“Landon Parker?” Judd’s poker face broke. “How do you know Mr. Parker?”
“Come, have a beer, Dr. Ryker,” Oswaldo said, popping the caps off two bottles of Bucanero Fuerte and handing one to Judd. Judd examined the label: a smirking unshaven pirate in a bright red shirt and hat.
“Salud!” Oswaldo said, holding up his bottle.
“Salud!” Judd said before knocking back a swig.
“My country may be small and poor,” Oswaldo began, “but mi Cubita bella hasn’t survived for this long without understanding you yanquis. You may be big and rich, but you don’t understand Cuba. You never have.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“After so many battles. So many failures—the Bay of Pigs, the blockade, the strangling of our people, your pathetic attempts to create a revolt, to bribe our patriots—you thought you could incite the masses in Havana, in Matanzas, in Santa Clara. They all failed, no?”
“And Santiago?”
Oswaldo lowered his eyes and shook his head. “You didn’t come all this way to talk about history.”
“Why did I come, then?”
“It’s time for a better way,” he said, sitting up straight in his chair. “That’s why Parker has sent you here. That’s why Parker sent you . . . to me.”
“How do you know the Secretary’s chief of staff?”
“That’s not the question you want to ask me,” Oswaldo said as he took a long swig and then slammed down his empty bottle. “You want to ask me about the future of my country.”
“Are you saying that the Cuban government . . . is ready to change?”
Oswaldo opened two more bottles of Bucanero Fuerte. “The Cuban people are ready for something new. I am ready for something new.”
“Democracy?” Judd ventured.
Oswaldo snorted and handed Judd a beer.
“A new leader of Cuba? Is that what you’re proposing?”
“I’m not proposing anything. We are just two new friends talking, no?”
Judd took another drink. “You? Are you next in line after ECP?”
Oswaldo looked puzzled.
“ECP,” Judd said. “That’s government-speak for your president. So are you next after El Comrade Presidente?”
“No, no, no!” Oswaldo laughed. “I am a man of the shadows. I am like you.”
“If not you, then who?”
“Answering that question can get a man killed.”
“Killed?”
“Asking that question can get you killed, too,” he said, his smile suddenly disappearing.
“What do you mean by that, Oswaldo?”
“Have another beer, Dr. Ryker. We are going to be here for a long time. If today ends well, you will leave here drunk and victorious. If not, then . . .” He trailed off.
“Then what?”
“After beer, we will have Cuban rum, Dr. Ryker! I have a bottle of the best in the world. Handmade especially for El Jefe.”
“What are you talking about, Oswaldo? What, exactly, do you think we are negotiating?”
“Cuba’s next leader must carry on the revolution.” He raised a bottle of rum triumphantly. “This comes from Santiago. Aged for thirty years.”
“But our next leader must also be acceptable to the yanquis, too,” he declared, untwisting the cap.
“Yes . . . I agree,” Judd said. “A political transition is most likely to succeed with a compromise. Someone who can bridge both sides.”
“Of course!” Oswaldo said, pouring the golden rum into two shot glasses.
“So . . . who?”
“We need a president who would be seen as a brother in Havana.” He handed a shot glass to Judd. “And as a brother in Miami.”
“So who could that be?” Judd asked.
The two men downed the rum, the sugary liquor burning the back of Judd’s throat. Oswaldo stared into Judd’s eyes and then shook his head. He grinned and held up his empty glass.
“No one knows.”
62.
LUANDA, ANGOLA
FRIDAY, 5:48 P.M. WEST AFRICA TIME
Dr. Ernesto Sandoval stood on the runway, staring over his reading glasses at the private jet in disbelief. The shiny-white Dassault Falcon 7X vibrated like a chained tiger ready to pounce.
“Is that for me?” Ernesto asked the pilot, a stocky Ukrainian with a flattop buzz cut and thick neck.
“Yes, Dr. Che,” the pilot said in stilted English. “Where are your bags?”
Ernesto shook his head.
“Yah,” the pilot grunted. “We go.”
Ernesto climbed up the small staircase and into the jet’s cabin. Instead of the usual rows of seats, this plane had been outfitted with just six leather captain’s chairs. The walls were paneled with polished cherrywood, with multiple television screens. Along one side was a fully stocked bar and a tray of seafood canapés.
“What’s this?” Ernesto asked.
“Yours, Dr. Che,” the pilot responded. “Sit. We complete preflight checks and then we go.”
“Who paid for all this?”