useful in the past,” he thundered. “Remember, my friend, it was your
country who approached us.”
“As though you could have survived without the Soviet money,” Mendiria
responded sharply. “Look around you.
Every bit of this building and most of your people were bought and paid
for. After centuries of sucking the Soviet’s tit, you needed us.
Needed us more than we needed you.
Without us, you have two choices: anarchy under your good friend
Leyta’s leadership or lapdog of the Americans.”
“Bah! Having Libyan troops on Cuba poses more risk to us than it does
to you. And the stupid fools on that fishing boat if he heard them
talking, there’s every chance that he knows they’re not all Cubans.”
Mendiria raised a lazy hand at the agitated Cuban. “It matters not.
Your next shipment of farm equipment is on schedule, just as we
planned.”
“And the only crops it will ever grow are graveyards,” Santana said.
He fingered the sling bolstering his right arm, a reminder of the
ejection that had saved his life. It was time America took Cuba just a
bit more seriously. “By bringing those missiles to bear on the U.S.
just eighty miles away, we can force the President to lift the trade
embargoes that now cripple us. With a fair opportunity to sell our
agricultural and crop products, Cuba will enter the next century as a
great island nation.” He saw the look of amusement on Mendiria’s
face.
“Do not laugh,” he said, pointing one finger at the Libyan. “England
ruled almost half of the known world at one time. A nation not so much
larger than Cuba ruled your own people, as a matter of fact. Have you
forgotten so soon how powerful an island nation can be, protected from
enemies by the sea?”
“My people will not be the problem,” the Libyan said softly, cold rage
growing in his eyes. “But you you little fool. At least next time
consult me before you do something rash. Like shooting down any
American planes.”
“That was not rash. That was merely payback.” Santana smiled. “And
more will follow before I’m satisfied.”
FIVE Tuesday, 25 June WOO Local (+5 GMT) United Nations “You’re holding
our pilot.” Ambassador Wexler’s voice was calm and level, deadly. She
held the Cuban ambassador’s gaze, forcing him to meet her eyes.
The man spread his hands apart, palm up, and shrugged lightly. “So you
say, Madame Ambassador. You have become uncharacteristically boring on
this point. Yet you have no evidence. Do you? Just your bald
assertion that Cuba is somehow responsible for this pilot.” He half
turned away from her and gestured to the stack of messages on his
desk.
“I would know, would I not?”
“We have sources, too,” she replied levelly. “I know you have him.”
The satellite imagery she’d seen earlier that morning was conclusive.
“And you do, too. Let’s quit playing games with each other.” Without
waiting for him to offer, she took a seat on the large leather couch
dominating one end of the Cuban ambassador’s office. “Tell me why
you’re doing this.”
He hesitated for a moment, then followed her to the small seating
area.
He chose an armchair at right angles to the couch and lowered himself
into it slowly. “I will play your game. For the sake of argument,
just why would we want to keep your downed pilot from you? I assume
you do have a theory, one no doubt involving a massive conspiracy by my
small nation.” He eyed her sardonically.
Ambassador Wexler leaned forward. “This is your third strike. First,
downing the civilian aircraft. Second, holding our downed pilot. And
third” She paused and gazed at him steadily, looking for any
reaction.
“I think you know what number three is.”
He shrugged. “We are in disagreement as to one and two as well. How
can I read your mind and know what fantasy you have contrived as reason
number three?”
“I think you know all too well,” she answered softly, steel underlying
the smooth words. “And it costs nothing for me to confirm what you
already know. In a word no, make that two words. Libya. And
weapons.”
She leaned back, a grimly satisfied expression on her face.