Hawke

“I will do what I can, Comrade Golgolkin. That’s all I can promise. I work for the Cubans, now, not the Russians.”

“That fucking Englishman Hawke is responsible for this mess! He made me tell. It wasn’t vodka talking. I swear it. I was going to die. He was going to kill me and Grigory without a thought.”

Zukov looked away from the pitiful spectacle on the bed. He had other things on his mind.

“Get dressed. He’s waiting. I’ll be outside.”

Golgolkin sighed, climbed out of the bed, and pulled on a bathing suit imprinted with cartoon exploding Cuban cigars. He saw his soiled white guayabera on the floor at the foot of the bed and he shouldered himself into it. Fear was rising in his stomach and the sour taste of it overpowered the vodka and orange juice he’d been drinking since sunrise.

Golgolkin did not expect to see the sun set on this day. He turned to the two girls remaining in his bed.

“If I’m still alive at sundown, we’ll go for a nice swim,” he said, patting them both on their heads. He smiled and walked out into the sun. Zukov was just outside his door, leaning against the balcony rail of the finca, smoking a yellow cigarette.

“Want one?” he asked, offering the pack. “Egyptian Deities. You can only find them here.”

“It may be time for me to start smoking,” Golgolkin said. “Life being so unpredictable, eh, comrade?” He took one. Zukov thrust his lighter at him and the man flicked it, lighting the cigarette. The lighter was solid gold, with a ruby hammer and sickle, and Golgolkin turned it over in his hand, the sun striking the red stones.

“There was one pretty good Marx, you know, comrade. Julius Henry Marx. Groucho,” Golgolkin said.

“Follow me,” Zukov said, and strode off, making his way through thick stands of palm trees toward the beach. Golgolkin struggled to keep up, huffing and puffing his cigarette. Most Muscovites find it hard to learn to walk in sand, he’d noticed. Not Zukov.

“Where are we going?”

“To the beach,” Zukov said, expelling a cloud of smoke that wafted back. “You see that big yellow finca over in the trees? With all the guards? That is where they are holding Fidel and his son Fidelito. The Maximum Leader’s future, too, is very uncertain at this point.”

“There is no need to torture me, Zukov.”

“Cheer up, comrade. The odds are in your favor. Two out of three brothers want to kill Fidel. Only one wants to shoot you.”

They arrived at a small crescent of a bay, rimmed with palms leaning almost horizontally out over the surf. Manso sat with his back against one such tree, quietly smoking a cigar. He had his old machete next to him, the blade buried halfway in the sand.

“Please sit,” he said, and Zukov translated the Spanish into Russian.

“Cohiba?” he asked, pulling a crocodile cigar case from his shirt pocket and offering it to both men. “El jefe’s favorite.”

“No, gracias,” Zukov said for both of them. Golgolkin’s complexion was already green enough from the cigarette. A cigar would not help.

“Comrade Golgolkin,” Manso said, leveling his eyes at the arms dealer. “I am sorry to hear that you are not feeling well.”

The Russian nodded. He bent over and placed his hands on his knees. He seemed incapable of speech.

“This should help,” Manso said, and he picked up a large ripe coconut lying in the sand directly in front of Golgolkin.

“The macheteros say the milk of the coconut has miraculous powers,” Manso said. “It can cure practically anything. All you have to do is cut its head off and drink. Like this.”

As Zukov translated this, Manso tossed the coconut high into the air, waited for it to begin its descent, and then whipped his machete from the sand. The blade of Manso’s machete caught the sun as it slashed the falling fruit in mid-air, neatly clipping off the top third of the coconut. Manso caught the coconut itself in his free hand, splashing some milk into Golgolkin’s lap.

“Cures everything except, of course,” Manso said, getting to his feet and handing the dripping coconut to Golgolkin, “a stupid fucking cowardly heart. Drink!”

“Colonel, please! I beg—”

“Shut your mouth. I said drink!” Manso stepped behind the Russian and held the machete at his throat. A thin red line of blood appeared where the knife pierced his flesh.

“Drink!”

Golgolkin looked at Zukov, pleading with his eyes, and said nothing. He splashed some coconut milk into his trembling mouth.

“You must be curious, comrade, as to why you are still alive, no?” Manso said, releasing him.

Golgolkin, his head lowered, whispered yes.

“You were incredibly stupid to come here to Telaraсa, Golgolkin. One wants to say suicidal.”

“I-I wanted to warn you about the Americans. Prove my loyalty. And this man, Hawke. Help you to—”

“Silencio! First, you betray me to this fucking Englishman,” Manso said. “Then you and your personal geniuses at your Russian embassy in Washington somehow bungle a simple assassination. You blow up a fucking waiter instead of the target, but still manage to bring both the CIA and the FBI down on our heads. And your response to all this? At an exact moment in time when everything for my country, I mean everything, hangs in the balance? Climb in bed with some whores and get drunk.”

“In fairness, Colonel,” Zukov said after translating. “He was—”

“Fairness? Don’t be ridiculous. I am not finished with this cowardly pig. Is he still listening to me?” Manso forced more coconut milk down the gagging man’s throat. “Does he listen?”

Zukov nodded as a red-eyed Golgolkin swallowed, heaved, and sputtered, spewing the whitish liquid on the sand and making mewling noises at the same time.

“He’s listening.”

“Tell him I am giving him one final chance. One. Does he understand?”

“He says anything, Colonel. He will die trying anything to redeem himself to you.”

“Yes, he probably will. Listen extremely carefully. I want this Alexander Hawke neutralized. His nose out of my fucking business. My people in Washington say Hawke has returned with his woman to the Caribbean.”

Golgolkin uttered something in guttural and unintelligible Russian.

“He wants to kill this man Hawke for you, Colonel,” Zukov said. “He swears that he will bring you his head or die in the trying.”

Manso threw down the coconut and looked up into the whispering palm fronds, composing himself.

“I’ll have Hawke’s head. Believe me, Zukov, I will. But, for the present, no. Hawke has too many friends in Washington, including the White House. I don’t care how it’s done, but I want this Hawke out of the picture until the time is right for his execution.”

“There is another plan. Rodrigo’s. He says some kind of a kidnapping—”

“Rodrigo has told me this new plan. Execute it. He has a genius for these things, Commander Zukov. He is my most trusted and valued comrade. Keep him close by you.”

“Sн,Comandante. He is waiting now aboard the Josй Martн. We shove off for the Exumas in three hours. Immediately after the dedication ceremony.”

“You will not fail me. Nor will Rodrigo. Do you understand me, Zukov?”

Zukov nodded his head.

Manso stuck the machete back inside his belt. As he turned to go, he slammed his fist against Golgolkin’s nose. The sound of the small bones breaking and the resulting gush of blood made him smile for the first time all morning.

“Won’t you join me, Commander?” he asked Zukov. “On this lovely morning?”

Manso and the Russian submarine driver strode off through the palms, leaving Golgolkin blubbering in the sand. They headed in the direction of the large yellow finca. El jefe would be coming around by now. After last evening’s heavy sedation, Manso had ordered the doctors to give him a cocktail injection of methamphetamines at sunrise.