Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

Castilo rose, and the rest of the table rose with him. “This has been an interesting conversation, my friend, and one that I would enjoy continuing another time. But I’m afraid that business calls, and while you’re enjoying yourself here in our fair state, I should be maximizing my advantage in your own country.” He laughed, and Jonas chuckled with him.

The rest of the party headed for the door, Karen still chattering with Javier. She caught his eye and raised her eyebrow.

Jonas motioned with his chin at the door, indicating she should leave. He walked out into the humid summer day with Castilo, who paused at the door. “Tell me, Ferdinand, do you enjoy a good cigar?”

“I indulge on occasion, but have not yet sampled the variety here,” Jonas said.

“Then please, before we part, I insist that you join me.

I’m afraid that we could not do so in the club, since they have banned smoking inside, more’s the pity. Besides, knowing my wife, she will most likely be talking with your lovely companion for the rest of the day if we are not careful.” Castilo’s knowing expression made it clear that he understood Karen was not Jonas’s wife.

“How could I refuse?” Jonas allowed himself to be led to the pearl-gray-and-black Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow stretch limousine. They stepped into the air-conditioned interior, and Jonas made himself comfortable on the soft leather seat, near a small wet bar. Castilo faced him, with one of the ever present bodyguards, a broad, stone-faced man with short blond hair, sliding in next to him.

“Although I did confess that I left Cuba behind, there are some things from my former homeland that I still treasure.”

Castilo opened a panel in the bar, revealing a small humidor.

“Cohiba Piramides Millennium Reserve. You will not find its like anywhere else.”

Jonas accepted the thick, slightly conical cigar, along with a proffered cutter. He snipped off the tip of the head and then, holding the foot just above the flame, rolled it until it lit satisfactorily. He drew slightly, then released the aromatic smoke to the side. “This is incredible.”

“I thought a man of your tastes would enjoy it.” Castilo lit one of his own. “And now that we have talked and are enjoying these fine Cohibas, perhaps you would care to tell me—”

Jonas couldn’t help but notice the black semiautomatic pistol the bodyguard had drawn from his holster and set on his crossed leg.

Castilo released smoke from his mouth. “Why have you, a man accused of international arms dealing, really sought me out, Mr. Heinemann?”

“You sure that’s where you want to go?” the motorcyclist asked.

“I have come to Havana to hear the men of our government speak,” Marcus replied, his tone taking on the slightly awed reverence of a stolid, rural Communist. “If you cannot take me there, then I will find someone who can.”

“All right, all right, just relax, I can get you there.” He jerked a thumb at the empty seat behind him. “Get on.”

Marcus hopped on the back of the Harley and held on to the fender, knowing the man would be insulted if he held on to him. He just hoped that no rocks would fly up and cut his fingers. The man revved the choppy engine and released the brake, taking them away from the bus station, down Havana’s streets and toward Revolution Plaza.

They crossed out of Old Havana and into the plaza proper. Even from a distance, Marcus saw the iron face of the Guevara on the Ministry of the Interior Building. Across from that was the white, fourteen-story monument to Cuba’s national hero José Martí, the nineteenth-century author, statesman, poet and freedom fighter, with a white marble statue of the man himself in front of it.

His research had revealed that there were speeches in the plaza every Wednesday, and he was pleased to see that this day was no exception. Thousands of people had already assembled in the square, and addressing them was an aged man with glasses and salt-and-pepper hair. Marcus recognized him instantly. The man’s brother himself. I wonder what’s brought Raul out to speak today?

Marcus made his way through the crowd in the plaza, en-tertaining a brief fantasy of taking the elevator to the top of the Martí monument and taking aim at the speaker through the scope of a Weatherby Mark V rifle. It would be fitting to end his life from the monument of Cuba’s greatest true hero, he thought.

Marcus took out a pair of sunglasses and put them on.

Activating the tiny built-in camera, he recorded Raul Castro speaking, and slowly looked from left to right at the other military personnel near the infamous chair where the senior Castro usually gave his long-winded speeches. Raul wasn’t nearly as charismatic a speechmaker as his brother. It sounded as if he was already winding down, exhorting the assembled people to do more for their country, that Cuba would prevail against all enemies and other such standard propaganda.

Marcus spotted his man in the row of military officers standing behind Castro, matched him with the grainy photograph he had received, just to make sure. It wasn’t difficult to spot him, since he stood several inches above the rest of the soldiers all listening intently to their commander. Marcus ac- tivated the camera’s zoom, making sure to get a good picture of the man’s face. Normally he would have tried to follow the man in order to make contact with him, but with no immediate transportation available, that wasn’t going to happen.

Marcus also didn’t think he could get close enough to bug the man with a tiny transmitter, so that he could track him down later.

I wonder if he’s listed in the phone book. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve found targets that way, he thought.

At one end of the plaza, a small commotion attracted Marcus’s attention, along with other nearby watchers. A small contingent of what looked to be anti-Castro protesters were marching toward the space, holding signs and ban-ners and chanting loudly. At first the throngs in the square didn’t seem to take sides with or against the marchers. Many simply stepped aside to let them through. Marcus watched people of all ages, from young men and women—obviously students—to middle-aged and older people, all of whom lent their voices to the cry for freedom.

“A free Cuba now!”

“Allow the people to speak!”

The chants were clear, demanding that Cuba be freed from its decades-long oppression, and that the people be allowed free speech, a choice of government and the right for individuals to own businesses.

However, another group was swiftly organizing into what looked like a mob to challenge the protesters. Shouts reverberated throughout the plaza. The two groups squared off on one side. Marcus glanced toward the chair where Raul Castro had been just a moment ago, only to find that he had disappeared, along with the majority of the military personnel. In their place, however, nondescript trucks had pulled up to the square, disgorging several dozen plainclothes men.

Although Marcus thought the activists were possibly crazy to challenge the Cuban lions in their den, he also admired their guts for coming to this bastion of the government to demonstrate for what they believed in. As he watched the government supporters distract the protesters by hurling insults, letting the new arrivals organize, he realized what was about to happen.

They’re going to get their asses stomped, he thought, looking around for police to intervene. Not surprisingly, there were none in the area. Marcus knew that this was a common tactic. “Ordinary people” would break up the protests, so no one could claim that the police were brutalizing civilians.

Although Room 59 directives explicitly forbade operatives from getting involved in matters of civil strife or unrest, Marcus couldn’t simply stand by and watch innocent people get beaten for trying to gain their freedom. He also knew that he couldn’t jeopardize his mission by assisting the protesters. If he was arrested in a country already isolated, no one from Room 59 would help him. He’d be completely on his own.