Cuba by Stephen Coonts Page B

a secret politician! A man who used the Church for counterrevolutionary treason.
    “Surely he must know that you are aware of his political activities,” she remarked now to her husband, who frowned at the shacks and sugarcane fields they were driving past.
    “He knows,” Maximo murmured.
    “Europe was so nice,” his wife said softly. “I don’t mean to be uncharitable, but truly it is a shame that we must return to this!”
    Maximo wasn’t paying much attention.
    “I keep hoping that someday we shall go to Europe and
never return,” she whispered. “I do love Madrid so.”
    Maximo didn’t hear that comment. He was wondering about Hector and Alejo Vargas. He couldn’t imagine the two of them talking, but what if they had been? What if those two combined to plot against him? What could he do to guard against that possibility, to protect himself?
     
    Later that evening Hector and his sister-in-law, Mercedes, rode a bus into Havana. “It was good of you to stay for Mima’s party,” Hector said.
    “I wanted to see her. She makes me think of Jorge.”
    “Do you still miss him?”
    “I will miss him every day of my life.”
    “Me too,” Hector murmured.
    “Vargas knows about you,” she said, after glancing around to make sure no one else could hear her words.
    “What does he know?”
    “That you organize and attend political meetings, that you write to friends, that you speak to students, that most of the priests in Cuba are loyal to you, that many people all over this island look to you for leadership … . He knows that much and probably more.”
    “It would be a miracle if none of that had reached the ears of the secret police.”
    “He may arrest you.”
    “He will do nothing without Fidel’s approval. He is Fidel’s dog.”
    “And you think Fidel approves of your activities?”
    “I think he tolerates them. The man isn’t immortal. Even he must wonder what will come after him.”
    “You are playing with fire. Castro’s hold on Vargas is weakening. Castro’s death will give him a free hand. Do not underestimate him.”
    “I do not. Believe me. But Cuba is more important than me, than Vargas, than Castro. If this country is ever going to be anything other than the barnyard of a tyrant, someone must plant seeds that have a chance of growing. Every person
I talk to is a seed, an investment in the future.”
    “‘Barnyard of a tyrant.’ What a pretty phrase!” Mercedes said acidly. The last few years, living with Fidel, she had developed a thick skin: people said the most vicious things about him and she had learned to ignore most of it. Still, she deeply admired Hector, so his words wounded her.
    “I’m sorry if I—”
    She made sure her voice was under control, then said, “Dear Hector, Cuba is also the graveyard of a great many martyrs. There is room here for Vargas to bury us both.”
     
    He was remembering the good days, the days when he had been young, under a bright sun, surrounded by happy, laughing comrades.
    All things had been possible back then. Bullets couldn’t touch them, no one would betray them to Batista’s men, they would save Cuba, save her people, make them prosperous and healthy and strong and happy. Oh, yes, when we were young …
    As he tossed and turned, fighting the pain, snatches of scenes ran through his mind; student politics at the University of Havana, the assault on the Moncada Barracks in Santiago, guns banging and bullets spanging off steel, off masonry, singing as they whirled away … . He remembered the firefights on the roads, riding the trucks through the countryside, evenings making plans with Che and the others, how they would set things right, kick out the capitalists who had enslaved Cuba for centuries.
    Che, he had been a true believer.
    And there were plenty more. True believers all. Ignorant as virgins, penniless and hungry, they thought they could fix the world.
    In his semiconscious state he could hear his own voice making speeches,