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gave him a bit of cultural shock.
    He and two of his bodyguards had flown to Mexico City,
then to Havana. He had always kept his contacts with the Cuban government a deep, dark, jealously guarded secret, but rumors had reached him, rumors that Castro was sick, that important changes in Cuba were in the wind. The rumors had the feel of truth; his instincts told him.
    El Gato, the Cat, didn’t get rich by ignoring his instincts. He decided to go to Cuba and take the risk of explaining it away later. If the exiles in Florida ever got the idea that he had double-crossed them, money or no money, they would take their revenge.
    Courage was one of El Gato’s long suits. He didn’t accumulate a fortune worth almost a half billion dollars by being timid. So he and his bodyguards boarded the plane. That was almost a week ago. He had been steadily losing money in the casinos every day since while waiting. Now the waiting was over.
    Tonight he was to see the man he came to meet, Alejo Vargas. In five minutes.
    He checked his watch, then pocketed his chips and walked for the door of the club, the Tropicana, the jewel of Havana. His bodyguards joined him, like shadows.
    El Gato left the casino via the back entrance. The three men walked a block to a large black limousine sitting by the curb and climbed into the rear seats.
    Two men were sitting on the front-facing seats.
    “El Gato, welcome to Havana. I confess, I didn’t think we would ever meet on Cuban soil.”
    “Miracles never cease, Señor Vargas. The world turns, the sun rises and sets and we all get older day by day. Wise men change with the times.”
    “Quite so. This is Colonel Santana, head of the Department of State Security.”
    El Gato nodded politely at Santana, then introduced his bodyguards, men Santana didn’t even bother to look at.
    “I was hoping, Señor Vargas, that you and I might have a private conversation, perhaps while these gentlemen watched from a small distance?”

    Vargas nodded his assent, pushed a button, and spoke into an intercom to the driver. After about fifteen minutes of travel, during which nothing was said, the limo pulled up to a curb and all the men got out. The car was sitting on a breakwater near Morro Castle, with the dark battlements looming above them in the glare of Havana reflecting off the clouds.
    Vargas and El Gato began strolling.
    “The cargo is aboard,” El Gato said, “and the ship has sailed. I presume you kept me waiting to see if that event would occur.”
    “When you proposed this operation, I had my doubts. I still do.”
    “I cannot guarantee success,” El Gato said. “I do everything within my power to make success possible, but sometimes the world does not turn my way. I understand that, and I keep trying anyway.”
    “The waiting will soon be over,” Vargas said.
    “Indeed. In many ways. I hear rumors that Fidel will not be with us much longer.”
    Vargas didn’t reply to that remark.
    “Change is rapidly coming to Cuba,” El Gato began, “and the thought occurred to me that a man with friends in Cuba under the new order would be in an enviable position.”
    “You have such friends?”
    “I am here to test the water, so to speak, to learn if I do.”
    “After your years of opposition to Castro, any friends you have will not be very vocal about it.”
    “Noisy friends I have aplenty in Florida. No, the kind of friends I need are the kind who keep their friendship to themselves and help when help is needed, who give approvals when asked, who nod yes at the appropriate time.”
    “How much money have you given the exiles’ political movements over the years?”
    “You wish to know the figure?”

    “Yes. I wish to learn if you will be honest with me. Obviously I have sources and some idea of the amount. Come now, impress me with your frankness and your honesty.”
    “Over five million American,” El Gato said.
    This was twice the figure Vargas expected, and he looked at the American sharply. If