Freedom Fighters

51. Arrest

October 1959
Havana, Cuba

With a contingent of soldiers, Dario awaited the plane's arrival at the side of the runway. His men stood in two lines on either side of a red carpet, holding their rifles up in salute. Dario stood at the end of the carpet in his best olive green uniform, complete with gleaming badges, a peak cap, and polished boots. 

The traffic signaler by the runway shouted that the plane was in sight, and started waving a bright red flag. 

True enough, Dario could spot the streamlined shape of an aircraft against the clouds, before it started descending, growing larger and larger. Its wheels appeared as it neared the ground and its propellers, four of them, started slowing down. 

Sparks flew as the aircraft made contact with the ground before speeding along on the runway. Finally, its velocity decreased and it slowly ground to a halt in front of the welcoming contingent. Its stark grey body shone proudly in the sun, and on it, the flag of the USSR, with its bright yellow hammer and sickle, was painted. 

A few soldiers rushed to push the mobile stairs to the front of the door. 

"Attention!" Dario shouted, and the soldiers snapped a salute with their rifles smartly, making sure to keep their backs straight. 

The passenger door opened, and out came a group of Soviet soldiers, descending the stairs, down to the start of the red carpet. After them a man emerged, clad in suit and tie. He was bald, with a moustache and thick beard. With discerning grey eyes, and a well-mannered slight stature, he seemed approachable but cautious at the same time. 

Dario saluted the Russian official as he approached, walking along the red carpet and noting the fine display of soldiers. 

"Ambassador Rashinikov. I am General Dario Ruiz, here to welcome you into Cuba," Dario said in Russian, having memorised just that particular phrase. A translator stood behind him, ready to assist.

The Russian extended his hand. Dario returned the gesture and shook it, maintaining a thin smile.

"Thank you, General," he spoke in Spanish with a thick guttural accent. "Please, call me Fyodor."

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"I'm not liking this one bit, Dario. Not one bit at all," Camilo whispered to Dario, while eyeing the Soviet Ambassador.

Rashinikov sat beside Fidel Castro in the table beside them, sharing pleasantries, and laughing. Waiters dressed in black suits stood by around every table in the luxurious dining hall, ready to serve the guests' every needs.

"God damn, the Hilton Hotel too," Camilo muttered. "Fidel really spared no expense. I tell you, I don't trust his motives at all. Not one bit. The bloody Soviets? And he said he wanted to open a trade deal with them? I think he wants to cozy up to them and get support as he slowly transitions into socialism."

"Well," Dario whispered back, his lips curled in disgust. "I have to admit, it's smart. Cuba sits here, right beside the United States. The Soviets will jump at any opportunity to be on good terms with us. Juanita educated me on the relations between the Soviets and the Americans. Things are heating up, to say the least."

"And here we are," Camilo said. "Right in the thick of it. I don't like this at all."

Dario shuffled in his seat and looked around the table. The other guests were engaging in heated conversation on the optimistic future of a partnership with the Soviet Union. He rolled his eyes. How he wished Juanita were here with him. But she was up to her neck with work at the intelligence agency. According to her, the Soviet Ambassador's visit had caused a measure of discontent in the United States. As a result, the agency was swamped in workload, trying to keep tabs on Cuba's northern neighbour.