Havana by Stephen Hunter Page A

He’s a great sporting shot, I hear. It happens I know Hemingway a bit and we could all go down to Finca Vigia and shoot pigeons. Hem’s a shotgun man.”
    â€œWho’s Hemingway?” asked Lane Brodgins. Then he turned to Earl.
    â€œSergeant Earl, you’d better finish that Coke and then head back to quarters for your beauty sleep. The congressman has decided he has to see the Cuban criminality firsthand, for himself. So that means tomorrow we’ve arranged for a tour of certain areas. Who knows what we’ll run into.”
    â€œGood God, where are you going?” asked Roger.
    â€œZanja Street,” said Brodgins. “You know, in Centro, where the whores and the Shanghai theater and the—”
    â€œZanja,” said Roger, with a shudder that indicated how tasteless he considered the mention. “Sergeant, you’d better bring two Super .38s.”

Chapter 6
    The Soviet Trade Legation was located on the upper floor of the new Missiones Building, nos. 25 and 27, in a section of Centro Havana formerly known as Las Murallas—the Walls. At one time the old city’s walls had been the dominant feature, but they were now being dwarfed in the building boom as American-financed and -designed skyscrapers were taking off like rocketships all over the landscape, as Havana transfigured into Miami. The Missiones Building, however, had been designed by a Frenchman, and so it lacked the bold, soaring modernism of the New Havana of Batista’s second regime; it looked, in fact, like something out of Barcelona or Madrid in the twenties, rather than something out of Las Vegas in the fifties.
    And so it was that Speshnev, in espadrilles and loose-fitting peasant’s trousers and shirt, found himself sitting across from a rather intense young man in a suit, with hair brilliantined back glossily, who looked more like an American investment banker than a Soviet spymaster. Young Arkady Pashin was brilliant, feared, despised, connected, vigorous, tireless, ruthless, ambitious and oh such a pain in the ass.
    â€œSpeshnev, you were supposed to be here at 10 A.M. It is 10:05 A.M. This is not acceptable, it is not permissible, it is not desirable. We must maintain tight discipline here. We are outmanned, under-budgeted and without adequate resources. Only discipline and dedication will see us through here, through these difficult times. Do you see?”
    â€œPashin, they told me you would be a monster. But, young man, I had no idea that you would also be such a little prick.” He smiled warmly.
    â€œLook, old goat,” said bloodless Pashin through thin lips, “this was not my idea. I have a number of very promising projects going on here. This came from some doddering genius at Moscow Control who knows nothing of the complexities of the situation. I don’t need a hoary old myth who’s disobedient and insubordinate, eating up my time and budget for nothing.”
    â€œIt was a nice day in the spring sunshine. An old man wandered a bit on the way over, to smell some flowers, to smell the warm sea. The Boss would have sent me back to the gulag for such treason, but at least for now, Pashin, you lack the power. You have to play along. It has been ordered. So any shit you give me is unsanctioned, pure sport on your part.”
    â€œAnd they said you’d be a proud one. Still the Comintern movie star. The vanity, the narcissism, the love of self. That is why you’ll never be a true Soviet man. You can’t let the love affair you have with your mirror go; you’re too used to being special.”
    â€œI am a humble servant of the people. Just make certain you get the name right. It’s Zek 4715.”
    â€œAll right, all right. This is getting us nowhere. You have a job to do, that is why you are here. I’m assuming you’re already on it.”
    â€œI don’t report to you, Pashin.”
    â€œNo, but my reports will help you or hurt