Hawke

He had constantly reminded his band of rebels, “When you are sitting on a secret this big, be careful. Because everybody notices that there is something under you.”

And right now, he felt surely the man next to him must see the enormity beneath him. He drew his sleeve across his brow, wiping the sweat from his eyes, hoping Castro wouldn’t notice.

“Did you ever read the book The Last Tycoon by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Manso?” the voice of the comandante crackled suddenly in his earphones. El jefe had been gazing out the side window of the cockpit and Manso thought he had dozed off.

“No, Comandante,” Manso said, intensely relieved that Castro’s mind was on his books at the moment.

“Too bad,” Castro said. “There is a wonderful parable in the book. The hero, who is a young Hollywood film producer, is on a crosscountry airplane trip. He is interested in learning to fly, so he goes up into the cockpit. The questions he asks, the pilots think he could learn solo flying in ten minutes, he had such a mentality.”

“Sн,Comandante,” Manso said, a hot spasm of nerves suddenly sizzling at the edges of his brain. Where was this going?

“The plane is flying over a large mountain. Just like the one up ahead of us. Do you see the one I mean?”

“Sн, sн,Comandante,” Manso said. “It’s no problem. Our altitude—”

“Listen to the story, Manso. This mountain is important in the story. The producer tells the pilot and copilot to suppose they were railroad men. And they wanted to build a railroad through the mountains below.”

“Sн, sн. But the mountain is in the way, no?”

“Claro que sн,” Castro said in agreement, looking down through the lexan nose of the cockpit at the green mountain now fast disappearing between his feet.

“They have surveyor’s maps. Showing three or four possibilities, no one better than the others. So, he asks them what they would do, since they have no basis for a decision. The pilot says he would clear the forest on the left side of the mountain and put his railroad there. The copilot says no, it would be simpler to go around to the right where the river has already cleared the trees. I paraphrase, of course, but this is the point. No one is sure.”

“It’s an excellent parable, Comandante.”

“It’s not finished, Manso,” Castro said sharply. He looked at his pilot. “Is something wrong? You are pale. You sweat.”

“No, no, Comandante, I feel fine. A little too much chorizo at lunch, I think. Please. Continue with the story.”

“If you’re ill, it’s dangerous. We should land.”

“Is nothing, I promise. Please tell me the end.” And, after regarding his pilot carefully for several seconds, Castro did.

“This producer, Monroe Stahr, he was a boy genius. He said to the pilots that since you can’t test the best way, you just do it. Pick a way, any way, use powder and nitroglycerine and simply blast your way right through. He said that, then he left the cockpit.”

“Ah,” Manso said.

“You do not understand the parable, my old friend, neither did the two pilots in the story. They thought it was valuable advice, but they didn’t know how to use it. It is the difference between us, Manso. I learned long ago that the best way out is always through. Never around.”

Madre de Dios, Manso thought. Does he know? Suspect? What is the point of this story if he does not?

Manso elected to make no reply, and they flew for another hour in silence. It was the longest hour of Manso’s life.

When they were some fifteen minutes away from landing at Telaraсa, Manso finally broke the silence.

“Comandante,” he said, “do you remember a certain Petty Officer Third Class Rafael Gomez? The American sailor Rodrigo recruited in Havana some time ago?”

“Of course I remember him. I read the reports. Rodrigo believes he could prove to be one of our most productive moles inside Guantanamo Naval Station. Is there a problem? Is he compromised?”

Manso took a deep breath and stepped off the wide platform that had been his support, his life, for almost as long as he could remember.

“More of an opportunity, Comandante.”

“Tell me.”

“This Gomez, he is … more than a mole. I have ordered Rodrigo to make arrangements for Gomez to smuggle a weapon inside the U.S. base. A biological weapon. A bomb containing a completely new strain of weapons-grade bacteria developed by the Iraqis. The bacteria are only a diversion. In addition to the bacteria, the bomb contains an indescribably powerful nerve toxin. With a delivery system also created by the Iraqis unlike anything seen before. Expands to cover any predesignated area, kills, and then expires.”

Castro looked stricken. His face suffused with blood as the enormity of what he’d just heard sank in. He turned in his seat and glared at his trusted friend and comrade.

“You? You ordered such a thing without my consent?”

“Sн, Comandante. I ordered it. The Cuban people have suffered the indignity of the Americans on their sovereign soil for over forty years. And you allowed them to do it! I intend to rectify this insult!”

“And Rodrigo? Don’t tell me the deputy chief of Secret Police has complicity in this? Rodrigo has aided you in this madness?”

“I have his support, yes.”

“Have you both gone insane?”

“Comandante, it is you who has allowed the American presence on our island! You should have forced them out decades ago!”

“Your ignorance of political realities would be laughable if it were not so pathetic.”

“There is a new political reality, Jefe.”

“Yes. You and your fellow traitors would rain fire down upon our heads, just like the Al Qaeda brought to Afghanistan!”

“No, Comandante. It is a brilliant plan. We will give the gringos forty-eight hours to evacuate. If they do not—well, once exploded, this bomb will kill every man, woman, and child inside the American compound within hours. Then, it simply expires.”

“My God, Manso,” Castro said, collapsing back against his seat. “What drives you to this?”

“Vengeance, my comandante. I watched Escobar. I watched you. I spent my life watching two magnificent performances. I was inspired, but I was patient. I saw how brilliantly you picked your enemies. How you would toy with them and bring the spotlight upon yourself. But this humiliation at the hand of the fucking yanquis must end. It’s my time, now. I feel this.”

“You feel it? Your time? To do what? You’re a madman! You have no credible support around you. No political infrastructure. You can’t even control your two brothers! Carlitos is totally unstable. A borderline psychotic. The state will spin out of control!”

“I will deal with my brothers when the storm subsides. I have assembled a cadre of young and trustworthy advisers. As for now, I am ready to wreak havoc and seek vengeance. I am ready to fulfill my destiny.”

“It is not vengeance you seek, Manso,” Castro said with a bitter laugh. “It is only the limelight.”

“Be careful what you say, Jefe.”

“You are beyond transparent. You think you are unique? You have a destiny? You are nothing but a pathetic clichй! You merely want the world to see your face on CNN! Once a man has all the money and power in the world, the only thing left for him to seek is fame.”

“I learned from the master, Comandante.”

“And once you blow up your little bomb, Manso, what then? What’s to stop the Americans from obliterating our country in the space of an hour?”

“They won’t lift a finger, Comandante.”

“You will not succeed, Manso.”

“I think I will. Have you ever heard of the submarine the Russians call Borzoi, Comandante?