They will die in bewilderment, in the fierce arms of the beloved ocean that brought them here in the first place. Fools! the wind will scream, fools all.
Garcia thought: These are the words of a pathologically bitter man, if not a certified fruitcake. He was dying to hear what Keyes could tell him about the guy.
Somebody rapped lightly on the door.
“Come on in, Brian,” Garcia said.
The door flew open with a crash.
Garcia’s left hand found the butt of his revolver but he changed his mind. Nothing like a sawed-off shotgun to argue for prudence.
“Buenas noches,” the detective said to the man in the soiled undershirt.
“Hello, maggot,” said Jesus Bernal. “Let’s go for a ride, just you and me.”
Since spurning the Nights of December, Jesus Bernal had slipped into a desperate and harried state. He had pinned his grandiose hope of redemption on his last homemade bomb, only to see it claim the wrong victim, some goofball news reporter. Once again serendipity had taunted Bernal, reducing his most passionate and calculated crimes to slapstick. His long career as a terrorist had been marred by such misfortune, and he had come to fear that he might be forever cheated of his place in radical history, that he had blown his last big chance. That morning’s press conference had pitched the little Cuban into an orgy of self-pity—he had screeched at the television screen, pummeled the walls, kicked holes in the doors of his motel room. He knew that the helicopter stunt was a frivolous idea, that the first plan had been the best. He had tried to teach the others about discipline and efficiency, about the fatal dangers of impetuosity. But that fuckhead Wiley was beyond reason, and the dope-wasted nigger and the creepy Seminole Indian had trailed along like zombies. They were babies playing a man’s game.
Now they were dead, and so for all practical purposes was Las Noches de Diciembre, leaving Jesus Bernal an orphan of the cause. Wretchedly he wondered what his ex-comrades in the First Weekend in July Movement were saying about him; he could hear the comandante’s sneering laughter. Who could blame the old fart? For all the fanfare about Las Noches, nothing historic had been proven, nothing of permanence achieved. So there was no point calling the old man to beg again for readmission.
Bernal knew his options were limited. Strategically, it would be futile to revive the name of the organization—as far as the world was concerned, the Nights of December no longer existed. Even the fucking stationery was useless.
One possibility was to start his own underground terrorist movement. To hell with the crazy Wileys and the feeble old Bay of Piggers; it was time for daring new blood. Yet there was still the problem of credibility, and shedding the stigma of recent failures.
Which was why Jesus Bernal sneaked into Metro-Dade police headquarters on Sunday evening, December 30.
If all went as planned, Jesus figured he’d never again have to worry about his future; he would be the Reggie Jackson of South Florida terrorism, a free-agent superstar-assassin. The First Weekend in July, Omega Seven, Alpha 66—they’d all be knocking down his door. Then maybe he would form his own gang, recruiting only the best from the others and leaving the faggots and doddering old men to their Eighth Street parades.
Even before the helicopter accident, Jesus Bernal had unilaterally decided to select a new victim. To impress the comandante, the target would have to be a person of prominence and formidable authority. And most important, the chosen prey must represent an abhorrence to The Cause—either compromise, complicity, or total apathy.
Bernal’s brightest hope was Sergeant Al Garcia.
The chubby turncoat had invited trouble during the press conference by noting there was no evidence of Jesus being aboard the ill-fated Huey. In his emotionally bruised and paranoid state, Bernal perceived this remark as a slur, something meant to portray him as a sniveling coward who cringed in the background while his brethren risked their lives. In fact, Garcia had mentioned Jesus Bernal only to annoy the guys in the orange blazers; he never thought it would precipitate this kind of visit.