Cuba (24 page)

looking for absolution from those who would come after.

Maybe

caret

STEPHEN COONTS

he was thinking about “the p”…even now, thinking of the

promises he had made and the reality that had come

to pass.

When he was leaving the school, on the way to the

borrowed car with two friends who accompanied him,

Hector found himself surrounded by well-dressed men,

obviously not local laborers.

“Hector Sedanoea”…sd one, “you are under arrest.

You must come with us.”

He was stunned. “What am I charged with”…”…he

demanded.

. “That is not for us to discussea”…the man said, and took

his elbow. He pushed him toward a government van.

“They are arresting Sedanoea”…someone shouted. The shout

was taken up by others. As a crowd gathered,

shoved closer, shouting threats and obscenities, the

men around the van pushed Hector into it and jumped in

themselves. In seconds it was in motion.

Hector protested. He had done nothing wrong,

he was not wanted for any crime.

The man showed him a badge. “You are under

arrestea”…he said. “We have our orders. Now be

silent.”

The van raced through the streets of the city, then took

the highway toward Havana.

Maximo Sedano was too excited to sleep. The

adrenaline aftershock of stabbing an ice pick

into Vargas’s thug should have floored him, but the thought of

$53 million, plus interest, kept him wide

awake. That and the possibility of sirens.

He lay in the darkness listening. Every now and then he

heard a siren moaning, faint and far away. He

waited in dread suspense for that moan to join others

and become a wailing convoy of police vehicles

converging on his hotel, followed by the stamping of a

hoard of policemen charging upstairs to arrest him.

He twitched with every howl in the night, though they were

few and faint and never seemed to

CUBA

MF-

grow louder. In the silence between moans he amused

himself by trying to calculate the amount of interest that

might be due on Castro’s hoard.

He hadn’t seen a statement in about six months

… call it six months exactly, half a

year. Interest at 2.45 percent, on $53

million … almost 650,000 American

dollars.

Ha! The interest alone would buy a nice small

villa on Ibiza. Of course he should not rule out

Majorca, nor Minorca for that matter, until

he had traveled over each of the islands and seen

local conditions for himself, and checked the real estate

market. No, indeed. He would visit all the

Balearic Islands in turn, including Formentera and

Cabrera, stay at local urns, drink local

wine, eat lamb and beef and fish prepared as the

islanders preferred …

Ahh, his dream was within Ms grasp. Tomorrow. In just a

few short hours. When the banks opened he would go

immediately to the one with the largest account, submit the

transfer card, men to the next one, and finally, the one

with the smallest amount on deposit, a mere $11

million.

Maximo paced the room, stared out the

window at the lights of the city that housed his fortune,

paced some more.

He was full almost to bursting, too excited

to sleep.

He had almost run back to the hotel from the

railroad station. He had taken his time though,

walked slowly and unhurriedly, paused to feed the

ducks under one of the Limmat bridges, slipped the

ice pick into the river when no one was watching, then

walked on to the hotel so full of joy and happiness

he could barely contain himself.

At about four hi the morning he began to wind down

somewhat, so he lay down on the bed. In minutes

he was asleep.

When Maximo awoke the sun was up, he could hear

a maid running a vacuum sweeper in the next

room.

He checked his watch. Almost eight-thirty.

He showered, shaved, put on clean clothes from the

skin out, then packed his bags. He would come back

to the hotel this afternoon diswhen he had finished his banking and

check

out. He wanted to be long gone if Santana showed

up looking for Rail and the money.

There was a continental breakfast laid out in

the hotel dining room, so Maximo paused there for

coffee and a French roll.

Suitably fortified, with his attach caret case in

bis left hand and the transfer cards signed

by Fidel in his inside breast pocket, Maximo

Sedano set off afoot for the bank that was to be bis

first stop. It was a mere two blocks away, a

huge old building of thick stone walls and small

windows, a building hundreds of years old with the

treasure of the ages in its vaults.

Me spoke to a clerk, was ushered into a small

windowless office to see a middle-aged man who

wore a green eyeshade and spoke tolerably good

Spanish. Maximo surrendered the appropriate

transfer card and settled down to wait after the clerk

left the room.

The bank was quiet. Footsteps were lost on the

vast wood and stone floors. Humans seemed to be

the intruders here, temporary visitors who came

and went while the bank endured the storms of the

centuries, a monument to the power of capital.

Five pleasant minutes passed, then five more.

Maximo was in no hurry. He was prepared to wait

quite a while for $53 million, even if it took

all day. Or several days. After all,

he had waited a lifetime so far. But he wouldn’t have

to wait long. The clerk would be back momentarily.

And he was.

He came in, looked at Maximo with an odd

expression, handed him back the transfer card with just

the slightest hint of a bow.

“I am sorry, sefior, but the balance of this account

is so low that the transfer is impossible to honor.”

Maximo gaped uncomprehendingly. He

swallowed, then said, “What did you say?”

“I am sorry, sefior, but there has been some

mistake.”

“Not on my partea”…Maximo replied heatedly.

The clerk gave a tight little professional smile.

“The bank’s records are perfectly clear.”…He

held out the transfer card. “This account contains just a

few dollars over one thousand.”

Maximo couldn’t believe his ears. “Where did the

money go?”

“Obviously, due to the bank secrecy laws I

have limited discretion about what I can say.”

Maximo Sedano leaped across the table at the man,

grabbed him by his lapels.

