Hawke

“I must speak of something delicate. I can count on your discretion?”

“It goes without saying.”

“It is regarding my brother, Admiral de Herreras.”

“Sн,Comandante?”

“He is—how to say it—unpredictable. You would do well to keep an eye on him. I have told Rodrigo the same thing.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“The navy is his. The Josй Martн is yours. You understand me?”

“Sн,Comandante.”

“The Cuban naval officers you’ve interviewed, they are ready to go?”

“They have much to learn, but they are eager.”

“These are your orders,” Manso said, withdrawing a folded sheaf of papers from his pocket. “The Borzoi shakedown cruise now becomes your first active mission as a commander in the Cuban navy.”

“Muchas gracias, Comandante,” he said. “I can never thank you enough for this great opportunity.”

“I leave you to the final preparations for your fabulous submarine’s first real sea duty. I am going now to have a word with el jefe.”

Manso turned to go, stopped, and looked Zukov in the eye.

“One more thing,” he said. “I never want to lay eyes on that fat Russian traitor again. I would dearly love to lop off his ugly head. But he knows this Hawke, and he knows his boat and its location. Use him on your mission, if you can, and then feed him to the fishes. Or I’d be happy to introduce him to Rodrigo and his little silver scissors.”

“He may prove useful,” Zukov said. “Either way, you will never see him again, General.”

Manso walked away, whipping his pistol out of his holster. A magnificent weapon. It was a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter, plated in solid gold with pearl handlegrips. It had been a gift from Escobar. All the pilots had received one on the final Christmas. He had not killed anyone with it yet. Out of habit, he checked the clip to see if it was loaded.

It was.

He found el jefe sitting on the side of his bed with his head in his hands. His breakfast tray, untouched, sat on a table by the open window. Manso pulled up a chair and sat facing the old man.

“Jefe,” Manso said, “I have something to show you.”

The comandante looked up at him, his eyes shot red with blood.

“I have nothing left to see,” he said.

“No. You have this left to see.” Manso handed him a yellowed manila envelope, tied with string.

“What is this?”

“Open it.”

His fingers were shaking as he untied the string that sealed the flap. He was muttering something under his breath but Manso didn’t bother to try to understand. He was watching the old man’s eyes as he pulled out a sheaf of faded brown-and-white photographs.

“Mercedes Ochoa,” el jefe said.

“You recognize her.”

“Of course.”

He held the picture up close. Manso had looked at the picture a thousand times. As a boy, it hung on the wall above his bed.

The two young lovers were standing arm in arm outside the camp in the Sierra Maestra. The woman so young, so beautiful. Beaming in the bright sunlight of a jungle clearing. So proud. The man smiling, too, and powerful. A conqueror emerging from the jungle, poised on the verge of perfect vengeance. A victor’s eyes, even before the fight.

“There are other pictures, Jefe,” Manso said. “Keep looking.”

Fidel looked up and saw that Manso had the golden gun aimed squarely at his heart. He looked at all the pictures. He sighed and laid them carefully on the bed.

“So, it’s true then,” Castro said.

“You knew all along?”

“I suspected.”

“My mother was nothing to you. Just another tissue you used and threw away.”

“That is not true.”

“Liar.”

“Think what you want. Shoot me now. But spare Fidelito.”

“Ah, of course. Your real son.”

“I ask you to spare his life.”

“For the good of the country, then, I want you to say to the cameras all the words I have written. Then, if you still want to die—”

“You will grant your father’s last wish? The son will live. The father will die. Do you swear it?”

“I swear it, Father.”

35

Rafael Gomez was on the floor playing dolls with his daughters when the telephone rang.

Rita picked it up on the third ring. She was in the kitchen making Gomez’s favorite Sunday supper, arroz con pollo.

“It’s for you, honey,” she said. He noticed she’d started calling him “honey” and “baby” again. Pretty good progress. He’d cut way back on the suds factor. Nada on the vodka. Came straight from duty to the house with no detours to the USO. No hanky-panky with Rita under the covers yet, but he was getting close. Second base maybe, rounding for third.

Life was good when you were a millionaire. Even if you couldn’t spend it, you knew it was there. “Who is it, sweetie?” Gomez asked. “We’re pretty busy with Barbie and Ken down here. They won’t put on their bathing suits and we’re all going to the beach.”

“Who is calling, please?” he heard Rita ask, the phone cradled under her ear, stirring something garlicky in a big pot.

“It’s Julio Iglesias,” she said, covering the mouthpiece and making a face.

“Oh, okay. Good. I’ll take it up in the bedroom. Thanks, hon.”

She gave him a look as he got up and left the kids on the living room floor. That was okay. Plenty of quality time on the way. He was going to make them all so rich it didn’t matter. In the bedroom, he plopped down on the bed and picked up the phone.

“This is Elvis,” he said.

“Hola, the king himself. I am honored.”

“What’s up, Julio?”

“It’s Iglesias.”

“Sorry. Listen, Iglesias, I’m kinda busy right now, so—”

“Oh. You’re busy. Well, in that case—”

“No, no. I just meant, well, it’s a little hard to talk now, you know?”

“It’s a little hard to talk to you anytime, Elvis. Is your wife giving you our messages? We haven’t heard shit from you in over a week.”

“Maybe because there’s nothing to say.”

“Everything is okay?”

“Everything is perfect.”

“You are ready?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

“Perdуn? What?”

“It means of course I’m ready. The bear is ready.” Gomez, thinking about the big white teddy bear, couldn’t help laughing at his own bear joke.

“Well, good, really good. Because, to tell you the truth, Elvis, we’re getting kinda close here.”

“Close?”

“Sн,amigo, close.”

“Like, uh, how close are we getting?”

“I think the cockroaches should be all packed and ready to check out of the motel. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. I understand. It’s checkout time.”

“Sн. But not tonight. When I have the exact checkout time, Julio or I will call you. You have the RC?”

“Yeah, the RC, it’s out in the garage.”

“You remember what to do when you get the call?”

“I hit the little button on the left and when it starts to blink I put in thirty hours.”

“Perfecto. You are not so stupid as Julio thinks you are.”

“You tell Julio I’m happy to kick his sorry ass any time he’s ready.”

“I am kidding you, Elvis. Relax. You sound so tense.”

“Tense? Why should I be tense? I kill a coupla thousand people every day.”

“You sound like you have second thoughts, seсor. Perhaps we should talk about this. You know, the money, it is not released to you until we are satisfied you have accomplished your mission. You know that?”

“I don’t have the money? What the fuck are you—?”

“I didn’t say that. You have it. But you can’t get to it until I give you the account password. It’s a numeric code that allows you to withdraw. See what I mean, Elvis?”

That’s when Rita stuck her head in the door.

“Honey—di

“Yeah, I’m just—gimme a sec, okay, sweetie? I’m just finishing up here.”