Before the conference call ended, Coach reminded me to let him know about any additional weapons or supplies we’d need to carry out the protocols of the POA. When I told him we’d send him the information within the next twenty-four hours, he ended the transmission.
As Juliana began shutting down her computer, I said, “Before you take me back to the hotel, we need to take stock of our inventory. I figure we’ll need at least another weapons package for Mark Stevens and his crew, plus some documentation for Ben just in case we get stopped by la policía on our way out of town.”
After closing her laptop, she looked over at me and asked, “Do you think Ben’s okay?”
I tried to sound as casual as possible.
“I’m sure he’s fine. Los Zetas knows how to play head games as well as we do. The cartel is just messing with the Senator by not sending him that photograph.”
“I hope you’re right,” Juliana said, removing a big plastic clip from the back of her hair.
As soon as she removed the clip, her long blond hair fell down around her face. Seconds later, she gathered the loose curls up and secured them with the clip once again.
I’d seen her do this hair thing a couple of times in Buenos Aires, and I was guessing it was more of a nervous gesture than a grooming issue. In fact, I suspected it gave her a sense of control when she was dealing with a situation that was clearly out of her control.
I knew the feeling.
As we started to leave the room, she asked, “Do you really think Ben told his kidnappers to ask his father for a ten-million-dollar ransom?”
I laughed. “Yeah, I have a feeling he did. But I also think Ben knew it was an outrageous number.”
She bit down on her lip. “Poor guy. I can’t imagine what he’s going through right now.”
When I heard the note of sadness in her voice, I surprised myself by reaching over and giving her arm a squeeze. “Trust me. We’ll get him back.”
She gave me a weak smile. “I believe we will.”
As we descended the stairs together, I said, “Ben would be happy to know you’re so concerned about him.”
“Of course I’m concerned. He’s like a little brother to me.”
“He might be disappointed to hear you say that. I don’t believe that’s the kind of relationship he wants to have with you.”
She shook her head. “I’m way too old for Ben, and besides that, do you really believe someone in our line of work can have a sustained relationship with anyone?”
When we reached the bottom of the staircase and entered the living room, I said, “I’d like to believe that was a possibility.”
“Well, so would I, but I have my doubts.”
Juliana walked over to the refrigerator. “We’ve still got some lemonade left. Would you like a glass?”
“I never turn down a glass of lemonade.”
While Juliana was pouring us both some lemonade, I opened the door to the pantry and pulled out the weapons package. After making a mental inventory of its contents, I walked over to the counter and sat down on the bar stool next to her.
After she slid the glass of lemonade toward me, she asked. “Are you involved with someone?”
Her question took me by surprise, and I sputtered around for several seconds. “Ah . . . well, sorta. It’s only in the early stages right now.”
She smiled. “You make it sound like you’re running an operation. Is she with the Agency?”
“No, she’s not Agency.”
“That must complicate things. How do you explain why you’re gone for weeks at a time?”
“She knows I work for the Agency.”
“I thought revealing your CIA status to a civilian was considered a no-no.”
I nodded. “It is. It definitely is.”
She looked surprised. “But you told her anyway?”
I shrugged. “It’s a long story, and there were some extenuating circumstances.”
“Oh, no you don’t. Not this time,” she said, shaking her head. “When we met in Buenos Aires, I told you all about my life, and all you did was give me your name, rank, and serial number. You have to tell me this long story.”
Although I felt a little weird talking with Juliana about another woman, I gave her the details of how I’d met Nikki, and then I explained why she was attending the FBI Academy at Quantico.
“I was given a similar invitation to the Academy when I was a detective, but I turned it down.”
“Why?”
She looked away for a moment. “At that time, I’d only been married for six months, and I didn’t want to be away from my husband for such a long time. I’m not sure how it is now, but the training lasted sixteen weeks back then.”
“It’s the same today.”
“Have you seen Nikki since she started the course?”
I nodded. “We had dinner together before I flew down here. She told me she was so impressed with her classes, she might even consider applying to the Bureau once she’s finished with her training.”
“I believe that happens to a lot of law enforcement personnel once they’ve had a taste of the Academy. I think that’s why my husband discouraged me from accepting the invitation. He didn’t like the feds very much.”
