Yes, Che Guevara had been a doctor and had famously leapt from obscurity into politics. From medicine onto the international stage. So, too, had former presidents of Chile, Malawi, Brazil, Uruguay, even the first president of Angola.
Che! Che! Che!
But what did he really know about campaigning? What did he know about rallying the masses? What did Ernesto Sandoval know about running a country?
Ruben had dismissed these questions out of hand.
“Don’t worry, mi hermanito,” his brother had assured him. “This is your time. We will help you. You just read the script. We will run the campaign. We will organize your supporters. We will bring out the people. We will win. And then we will govern.”
The question that Ernesto didn’t ask but was now burning in his brain this morning: Who, exactly, is ‘we’?—
“We are not ready yet, Dr. Che,” the woman said from the front seat, interrupting his thoughts.
He wrinkled his forehead. “I’m ready to give the speech,” he said, waving the papers. “I’m ready to go to the Plaza de la Revolución! I’m ready to rally my people!”
“I’m sorry”—she bowed her head—“we’re going to have to delay, Dr. Che.”
“Delay?” he said, suddenly feeling nauseated again.
“Postpone, I mean. We will have to try again for a rally on . . . another day.”
“Another day?” Ernesto was confused. The acid in his stomach flared and he was short of breath. “I flew here all the way from Africa for this. Everything was supposed to be in place.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Che, no one is in the plaza.”
“It’s . . . empty?”
“We had a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The cells were not mobilized in time.”
“Cells? You spoke of these cells last night. What cells?”
“Sometimes,” she shrugged, “the money doesn’t arrive in time.”
Ernesto cocked his head to one side. Money?
82.
HAVANA, CUBA
SATURDAY, 8.25 A.M.
Money! The image of all that cash swirled around inside Oswaldo’s pounding head. I’ve never seen so many gringo dollars, he thought. The full duffel bag in the trunk of his car was on his mind, pounding like a bass drum, as he pulled up to the gate of the Playa Baracoa Air Base.
He had already visited the secret police headquarters, the commander of the presidential guard, the minister of the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces, the Party secretary, and the director of the state television studio. The air base was his last stop.
At the gate, the uniformed soldier saluted and waved him through. Oswaldo drove directly to the office of the base commander, a man he had known since they were boys in the Union of Rebel Pioneers. As he expected, the commander was waiting for him on the veranda, standing at attention.
“At ease, Commander,” Oswaldo ordered, prompting the man to relax his shoulders. The two men embraced warmly.
“Are the rumors true, Comrade Oswaldo?”
“What rumors are those, Miguel?”
“El Comrade Presidente”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“is gone.”
Oswaldo bowed solemnly and nodded. He took a deep breath. “Sudden heart attack. I was with him when he passed away. Just this morning. That’s why I’m here now.”
“He’s really dead?”
“I’ve just come from the state television studio, where I’ve cleared the official statement. They will make the public announcement at nine o’clock.”
“Nine o’clock?” the commander gasped, checking his watch. “So soon? Isn’t that risky? Wouldn’t it be better to control the information?”
“No, Miguel. It’s too late for that. The rumors are already on the streets. Already in the barracks. What kind of state secret could we keep if even you, Miguel, have already heard, no?” Oswaldo pretended to be irritated, but he knew all too well how Miguel had already known about the president’s death.
“What about the Party? Has the politburo decided what to do next?”
“No. El Comrade Presidente was very clear with his final wishes. Once he was gone, he wanted Cuba . . . to hold free elections.”
“Elections? Oswaldo, had he gone mad? Have you all gone mad? That is just what the imperialists want! Elections will bring chaos!”
“That’s what El Comrade Presidente wished. He insisted that elections were the next phase of the glorious revolution. The will of the people must be heard. That’s what I have told the politburo. That’s what we are going to require of the army. To enforce the will of revolution.”
“You are ordering the army to enforce free elections?”
“Yes, Miguel! That’s why I’m here. And that’s why I now must go!” Oswaldo said as he turned to leave.
“Where are you going now, Oswaldo?”
“To the airfield! I need a plane, Miguel!”
“Take the presidential jet. It’s ready. And now—”