Free Mambo by Campbell Armstrong Page A

were the usual affairs with which the Society concerned itself during its long and sometimes argumentative half-yearly meetings.
    Today Caporelli dispensed with all this quickly. He knew there was only one real item on the agenda and the members were impatient to get to it. He spoke in the kind of voice he reserved for wakes. He summarised the situation, moving nimbly over recent “unhappy events in London” and insisting on the need to look at the larger picture. He reiterated his faith in the plan that had been concocted years before. Why tinker with running clockwork? He admitted Ruhr had brought a volatile element into the situation, but Rafael Rosabal, a trustworthy man, had pledged his word: everything was in place. And the timing was ah, perfetto . How long could the Soviets go on funding Castro’s private little reality at a time when they were tightening their purse strings all over the globe? Cuba, already an economic leper, was certain to be disowned by its niggardly Russian masters. An orphaned Cuba, weak, neglected. Who could wish for a better opportunity?
    When he saw doubtful expressions on the faces of some members he became eloquent, reminding them of the prize to be won. An island paradise presently run by “animals”, Cuba was a prime piece of Caribbean real estate, a tropical delight, a licence to print money. His delivery was good, his manner confident. As a final gesture in the direction of the Americans, Caporelli spoke of the moral imperative involved in the plan. What could be more right than the end of a corrupt regime?
    He sat down. He sipped from a glass of water. Not such a bad performance, he thought.
    Sheridan Perry spoke in one of those flat voices in which you could hear two things: the winds of the Great Plains and an underlay of Harvard Yard. He said, “As you point out, Enrico, the elements are present. But how can you be sure Ruhr is under control?”
    Enrico Caporelli shrugged. “I can’t say with one hundred per cent certainty he’s going to be a pussycat, Sheridan. There’s never such certainty in anything.”
    Sheridan Perry had a nice smile and perfect little teeth. “Ruhr screwed up with the hooker in England and God knows he might do it again. Why didn’t you let him rot in jail? Why compound the problem by giving the go-ahead to some completely reckless rescue – planned, incidentally, by Rosabal, your man of honour?”
    â€œI exercised my judgment as Director. There were excesses.”
    Sheridan Perry raised his eyebrows. “Judgment, Enrico? Excesses? The London incident has shocked all of us in this room. The Society can’t condone that kind of violence. Matter of interest, how much did your Shepherd’s Bush extravaganza cost us?”
    Enrico Caporelli mentioned a figure that was in excess of two hundred thousand pounds. “A drop in the ocean,” he added. “Compared with what’s at stake.”
    Harry Hurt talked now in his patient, slightly professional way. “Money aside, we don’t kill defenders of law and order, because it promotes anarchy. The Society has never done that. We stabilise regimes. We don’t undermine them. Unless they’re run by bandits.”
    â€œLike Cuba,” Sheridan Perry said.
    In spite of Perry’s hostility, Caporelli had the feeling the Americans would support the plan finally, but they were after something in return. He’d known Perry and Hurt for too many years not to recognise the signs: the air of collusion, the sense that they’d rehearsed their position before the meeting. Caporelli remembered Perry’s father from fifteen years ago, a banker with a rough tongue who’d imparted both his position in the Society and his self-righteousness to Sheridan.
    â€œWe want your word.” Sheridan Perry stared at Caporelli with an evangelical look, very sincere, as if he had salvation to sell. “We want your solemn word,