Hawke (19 page)

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
Telaraña.
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 planning and plotting. Events now would take on a life of their own. Every move they made would write a line in history.

Manso himself would be happy just to get this goddamn machine on the ground. His nerves were like strings of barbed wire running from the base of his skull down his arms to his fingers. He had a death grip on the control stick of an aircraft that demanded a light touch.

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
Telaraña
in twenty minutes. My guard will escort you to the main house. I have set up a television studio at
Telaraña, 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
revolución
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,
“Sí, 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.”

“The few remaining officers loyal to you will be imprisoned. My men are prepared to seize control of all telephone, television, and radio stations. It will happen as soon as you address the nation and announce that you are stepping aside. When I said the word
mango
over the radio, the wheels started turning.”

Castro reddened. That particular song not only mocked him and his green fatigues, it said that though the mango was still green it was ripe and ready to fall down.

“And as for the hearts of our country,” Manso continued, “their hearts have too long been the prisoners of their stomachs. I will feed one and so win the other.”

“You are nothing. No one. I made you. I will unmake you. The country will spit you out. And then spit on your grave. Just as I spit on you now.” Castro unbuckled himself, leaned over, and spat on Manso again, square in the face.

“No,
Comandante,
they will not,” Manso said, ignoring the attack once more. “The entire country, like the army, is successfully brainwashed. You have erased cause and effect in the mind of the populace. You have achieved a magnificent success in that regard, no one will dispute. The result is a total lack of loyalty. Of values. Of beliefs. We could install an illiterate
jinetera,
a stupid whore, as
presidente
and the whole of the country would bow down.”

“It sounds like exactly what you intend to do, Colonel Manso de Herreras. It sounds as if it is
you
who is to be the new
presidente.”

Manso knew better than to rise to the bait.

“After you have told the nation your decision, I will speak. I will tell the people that our new government has your blessings. That we remain united against the Americans. I will name the new
presidente.
We will then be giving the
americanos
exactly thirty hours to lift the paralyzing blockade and evacuate every last soul from Guantánamo Naval Station.”

“And why the hell should they listen to you, little pissant?”

“I have initiated certain reprisals if they do not.”

“Idiot! The
americanos
will take any provocation as a declaration of war. They will bomb our country into a fucking parking lot. Do you understand
nothing?
Does your pitiful memory not even stretch back to the year oh-two, when the Amerians flattened what was left of Afghanistan? The Soviet traitors have left us completely exposed and vulnerable! The
americanos
have been
praying
for just such an excuse as yours!”

“The Americans will not touch us.”

“May I ask why not?”

“We have purchased a weapon that will prevent any thought of reprisal. Borzoi. The most lethal submarine ever built. It was constructed by the Russians in total secrecy in the last years of the Cold War. It utilizes the American stealth technology and is completely invisible to sonar and radar. Twice the size of conventional subs. She carries forty ballistic missiles.”

Castro was struck speechless.

“And we have cultivated new, powerful allies,” Manso added.

“My brother Raul’s trips to China?” Castro sputtered. “You are beyond stupid, Manso. You believe
anything
my brother says? The Chinese don’t give a rat’s ass about Cuba. Or Raul either.”

“How do you know the Americans would not prefer our new government,
Comandante
?”

“You have betrayed us to the Americans?”

“My brother Carlitos and I have many friends in America, from our days working for
el doctor
Escobar in Colombia. Carlitos is a very powerful player in that world, you know.”

“Carlitos is a drug-addled lunatic. Out of control. And Pablo Escobar’s Mafiosi friends in America, what’s left of them, are nothing but pitiful gangsters. Powerless, castrated eunuchs who sell their stories to the magazines and movies.”

“Ours will not be the first government to include a few sympathetic outlaws,
Comandante.
In fact, one of them has just purchased the Hotel Nacional. He intends to create a beautiful new casino like the one of
Señor
Meyer Lansky. Our new government will welcome these investors with open arms.”

“Infidel! You will have no government because you won’t live long enough to preside, you filthy—”

Castro must have pulled his revolver from its holster because he now had it jammed into Manso’s temple.

“It is a fitting way to end the struggle, Manso,” Fidel said, his voice barely under control. “I kill the ignoble traitor who would murder our noble
revolución
!”

He pressed the gun to Manso’s temple and pulled the trigger.

“The gun is empty,
jefe,”
Manso said. “Don’t waste your time.”

Castro heard the hammer’s harmless click five more times before he screamed in frustration and threw the useless weapon at Manso’s head, barely missing him.

“How?” he asked.

