Four Months in Cuba

by Luana Ehrlich

  At my briefing on Friday, I was told the El Bonete property was targeted because of its connection to the Los Zetas cartel.

  However, no one had mentioned Rafael Lorenzo.

  “Last Friday you said the residence was tied to Los Zetas. What about Rafael Lorenzo? Can I assume he’s also affiliated with the cartel?”

  Carlton nodded. “While Lorenzo’s background is sketchy, his affiliation with the cartel is well-documented. In Guadalajara, he was a member of the Jalisco cartel. When they merged with Los Zetas, he became part of Zetas’ inner circle. There’s also evidence his betrayal of the Jalisco organization brought about the bloodbath that followed the Los Zetas merger.”

  A collage of photographs appeared on the overhead monitor. They were all of a heavyset man with wavy black hair and a drooping mustache. In several of the photos he was leading a large group of protesters carrying signs about worker oppression and low wages.

  “These are newspaper clippings of Lorenzo in Guadalajara when he was protesting government mandates against the formation of independent unions. Back then, he was heavily engaged in political causes.”

  Before Carlton went to the next slide, I asked, “Any idea why he got involved in the drug trade?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Our analysts are still digging into his background.”

  The next image was a single photograph.

  It showed a much older Lorenzo with graying temples and a pencil-thin mustache. In the photograph, he was seated at a long table with several men on either side of him. The men at the table appeared to be listening to a well-dressed man standing behind a podium. Next to the speaker was a banner that read, “Celebrado El Día De Amistad Cuba-Canada.”

  Carlton said, “Although Lorenzo keeps a low profile in Santiago, he occasionally meets with a group of businessmen and government officials to promote Cuban tourism. This picture was taken during the annual Canadian-Cuban Day of Friendship.”

  In 1962, when the United States imposed an economic embargo on the island, Canada refused to go along with Washington’s foreign policy. Instead, they’d forged even stronger ties with the Caribbean nation.

  Consequently, Canada was now one of Cuba’s biggest trading partners, and the island was a favorite vacation spot for many of our neighbors to the north. Fidel Castro had even declared an annual holiday to honor Cuba’s friendship with Canada. Appropriately enough, it was called “Friendship Day.”

  “Isn’t the man behind the podium the governor of Santiago province?” Juliana asked. “I’ve seen his face plastered on billboards all around the city.”

  “That’s right. His name is Ignacio Gilberto, and from all indications, he and Rafael Lorenzo have forged a mutually beneficial alliance.”

  I asked, “Is the alliance based on Lorenzo’s ties to Los Zetas?”

  Carlton nodded. “There’s evidence the drug cartel paid off the governor to look the other way while Los Zetas established a base of operations in Cuba. Our analysts say a preliminary scan of the data indicates regulations are being bypassed to allow the purchase of property by Los Zetas associates, and government officials are also expediting permits to build on those sites.”

  I asked, “To what end? Why would the Cuban government help the cartel gain a foothold on the island?”

  “It’s advantageous to both parties. Cuba’s economy needs the cash and Los Zetas needs a safe transit point for shipping their heroin from Colombia to Mexico.”

  “That kind of alliance would certainly make it easy for the cartel to carry out a kidnapping without fear of repercussions.”

  “You’re right. The cartel seems to be operating very freely in Santiago,” Carlton said.

  Juliana asked, “Do you have any evidence Lorenzo could be holding Ben at his estate in El Bonete?”

  When Juliana asked the question, I just assumed the answer would be no. I figured the DDO would have ordered the SOF unit to do an immediate snatch and grab if there had been any evidence Ben was being held at Lorenzo’s place.

  Carlton said, “We believe that’s exactly where Ben is being held.”

  Chapter 5

  When Carlton made this assertion, Juliana gasped—although she denied it later—and I felt my heart rate go up a beat or two.

  “Then why didn’t the SOF unit grab Ben as soon as you had this information?” I asked.

  By the look on Carlton’s face, I realized the decibel level of my voice was a couple of notches too high.

  “Hold on, Titus,” Coach said, “Before you start calling your own plays, you need to take a look at all the evidence.”

  He aimed his laser pointer at an image of the exterior of Lorenzo’s residence. Although the photograph had been taken from the air, it wasn’t an aerial view.

  Instead, it was a clear, full-frontal view of the house, the kind a photographer might shoot with a zoom lens from a short distance away.

  Because I’d seen this type of recon photo before, I immediately knew no human photographer had been anywhere near Lorenzo’s house when the picture was taken. An Agency drone, with a camera mounted on its underbelly, had been responsible for the shot.

  The process wasn’t entirely automatic, though.

  More than likely, a Level 2 operative had been seated next to the person flying the drone just to make sure the camera captured all the pertinent details, everything a Level 1 operative might find interesting about the residence of Rafael Lorenzo.

  What this Level 1 operative found interesting wasn’t the beauty of the hillside home with its sandstone-colored exterior and its red-tile roof, but the wall around the estate, the security cameras mounted on the fence, and the armed guards at the front gate.

  Coach Thompson used his laser beam to draw attention to all these security details, and then he quickly moved on to the next slide.

