They had heard all the usual stories of an exotic Cuba that had become a fashionable destination not only for tourists, but also writers and political observers as the end of Castro’s reign inevitably approached. Fashionable it was. Its music, cocktails, cigars, sunshine and easy sex. What was behind all that? What had become of the revolution and its heroes? Was there something brooding behind Wim Wenders’ smiling images of indestructible old men improvising their magic Afro-Cuban rhythms in the easy style of the Buena Vista Social Club? That would really be of interest to the national and international press. Maybe there was a good story to be told!
At the end of the millennium, impoverished and in a state of advanced decay, Cuba was ready for the next infernal swing of fortune’s pendulum. From the nearby mainland and islands, patiently watching and salivating, a new deadlier version of organised crime prepared itself for the feast, aided and abetted by the international banking system armed with the most modern technology and condoned by serious government.