“Don Julio,” Manso said. “Your beloved manservant. This morning, very early, before we left for the dedication, he removed the cartridges while you were ‘busy. ’”

“Don Julio! No! He, of all men, would never betray—”

“You, of all men, should not be surprised at who any man will betray for the right amount of money,
Comandante.”

Castro lunged for the control stick and wrested control of the cyclic from Manso. He shoved it forward.

“I will go down then, Manso. But we go down together!” Castro screamed over the jet turbine engine’s roar.

The helicopter instantly went into a precipitous dive. Manso screamed and fought for the cyclic. But Castro had a death grip on the control stick. The old man was ready to die, Manso could see it in his eyes. The green mountains rushed up to meet them as the chopper began its sickening death spiral.

Hawke was standing at the bar with a martini glass in his hand. The other hand was stuck in the pocket of his dinner jacket. Unlike those of most men she knew, Alex’s hands were always naturally quiet. A good sign. A sign of inner calm, she thought.

He looked pretty good in his tuxedo. Very Mel Gibson, she decided, with his black hair slicked back in waves from his forehead and the deep tan he’d acquired down in the Caribbean. He didn’t see her coming.

She planted a big wet one on his unsuspecting cheek.

“Hey, sailor,” Vicky said, taking the stool next to him, “buy a lady a drink?”

Hawke smiled, and said, “Name your poison, darling.”

“Yours looks lethal enough. My daddy called those ‘see-throughs.’ I’ll have one, too,” Vicky said. “Used to be, Daddy never would drink liquor he couldn’t see through. Now, all he drinks is bourbon. He says gin brings out unpleasant qualities in a man. ‘Loudmouth soup,’ he calls it. And when he flew on an airplane, he always took a flask.”

“Why?”

“He said he just plain didn’t trust airplane gin.”

“My beautiful girl.”

“Yes?”

“Did you come here with him very often?”

“Yes. All the time. It’s my most favorite place in Washington. That’s why I was so surprised when you suggested it.”

“I hoped you’d like it. Does your father get to Washington much?”

“I wish. Ever since he went back home to Seven Oaks, it’s been tough to get him out of his rocker on the front veranda. He’s got some old hunting dogs and he likes to stomp around his fields with them, looking for quail or pheasant. That’s about the extent of his current travels.”

“I’ve never been to Louisiana,” Hawke said. “Perhaps we could go down and visit him sometime.”

“I’d like that very much. You’d love Seven Oaks. It’s smack dab on the Mississippi River, on the River Road, about twenty miles south of Baton Rouge.”

“It all sounds very Scarlett O’Hara.”

“A whole lot of good things in the South have gone with the wind, but not Seven Oaks. I had a heavenly childhood. There’s a reason for all those stories about the Mississippi. It’s a storybook river. Daddy loved politics, but he hated living in Washington. He once said that if he owned Washington and Hell, he’d rent out Washington and live in Hell.”

Hawke smiled and reached across the table to squeeze Vicky’s hand. Seeing her here where she’d had so many cheerful hours with her father was wonderful.

Hawke signaled the bartender and ordered her drink.

“I’m very happy to be here with you tonight,” he said, putting his hand to her cheek and caressing it.

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” Vicky said, trying to hide the effect his touch had on her. Her martini arrived and Hawke raised his glass.

“Who shall we toast?” Vicky asked.

“Let’s see. How about Tom, Huck, and Vicky? Or was it Becky?”

“You are a total and complete piece of work, you know that, Hawke?” Vicky said, laughing. She clinked her glass against his, and said, “Cheers. I need this.”

“A brutal day at the office, Doc? Anything you can talk about?”

“A new patient,” Vicky said, swirling her olive around in the vodka. “Poor guy. He’s suffering from an addiction. Incurable.”

“Really? Odd. I should think you could cure anyone of anything. I read in
The Washingtonian,
the magazine so prominently displayed all over your reception room, that you are considered one of the best doctors in town.”

“Some addictions are best left untreated. Let me borrow your pen, honey.”

Hawke pulled a slim gold pen from his inside pocket.

“Thanks,” Vicky said, and began scribbling all over the menu. Female behavior at times
was
mystifying, as he’d told Stokely on the way in from the airport. But then again, as a woman, he supposed she was entitled.

“Monsieur
Hawke,” the obsequious little maître d’ said, “your table is ready.”

He followed Vicky into the small dining room, unable to take his eyes off the movement of her body under the swishing red silk skirt. Pleats. What
was
it about pleats?

When they’d been seated, the waiter arrived. He was an ancient white-haired gentleman wearing white gloves.

“Why, good evening, Mr. Hawke! You too, Miz Vicky,” he said. “Lord, I haven’t seen you since you was a little thing. Look at you! You grown into a beautiful woman.”

