Juliana said, “Do you think we should ask him?”
“I have a better idea,” I said, as he headed back to our table.
“I’m so sorry,” Mateo said, shaking his head. “I have a customer waiting for me, and I need to leave now.”
He grinned when he saw I was holding a fifty peso note—roughly fifty U.S. dollars. I offered him the note and said, “I’d like to pay the fare Señor Torres owes you.”
“Thank you, Señor Bandera,” he said, stuffing the cash in his pocket.
I removed a second bill and laid it on the table. “Tell me, Mateo, could I possibly reserve your services for later this evening?”
He quickly scooped up the second bill. “Of course. Where shall I pick you up?”
“I’m staying at the Meliã. Meet me in the lobby at seven.”
He pulled a business card from his pocket. “See you then.”
As soon as he walked away, I immediately keyed in a three-digit number on my Agency phone and sent the Ops Center an all-clear signal.
While I knew there hadn’t been enough time to position a surveillance drone over Café de Isabella, I was certain Mateo Aguilar’s conversation with us had been monitored and recorded back at Langley. Even now, every Agency resource, from data mining to voice recognition, was being utilized to create a profile on the man.
Juliana looked surprised. “I was told you’d be staying at the safe house. I had no idea you were booked into the Meliã.”
“That wasn’t the original plan, but staying at the Meliã will give me a good excuse to hire Mateo as my driver. When he picks me up tonight, I’ll find out what he knows about Mitchell’s disappearance.”
The Meliã was a five-star hotel located at the very tip of Santiago de Cuba Bay. It was several miles away from the area’s main attractions, and guests who stayed at the hotel either had to rent a car or hire a taxi privado if they wanted to explore the city or conduct business in the area.
Juliana said, “Keith Gabriel is also staying at the Meliã.”
“Good. We can manage to accidently run into each other there.”
Juliana tapped her watch. “We should leave now. We have less than twenty minutes before our scheduled briefing with the Ops Center. If what I’ve heard about Douglas Carlton is true, he doesn’t tolerate tardiness.”
“Tardiness is the least of the man’s intolerances.”
* * * *
As soon as Juliana pulled back into traffic on Avenida Federico, I checked my side mirror. My actions didn’t escape her attention.
“Seriously?” she said. “You think we’re being followed again?”
“I just wanted to make sure Mateo hadn’t called in any reinforcements.”
“You didn’t believe his story about Ben owing him money?”
“He sounded believable.”
“But?”
“But there’s something about the guy that bothers me.”
“Like what?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Maybe it’s his Spanish dialect. When he chauffeured us over to the hotel, he told us his parents were originally from Spain. They emigrated to Cuba when he was just a boy.”
“I noticed his dialect, but I don’t think that’s it.”
A few minutes later, Juliana turned into a residential neighborhood where all the homes were surrounded by high concrete fences and iron bars covered the doors and windows. While it had obviously been a wealthy neighborhood at one time, several of the front gates had “For Lease” signs on them now.
“Support Services rented us this villa through a leasing agent in Port-au-Prince,” she said, pulling up to an iron gate. “The place needs some repairs, but it’s secure, and there’s plenty of privacy.”
The colonial-style villa was surrounded by tall palm trees and heavy foliage. From the front gate, it looked as if the roof needed replacing, and the exterior was definitely overdue for a paint job.
“Would you mind?” Juliana asked, gesturing towards the gate. “It doesn’t have an automatic opener.”
I hopped out of the car and swung open the iron gate. As Juliana drove up to the front of the house, I walked up the short driveway and met her by the entrance.
Before following her inside, I paused at the entryway and ran my fingers over a colorful tile inlaid just above the doorbell.
Like many houses in the Caribbean, this one had a name; it was written in flowery script on the ornate turquoise tile.
Una Casa Sin Esperanza.
A house without hope.
I didn’t consider it the most auspicious beginning for Operation Peaceful Retrieval.
Chapter 4
The tiled foyer of the villa led directly into a living room. Although spacious, it was drab and sparsely furnished with little more than a couch, a couple of arm chairs, and a coffee table.
To the left was a large kitchen and dining area and off to the right was a staircase. Juliana headed there as soon as we entered the house.
“I’ve already set up the communications equipment in here,” she said, entering a bedroom at the top of the stairs. “As soon as I key in my code, we’ll have a secure uplink with the Ops Center.”
She glanced down at her watch. “It looks like we still have two minutes before we’re officially late.”
“According to Douglas, if you’re not twenty minutes early, you’re officially late.”
She sat down at a wooden desk in front of an encrypted laptop computer. Plugged into one of the computer’s USB ports was a flat gray antenna shaped like a portable router. Next to the computer was a sound-masking device about the size of an external hard drive.
When I pulled a chair up next to her, Juliana angled the computer towards me so the two of us could be clearly seen in the laptop’s camera. A few seconds later, RTM Center E, in the basement of CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, pixelated across the screen.
While most of the RTM centers resembled a NASA control room with a wall of monitors surrounding a roomful of elaborately equipped consoles, Center E was about half as large and contained only three rows of consoles and a half dozen monitors.
