Four Months in Cuba

by Luana Ehrlich

  “Even better.”

  * * * *

  When Barnes went upstairs to get the drug, I pulled Juliana aside and told her what I was about to do. She offered to help me by finding out what Mateo was drinking, and after I gave my consent, she walked in the kitchen and struck up a conversation with him.

  Barnes returned a few minutes later.

  After Barnes made sure Mateo couldn’t see what he was doing, he handed me two yellow tablets.

  “These dissolve in any liquid, and you’ll begin to see the effects as soon as he’s consumed at least four ounces. Some people occasionally have a bad reaction to scopolamine, so I should probably monitor his vitals.”

  “He’ll be able to walk upstairs after taking the pills, right? Our comms equipment is in one of the bedrooms up there, and I want my conversation with him to be recorded.”

  He nodded. “Oh, sure. His gross motor skills won’t be impaired. The drug just affects his cognitive functions.”

  “If I remember how this works, he’ll act all warm and fuzzy toward me. After that, I can ask him anything, and he’ll tell me all his secrets.”

  “That’s right, and if you want him to stay focused, you should probably be the only one talking to him.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  He nodded. “Two things. First, he may want to please you, so you should try and strike a balance between interrogating him like an angry father and asking him questions like a favorite teacher. If you approach him with either one of those attitudes, he’ll probably say anything to win your favor.”

  “Okay.”

  “Secondly, he’ll be very susceptible to any suggestions. That means your questions need to be very straightforward.”

  “My questions usually are.”

  “You should ask him, ‘What did you see?’ Don’t ask him, ‘Did you see the elephant?’ In other words, don’t supply him with any answers or he’ll just agree with you.”

  “Okay, I won’t ask him if he saw the elephant.”

  Barnes laughed at my joke.

  I decided I liked the guy.

  Chapter 11

  After getting the yellow poppers from Barnes, I walked in the kitchen, where Mateo and Gloria were seated across from each other at the dining table.

  In between bites of a Cuban delicacy called pastelito de carne, Mateo was telling Gloria all about his ‘56 Chevrolet Bel Air. He had Gloria’s full attention, and I decided she was either a car aficionado or a very good actress.

  The moment Juliana saw me, she said, “I’m getting fresh drinks for everyone, Nacio. Do you want something?”

  I walked over to the kitchen counter where she was pouring drinks. “I’ll take anything that’s cold,” I said, opening my hand and showing her the two yellow pills.

  She pointed to a red plastic cup, and I dropped the pills inside. Once she gave the beverage a quick stir with her finger, she took the drink over to Mateo.

  After that, we waited.

  It didn’t take long.

  It was obvious the drug was working when Mateo began fixating on the wall behind Gloria. “Are we having an earthquake?” he asked. “I think the house is moving.”

  A few seconds later, he started rubbing a spot on the table with his finger and mumbling about his scratched fender.

  Soon, he was oblivious to anything going on around him.

  I nodded at Gloria, who got out of her chair and retreated to the living room, looking relieved her play-acting gig was over.

  Juliana whispered, “What happens next?”

  “I’ll bring him upstairs so you can record our conversation for the Ops Center. We don’t have very long, though. The medic said he’d fall asleep pretty quickly.”

  She nodded. “I’ll go upstairs and get things ready.”

  When Juliana left, I sat down in the seat previously occupied by Gloria. A few seconds later, Mateo reached over and grabbed my arm. “Nacio, I’ve had too much to drink. You’ll have to drive yourself back to the hotel.”

  Barnes appeared in the doorway with his medical bag. “It’s time.”

  Mateo looked over at me. “Time for what?”

  “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you.”

  “Okay,” he said, pushing his chair away from the table, “but I may need your help.”

  Despite Barnes’ previous assertion about Mateo’s motor skills being unaffected by the drug, he stumbled when he stood up.

