But maybe not completely.
Even as Elizabeth and Beatrice were marveling at how Peter’s body was holding up under the stress, he had begun to suffer double vision and partial paralysis. With Anspaugh staring silently out the windscreen as if no one else were in the cockpit, Beatrice and Elizabeth crouched beside Peter, ministering to him. None of them wanted to be far from each other. On this Elizabeth was relying heavily. There were things she had wanted to request from the general, but not in front of Beatrice and Peter. She had plans for them both, but she didn’t want to risk any premature resistance. Beatrice could be counted upon to be reasonable, but Peter was another story. She watched him, on guard for any sign of a mini-stroke, as he focused on the giant aircraft below them, peering through the windscreen. “Do they know we’re here?” Elizabeth asked, raising her voice above the engine’s whine. To their right, the sun was dropping into the sea. “Hard to say. Let’s hope del Rio had someone alert them. Wouldn’t want them climbing suddenly Swat us like a fly.” “Does Cuba have an international airport?” Beatrice asked. “About nine,” said Anspaugh, deciding if he couldn’t beat them he might as well join them for the time being. “We’re going to Havana,” said Beatrice.
“Havana? No,” said Peter. “Havana’s nine hundred kilometers away. I think this plane we’re hitching a ride with is going to Santiago de Cuba. What do you think?” he asked Anspaugh. Anspaugh pointed below in confirmation. “Yes, sir. It’s dropping flaps.” Indeed the airliner was slowing, dropping lower and lower. Anspaugh was hanging back, keeping high, Peter surmised, to avoid the wing-tip turbulence. Then they could see the airport ahead. The MiGs roared overhead and spun off into the sky. Beatrice was fretful. “They’re not going to land and arrest us?” Of the three of them, Elizabeth thought, Beatrice seemed the most worried. As if she knew something that Peter and I don’t. But what else could have been left untold at this point? Elizabeth wrote it off to Beatrice’s fear of flying. “If they’re going to arrest us, troops will do it at the airport. But you spoke to del Rio himself, right? Not an aide, you’re sure?” “I’m not absolutely sure of anything,” said Beatrice, “except that I’m not an idiot. It was almost certainly him.” She clenched her fist to keep her fingers from shaking. All they could see as they descended into the dwindling light was a high bluff and a bay pouching darkly below. The lights of the city and mountains lay beyond. In the next minute, the airport lights were streaking below them. Then there were the exhaust-spouting Russian jeeps racing to keep up with the Learjet, and beyond, silhouetted against the glare, enough soldiers, trucks and armored vehicles to start a small revolution. The Learjet touched down, braked and came to a noisy stop. They were all amazed by how loud a jet was if a window was missing. “Leave the engines running,” Peter yelled at Anspaugh, who nodded, as if in this surreal environment he were ready to accept anything. “Let’s expect the worst,” Peter said to Beatrice and Elizabeth, “then we’ll almost certainly be pleasantly surprised.” He hobbled off toward the door, opened it and popped the stairs, then stepped down into the glare of countless lights. From the open doorway, Elizabeth could see soldiers running and vehicles shooting past. And then a white-haired, leonine man in fatigue uniform strode toward Peter, hand outstretched. “Welcome to Santiago de Cuba!” he shouted over the whine of jets. “I am General Jesus Pinar del Rio. I welcome you in the name of the three Fs-freedom, friendship-” he eyed Elizabeth, “-and felicity. Are you the woman I spoke to on the phone?” he asked Elizabeth. “That was me,” said Beatrice, appearing in the doorway behind Elizabeth. “Beautiful Spanish, senora!”
“Gracias.”
