Hawke

He had metamorphosed from an imperious little snob into a groveling little toad in just less than three seconds. It wasn’t even a world record.

“You prefer smoking or nonsmoking?” he asked.

“You’re new. You probably never heard what my father said about smoking sections in restaurants?”

“Mais non, mademoiselle. He said?”

“He said having a smoking section in a restaurant was just like having a pissing section in a swimming pool.”

He looked at her for a second, not sure if this was fu

“Monsieur, il est lа,” the man finally said, pointing in the direction of the bar. “You go through the door and—”

I’ve known where the bar is a lot longer than you have, buster, Vicky wanted to say, but she merely plucked the menu from his chubby little fingers and headed happily for the bar.

She’d been wondering why Alex had chosen the Georgetown Club. Alex had no idea how happy the choice had made her. It was her favorite restaurant in all of Washington. She still recalled the countless hours she’d spent here alone with her father, Senator Harlan Augustus Sweet. There were fireplaces in every room, all ablaze on a cold, snowy night like this. Large, overstuffed leather chairs were scattered everywhere, and the dark paneled walls were adorned with gilt-framed English landscapes and foxhunting scenes.

Coming here as a little girl had always felt like sneaking into the secret world of men. There was the intoxicating aroma of fine whisky and illegal Cuban cigars, and the clink of ice in crystal glasses. There were whispered stories she was too young for and the raucous laughter at their completion.

“Cover your ears, Victoria” was the way she knew when one of those was coming.

Her father, the retired United States senator from Louisiana, had been a much-loved figure in these rooms. He loved a good story and could tell one better than any man. He could also drink most of them under the table and frequently, to her mother’s dismay, did just that.

If the senator wasn’t at his office or on the Senate floor, he was on the Chevy Chase golf course. If he wasn’t on the golf course, he was here, holding down the bar at the Georgetown Club.

And his curly-haired daughter had always been the little princess by his side. Now she squeezed her way through a press of loud, cigar-smoking lobbyists and politicos and saw Alex waiting for her at the cozy little bar.

23

Fidel Castro had gone pale as death.

He had not said a word in the last hour, which was fine with Manso. He still had his big black Cohiba stuck between his teeth, but had never gotten around to lighting the trademark cigar. He sat hunched against the window, staring down at his green island. His silence had become as ominous as the furious diatribe that preceded it.

Through the forward cockpit window, you could see lush mountains and valleys rushing beneath your feet. To the south, you could already see the blue waters of the Guacanayabo Bay, now tinged with the gold of the setting sun. Endless echelons of whitecaps were rolling in, row after row breaking upon the white beaches. He was almost home.

Beyond, Manso could see a pale green hump of land lying about a mile off the town of Manzanillo. The island known as Telaraсa. He could only imagine the state his men on the ground must be in, seeing the approach of the familiar olive-green chopper. It would signal the end of all their endless pla

Manso himself would be happy just to get this goddamn machine on the ground. His nerves were like strings of barbed wire ru

In the last half hour, Manso had lost anything even resembling a light touch. The chopper was pitching and yawing as he corrected, overcorrected, and then overcompensated for every correction.

It’s like flying in combat, Manso tried to tell himself; you have to keep your wits about you. Steel your nerves and fly the plane. He had many happy memories of his days as a narco, flying for Pablo. The Colombian army and the americanos had shot up his planes many times. He always counted the holes in his wings and fuselage once he’d returned to one of the cartel’s secret airstrips.

All the pilots considered their drug runs “combat.” In their minds they were at war with the norteamericanos. The gunpowder their planes carried was white and it killed an enemy not only willing to die, but to pay outrageous fortunes for the privilege. In their jungle hideouts, they would laugh at the stupidity and poor marksmanship of the U.S.-sponsored government soldiers.

This was just another combat mission, he told himself.

But what about when your adversary was seated only two feet away?

“Save yourself, Manso, my son,” the leader said, breaking the silence. “Tell me where this bomb is hidden, and I will put a stop to this insanity. I will see to it that you and your family are allowed to leave the country safely.”

“Too late, Comandante.”

“You can buy a fancy mansion in Miami and fill it with whores, just like Batista.”

“It’s too late for these lies, Comandante.”

“Lies? No. Not to you, Manso. I have always treated you as a son. I am not a father who would harm his son. No matter how disgracefully he would betray me.”

“I am sorry for so much pain between us. But our country has suffered much pain in much silence for long enough. Something had to be done. Someone had to do it. I am only sorry that it had to be me.”

“What exactly is it you think you’re doing, Manso? Do you even know the answer to that question?”

“I am taking the first steps toward saving what is left of our beloved Cuba, Comandante.”

“So the son stabs the father and anoints himself savior. It’s too biblical for words. Even in Hollywood they would call this shit.”

“Your life will be spared. And, of course, your son, Fidelito. I promise you that. I have bought a beautiful finca for you in Oriente.”

“You promise me? Your life is as worthless as your promises. You were never a revolutionary. You have no political philosophy, no idealism. Money is your religion. You are nothing but a highly paid killer, a terrorist. And you should kill yourself before I do. I guarantee it will be less painful.”

“I learned much from Pablo during my time in the jungle, Comandante. Terrorism is the atomic bomb for poor people. It is the only way for poor people to strike back. The old experiment must make way for the new. The old one is over.”

“For you it is, I can promise.”

“We will be landing at Telaraсa in twenty minutes. My guard will escort you to the main house. I have set up a television studio at Telaraсa, Comandante,” Manso said. “After you have had some refreshments, you will be escorted to the station where you will address the nation.”

“You will be hunted down like a dog and killed like one before the eyes of your family.”

“You will tell them that the revoluciуn has been a great political success. But, sadly, you have come to believe, not an economic one. So, after great thought, and with the good of your country at heart, you have decided to step down. It is time for a new generation of leadership.”

“Leadership? This is a farce!”

Castro turned toward Manso and spat in his face.

Manso ignored the saliva dribbling down his cheek and said calmly, “Sн,Comandante, spit. Spit until you are dry. It’s the only weapon you have left.”

“Fool. I have the hearts of my country. I have my army. You are a dead man when this is over.”