Valley of the Templars Read Online Free PDF Page B

wiped out, betrayed to the CIA by Losada.”
    “Interesting piece of history, but what does it have to do with right now?” Holliday asked, cracking an ice cube between his teeth.
    “People stopped believing in the lies. How do you say, the people and the government became…isolated from each other. First the Russians came and brought their KGB, then the Chinese and then finally we had no one. Nothing worked. There was no food, no coffee, no parts to replace the aircraft and the tanks. There was only the black market and the generals smuggling drugs. We traded doctors and engineers to Venezuela for gasoline, but that was all. No one cared about Fidel or Raul. They only believed in the Secret Police in their big houses with swimming pools in Atabey. Like a famous writer said… ‘
El emperador ya no responde a su teléfono.
’ The emperor no longer answers his telephone. Fidel is over. There are two Cubas now, the people and the generals, each general with…
su propio pedazo de la torta.
His own piece of the pie, yes? There is no government at all.”
    “The Middle Ages,” said Holliday quietly. Eddie was telling him that Cuba had collapsed into fiefdoms, lords and vassals, masters and slaves; it was the ultimate expression of rich and poor;
Blade Runner
where the technology stopped dead in 1959. A
Clockwork Orange
in a 1958 Edsel. Anarchy.
    “
Sí
,” answered Eddie with a sneer, “and not one black man among them.” He shook his head sadly. “This is not a revolution I can believe in. It is not a revolution
anyone
believes in anymore. Fidel speaks, but there are no ears to listen.”
    “So, what do we do?”
    “Just remember that anyone who walks behind you who looks like he is eating well is probably Secret Police, and bring a great many of those American dollars with you…. There will be lots of
soborno
to pay.”
    “Bribes?”
    “
Sí, mi colonel
, lots of bribes.”

5
    They met the man at La Taberna de la Muralles, a café and bar on a small cobbled plaza in Old Havana, the following day at lunchtime. He was in his fifties, with a rugged, clean-shaven face that had seen a lot of sun. He wore a porkpie hat that made him look a little bit like Gene Hackman in the
French Connection
, dark glasses and he had a napkin tucked into his white silk guayabera shirt as he ate a plate of assorted
pastelitos
—Cuban puff pastry stuffed with savory fillings. His gleaming hair looked too perfectly black to be true.
    “Who is he?” Holliday asked as they approached his table on the crowded outdoor patio.
    “His name is Cesar Diaz. He is a policeman, a detective, in fact,” said Eddie.
    “We’re buying information from a
cop
?” Holliday asked.
    “He is the brother of my sister’s husband,” explained Eddie.
    “Still…,” worried Holliday.
    “The police are as poor as the people they’re supposed to serve. Five pesos a month doesn’t buy anything on the black market. They have to make their way just like everyone else.”
    They sat down and Eddie did the introductions. Diaz offered them pastries from his plate, but they declined. He ordered coffee for them all, wiped the sugar off his lips with his makeshift bib and sat back in his chair. He really was beginning to look like Popeye Doyle.
    “Eddie Cabrera, it has been a very long time,” said Diaz, speaking slightly accented English.
    “Africa,” said Eddie. “Other places more recently.”
    “There are some people in the Dirección de Inteligencia who would be interested to know you are back in Cuba. You must know that, of course.”
    “And if you so much as whispered my name, you must know what would happen to your brothers and your uncles and your aunts and your good friend Tomas who you play dominos with, even that dog of yours—what is his name?”
    “Romeo.” Diaz smiled. “You have turned very hard, Eddie. I must say this.”
    “Try fighting with Ochoa Sánchez in Angola—that would make you hard, too.”
    “Ochoa was executed in