Castro's Daughter

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This is a work of fiction, though in many ways I wish it could have happened. Special thanks to Eddie Leon, a neighbor, a friend, and my expert on all things Spanish. The mistakes are all mine.

The streets of downtown Havana out to the suburb of Miramar were all but deserted at two of a muggy morning as María León, driving an older 7 Series BMW, pulled up at the security entrance to the compound of Fidel Castro.

She was a slender woman, thirty-six, her flowing dark hair framing a finely defined dusky face of high cheekbones, narrow nose, firm chin, and broad, darkly expressive eyes. She was dressed in an L.A. Rams T-shirt and light-colored shorts that accentuated her long legs.

But she wasn’t crying, not yet, if ever she would. She had mixed feelings about her father that very often bordered on hate, even now that he was dying.

A pair of officers in slacks and guayabera shirts, both of them armed, came out of the gatehouse. One of them held back, his hand on the butt of the pistol in his shoulder holster, while the other approached the open driver’s-side window. They were not smiling.

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