  When I put my arm out to keep him from falling, Mateo laughed. “You’re such a good friend, Nacio. I’ve never had a better friend than you.”

  If that was the kind of truth, I’d be getting from Mateo, I wasn’t optimistic about gaining any new intel.

  * * * *

  By the time Mateo and I made it upstairs to the bedroom where the communications equipment was located, Juliana was already seated behind her computer.

  I directed Mateo to a bed in the corner of the room. “Since you’re feeling a little woozy, Mateo, why don’t you go lie down for a few minutes?”

  He followed my suggestion and stretched himself out on the bed. “Thank you, Nacio. This bed’s very comfortable.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  As soon as he appeared to be resting comfortably, Barnes, who had followed us into the bedroom, grabbed a blood pressure machine out of his black bag and walked over to the bed.

  “Mateo,” I said, “I’ve asked a doctor to take a look at you just to make sure you’re okay.”

  He stared up at the medic for a second, and then he looked over at me. “Is that what you’d like me to do, Nacio?”

  I nodded. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’ll do it then.”

  Once Barnes had a pressure reading, he removed the cuff and gave me a thumbs up.

  After he left the room, I pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down. “Could I ask you something, Mateo?”

  He turned his head toward me. “Of course, you can, Nacio. You can ask me anything.”

  “What happened the night you took Luis Torres to Club Nocturno?”

  He didn’t seem surprised by the odd question. “You want to know about the night I took Señor Torres to the club?”

  I remembered Barnes admonition about asking straightforward questions, so I said, “That’s right. Tell me where you picked him up and what he said to you.”

  Mateo gazed up at the ceiling. “It was very late when he called. He said he’d rented a room on Paseo de Martí and wanted me to pick him up there and take him to Club Nocturno.”

  “When did he call you?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but when I said I was surprised he wanted to go out so late, he told me he’d had a fight with a girl, and he wanted to have some fun. He promised to make it worth my while.”

  “What address did he give you on Paseo de Martí?”

  “He didn’t give me an address. He just told me to pick him up at the corner of Paseo de Martí and Calle 7. When I got there, he was standing on the corner.”

  “Did he say anything to you when you drove him over to the club?”

  He shook his head. “I asked him about the fight he’d had with the girl, but he said he didn’t want to talk about it. Mostly, he was looking at a map on his cell phone. He knew exactly where the club was located, and when we got there, he said I could leave. He told me he’d call me back in an hour to pick him up. He gave me a hundred pesos when I dropped him off, and he promised to give me fifty more when I picked him up again.”

  Apparently, the truth serum was working. When Mateo had cornered Juliana and me at Café de Isabella earlier in the day, he hadn’t mentioned anything about the pesos he’d already received from Mitchell.

  Suddenly, he sat up in the bed and leaned over toward me. “Thank you for giving me the fifty pesos Señor Torres owed me. That was very nice of you, Nacio.”

  “I wanted you to have it.”

  Since I was curious to see if he’d lied about needing the fifty pesos to r
epair his car, I asked him, “What did you do with the money I gave you?”

  “I gave it to my uncle so he could fix the Bel Air.”

  Mateo pointed his finger at Juliana, who was on the other side of the room. “That’s why I followed her at the airport this morning. I thought maybe she’d give me the money. I knew I’d never be able to collect it from Señor Torres.”

  I was about to ask him another question when I realized what he’d said. “What made you think you’d never get the money from Señor Torres?”

  “Because he’s not in Santiago anymore.”

  * * * *

  Mateo laid his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes, but I had no intention of letting him drift off to sleep after making that statement, so I reached over and patted him on the cheek several times.

  “Mateo, if Señor Torres isn’t in Santiago, where is he?”

  His eyes popped open.

  “Only Rafael Lorenzo knows where he is.”

  I played dumb. “Who’s Rafael Lorenzo?”

  He rubbed his eyes. “He’s an important man in the Los Zetas drug cartel. I saw two of his bodyguards escort Señor Torres out of the nightclub that night. They grabbed his camera and put him inside their van.”

