And there it was, the tall barbed-wire fence, manned on one side by American Marines in their multicolor fatigues - they called them utilities, Cortez had learned - and on the other by Cubans in their battle dress.  Perhaps, just perhaps, Cortez thought, he might talk his way out of this.  The car halted fifty meters from the gate.  The corporal to his left pulled him out of the car and unlocked his handcuffs, lest he take them across and so enrich a Communist country.  Such trivial nonsense, Felix thought?