Havana

Chapter 14

"I must say, Speshnev, you've quite a queer notion of doing business," said Pashin.

"How so?" asked Speshnev. They sat at a disagreeable cafe in Centro, just off Zanja Street, just down from the Barrio Chino, for their weekly. The coffee was strong and sweet, the smell of tobacco stronger. All about them throbbed the Cuban working classes, in whose cause they so energetically labored.

"You were assigned to shadow a man who could be an opponent. And, if necessary, kill him. You establish surveillance, you penetrate the target, you even manage to enter the zone with an automatic. Then, astonishingly, you save his life when fate is about to give you exactly what we needed and expected of you. I wonder what the meaning of that decision is?"

"Oh, that. Yes, well, he seemed rather too impressive a man to end up with his gizzard cut in a Havana drunk tank. The theater of the moment demanded that I intercede. One has to have a feel for such things."

"His records have been found. We have sources in Washington, you know. Here, take a look."

Pashin slid the documents over. They were photoed copies of the Marine service record of Earl Lee Swagger. They told of many wars, much battle experience, many wounds, many lost friends, and a few moments of insane heroism. The list of medals was impressive.

"As you see," said Pashin, "a man of great talent. A formidable opponent, one they could not easily replace. And so…you save him?"

"I thought he had a salty look to him. Like one of the old zeks sent to the camps to perish who instead flourish. Zeks are one thing I know all about."

"Yes, well, if you fail, it's a zek you'll know about again, 4715."

"Ah, yes, the magic number, 4715. Why, how sweet to hear its rhythms again."

"If he determines to move in a certain way, how will we stop him? It would have been so much better to deal with this now."

"He doesn't know Cuba well enough to do us any harm yet. And the men with him, they are idiots. So I will watch him, while I become an intimate of this Castro, and all things will develop as we hope. I will perform magnificently."

"You know, Speshnev," said the younger man, leaning forward, his face empty of humor or irony but filled simply with aggression, "I grow tired with your whimsy, your poetics. I'm sure all your Comintern colleagues at the Hotel Luxe in Moscow found them amusing, but out here, we've no room for romantic gestures. This is a war, and we must win it."

"Little Pashin, I do believe I know more about wars than you do. After all, I have fought in all the ones you only read about."