex Hawke was finally confronting his demons face-to-face.
“This is General Manso de Herreras, Alex,” Ambrose said. “Castro’s right-hand man. Former minister of state security. Apparently he’s just promoted himself to general. He’s now head of all the armed forces.”
“Man look just like a woman,” Stoke blurted out in the dark. “Man look like he wearing makeup.”
“What does the general have to say for himself?” Hawke asked, leaning forward in his chair and staring intently at the face on the screen. He’d seen something there, Ambrose quietly observed.
“General de Herreras says he is deeply honored that el comandante has elevated him to the great responsibilities of military chief and has placed such trust in him.”
“Bullshit,” Stoke said.
“Indeed,” Ambrose continued. “He is proud to be part of a new leadership that will bring Cuba forward to her rightful place in this new century. The new government will announce many social and economic reforms in the coming days, weeks, and months.”
“Could you freeze-frame this guy right here, Ambrose?” Hawke asked.
“Certainly.”
The picture froze on a close-up of de Herreras. His heavily lidded eyes conveyed a cold ruthlessness that was startling.
“What is it, Alex?”
“I’ve seen this man before,” Hawke said, pressing the fingertips of both hands against his eyes and heaving a deep sigh.
“Are you all right, Alex?” Congreve asked.
“Perfect.”
“Manso de Herreras. It must sound familiar?” Ambrose said.
“Yes. That must be it. De Herreras. Name of that chap in Blackhawke’s letter, isn’t it? The one carried all that buried booty we’re trying to find.”
Then he got to his feet and went to the rear of the room where a steward poured him a cup of hot coffee. He then walked forward again until he was about four feet from the large screen, staring up at the face frozen there for two long minutes.
“Are you all right, Alex?” Congreve finally asked, imagining what dreadful thoughts must be going through his friend’s mind. Hawke didn’t reply and, after a few seconds, Ambrose said, “Alex? Everything all right?”
“Couldn’t be better,” Alex said, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“Shall I continue to pause?”
“No,” Hawke said. He returned to his chair and collapsed into it. “I’ve seen enough of this bloody bastard for now. Please roll the tape.”
“This part is interesting,” Ambrose said, hitting the Play button once more. Alex had clearly made the Manso connection. But he was not yet ready for a psychological showdown.
“What does he say?”
“He says never again will Cuba need to rely on the strength of false allies who promise much and then disappear. Cuba’s own might will be felt by anyone who threatens her self-interest.”
“We certainly know what he means by that,” Hawke said. “That bloody submarine. He’s taken delivery, or he wouldn’t tip his hand.”
Ambrose continued translating.
“Cuba will no longer tolerate the injustices it has suffered at the hands of the Americans. He is demanding that the American blockade of Cuba be lifted immediately. He is also declaring that the U.S. Naval Station at Guantanamo is an insult to Cuba’s sovereignty that will no longer be tolerated. America will be given a deadline to evacuate or face extreme consequences. Further statements on these matters will be issued by the new government tomorrow.”
“Jesus Christ,” Hawke said. “A rogue state with an invisible submarine bearing forty MIRV nuclear warheads ninety miles from Miami.”
“Chilling thought, isn’t it? Here he introduces the new president of Cuba,” Ambrose said, as a new face appeared on the screen.
“Who the fuck is that guy?” Stoke said. “Looks like goddamn Zorro in a three-piece suit.”
“That,” Ambrose said, “is el nuevo presidente de Cuba, Fulgencio Batista. Grandson of the man Castro overthrew some forty years ago.”
“Where’d they dig him up?” Hawke asked.
“Grew up in Spain. Went to Harvard College, and then Wharton School of Finance. Renounced his U.S. citizenship and took his family to Cuba six months ago. Prior to that, he was a partner at Goldman, Sachs on Wall Street. Had a farm in back-country Greenwich, Connecticut, and played golf every Saturday at the Stanwich Club.”
“Really? From partner at Goldman to president of Cuba? Bad career move,” Hawke said. “What’s Batista Junior got to say for himself?”
“More glowing rhetoric about a new day dawning.”
“That’s it?” Hawke asked.
“Basically.”
“And the forces loyal to Fidel?”
“Most likely executed or imprisoned. If you can still find any.”
“The Cuban people themselves? What’s the reaction?”
“Alex, after forty years of lies, fear, and torture, these people don’t believe a word anyone says. Anyone. They don’t trust their own children. Life will just go on. I guarantee you, they won’t even discuss these political events with their closest friends. Someone might chat up his own mum if he really trusts her, but that’s about it.”
Hawke flipped a switch that slowly brought up the hidden ceiling lights. He swiveled his big leather armchair around and faced Ambrose, Stokely, and Sutherland, who were all scattered two or three rows back.
“How do you know so much about this band of brigands, Ambrose?”
“The secretary of state also called immediately after the Cuban broadcast. We had a long chat. You were sleeping. I told her about the tragic events of the day. She asked me to convey her deepest sympathies. She didn’t want to disturb you, but asked if you’d call as soon as you’d seen this tape.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“There is going to be a meeting tomorrow afternoon. She’s assembled a team to deal with the crisis. You’re not going to like this. They’re all aboard the aircraft carrier John F. Kennedy, currently en route to Guantanamo. The meeting is at five P.M. She knows that you won’t want to come but insists you must.”
“Why, may I ask?” said Hawke, plainly infuriated. It was precisely what he’d told Conch he did not want to do.
“Apparently the British minister for Latin American affairs went directly to the president. He says that since it was a British citizen who ‘cracked this thing wide open,’ namely you, he wants the British represented. The president elected you.”
“Well, he simply ain’t going,” Stokely said. “We going back out to look for Vicky. He’s taking his plane, I’m taking the Zodiac. Soon as it gets light.”
“The meeting aboard the Kennedy isn’t until five tomorrow afternoon, Alex,” Ambrose said.
Alex muttered, “Bloody hell.”
“She predicted you’d say that. Also, she herself may arrive late due to an emergency planning session the president has scheduled at the Little White House in Key West. She’d like you to be on the JFK as her safeguard in case, she said, ‘anybody has any really stupid effing ideas’ close quote.”
Hawke pressed his fingertips to his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
“I suppose I have to go, damn it to hell,” he said after a few long moments. “Ross, can I land a seaplane on a carrier deck?”
“I don’t see why not. Kittyhawke’s pontoons have retractable wheels. All it doesn’t have is a good, sturdy tailhook. I’ll have one installed immediately.”
“Good. Ross, also, please have the radioman send a message to flight ops aboard the Kennedy. Advise them they’re going to have an unusual little visitor dropping in tomorrow afternoon.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
“How long until sunrise?” Hawke asked.
“A few hours.”
“All right,” Hawke said, getting to his feet. “At first light, I’m going back out to find Vicky. Ambrose, would you mind taking a little walk with me aft?”
“Not at all.”
Once the two men reached the stern they stood side by side at the rail staring at the glassy water stretching to the horizon. Hawke finally broke the silence.
“I saw something, Ambrose. On the wall at the club.”
“Yes?”
“I know it means something. I know I should understand it. But I can’t—I can’t see. Or I won’t see. Am I making a complete fool of myself?”
“No, Alex, you’re not.”
“Anyway, see if you can make something of it for me, will you?”
Alex pulled an old Polaroid snapshot, yellow with age, out of his pocket and handed it to his friend.
“I’ll be happy to see what I can come up with, Alex.”
“Thank you, Ambrose. You are the most wonderful friend a man could ever ask for, you know.”
He walked away without waiting for a reply.