  That’s when things really got interesting.

  At the far end of the property was a guesthouse, basically a mini-version of the main house. Unlike the main house, all the windows in the guest quarters were boarded up tight, as if a hurricane might hit the island at any moment.

  If the camera hadn’t captured the armed guards standing outside the front door, I would have concluded Lorenzo’s guesthouse was unoccupied. However, the men with the AK-47’s stationed around the place seemed to suggest otherwise.

  “Okay, I might have been a little hasty in my judgment,” I said. “If the SOF unit had tried to initiate a rescue, they probably would have encountered considerable resistance, and Ben could have been killed in the process.”

  Carlton frowned when he looked at me. “As you may recall, Titus, there’s a reason the DDO named this operation Peaceful Retrieval. You’d do well to keep that in mind.”

  I knew I deserved the reprimand, so I kept quiet.

  Juliana asked, “Have there been any actual sightings of Ben at Lorenzo’s house?”

  Coach shook his head. “None whatsoever.”

  Carlton added, “That’s something to consider, but it might not be all that relevant. The recon satellites are only able to capture images within a small time frame, and to avoid detection, we’ve kept drone coverage to a minimum. The photographs you’re seeing here were taken when the angle of the sun made it virtually impossible to detect the drone’s presence.”

  I said, “If I’m hearing you correctly, you’re saying there’s no way to tell if Ben is being held in either the Santa Rita location or the El Bonete location without having eyes inside.”

  “That’s correct,” Carlton said. “At both of these locations, you’ll need to target one or two assets you can use to determine what’s going on inside, and you’ll also need to examine the vulnerabilities of the locations themselves. On our end, we’ll continue to monitor the chatter, analyze the data from our signals intelligence, and run aerial reconnaissance.”

  Juliana said, “It sounds as if we’re talking about days, possibly weeks, before we can come up with a workable plan to get Ben out of there. Is that timelin
e acceptable when Ben’s life is in jeopardy?”

  Coach said, “We’re only in the first quarter, Juliana. Keep in mind the cartel’s end game. Their objective is a huge ransom payment. Unless Ben’s alive, that’s not going to happen.”

  I agreed with Coach Thompson’s assessment, but, when it came to the definition of alive, Los Zetas sometimes defined the concept a little differently.

  For me, alive meant the sooner I got Ben out of there, the more alive he would be.

  * * * *

  When it appeared Carlton was about to conclude the briefing, I decided to let him know I wanted to have a chat with Keith Gabriel before he left Santiago.

  Did I have to tell my operations officer I was about to make contact with another Agency operative? Technically, that was one of those gray areas.

  Agency regulations prohibited direct contact between intelligence officers in separate divisions unless they were involved in a joint operation. However, members of the Select Operations Force reported directly to the Deputy Director of Operations, so, technically, the SOF unit wasn’t actually part of any division.

  That was the gray area.

  Carlton hated gray areas.

  Gray areas made things messy. When things got messy, Carlton got perturbed. When Carlton got perturbed, I heard about it.

  In the end, the decision to tell Carlton was a no brainer.

  I said, “Before we finish up here, Douglas, I wanted to let you know I plan to have a one-on-one with Keith Gabriel before he makes the return trip to Langley.”

  Carlton immediately thumbed through a stack of papers in front of him and pulled out a document. “The DDO sent me the SOF unit’s report yesterday. Evidently, Keith was already convinced the cartel had grabbed Ben before the Zetas made contact with the Senator. I doubt if he has anything new to add to his report.”

  “Keith told Juliana he stayed over because he wanted to give me an update on Club Nocturno.”

  “That was probably just an excuse for him to stick around. His success rate at finding missing personnel is nearly perfect, so I don’t imagine he’s looking forward to going back to Langley and explaining things to Deputy Ira. Don’t be surprised if he offers to tag along on your operation.”

  “Would the DDO approve of that request?”

  As soon as I asked the question, Carlton’s facial expression changed. It was a subtle change; mainly, his eyes shifted to his left and his mouth tightened up a little.

  Moments later, when I noticed some movement by the doorway, I understood what was happening.

  “Would I approve of what request?” the DDO asked.

  * * * *

  Robert Ira, the Deputy Director of Operations, paused as he entered RTM Center E. Since the subdued lighting in the room contrasted sharply with the harsh lighting in the hallway outside, there was a possibility the DDO was simply giving his eyes a few seconds to make the adjustment to the change.

  However, I didn’t seriously believe his eyesight was the reason he was lingering in the doorway. I was pretty sure he was standing there because he wanted to draw attention to himself.

  The DDO enjoyed the spotlight.

  He reveled in making an entrance.

  Such behavior wasn’t usually necessary because, ordinarily, he garnered enough attention by his height and girth alone. In addition, his ego-driven personality invariably demanded people take notice of him.

  Carlton rose to his feet and gestured toward an empty console. “Deputy Ira, please come in. Have a seat. We’ve been expecting you.”

  I hadn’t been expecting him.

  That was probably my fault.

  I should have known something was up as soon as I heard the time of the briefing had been changed. Ordinarily, a briefing wasn’t rescheduled unless the Ops Center had received some new intel.