He grinned at them all. “I’m completely at your service. Whatever you require,” he said, climbing the stairs to kiss the women’s hands. He had large, animated eves and a wide mouth enclosed by two deep parentheses. “How’s my nephew Ramon? Is he still driving a taxi?” “Yes,” said Elizabeth. “And thank God for that.” “My sister’s boy. Has he grown any taller?” “Absolutely.” said Beatrice. “He must be at least six feet tall now.” The general threw back his head and laughed. “Poor nino-he was doing good growth until eleven, and then no taller.” “He is an excellent driver nonetheless,” said Peter, introducing himself not forgetting to include his doctor’s title. The general shook his hand solemnly. “He spoke so highly of you.” The creases deepened around his mouth as the women approached. The plane was surrounded and wasn’t going anywhere. “And these ladies?” Peter put his arm around Beatrice. “This is my wife, Dr. Beatrice Jance.” The general shrugged happily, as if to say “Good for you both!” Then he looked at Elizabeth. Peter put his other arm around her. “And this is our very dear and loyal friend Elizabeth.” “Yes? I would have guessed your daughter.” “Many would,” said Peter. He took a breath. “We are all three of us on the run from people who are enemies of freedom, friendship and felicity, and we need your help.” “So I gathered,” said the general with a sudden frown as the engines of the Learjet gave a cough. There was a long wind-down and then an ominous silence. One of the soldiers who had strolled to the other side of the plane called out something to the general, pointing. The general ducked under the plane, then let out a low whistle in the dark. “Looks like you landed just in time, my friends,” he said, darting a look at Anspaugh, who was descending from the aircraft in a daze. “You have a hole in your gas tank.” He ran his finger along the edge of a ragged tear where Elizabeth’s wild shot had torn into the wing after penetrating the window Then he looked up at the blown-out window and at the long smear of red along the fuselage from window to tail. “You have had some trouble, yes?”
“Un pocito,” said Beatrice quietly. She smiled demurely. “What exactly did your nephew tell you about us?” Peter asked. “He told me you were a good man,” said the general. “Are you?” “I am now,” said Peter, with a glance at Elizabeth. This is not exactly the time to split hairs, she thought, but she noticed that the general nodded sympathetically. “You were not always fighting for freedom?” “I thought I was.”
“I completely understand,” del Rio said openly. “I have traveled a similar road and I also wish freedom for my country. But at some point there will arrive tonight others who may have less understanding. What can I do to help you before that time comes, my friend?” Elizabeth watched as Peter drew the general aside. She chafed at being excluded, as did Beatrice. They were both about to go over and insist on being part of the discussion when the two men shook hands. Del Rio shouted orders and several soldiers ran into the airplane. “What was that all about?” said Beatrice. “Guy talk?” Peter gave her a look. “I asked if he could recommend a place where we could regroup. “And?”
“He’s asked us to his house for dinner.
“And the pilot?”
“They’ll find a room for him near the airport. Come morning, there’s a flight off the island.” As she watched the general’s men lead Anspaugh toward the terminal, Elizabeth began to breathe more easily. The three travelers bundled into the general’s vintage Bonneville, del Rio waving off his aide and declaring that he would drive himself. On the way into the dark green hills, he kept up a stream of chatter, pointing out the textile mill, the oil refinery and the road to Sierra Maestra, where Castro had holed up with his followers. As he spoke of the man he had once loved and had subsequently turned against, his deep baritone voice thickened with sadness. The general’s hacienda was at the end of a dusty moonlit road that from time to time was crossed by the blur of feline forms. He was a breeder of cats, he explained, a hobby that supplied his animal-Loving wife with house pets and his troops with adequate protein during hard winters. The house had an American feel to it, turning out to be a rough copy of a Palm Springs mansion its former owner, an American professional gambler, had built for his Cuban mistress. It was nestled in the middle of a fifty-hectare coffee plantation. As she took her place at the dinner table, next to del Rio’s delighted wife, Elizabeth felt herself relax for the first time in days. The woman wanted to know everything there was to know about fashion, makeup and Tom Cruise. Elizabeth was delighted to turn her attention to such trivia for a change. The worry left Beatrice’s face as well, and Peter was positively lighthearted, engaging the general in spirited argument over the relative merits of Hayden’s string quartets and Mozart’s. Then the talk turned to Castro again, and both men sobered. Cigars came out and the room was soon wreathed in wonderfully fragrant smoke. “Reforms have a way of becoming problems,” the general observed. “And despotism is despotism. In America, you have always freedom of choice.” Peter said nothing. He didn’t have the heart and, besides, he didn’t want to spoil the euphoria of at last being safe and sheltered on solid ground. It seemed for the moment as if the worst was behind them. The general made it clear they were to spend the night, and left to make arrangements with the help. Beatrice was about to say how safe she felt, when she caught Peter looking at his watch, his expression suddenly grave. “What is it?”