  Suddenly, the scene of Mitchell being dragged away from Club Nocturno and thrown inside a van by two of Lorenzo’s bodyguards played across the occipital lobe of my brain.

  I could almost hear the thud of his body as it hit the interior of the cargo compartment and smell the stench of body odor coming from the two thugs.

  Before I could stop myself, I took out my frustration on Mateo. “How’s that possible? You said you dropped Señor Torres off at the club and left.”

  “Are you mad at me, Nacio?”

  I took a deep breath and dialed it back a notch. “No, I’m not mad at you, I was just surprised to hear you say you were inside the club with Señor Torres.”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t inside the club. When Señor Torres didn’t call me back, I drove over to the club to see if he was ready to leave. As soon as I got there, I saw Lorenzo’s bodyguards forcing him inside the van. A few minutes later, they drove him up to Lorenzo’s house in El Bonete.”

  I was calmer now. “How do you know that’s where they took Señor Torres?”

  Mateo pushed himself into a sitting position. This time, he drew his knees up to his chest and locked his arms around his legs, slowly rocking back and forth like a mental patient in a hospital ward.

  “I followed them,” he said. “I saw them drive the van inside Lorenzo’s gate.”

  Since I figured Mateo’s willingness to put his life in danger was motivated by some kind of monetary reward, I asked, “Did you follow the van so you could pass that information on to la policía?”

  He nodded. “Gonzalez wasn’t interested, though. He refused to pay me for the information, and he told me not to be concerned about Rafael Lorenzo’s activities.”

  “Who’s Gonzalez?”

  Mateo stared at me. “You know Gonzalez. You saw him at the museum tonight.”

  I nodded. “That’s right. He accused you of lying to him about Valentino.”

  He looked agitated. “I was telling the truth. Valentino has a drone. I saw it myself.”

  My curiosity about Valentino finally got the best of me. “Why does Valentino have a drone?”

  “He uses it to keep tabs on la policía when his dissident group stages a protest. Sometimes, he takes photographs of their protests and hands the pictures off to tourists.”

  Although I’d never heard of Valentino, I figured the Ops Center probably had a file on the guy, so I changed the subject.

  “Why do you think Gonzalez followed you to the museum tonight?”

  Mateo bowed his head. When he didn’t stir for several seconds, I thought he might have dozed off.

  A few seconds later, though, he jerked his head up and said, “Gonzalez said he was going to arrest me for giving Flores false information about Valentino. He demanded I give him two hundred pesos or he’d send me to prison again.”

  “Who’s Flores?”

  “Tomás Flores is his partner. Gonzalez probably sent him home so he wouldn’t have to share the money with him.”

  “Why would Gonzalez think you had that kind of money? You said you didn’t even have enough cash to get your car fixed.”

  “He and Flores gave me four hundred pesos a few weeks ago after I gave them information about another dissident. I guess he thought I still had the money.”

  When Mateo yawned, I realized I needed to steer the conversation back to Mitchell before he completely zonked out on me.

  “What do you think happened to Señor Torres when he arrived at Lorenzo’s house?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? When I told Gonzalez about it, he said if the photographer had betrayed the cartel, Lorenzo would feed him to the sharks, but if he’s some rich kid, Lorenzo would demand a big ransom for him. Either way, he said Lorenzo wouldn’t keep Señor Torres at his place for more than a few hours.”

  “What if he’s some rich kid, and he’s holding him for ransom?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head, “Gonzalez said Lorenzo keeps his business and his family life completely separate from each other. That’s why Gonzalez said Lorenzo would put Señor Torres on his plane and get him out of Santiago immediately.”

  “Lorenzo has his own plane?”

  Mateo yawned and nodded his head at the same time. “He uses it to visit his sugar plantation, and sometimes he flies over to the Bahamas.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m good friends with Emilio, Lorenzo’s driver.” He smiled. “You’re a good friend, Nacio, but Emilio’s a better friend than you are. He knows how to keep secrets.”

