Paul Levine - False Dawn

“I don’t think that’s what he’s doing. Foley, I think you’ve got a problem here.”

“Problem? I been dealing with problems since ‘Nam. Look, Soto, you’re screwing around with the wrong guy. I don’t care how many people you bayoneted back in ’58. You give me any shit, you’ll be shark bait in the Florida Straits.’’

Soto shrugged his shoulders. “It is not so terrible to die for a cause that is just.” He sipped at the sweet, syrupy coffee, calmly showing Foley that he had no fear. “The riches you have stolen can be used for the people. If you do not agree to cooperate, I will use all of my power to obtain the principled result.”

“What power? Soto, you’re two cans short of a six-pack.”

“We are at the crossroads in history,” Soto said, barely above a whisper. “Eastern Europe has fallen. The Soviet Union no longer exists. It is now or never for the Cuban people.”

Foley slapped the table with his hand. The sound echoed off the metal bulkheads. “You senile old bastard! So that’s what you’re talking about. Giving the merchandise to Alpha 66 or whatever you guys call yourselves these days. A bunch of potbellied old farts in fatigues, tromping around the Everglades, shooting tin cans with 22s, pretending they got Fidel in their sights.” He looked at me, shaking his head with disgust. “Is that it, Lassiter? He’s gonna fund an army of Calle Ocho shopkeepers?”

Below us, I heard the pumps working, and somewhere on the dock, a whistle shrilled. A crane groaned from the top deck, as provisions were loaded. I looked at Severo Soto, his eyes dispassionate, his face placid. Another war to fight, or was it the same one? I thought of his ceaseless condemnation of the Americans and the Russians, the glorious memories of the revolution, his friendship, even adoration of Castro. He was a man of contradictions and conflicts, but in the end, his loyalty never wavered. Soto was a Cuban patriot, and regardless of their differences about the means to achieving a Cuba Libre, so was Fidel.

“Foley, you’ve got it wrong,” I said. “Senor Soto’s not talking about the counterrevolution. His war is the ongoing struggle of the socialist people of Cuba. He wants arms and food and consumer goods. He wants to protect communism, not destroy it. Socialismo o muerte.” Foley looked as if he didn’t understand, so I spelled it out for him. “Come smell the cafe Cubano, Foley. The art, the money-it’s all for Fidel.”

F or long moments, no one spoke. Above us, the crane continued to groan. A metal cable whined. Something thumped against the upper deck. There were the hydraulic whooshes and mechanical clunks, and the soft, padded noises that come from deep inside ships. Foley’s pale eyes studied Severo’s implacable face. Minutes passed. Somewhere above us, I heard water dripping against metal, a ping-ping that seemed to pace itself with my breaths.

“So the great anticommunist turns out to be a fidelista,” Foley said finally. “A double agent, sucked in by the cult of personality. The last of a dying breed, aren’t you, fella?” He sneered in disgust, stood, paced around the wooden table, then sat down again. He looked like a man who didn’t know how to express his anger and frustration. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Look what Castro did to you.”

“I still have one arm,” Soto said.

“Look what he did to your country, aligning it with the Soviets.”

“Unfortunately, your government gave him no choice.”

“Look what he did to his buddies in the army, General Ochoa and General de la Guardia.”

“They betrayed him,” Soto said.

“And you? What will you do, give him the ability to stay in power a couple more years, postpone the inevitable. He’s a dinosaur, a snake, a bearded grandmother.”

Soto never raised his voice. “Fidel will survive with or without the Russians. Hard currency now will give him time to pursue what we planned in the mountains in ’56.”

“Christ, listen to him!” Foley exploded. “Lassiter, help me out here. Earn your fee.”

“Senor Soto,” I said, “you are a man of high ideals. Becoming an international criminal will not advance your cause.”

Soto shook his head sadly. “The international criminals are the Western nations. For hundreds of years, they have exploited the peoples of Latin America, Africa, and Asia. They stole the gold and silver, plundered the sugar, coffee, cacao, tea, and cotton. They have endless thirst for the raw materials of the third world. Your own government commits heinous acts of international terrorism in pursuit of oil. But no force on earth can shackle human dignity and freedom forever. Jose Marti said that ‘rights are taken, not asked for; they are wrested, not begged for.’”

Foley slammed his fist down, sending the coffeepot skittering across the table and crashing to the floor. “Bullshit! I’ve been to a hundred countries, and I’ve had it up to here with that third-world bullshit. In case you been asleep the last few years, let me give you some news: The Iron Curtain has fallen down.”

“Cuba hasn’t fallen,” Soto said. “Fidel will lead us to our destiny.”

Robert Foley ran a hand through his short brown hair and seemed to be sizing up his situation. He didn’t ask for his lawyer’s advice. The U.S. government had approved the deal, but Soto was threatening to blow it. From every indication, he wanted to steal the art, leaving Foley high and dry, and depriving a deserving lawyer of a ten-million-dollar fee.

Unless Soto was bluffing.

Maybe he didn’t have any authority from Castro. Maybe he was out of his mind. If Fidel wanted the art, why weren’t there troops surrounding this old tug right now? That’s what I was about to advise my client when I heard a noise above us. A shout in Spanish, the thump of boots on steel, three dozen men descending ladders to the hold. The hatch swung open, and they fanned out into a semicircle with military precision. The men wore fatigues and combat boots and carried Kalashnikov rifles.

Foley sat still as a statue while a Cuban officer approached. The officer said something in Spanish. Soto nodded. Two soldiers came forward and positioned themselves on either side of Foley, who finally stirred. “First bastard who lays a hand on me is gonna lose a vital organ.”

The officer leaned close and whispered to Soto, allowing him to remain seated, showing him respect.

Foley’s voice grew louder. “Soto, I got a deal with the Company. You can’t go freelancing, you crazy bastard!” Foley’s eyes darted from the soldiers to me. “Lassiter, what the fuck’s going on?”

Soto had told me, but I hadn’t been listening. Now it was clear. “Senor Soto detests the Russians,” I said, “and it doesn’t matter who’s in charge: Gorbachev, Yanayev, Yeltsin, or a committee of Siberian polar bears. The Matisse that hangs in his study, Satyr and Nymph, reminds him of Russia and Cuba in just that order. He hates Cuba’s dependence on the Russians. He wants Cuba to be a free, independent socialist state, not under the thumb of the Russians or the Americans, because both are corrupt.” I looked at Soto. “How my doing?”

“You are a more thoughtful man than I had believed. What are your politics?”

“Don’t have any. I distrust all politicians, but I’ve always believed in the American dream. I believe anybody with guts and brains who’s willing to work hard can make it.”

“The sad truth,” Soto said, “is that there is little difference between American capitalism and Russian socialism, even when there was such a thing. The essence of capitalism is profit from the sweat of others, and so too was the essence of Russian communism. The elite in Russia were just as fat as the robber barons in the States, and the poor were just as poor. Gorbachev’s perestroika merely mimicked the West.”