  Or, in this case, if the DDO was planning to do a drop-in, and the time needed to be changed in order to accommodate his schedule.

  The deputy ambled over to the seat beside Carlton and eased his considerable bulk into the chair. As soon as he looked up, he asked me again, “Would I approve of what request?”

  For a brief moment, I thought Carlton was about to respond.

  That would be par for the course. He often served as a buffer between the DDO and me.

  This time, though, Carlton didn’t say a word.

  I was on my own.

  I said, “When you walked in, I was in the middle of telling Douglas about my plans to talk with Keith Gabriel, and I’d just asked him if Keith wanted to join Peaceful Retrieval if you’d consider his request.”

  “Why would you want Keith assigned to the operation? Don’t you prefer working alone?”

  “Ah, yes . . . yes, I do, and, just to be clear, I wasn’t making a request for additional personnel.”

  Suddenly, I realized I couldn’t adequately clarify my response without excoriating both the DDO and Carlton. As I hesitated, I felt every neuron in my cerebral cortex scrambling to and fro trying to come up with an appropriate response.

  I continued, “However, I know Keith has had great success in locating missing Agency personnel, so if you should decide to assign him to Peaceful Retrieval, I’d be happy to have him on the team.”

  He nodded. “I might give your idea some thought.”

  My idea?

  * * * *

  In an apparent effort to draw the DDO’s attention away from me, Carlton spent several minutes updating him on what had happened when Juliana and I had encountered Mateo Aguilar at Café de Isabella.

  He listened attentively without making any comments until Carlton mentioned I’d hired Mateo as my driver.

  At that point, he nodded approvingly and said, “Smart move.”

  I couldn’t tell if the DDO was acknowledging my initiative or mistakenly crediting Carlton with it.

  It didn’t really matter.

  Taking credit for a minor operational detail wasn’t always a good idea. On the other hand, accepting blame for a major failure could work to one’s advantage.

  * * * *

  Once Carlton had finished updating the DDO, he addressed Juliana and me. “Deputy Ira is here to brief you on Senator Mitchell’s latest email from the cartel.”

  Six days ago, Los Zetas had sent the Senator a brief email with a simple message. “Your son is alive and well, but it’s up to you to make sure he stays that way. We’ll be in touch.”

  At that time, no specific demand for ransom had been made.

  That wasn’t surprising.

  For over two decades, the drug cartels had been kidnapping rich Americans and holding them for ransom, and by now, they’d perfected the practice and knew exactly how long to string out the process in order to achieve the optimum results.

  A copy of the cartel’s most recent email appeared on the monitor above the DDO’s head. The DDO read it out loud to us.

  “What value do you place on your son, Senator? How much is he worth to you? We’ll be in touch.”

  Like the first email the Senator had received from Los Zetas, this one was signed with the letter Z. There was a small icon in the subject line indicating an attachment had been embedded in the message.

  The DDO said, “Senator Mitchell personally brought this newest email over to the Agency a few hours ago. It showed up in his inbox around eight o’clock this morning, but he assured me—as per our instructions—after acknowledging receipt of the message, he didn’t send the cartel any kind of reply.”

  The deputy looked up at the monitor. “This was the photograph attached to the email.”

  A week ago, when the Senator had received another photograph of Ben, he had appeared to be in good shape—no sign of torture, no weight loss, no injuries. Now, since another week had passed, I was prepared for a major change in Ben’s appearance.

  My expectations were based on what I’d seen at our forward operating base in eastern Afghanistan when I’d been called in to interrogate some high-value targets before they were shipped off to
Gitmo.

  During my time there, I’d noticed some of the prisoners had experienced a dramatic change in appearance after a week’s confinement. Since none of the prisoners were being subjected to any kind of physical abuse, we were told this was due to the psychological effects of the isolation, which took an enormous toll on some people.

  As I studied Mitchell’s appearance in the new photograph, even though another week had passed, I thought he looked remarkably well. In fact, I couldn’t see any difference in the two photographs.

  Mitchell was staring directly at the camera while holding up a current international edition of The Miami Herald. It was the exact same pose as in the previous photograph of him.

  I spent a few minutes studying his posture, his facial expression, and his overall demeanor. I was looking for a clue, a signal, anything that might indicate where the cartel was holding him.

  I also scrutinized how he was holding the newspaper.

  As part of our training at Camp Peary, we were given instructions on how to send a hidden message through a photograph. One of those methods involved hand signals. Since he’d graduated from The Farm less than six years ago, I had to believe those instructions were still fresh in Mitchell’s mind.

  However, his face was impassive. In fact, he looked almost indifferent. What’s more, his hands were splayed out across the front of The Miami Herald as if he were deliberately trying not to send a signal.

  Was that it? Was that the sign?

  How could a non-signal be a signal?

  I had no clue.

  * * * *

  Juliana seemed mesmerized by the image of Mitchell. Knowing this was the first time she’d seen him since the night he was kidnapped, I viewed her reaction as understandable.

  She was probably surprised at his facial expression—or the lack of one. The Ben she knew was usually animated.