It's September 1st, 1956.

Another beautiful day at the Casa de Palmas, an upscale hotel in Macallan, Texas, on the border with Mexico.

Amid the colonial era surroundings, waiters bring drinks to guests lounging by the pool.

Elsewhere, patron shelter from the sun within the cooling colonnades, or beneath the stretching palm trees.

In one of the hotel's superior suites, a smartly dressed man waits expectantly. It's Carlos Prio, the exiled

former president of Cuba. Back in 1952, he was turfed out of office by Fulgencio Batista,

the military strongman who's been the island's dictator ever since. For four and a half years,

Priyo has been dreaming of exacting his revenge. Today he's meeting someone who might be able

to do the dirty work for him. At length, there's a knock on the door. Priyo's guest has arrived.

Into the room walks a young man.

He looks every inch at Texan,

crisp blue jeans, cowboy boots and a Stetson.

He's tall too, well over six foot, with thick dark hair, an unimpressively thin moustache,

and a penetrating stare.

But this is no son of Dixie.

It's feed out Castro.

Last time he saw him, Castro was on the run, hiding from the catastrophe that was his botched

attack on the Moncada military barracks. Back in Cuba, there are constant rumours that

Fidel is dead. But here he is, in the flesh, very much alive.

For the past 14 months he's been living in Mexico.

This morning he stripped naked on the southern banks of the Rio Grande and swam to the

other side across the US border.

...