It was shortly after noon, in the midst of the early summer. Bruno found himself dining on a finely cooked local delicacy, which sat neatly on his porcelain plate.
Cuba had been kind to him, and its people had long since embraced their occupiers as liberators, not conquerors.
The chefs at the Presidential palace had been thoroughly vetted by German intelligence. And a had a close eye kept upon them, but they were permitted to help guide the cooks of the German Marine Corps as they prepared Cuban cuisine for the Reichsmarschall.
Bruno sat in Batista's old office, holding a fork in one hand, bringing its portion straight to his mouth when the landline began to rattle off.
At first, Bruno tried to ignore it, taking a bite of his much-needed lunch, that is until it began to ring again much to his displeasure.
A light sigh escaped his lips as he placed his fork down on the plate and wiped his mouth with a fine napkin.
