The reporter holding the microphone edged closer. “Senor Leyta claims
that the American government is responsible for his brother’s death.
Is it your position as well that the government is lying to him about
this tragedy?” The reporter lifted one bronzed hand to her face and
smoothed the hair back from her eyes. “Or are you going to support his
version of the facts as a gesture of solidarity?”
Aguillar looked somber. “Miss Drake, this is hardly a time for
politics. The Leytas, however ill-advised their political views, are a
close family. Despite our differences, I mourn with them. This need
not have happened, and how much greater their grief must be for knowing
that they are in part responsible for their brother’s death.”
Pamela Drake regarded him sardonically. She made a motion to the
cameraman following him, then handed an assistant her microphone. “Off
the record now, if you please. And,” she added, “that was about as
smooth as I’ve ever seen you slide the knife into his heart, making it
clear that Leyta’s political ambitions are responsible for his
brother’s death.” She shook her head. “And the public thinks that
reporters are callous.”
Aguillar glanced at her equipment with a look born of long familiarity
with publicity. Satisfying himself that her recording devices were
indeed turned off, he turned back to her. “You wouldn’t understand.
Miss Drake. For all your experience with ACN, you don’t have the
slightest knowledge of what it really means to be involved in the
middle of a struggle such as this. To you, it’s just another story.
But to them,” he continued, pointing at the crowd, “it’s our future.
Every one of us has family still in Cuba, still under Castro’s harsh
yoke.
“Leyta and I agree about one thing they must be freed.
He, however, chooses violence and terrorism and claims that Cuba must
take its place as a leader among nations. A nice dream, but I prefer
reality. I work within the law; I know that relationships with the
U.S. must be normalized.
All we agree on is that Castro and his pigs must go. Castro knows that
he uses me to spy on Leyta and vice versa, all the while perpetuating
his regime. But do you and your colleagues understand the
difference?”
His voice rose angrily. “No. In every report, we’re both branded as
some form of evil, cultish separatists, while you ignore the very real
differences between us. If you understood what was at stake” Aguillar
stopped abruptly. “No, you can’t, can you?” he continued more
quietly. ‘To you, it’s just another story. That’s all it will ever
be.”
Pamela Drake edged closer. “Perhaps if I understood the dynamics
better, I could make sure the public understood the difference,” she
said softly. “Get me access, Mannie. You know you can. You do, and
if what you’re telling me is the truth, I’ll make sure everybody
understands it.”
Emanuel Aguillar studied the small white woman in front of him. For
over ten years now, Pamela Drake had been a star on ACN, her face a
familiar sight against the background of every major world conflict of
the last decade.
Under the harsh southern sun, he could see the small lines at the
corner of her eyes artfully disguised with makeup, the slight looseness
along the line of her jaw. Passion still backlit her dark green eyes,
and not a trace of gray speckled the shining cap of sleek brown hair.
An attractive woman, indeed a beautiful one, even at her age. He let
his eyes drift down from her face to the thin silk blouse strained taut
over her breasts and found himself speculating what it would be like to
make love to her. Abruptly, he made his decision.
“You’d like the real story, would you?” He laid a hand on her
shoulder, digging into her skin lightly with his fingers.
“It is possible, you know. I have many friends in Cuba still.
The guerrillas would talk to you if” “If what?” Pamela’s voice was
hungry.
“If you went to them,” he finished. He smiled slightly. “I understand
that battlefields and rough conditions are not new to you, but Cuba is