“Herbert! I can’t believe you’re still here.”

“I can’t either, Miz Vicky. I just turned ninety-two years old today and still going strong.”

“Happy Birthday! Alex, Herbert was a great friend of Daddy’s and always took care of me when I came here.”

“I imagine he did,” Hawke said, rising to shake the old fellow’s hand. “He’s certainly taken good care of me. Happy Birthday, Herbert.”

“Thank you, suh. You know, Miz Vicky,” Herbert said, “this old place ain’t ever been the same since your daddy left town. I still remember him playing the piano and telling his jokes. Have everybody in the place laughing.”

“And you used to let me slide across the parquet dance floor in my socks. It was just like ice skating.”

“Lord, we had us a good time, didn’t we?” Herbert said, a smile lighting up his soft brown eyes. “Can I bring you all something more to drink?”

“That would be great, Herbert,” Vicky said. “Two Ketel One martinis straight up, please.”

After the elderly waiter left, there was a long silence in which Hawke simply sat there staring at her. Vicky was not one easily embarrassed by silences at the table, but the intensity of his stare finally got to her. She noticed that he still had his right hand stuffed into the pocket of his dinner jacket.

“Gun in your pocket, big boy? Or, you all just happy to see me?” she asked, unable to think of anything more original.

“No gun,” he said. “Just this.” He pulled a small black velvet box out of his pocket and placed it on the table. He saw the look in her eyes, and said, “Don’t worry, Doc, it won’t bite. Open it.”

She reached for the velvet box. “Oh, Alex, I—”

“Miz Vicky?” The waiter had somehow reappeared at their table.

“Yes?” Vicky said. “What is it, Herbert?”

“My apologies for disturbing you all,” Herbert said, “but there is a telephone call for Dr. Sweet. The gentleman said it was urgent.”

She looked at Alex. “Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry. I have to take it. It could be one of my patients, an emergency.”

“Of course you should take it,” Alex said, standing up as she pushed her chair back. “I understand completely.”

“Order me something yummy, will you? Whatever you’re having.”

Alex picked up the menu she’d been scribbling on at the bar. For a moment he couldn’t figure out what she’d been writing and then he saw it. She’d been correcting all the French errors. There was a note at the bottom, in French, addressed to the maître d’. It suggested that he take a crash course at the nearest Berlitz school before handing out any more mangled menus.

Alex smiled. He’d taken an instant dislike to this new chap they’d put at the gate. Disliked him despite the fact that Hawke was quite sure he wasn’t remotely French.

“That was quick,” he said, standing when Vicky returned and took her seat. She picked up the little black box she’d left on her empty serving plate.

“Hmm,” she said, looking from the box to Alex and back to the velvet box.

“Yes, hmm,” Alex replied.

“Weird. There was no one there, Alex,” she said, smiling and brushing a wing of auburn hair away from her eyes.

“No one there?”

“No.”

“Well, they’d hung up, then?” Hawke asked, lines of worry suddenly furrowing his brow. “Been disconnected.”

“I don’t think so, Alex,” Vicky said. “I could hear breathing at the other end. It’s so strange. I was thinking, none of my patients would have any idea of how to reach me here. I’ve got my cell phone, but of course you can’t have it on in here.”

“I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”

“It didn’t sound like a mistake, Alex,” Vicky said. “It sounded horribly deliberate. Almost like—”

She never finished her sentence.

A brutal explosion rocked the room. The sound and force of the shock wave hit instantaneously. Watches and clocks stood still. Time itself stopped and was exploded into countless pieces of flying glass, masonry, and human agony.

Alex found that he was no longer seated at a small, round table talking to Vicky. He seemed to be on his back, staring up into a roiling white fog. A fog that smelled more like harsh, choking smoke. There were cries and moans coming from all around him. He was aware of a jabbing pain in his shoulder and tried to roll away from it.

It got worse. He seemed to be lying on a bed of broken glass and cutlery. He held his hands up before his face and saw that they were sticky and bright red. He felt it might be a good thing to get out of there. He just wasn’t sure where he was. He heard a woman’s voice nearby, whimpering. He recognized it. It was Vicky.

“Doc?” he said, but there was no reply.

The acrid smoke was so thick now, he couldn’t see where any of the cries were coming from. He couldn’t see anything at all.

He got to his hands and knees and started crawling over the glass in the direction he thought her voice came from.

“Vicky,” he shouted. “Vicky!” That’s when he heard her.

“Alex, it hurts,” the voice said. “I’m cold. Where’s Daddy? Where’s my daddy?”

And then the voice stopped.