William Heffernan - Red Angel

Giovanni “John the Boss” Rossi sat in a cushioned planter’s chair. There was a bottle of oxygen by his side with tubing that ran to a clear plastic mask held in his right hand. He stared across the room at Robert Cipriani and the two sullen Abakua who hovered behind him. Cabrera’s man, a major named Cepedes, sat off to one side cleaning his fingernails.

“So they sent you to assure me that Mickey D and Cabrera know what they’re talking about, eh?”

Cipriani raised his hands, then let them fall back. He was standing before a wall of glass that offered a view of the Shrine of the Virgin of Caridad, nestled against a rising peak of the Sierra Maestras.

“You ever notice the way the shrine seems to float on the side of the mountain?” Rossi asked. “You should see it when the sun sets. It’s magic.”

Cipriani turned and glanced out the window, more as a courtesy than from any real interest. It was six in the evening, and the sun was still hours away from setting.

“You’re getting romantic in your old age, Don Giovanni.” Cipriani turned back and smiled.

“I was always romantic,” John the Boss said. “When I was a young button, back in the fifties, I worked here for Meyer Lansky, and I fell in love with this island. As fucked up as it was then, it was a paradise. Hell, as fucked up as it is today under that nigger lover Castro, it’s still a paradise.”

Cipriani glanced nervously over his shoulder at the two Abakua.

“Don’t worry about them. They do what they’re told.” Mattie “the Knife” Ippolito came up behind him and placed a hand on Rossi’s shoulder. “Besides, I’ve got Mattie. Those two eggplants would wake up dead if they got within ten feet of me.”

“Did you ever meet Castro back in the fifties?” Cipriani asked. He wanted to change the subject before he found himself in the middle of a bloodbath.

“I met him. Meyer left a handful of us here to see if we could bargain with that bearded prick. You know Meyer actually gave him money and weapons when his army was still up in the mountains. Meyer was just playing both sides, laying off a little of his bet, just in case Batista couldn’t pull it together.” He snorted at the name of the former dictator. “Shit, the only thing Batista could pull was his prick.” He sat forward, his hand tightening on the oxygen mask. “But you think Fidel was grateful? The bastard personally put us on a boat, and told us we’d be shot if we ever came back.” He sat back and glared at Cipriani. “Well, we’re back. And the only thing I don’t like about it is that we’re gonna keep that sonovabitch in power.”

Cipriani walked across the room and took a chair opposite Rossi. “It works better that way. For you. Not just for Castro.” He spread his arms. “Look, Castro’s fucked. The socialist camp that fed his economy no longer exists. He’s back in the real world, and thanks to his enemies in the U.S., he’s finding it a very unfriendly place.”

Rossi waved his left hand, and used his right to take a deep breath of oxygen. “I know all that.”

Cipriani leaned forward. “Okay. You also know he changed the laws on foreign investment back in 1992. He knew, even then, that foreign capital was the only thing that was going to save his revolution. I was consulted on that. I know how the thinking went.”

Rossi chuckled. “Yeah, and it didn’t work. And when they found out about the little side deals you were making, they threw you in a stinking cell and let you rot.”

Cipriani raised his hands in another expansive gesture, then let them fall back. “That was only part of it. A very small part. If everything else had worked, the side deals wouldn’t have mattered.” He leaned forward, giving weight to his words. “I told them they had to deal with the U.S. Hell, I even had my bags packed and was ready to move to Brazil, just in case they decided to let the U.S. extradite me as part of any deal. But the deal never happened. Clinton was all set to lift the embargo-shit, American business was clamoring to get in here so they could milk the Cuban cow. But then the Miami Cubans”-he paused and smiled-“and your people … Well, you both just pulled the rug out, didn’t you?”

“That was DeForio’s idea. He sold it to everybody.” Rossi hesitated a beat. “Everybody except me. Me, I wanted Castro out.”

“Yes, I know. But with all respect, you were wrong on that one.” Cipriani sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “Look. Castro did what he had to do. He changed the foreign investment laws. Joint ventures with the Cuban government are now permitted. Foreign corporations and economic associations are even allowed to own the facilities they build, providing those facilities benefit the country’s development. And that means hotels, refineries, manufacturing plants, whatever. The Cuban government keeps its hands on the throttle, but we both know it’s only a matter of time-and a little money spread in the right places-before that hand loses its grip.”

“So who needs Castro?”

“Nobody,” Cipriani said. “Except you.” He leaned forward again. “Look. The changes in the law worked, to a point. Investment capital rolled in from Canada and Mexico and Europe. Even the Helms-Burton law didn’t stop it. The Canadians and Mexicans and Europeans laughed at it. There was money to be made.”

Cipriani leaned back and recrossed his legs. “But it still wasn’t enough capital. Nowhere near what Castro needs. First, the markets aren’t there, especially for sugar. Second, the Canadians and the Mexicans just aren’t big enough players. They don’t have the kind of ready capital that’s needed to really put this country on its feet. And finally, the guys who do, the Europeans, aren’t willing to risk that much on a country that’s still run by communists. They’ve lived with communists at their back door for half a century, and they know they can’t trust them. They’ve also seen what happens when a communist country goes under. Christ, the West Germans-the biggest players in the new European community-saw what happened to their economy when they reunified with East Germany.

“No, what Castro needs is the U.S. That’s Cuba’s natural market. And it’s also where the big corporate investors are-the moneymen who are willing to gamble on Cuba’s future.” Cipriani seemed to drift for a moment, as if recalling his own days as a financial player. He brought himself back with a shake of his head. “There’s no question that U.S. business wants the action. They know Castro will be dead in ten years, and they know the young guys standing behind him are champing at the bit to bring capitalism here big time. But as willing as they are, they also want to do it in a way that lets the people hang on to what they have-the homes they live in, the educational system, the health care. And that’s okay. Big business understands why they want it. It’s not because these young turks are good little communists. It’s because they know if the people lose those things, it’s only a matter of time before they’ll have another band of rebels sitting up in these mountains.” He gestured toward the Sierra Maestras behind him. “Except this time the rebels will be shooting at them.”

Cipriani stood and walked to the window and his Abakua guards. He turned back and smiled. “And that’s the problem. The one your people have to overcome. Big business sees that the people behind Castro were willing to play ball, and they want to sell that idea to Washington. Hell, they wanted the embargo lifted two years ago, because there was a shitload of money to be made. Now, for you guys, this is a serious problem. If the embargo ends and big U.S. capital starts flowing in, any chance you guys have of making a major move will be greatly diminished. Those companies are just too big to muscle. And if it comes down to up-and-up competition, you’ll never get everything you need to make your plan work. But if the embargo stays in force, and Cuba stays on the ropes, you’re the only big game in town. And the Cubans are in no position to say no.” He smiled. “Not as long as you use enough dummy corporations to hide who’s really behind it.”