  I was careful not to show any outward reaction to this useful bit of intel. “Have you spoken with Emilio since you saw Lorenzo’s bodyguards take Señor Torres from the club?”

  He nodded. “I saw him the next day when I was at the airport waiting to pick up a client. He was driving Lorenzo over to the hangar where he keeps his plane.”

  I was careful how I phrased my next question because I didn’t want to ask him if he’d seen an elephant.

  “Did you see anyone getting on Lorenzo’s plane with him?”

  “No, he always boards his plane from inside the hangar.”

  “Where was he headed that day?”

  “Somewhere,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and resting his head on the pillow. “He was flying off to somewhere.”

  When he didn’t stir for several seconds, I tried rousing him by nudging him on the shoulder. When that didn’t work, I patted him on the cheek several times.

  However, it was soon apparent I wouldn’t be getting any more answers out of Mateo Aguilar. He was fast asleep.

  As in most interrogations, his answers had created a whole new set of questions. Was Mateo’s friendship with Emilio the reason he was so certain Mitchell was no longer in Santiago? Had Emilio told him something about Mitchell’s abduction?

  In the days ahead, those questions would keep multiplying until they reached critical mass.

  Even then, I wouldn’t have all the answers.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 12

  Saturday, July 25

  I was supposed to have breakfast with Keith Gabriel at Café Tropical on the second floor of the Meliã at eight o’clock, but, as I was getting off the elevator, I received an alert from the Ops Center informing me I should expect a phone call from Carlton within five minutes.

  That meant Gabriel would have to wait.

  Knowing Gabriel, he’d go ahead without me, and then afterward, he’d try to engage me in some nonsensical discussion about why he felt it was necessary to stuff his face before I got there.

  A week ago, Carlton had decided it was time for Nacio Bandera, the museum archivist, to make the acquaintance of Keith Gabriel, the jazz musician, and he’d instructed the two of us to make a publi
c show of meeting each other, preferably in full view of la policía.

  While it made sense from a logistical point of view for me to become friends with Gabriel—thus eliminating the need for us to sneak around in order to have a meeting—our friendship was also an integral part of the Plan of Action (POA) the Ops Center was developing to rescue Mitchell from Lorenzo’s compound.

  The day after Carlton had told us to stage a meeting, I’d walked up to Gabriel while he was standing in front of the hotel’s registration desk and introduced myself to him as Nacio Bandera. Two DSE officers were seated in the lobby, and I made sure my voice was loud enough for them to hear how excited I was to finally meet the jazz musician.

  Since then, the DSE officers had continued to scrutinize Gabriel and me whenever they saw us hanging around the lobby or eating at one of the hotel’s restaurants together, but they hadn’t demanded we show them our passports—at least not yet.

  That wasn’t the case with another guest of the hotel, an American tourist whom the DSE officers had questioned concerning his activities the night of July 13.

  According to Sofia, that was the night Federico Gonzalez, a member of la policía, was admitted to the hospital with a cracked skull. She said Gonzalez had been assaulted at the Velazquez Museum, and before lapsing into a coma, had mumbled something about a tourist hitting him over the head.

  La policía had told Sofia an arrest would be made as soon as Gonzalez came out of his coma and identified his assailant.

  However, Coach Thompson had assured me the Ops Center was monitoring all communications from DSE headquarters, as well as the hospital, and I shouldn’t be concerned about Gonzalez identifying me, or anyone else, anytime soon.

  I’d spoken to Mateo only once in the last twelve days.

  That was the morning after I’d interrogated him at the safe house, when Sofia had buzzed me on my hotel phone and told me Mateo was in the lobby asking to speak to me.

  When I’d stepped off the elevator, Mateo was there waiting for me, looking somewhat disheveled, as if he might have spent the night in his car.