Walter Thompson, the director of RTM Center E, was standing in the middle of the room wearing a headset with a wraparound mike attached to it.
Walter was an African-American with short cropped hair, thick neck muscles, and a ready smile. In his college days—years ago—he’d played linebacker for Notre Dame.
Today, he still insisted he had the body for it.
He was known around the Agency as Coach Thompson.
He’d earned his nickname, not only because of his playing days, but also because of the pep talks he sometimes gave during an operation.
I liked Coach, not just because we shared a love of football, but also because he wasn’t hesitant about interjecting a little humor into a discussion, especially when things got a little tense, which they sometimes did in RTM Center E.
My handler, Douglas Carlton, the head of the Middle East desk at the Agency, viewed all aspects of an operation very seriously and disapproved of any frivolity when it came to discussing a mission.
Because of that, Coach sometimes rubbed Carlton the wrong way.
However, being the gentleman he was, Carlton seldom voiced his displeasure, preferring instead to make his feelings known in a more subtle fashion.
Carlton was seated at the center console. As soon as Juliana and I appeared on screen, I saw him glance down at his watch. When he looked up, he began the briefing by reciting the identification tag of the operation for the official record.
“Douglas Carlton, RTM Center E, Operation Peaceful Retrieval, Code 00215.”
Carlton usually began a briefing with the timeline of events leading up to any new intel he had to share, but today, he began with Mateo Aguilar.
“I’ve just finished listening to the 319 you initiated on Mateo Aguilar. What’s your assessment?”
The official name of the signal I’d sent the Ops
Center from my Agency phone when Mateo Aguilar had made his appearance at Café de Isabella, was the Emergency Locator and Monitoring Alert. However, the signal was also known as a 319, the numbers I’d entered on the keypad.
I said, “The explanation of why he was following us made sense. His body language reflected what he was saying, and I detected no signs of nervousness in him.”
Carlton ran his hand over his bald head and said, “You know that’s not what I’m asking you, Titus. What’s your gut telling you?”
“My gut says proceed with caution.”
“Then make sure you do.”
* * * *
Carlton had been my operations officer ever since the Agency had granted my request to transfer from the Latin American desk to the Middle East desk shortly after the first Gulf war.
Ordinarily, unless there was a crossover mission, Carlton didn’t handle operations originating in Latin America or the Caribbean.
Operation Peaceful Retrieval was an exception to his portfolio.
The DDO had made the exception because of the Senator.
When I’d met with the Senator in his office after he’d received the email from Los Zetas about Ben’s kidnapping, he’d offered to hire me to find his son. However, I’d rejected the whole notion of going after Ben on my own without having the resources of the Agency behind me.
I’d explained to the Senator how going up against an organization as powerful as Los Zetas would take all the manpower and technical expertise available, and I’d told him leaving the Agency out of the equation would put Ben in even greater danger.
I’d suggested the Senator contact the DDO immediately and demand a rescue operation to find Ben.
He’d refused to do that.
He said calling in a favor from the DDO would cost him political clout.
That excuse rang hollow with me, and after hearing his response, I’d walked out of his office.
A day later, he’d reconsidered his position on the matter, and the deal he’d negotiated with the DDO had included naming me as the primary intelligence officer for the operation.
Although I would have begged the DDO for the chance to be a member of the Operation Peaceful Retrieval team, I’d refused to take on the primary assignment unless Douglas Carlton was assigned as my operations officer.
In the end, the DDO had given in to my demands and named Carlton to head up Peaceful Retrieval.
Last Friday, in the privacy of Carlton’s office before my official briefing, I’d told him about my previous conversations with the Senator. I’d even divulged how the Senator had tried to hire me to look for his son—as if I were some kind of mercenary—and I’d also admitted to defying the DDO and demanding the right to choose my own operations officer.
Disclosing all this information hadn’t been easy for me, but I’d made Carlton a promise several days earlier—a promise not to keep secrets from him—and I was determined to keep that promise, at least when it came to Agency matters.
After my confession, Carlton had pursed his lips, aligned the edges of the papers in front of him, and asked me a single question.
“Do you believe you can find Ben?”
“I’m sure of it.”
He lifted the top sheet from his stack of papers and handed it to me. “So am I. Here’s the list of protocols to make that happen.”
* * * *
One of Carlton’s protocols was making sure Juliana’s cover in Santiago hadn’t been compromised due to Mitchell’s abduction, and that’s where Carlton began his briefing with Juliana and me.
First, he quizzed Juliana about any suspicious activity she’d noticed on the ground in Santiago. Basically, she assured him she was clean, and the encounter with Mateo Aguilar was the only instance of anyone taking an interest in her in the days since Ben’s kidnapping.
Next, Carlton turned the briefing over to Coach to discuss what the Ops Center had discovered about the cartel’s communications, something the National Security Agency (NSA) referred to as chatter.
Coach Thompson adjusted his mike and smiled at the screen. “Welcome to Center E. It’s nice to see you again, Titus.”
“You too, Coach.”