“Where did-the money go, fool”…”…he roared.

“Someone with the proper authorization ordered the money

transferred, senor. That much is obvious. I can

say no more.”

And the clerk wriggled from his grasp.

The story was the same at the next two banks

Maximo Sedano visited. Each account contained just

a few dollars above the minimum amount necessary

to maintain the account.

The horror of his position hit Maximo tike

a hammer. Not only was there no money here for him,

Alejo Vargas would kill him when he got back

to Cuba.

He told the bank officer at the last bank he

visited that he wanted to make a telephone call,

and he wanted the bank officer there to talk to the

person at the other end.

He called Vargas at home, caught him before

he went to his office.

After he had explained about the accounts, he asked

the bank officer to verify what he had said. The

officer refused to touch the telephone. “The bank

secrecy laws are very strictea”…he said

self-righteously. Maximo wanted to strangle him.

Vargas had of course listened to this little exchange.

“There is no moneyea”…Maximo told the

secret-police chief. “Someone has stolen it.”

“You assea”…Vargas hissed.

“You

have stolen the money.

You

are the finance minister.”

“Call the other banks, Alejoea”…he urged.

“They are here in Zurich. I will give you their names

and the account numbers. Listen to what the bank officers

have to say.”

“You are a capital ass, Sedano. The Swiss

bankers will not talk to me. The money was deposited

in Switzerland precisely

because

those bastards will talk to no one.”

“I will call you from their office and have them speak to you.”

“Have you lost your mind? What are you playing at?”

This was a scene from a nightmare.

“If I had the money I would not set foot in

Cuba again, Vargas. We both know that. Use your

head! I don’t have the money: I’m coming home.”

He tried to slam the instrument into its cradle and

missed, sent it skittering off the table. Fumbling,

he picked it up by the cord, hung the thing properly

on the cradle.

The account officer looked at him with professional

solicitude, much like an undertaker smiling at die

next of kin.

Perhaps the banks have stolen Fidel’s money,

Maximo thought.

These Swiss bastards pocketed the Jews’ money;

maybe they are keeping Fidel’s.

He opened his mouth to say that very thing to the account officer

sitting across the table, then thought better of it He

picked up his attache”…case with the pistol in it and

walked slowly out of the bank.

The van took Hector Sedano to La Cabana

fortress hi Havana. It stopped hi a dark

courtyard where other men were waiting. They took him

into the prison, down long corridors, through iron

doors that opened before him and closed after him, until

finally they stood before an empty cell hi the

isolation area of the prison. Here they demanded his

clothes, his shoes, his watch, die things in his

pockets. When he stood naked someone gave him a

one-piece jumpsuit. Wearing only that, he was

thrust into die cell and the door was locked behind him.

The journey from (he everyday world of people and

voices and cares and concerns to the stark,

vile reality of a prison cell is one of the most

violent transitions in this life. The present and the

future had been ripped from Hector Sedano,

leaving only his memories of the past.

Hector was well aware of the fact that he could be

physically abused, beaten, even executed, at the

whim of whoever had ordered him jailed. People disappeared

in Cuban prisons, never to be heard from again.

The parallels between his situation and that of Christ

while awaiting his crucifixion immediately leaped

to Hector’s Jesuit mind. Not far behind was the

realization that Fidel Castro had also been

imprisoned before the revolution.

Perhaps prison is a natural stage in the Me

of a revolutionary. Imprisonment by the old regime

for one’s beliefs was de facto recognition that the

beliefs were dangerous and the person who held them a

worthy enemy. The person imprisoned was

automatically elevated in stature and respect

These thoughts swirled through Hector’s mind as he

sat on a hard wooden bunk without blankets and

gave in to his emotions. He found himself shaking with

anger. He paced, he pounded on the walls with his

fists until they were raw.

Finally he threw himself on the bunk and

lay staring into the gloom.

Angel del Mar

pitched and rolled viciously as she wallowed

helplessly in the swells. In every direction nothing

could be seen but sea and cloudy sky. The sky was

completely covered now with cloud, the wind was picking

up, and the swells were getting bigger, with a shorter

period between them. Aboard the boat, many people lay on

their stomach and hugged the heaving deck.

Everyone on board suffered from the lack of water,

some to a greater degree than others. Ocho Sedano,

who had had only a few mouthfuls since the boat

left Cuba and had pushed himself relentlessly, without

mercy, was desperate.

His eyes felt like burning coals, his skin

seemed on fire, his tongue a thick, lifeless

lump of dead flesh in a cracked, dry mouth.

He wasn’t perspiring much now. Of all his

symptoms, that one worried him the most. As an

athlete he knew the importance of regulating

body temperature.

Dora lay in the shade cast by the wheelhouse and said

nothing. She had been sick a time or two, vomit

stained her dress. She seemed to be resting easier

now.

Beside her lay her father, Diego Coca. He was

conscious, his eyes fierce and bright, his jaw swollen

and misshapen. He hadn’t moved in hours,

unwilling to let anyone else have his spot in the

shade.

Ocho sat heavily near Dora, scanned the sea

slowly and carefully.

My

God, there must be a ship! A ship or boatsomething

to give us food and water…

In all this sea there must be hundreds of fishing

boats and yachts, dozens of freighters,

smugglers, American Coast Guard cutters

hunting smugglers, warships… Where the hell are

they? Where are all these goddamn boats and ships?

From time to time he heard jets flying over, occasionally