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"Take your hands off me!" Mei screamed, beginning Zhang Weiming's day on the wrong side. Normally, that early in the morning, any words out of her mouth were more often a mumble. But that statement had been clear as a bell....and vehement. Carmen rolled over in the bed and rose on one elbow. "What's the matter, Zhang? Has your whore found someone better---or bigger?" She spat with disdain.
She'd caught him off guard. Because it'd been a few days since his last evening with Carmen Arrostito, it seemed only natural to him that he should catch up on his husbandly duties. Not only had Mei taken off weight---that winter fat the women in Beijing seemed to add each year, then never get rid of---but she was developing a lovely tan, too. The more he noticed those tan lines, the more entrancing they became. So, after awakening that morning, he'd simply begun to rub her thigh and suddenly she'd whirled around on one elbow....
"The least you could do is to answer mee," she responded to his look of uncertainty, which had followed his look of surprise. "There's no need to think up excuses. We're past that, Zhang." Coupled with the flare of anger, Zhang found her even more attractive. "No need to get yourself excited. You're not going to have any roll in the hay with me this morning."
He shook his head in wonder. "I don't understand. I don't...."
"You picked the wrong whore, Zhang. One or two mistakes are possible with any man but no one takes up with something like her without all the world knowing." Her voice rose shrilly and there was no mistaking the look in her eyes. To deny anything at this point would be a mistake. Finally, as if to prove her point, Mei jumped out of bed to face him. She was totally naked and the tan and the paleness seemed even more attractive to him. "If this doesn't satisfy you, there are a lot of men in Fortaleza del Pueblo who will be quite happy with it. And you can go back to your whore!" She pirouetted on her toes and stalked off to the bathroom, offering an equally appealing picture as he muttered to himself why the day had to start off like that.
A little after ten in the morning, Garcia appeared in Admiral Zhang's office---no announcement, not even a phone call. Leaning against the doorjamb, the stub of the first cigar of the day protruding from his clean-shaven face, Garcia looked more American than ever. Zhang had heard before that the Commodore showed up that way, though not often---mostly when he was unhappy.
"Not every attentive, Admiral. I could have walked in, taking out my pistol, and shout you. Lousy security." Garcia shook his head sadly. "Are the rumors I hear about this office true?"
"What you hear are just what they are---rumors!" Zhang snapped back. He could sense from the moment he noticed the first faint cigar aroma that this was not a courtesy call. And there was no rule he was aware of that said a Chinese Admiral was required to treat a Cuban Commodore with deference when the son of a bitch should be thanking his lucky stars every morning that there was a Beijing that still cared---especially given the way the Cubans could screw up everything handed off to them.
Garcia wandered across the room pulling along the one free chair and sat down on the opposite side of the desk. Reaching into his slender briefcase, he extracted a cigar and rolled it across the desk to Zhang. "I'll bet you could use one of these," he said, thinking about the rumor that Zhang's wife was fed up with her husband's infidelity. "Life hasn't been too easy these past few days, has it?" he added.
Zhang rubbed his eyes irritably. I'm getting my job done, if that's what you mean. Nobody's going to stop this operation now, I assure you."
The other man's expression stayed the same. He nodded. "I'm sure you're right." He took the cigar stub from his mouth, holding a match to it until the tip glowed. Then he puffed at it until he blew out a satisfactory cloud of smoke. "What are you looking for when this operation is over?"
"The same as you---embarrass the Americans....get them out of the Caribbean....put them on enough of a defensive in their own country so they'll worry less about Europe....the Arabs...."
"That's not what I really mean," Garcia replied, leaning across the desk. "What does it matter whether the Panamanians have a successful revolution? How is that poor little country going to serve you? They already cooperate, and they are unfriendly with the Americans as your own country appears to be. You seem to have what you desire with us." His head tilted slightly to one side and there was an impish grin as he asked. "What is it that truly motivates you to bring over such tremendous firepower, when that little country seems already to be sliding our way?"
"What gives you that idea?" Zhang asked. "I've never said that Panama is so critical. Many of those ships are just to impress your neighbors."
Garcia shrugged. That irritated the Chinaman even more. It seemed to be a Cuban habit, or maybe just a Spanish one in this part of the world---a gesture of disdain. He sometimes caught himself doing it from time to time. "I never understood that would happen to Cuba," the Commodore answered, "but look around us today----we have Chinese ships and submarines, Chinese missiles, Chinese rifles and machine guns and grenade launchers. Chinese troops, Chinese advisors----Chinese everything," he added with a sigh.
Zhang's eyes narrowed slightly. "You would prefer to be another country's possession? An American possession? Rather than working with us, would you like an American president to tell you what to do?"
"What I would like, what I had hoped years ago, was to have a Cuba for the Cubans. What we got was something else." He removed the tiny cigar stub from his mouth, touched the end to insure it was cold, and threw it into the wastebasket. "I'm not complaining for myself. We're better off. But I would like you to understand that there are many others who would not accept that. Senor Cato, for one..."
"To hell with Cato. He's an old fool."
Garcia smiled sadly. "Maybe so. Time will tell. But, my friend, keep one thing in mind. The Caribbean of today is quite different from 1960, when the Soviets came to what was then known as Havana. These men like Cato are patriots who have no more love for you than they do for the Americans. They want one thing....to be as free of you as possible after it's all over. If they find your ships in their ports, your troops in their streets, your political officers in their government buildings....you will not have so easy a time of it."
"I have nothing to do with that. I'm merely a military advisor...."
"You are more than that!" Garcia raised his voice and leaned forward so that the other could not interrupt him. "You have been a good friend and a smart one in involving me in your strategy, and I do understand it, more than you know. I couldn't begin to move all those ships around or bring in each of those units in the Atlantic in the right place at the right time. But I think once they're in place, it will not be so easy to send them home." There was that impish grin again. "And I doubt I know all of your plans."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing....for now. I just want you to think about everything I've said." Garcia stood up, reaching across the desk and clapping the Chinaman on the shoulder. "You have been around Fortaleza del Pueblo for a long time. You have done a great deal for me and I consider you a friend. So....one discusses things with friends. Come on with me." Now the Cuban's voice was booming and he was smiling. "You look like this has been a bad day for you. I have a car downstairs. I'm going out to a baseball game at the university. The Premier said I could use his private box. Join me and we'll talk some more....maybe drink a few beers. Baseball parks are a good place to unwind."
Because he wasn't ready to consider right then the ideas that Garcia was hinting at, Zhang accepted the invitation. Besides, maybe the outing Garcia had suggested would cheer him up.
It was sunny and pleasant in the Premier's box, and they drank beers and smoked cigars and talked. Baseball was not a game Zhang understood when he arrived in Cuba, so Garcia had taken it upon himself in the last year to teach it to the Chinaman. As the game progressed, Zhang decided maybe things were looking up. It wasn't such a bad day after all. Then a line drive was hit right at him. The Chinaman was paralyzed with fear as the ball sped directly at his head. Garcia reached out in front of Zhang at the last minute and grabbed the ball with his bare hands. Shouting with joy, the Commodore threw the ball back to the pitcher.
"What do you think, my friend? A little excitement?"
