The Successor Read Online Free PDF Page A

short term. Fortunately, he had a long-term solution.
Unfortunately,
there were life-and-death risks involved with turning the goals of that long-term plan into a reality.
    His last fare of the night had been a senior member of the Partido Comunisto Cubano—the Communist Party of Cuba. Or in Cuba, simply, the Party. The people who ruled this island. The man had claimed to be an executive of the national oil company on his way back from a business trip to Europe, but Padilla knew better. He recognized the man from a picture in a leaflet he’d seen a few weeks ago. A leaflet produced by the Party’s propaganda machine praising the great economic strides of the last six months—which was all crap. Things had gotten
worse
in the last six months. Much worse—and everyone knew it—thanks in no small part to Hurricane Rhonda, which had slammed into the island head-on from the south last fall and destroyed 30 percent of the sugarcane crop.
    The man might actually have been a senior official of the national oil company, but he was definitely part of the Communist machine, too. A member of the Party. Only senior Party members had country villas like the one he’d just left. Only senior Party members had satellite phones—Cuba had cell phone service but generally it was available only in the larger cities. And only senior Party members would make sure to tell you what they did so you wouldn’t think they were deeply immersed in the Party. It was a classic disinformation technique. Padilla knew that because he’d surreptitiously been studying the Party diligently over the last few months. All pieces of that long-term plan aimed at getting him off the taxi habit. More important, making Cuba a better place for his children and making his father’s wish come true.
    During the hour drive from the airport Padilla had acted as if he weren’t listening to the man’s phone conversation, as if he were just staring out at the dark countryside, but he’d overheard every word. The coded back-and-forth had been astonishing, seeming to indicate that someone important was either dead or at the doorstep. El Jefe? Padilla wondered. Rumors that the supreme leader was ailing had spread like wildfire through the tiny nation a month ago. Then, as if on cue, the old man had delivered one of his classic speeches, spewing fire and brimstone at the United States and its allies. Undoubtedly aware of the rumors thanks to the horde of DGSE officers—domestic spies—constantly mingling in the everyday lives of the 11 million residents.
    Padilla had refused the healthy tip the executive offered as they pulled up in front of his beautifully maintained home. The tip could easily have been a Trojan horse. If Padilla had accepted it, he might have been hauled off to jail because it was illegal to accept anything over the fare, especially as an unlicensed gypsy. It was unlikely he’d get in real trouble because he was a doctor—and a good one—and the Party wanted Cuba to maintain its solid reputations for literacy and medical proficiency—despite that the reality was very different. However, confinement was still possible—perhaps just a week’s stay in a local lockup as a warning—but clearly not worth the risk of accepting a small tip. So he’d simply smiled, shook his head, and left, content with the fare and that he was finally headed home.
    Padilla fought the urge to let his eyelids close as he raced home through the night. He rolled the window down and held his head outside as he drove, pinched his thigh, rubbed his gums—all in an effort to stay awake. Just as he was about to lose the battle, he sped through a tight S-turn and a hulking form appeared out of the gloom in front of the Chrysler’s high beams like a specter, directly in the middle of the road. For a moment he didn’t recognize the shape. Then he knew: a cow.
    He shouted, hit the brakes, and wrenched the steering wheel hard left, but the right fender took out the cow’s two