“And, Juliana, I know you’re a rookie here, but we’re happy to have you on the team as well.”
“I’m looking forward to working with you.”
He bobbed his head up and down several times. “Good. Good. Now here’s the chatter the NSA has picked up from Los Zetas sources in Cuba.”
He pointed up at one of the monitors mounted on the wall where a bluish-gray graph was displayed. It showed a fairly steady line of chatter across the middle of the grid until July 2, when the activity peaked. It declined slightly on July 3, and now the line was back to normal levels.
“This graph shows the level of chatter coming out of Cuba from all the channels used by Los Zetas. Obviously, something happened on July 2, and, as you’re aware, that’s when Ben was kidnapped. After that, the levels immediately returned to normal.
“While those normal levels are a good sign there’s no one looking for any of Ben’s associates right now, we’ve also analyzed the text and phone conversations themselves. So far, there’s been no mention of you, Juliana, or, for that matter, the Agency personnel we have in Santiago doing surveillance on the warehouse.”
Juliana said, “Ben and I were never seen together in public, except for sharing the taxi from the airport, and I know he made sure he wasn’t followed when he came here to the safe house.”
“That’s excellent. We’ll continue monitoring the traffic on our end, but you should remain alert; don’t let your guard down. If you think you’re under surveillance, let us know about it immediately.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
Walter looked over at Carlton. “I’ll toss the ball back to you now, Douglas.”
Even though Carlton knew more about playing chess than he did about playing football, he took Walter’s figurative ball and ran with it. “We’ve identified three possible locations in or around Santiago where Los Zetas may be holding Ben.”
The moment Carlton started speaking, a map of Santiago and the outlying countryside appeared on the monitor above his head. Three pulsating red dots popped up on the map, along with their corresponding identity tags.
At my briefing on Friday, I’d only been briefed on two of the locations.
“We’ve added another address for you to check out, Titus,” Carlton said. “It’s a long shot, but we believe it’s a possibility.”
The new location was about thirty miles west of Santiago in the Sierra Maestra mountain range. The identity tag read El Cobre.
Although El Cobre appeared to be a small village, the name rang a bell with me.
“Didn’t the Pope visit El Cobre when he was in Cuba several years ago?” I asked.
Carlton nodded. “That’s right. There’s a famous Catholic shrine in the village.”
“Why did you—”
“I know you’re curious about why we added the El Cobre location,” Carlton said, “but right now, all I can tell you is that we received some new intel from an asset in Havana, who may have insider information on the Los Zetas organization. We’re following up on that information now, and it’s possible we’ll have more details in a few days.”
Although my first instinct was to show immediate disapproval of the delay, I decided to keep quiet. My short temper had gotten me in plenty of hot water before, but for the past few months, I’d been trying to listen to a different voice inside of me.
Carlton paused, as if he thought I might question him about the delay in getting in touch with the asset. When I didn’t say anything, he said, “For the next several days, you’ll need to focus on these two locations in Santiago.”
Using a laser pointer, he circled one of the pulsating red dots seen on an aerial shot of a building in an industrial district close to the docks. The dot was labeled Santa Rita. On Friday, I’d learned the building was an abandoned seafood p
rocessing plant.
Carlton said, “Last year, Los Zetas was using this building for repackaging their product before moving it north. Although satellite reconnaissance doesn’t indicate they’re using it for this purpose now, there’s been a definite uptick in activity here the last couple of days.”
“Sounds promising,” I said.
“The area around the docks is heavily patrolled by the PNR,” Juliana said. “Setting up surveillance in Santa Rita won’t be easy.”
The Policía Nacional Revolucionaria (PNR) was Cuba’s main law enforcement agency. Although it was often referred to as la policía, it bore little resemblance to a local police force and functioned more like an extension of Cuba’s military.
Before Carlton had a chance to respond to Juliana’s statement, Coach spoke up.
“Juliana, we’ll be giving you plenty of help from here. In addition to our satellite coverage, I’ve requisitioned a reconnaissance drone, and then later today two of our best surveillance teams will be arriving in Santiago.”
“That’s good. I could use their help.”
Coach nodded. “I’m absolutely confident you’ll be able to develop a surveillance schematic to avoid the PNR patrols.”
Juliana smiled. “I appreciate your confidence.”
I also appreciated his confidence.
Unfortunately, in the game of espionage, as well as in the game of football, it usually took more than confidence to achieve victory.
* * * *
Carlton pointed to the second pulsating circle on the aerial map of Santiago. The small dot was located in the hills above the city in an area known as El Bonete.
As he zoomed in on the location, it was evident the second site was a residence, a sprawling, ranch-style estate in an affluent neighborhood miles away from the poverty-ridden masses living near the docks.
“You’re looking at the home of Rafael Lorenzo,” Carlton said. “Our analysts are still pulling the threads on his background, but here’s what we know right now. He’s originally from Guadalajara, Mexico, and he arrived in Santiago eight years ago. Despite strict government regulations regarding property ownership, Lorenzo purchased the estate you’re looking at, plus a sugarcane plantation, all within a year of his arrival.”
Four Months in Cuba Page 3
