The Successor by Stephen Frey Page B

rest of the world that it wasn’t shirking its responsibility, as a superpower, to keep underprivileged nations up to speed on the latest medical procedures and technologies. So they allowed Padilla—and other Cuban physicians—to travel to the United States often. And Cuba had a history of being one of the most advanced Central and South American nations when it came to medicine—despite the country’s other terrible problems—so Castro had been lenient in terms of allowing his doctors to travel to the United States.
    “I had a very good meeting with our backers while I was in the United States,” Padilla continued. “The support for us is very strong.”
    “What does
very strong
mean exactly?” the deputy minister of agriculture asked anxiously. “I’m still suspicious of these people.” He looked around the table. “I think I have good reason to be; I think we all have good reason to be. Just look at history.”
    “It means,”
Padilla answered quickly and strongly, “that our efforts have been recognized at the highest levels of the United States government.”
    “Is it a firm commitment?” the deputy minister pushed. “I need to know that there are ships off our beaches with helicopters on them so I can get my wife and children out if I need to.”
    “They’ve chosen us,
only us,
” Padilla answered. “They will not back any of the other groups we believe are operating in the city.” He watched the men around the table nod and smile. Suddenly the huge risks seemed worth it. They were helping Cuba—and themselves. In the island’s post-Communist world they would certainly have esteemed status with President Wood’s government and would be showered with significant economic favors from their American benefactors. “That’s what my contact told me on my recent trip, señor.”
    “This is very good,” the man from the Ministry of Science and Technology spoke up. His brother was a senior executive at Cuba’s state oil company and would be the logical choice to become its CEO after the Incursion. The family would stand to make a great deal of money when the company was privatized. “But there is risk to that decision, too,” he continued. “More eyes will be upon us, more people will know about us in the U.S. Because of that there is a greater chance now that we may be discovered by the spies in Washington…and here. We must be even more careful now.”
    Padilla shook his head. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t continue to be as careful as possible, but I don’t believe that the risk of spies in Washington uncovering our plans is as great as you may think.”
    “Why?”
    “My contact tells me that President Wood is almost as afraid of being discovered as we are. For different reasons, of course. Us for our personal necks,” Padilla said, bringing the hand holding the cigar ceremoniously across his throat, “him for his political neck. Apparently, he thinks if it comes out that he is supporting us in any way, economically, militarily, even just with advisers, the world will line up against him. So his people are going to be very quiet about this. Even after the Incursion.”
    “Does this mean that the help they give us will be enough?” the deputy minister of foreign investment asked, concern obvious in the lines on his forehead.
    “It will be enough, but they are going to make sure we”—Padilla gestured around the table—“have the right stuff,” he said, smiling, using the term his contact had used. One he knew Americans had loved since the early space-exploration days of John Glenn. He’d done his homework on America. “I will be having a preliminary meeting with one of their senior advisers in the United States very soon. If that goes well, that man will come here to Cuba to meet with all of us. Secretly, of course. Then the help will be plenty enough.”
    “Are you sure you weren’t being followed when you met your contact in New York?” the attorney asked.
    When