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Roberto standing there, looking out to sea and being joined, one by one, by his soldiers. |
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He addressed the colonel with an anxious formality. It was as well to establish perquisites and rank here and now. "Tovarishch Polkovnik Sanchez-Diaz, you addressed me as 'Prisoner' Krasny." |
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It was Dzerzhinsky he resembled. The same narrowly cut face and sharp features. The same shadowed, dead black eyes. Krasny felt a shiver of fear and sat down on the lazaret, his heart pounding, his legs weak. He found he could not speak, even to protest. |
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The launch headed steadily westward. The stars shone yellow through the heat haze. These were not the cool northern stars of Russia. They were the heat-distorted lights of a tropical night. Thirty minutes, not more, from Twelve League Key, the colonel gave an order. The soldier at the wheel turned off the engines and the launch slid soundlessly through the black sea. |
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"Why are we stopping?" Krasny asked hoarsely. |
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"You know," the Cuban said quietly. |
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Krasny's bones turned to water. "Oh God," he muttered. "Oh God, help me. Why?" His voice rose to a scream. |
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"Shut him up," the colonel ordered, and one of his aides sprang forward, striking Krasny across the mouth. As the scream died to a whimper, the Cuban said reasonably, "You must know that you are an embarrassment to your friends in Russia. And to our government, now that we are negotiating with the Americans for an immediate lifting of all sanctions. Why Fidel let you live so long is a mystery to all of us. But he was forgetful toward the end." |
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Krasny stared at him in despair, unmindful of the blood trickling from his mouth. This was the way it ended, then. After all he had done for the cause. Not senile Fidel, but sullen, silent Raul had agreed to clean up a small detail for Kondratiev, an embarrassment, just as Krasny had cleaned up the |
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