Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(51)

Every four years, a new team of American politicians arrived with new ideas, some new gesture that was supposed to impress him, some new threat that was supposed to scare him. Now they were trying to lure Cuba into capitalism by pretending to be friends. The gringos called it normalization. None of it will work. He sipped his coffee.

Oswaldo Guerrero could see through it all because he had seen it all before. The gringos didn’t know their history. That had been his comfort in the past. But history was precisely what unsettled him about tonight.

Something was different. Was today a genuine opportunity? Or was this just another gringo trick? Was this latest incident real? Or just more scheming by scoundrels in Washington, D.C.?

Oswaldo sipped his coffee again. Deep down, he knew what had really changed was not the Americans. They were very much the same. Los yumas. Overconfident, inept, stupid.

What had changed, what he could never admit except within his own private thoughts, was Cuba. His Cuba. As certain as los yanquis were about themselves, Oswaldo was certain that the Cuban Revolution was coming to an end. Their allies in Moscow had abandoned them. Beijing had become a den of capitalists. And their last remaining friends in Caracas had lost their minds. Even at home, his great leaders were on the verge of death. One thing the Cuban Revolution could never defeat was mortality.

And the youth, the engine of the revolt, the fuel that burned the fire of revolution, was different today. They just weren’t like him and his peers. They were distracted. They were selfish. They were weak.

Oswaldo Guerrero, from the time he first joined the secret intelligence service at the age of sixteen, had been a loyal believer in the cause. His mother had thrown flowers on the rebel jeeps when they first arrived in Havana. Oswaldo attended special state schools to learn Cuban revolutionary values. By the time he was five years old, he had memorized El Jefe’s “Declaration of the Socialist Character of the Revolution.” At the age of seven, he joined the Union of Rebel Pioneers, then graduated to the Rebel Youth Association when he turned thirteen. He was working for the state before he even learned to shave.

Oswaldo Guerrero was raised on patria o muerte—nation or death! That was his motivation for continuing to fight the Americans. To always be on watch, to uncover their plots, to be ruthless with the enemies of the revolution. Above all, to protect Cuba’s independence. The Americans had occupied Cuba in 1898, 1906, and 1917. They tried to invade again in 1961. And los yanquis kept trying. But men like him had always fought back. Patriots like him had always defended Cuba’s total independence.

While Oswaldo was an idealist, a son of the revolution, he wasn’t blind. He saw what was happening to his own country. One of the benefits of being at the top of the national intelligence services was a unique window into what was really going on inside Cuba. He could see, underneath the peeling paint, the shiny new tourist hotels, the smiling faces, there was growing unhappiness. Under their breath, in the corners of the plazas and cafés, people complained about the revolution.

Dissent was in the air. It was getting louder. The hardships of life, the sacrifices, were all becoming too much for the masses. And, worst of all, the lure of the bright lights of American consumerism was too much for ordinary people to resist.

He knew that Cuba, despite men like him, was slowly losing its independence. It wasn’t los yumas who were taking it. No. Cuba was giving away its total independence by rotting from the inside out.

Several years ago, when Oswaldo first concluded that the revolution was doomed, he knew the best option was to repair relations with their big neighbor. To find some way to reach an accommodation to avoid a cataclysmic rupture. He would do this on Cuba’s terms. On his terms. But how to trust them? How to know which gestures were tricks and which were real? They were all tricks.

So what was different about this latest offer? Who was this Judd Ryker? Oswaldo had nothing on him in his files except some useless academic publications. If the Americans were serious this time, then why were they sending some professor? Was this his final opportunity to make history? Oswaldo drained his coffee and motioned to the waiter for another.

Or, maybe he should slit this Judd Ryker’s throat? Sending their envoy back in a body bag would get their attention in Washington! That would let them know that they still have something to fear from El Diablo! That Cuba hasn’t yet given up. That the Americans can keep trying but they haven’t beaten Oswaldo Guerrero.

He leaned forward on the table and laughed to himself, his gold tooth flashing like one of the city’s lights. When the gringo professor arrives, he decided, he knew what do to with him.





PART THREE

FRIDAY





46.


JOINT BASE ANDREWS, MARYLAND

FRIDAY, 4:56 A.M.

Judd Ryker felt like Jonah being swallowed by the whale as he stepped onto the steel ramp yawning open at the back of the massive C-140 Hercules. The cold gray plane was mostly empty, his footsteps echoing through the vast cavern of the cargo bay.

“Good morning, sir!” snapped a young Air Force officer who had suddenly appeared.

“Good morning,” Judd replied wearily. “I’m Judd—”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Ryker from State. We’re expecting you, sir.”

“You’re taking me to Cuba in this?” Judd waved his arms around the empty cavern.

“My orders are to brief you on our exact destination only when we are wheels up.”