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"We cannot be sure of having something to live for unless we are willing to die for it."
Cuba. 1955. A time of darkness and strife. The dictator, Batista, is holding onto power with a vice grip. Viole...
Splayed out across a glossy surface of mahogany wood, the headline of the front page of the day's New York Times read,
"Cuban Rebel Is Visited In Hideout. Castro Is Still Alive and Still Fighting in Mountains."
The President of Cuba, Fulgencio Batista, sat on the slim angular upholstered seat of his reclining armchair, made out of the softest woolen fabric. His fleshy arms rested on its floating teak wooden armrests. He released a puff of smoke into the musty air of his office, smoke that had been released from thick lips that just tasted the finest cigar Cuba had to offer.
The brief euphoria felt from the exhaling of tobacco smoke soon evaporated, replaced by a rising anger. This was not one of the president's finest mornings. Not by a long shot. His keen eyes caught a sentence below the headline of the newspaper.
By HERBERT L. MATTHEWS
"President Fulgencio Batista has the cream of the Army around the area, but the Army men are fighting a thus-far losing battle to destroy the most dangerous enemy General Batista has yet faced in a long and adventurous career as a Cuban leader and dictator."
Beside the words was a picture of his archenemy, Fidel Castro.
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Batista's stomach started to churn in revulsion at the article, agitating his mind. Out of frustration, he grabbed the newspaper and crumpled it. He then threw it onto the floor and crunched his polished boots down on it, grinding it down with his heels.
"President Batista," a meek voice called out at the door.
"What!" he snapped back.
His secretary flinched at his sudden outburst, realising that the president was not in a good mood. Gingerly, he continued, feeling like he was walking on thin ice.
"Mr. Meyer Lansky is here to see you."
Batista snorted. Of course he would be here. That gangster would always pay a visit when something cropped up. Something that would endanger his profits, that was.
"Send him in," he grunted, adjusting his immaculately tailored suit that had become slightly crumpled from his outburst of anger earlier.
The secretary nodded, and headed out of the room as quickly as possible, closing the door behind him. Within seconds, the same door opened, and in strode Meyer Lansky, dressed in suit and tie, as well as a fedora to top his grey head of hair. Aptly nicknamed the "Mob's accountant", the Jewish gangster had significant influence within the syndicates that ran the casinos, hotels, racetracks and nightclubs of Havana, and as such was the Mafia's representative on their interests in Cuba.
"Good morning, Mr. Lansky," Batista greeted in a brusque manner. "What brings a busy man like you here today?"
"Oh, Mr. President, you are too kind to offer me some of your precious time." The words slithered off Meyer's tongue.