“Nikki really enjoys being a detective, so I’m not sure she’ll follow through with that decision.”
Juliana picked up her empty glass and took it over to the sink. “Nikki and I probably have a lot in common. I also loved being a detective, but after my husband was killed, I had a hard time concentrating on my cases. I thought it was better just to make a clean break; do something different.”
I suddenly realized I’d never heard Juliana call her husband by his given name. Whenever she’d mentioned him, she’d always referred to him as “my husband.”
I tried to think of a tactful way to ask her about it, but nothing immediately came to mind, so I took the direct approach.
“You know, Juliana, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you use your husband’s given name.”
She turned away from the sink and faced me. “That’s right. You never have.”
I waited for her to continue.
When she didn’t, I said, “You can’t just leave me hanging. Why won’t you say his name?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Because my husband’s name was Ben.”
Well, that explained a lot.
Chapter 17
Saturday, August 8
There was usually a moment in the final preparation for an operation when I experienced some kind of epiphany about whether the mission would be a success or a failure.
However, when the day of La Celebración del Turismo Cubano finally arrived, I was still waiting for that epiphany.
For the past two weeks, there’d been plenty of opportunities for me to get a sense of whether the POA was a workable plan or not. Gabriel, Juliana, and I had gone over the details numerous times, and we’d even carried out a couple of dry runs with Mark Stevens and his crew.
In those instances, we’d used the safe house as a stand-in for Lorenzo’s compound and designated the garden shed in the backyard as a stand-in for the guesthouse. The medic, Todd Barnes, had been a stand-in for Mitchell.
During the first rehearsal, Juliana and I had freed “Mitchell” from the guesthouse and all three of us had piled into Gabriel’s van and made the run out to the airport in record time; thirty minutes flat.
However, during the second rehearsal, when we’d found ourselves stuck in traffic, it had taken us more than an hour to arrive at the airport’s charter plane terminal.
The timing on the second rehearsal wasn’t acceptable because we felt certain Lorenzo’s guards would discover Mitchell was missing from the guesthouse within thirty minutes of his disappearance, and then the drug kingpin would probably use his influence with la policía to shut down the airport and cut off our escape route.
If that happened, there was a Plan B—there was always a Plan B—but that meant we’d have to head up the
Sierra Maestra mountain range on Autopista Nacional A1 toward Caimanera and make our way east until we were met by an extraction team from Gitmo.
It would be their job to take us through the minefields on the Cuban side of the fence and escort us onto the U.S. Naval base at Guantanamo Bay where we’d be handed over to a couple of Agency specialists, who’d arrange our transport back to Langley.
Although we’d gone over the details of Plan B several times with the Ops Center, we hadn’t held any actual rehearsals for Plan B.
All our attention had been focused on Plan A.
Four days ago, Coach Thompson had started doing two-a-day briefings on the POA, and to accommodate that schedule, I’d moved out of the Meliã and taken up residence at the safe house.
In the briefings, Coach had primarily been going over the latest images from our reconnaissance satellites of Lorenzo’s compound. By studying these photographs, we’d been able to observe what kind of activity was going on at Lorenzo’s house in preparation for the big celebration.
While several changes had taken place around the compound—most notably, outdoor lighting had been installed—nothing had really changed down at the guesthouse.
There were still two security guards stationed outside the front door, each armed with an AK-47, and every four hours a fresh crew would show up to take their place.
The short shift changes struck me as a little odd, but since the occupant of the guesthouse was apparently worth ten million dollars to the cartel, I figured Lorenzo was just making sure his guards stayed vigilant.
The recon photos of the guards at the guesthouse were the most encouraging signs—actually the only signs—Mitchell was still alive.
To date, the Senator hadn’t heard back from Los Zetas regarding their ransom demand, nor had his request for a proof of life photograph ever been acknowledged.
Now, as Juliana and I were driving away from Una Casa Sin Esperanza, I wasn’t concerned about the cartel’s lack of communication with the Senator. All I cared about was making sure their ten-million-dollar prize was out of their hands permanently.
I was hoping I could make that happen by the end of the day.
“Why are you smiling?” Juliana asked.
“Was I smiling?”
“You were. You were grinning from ear to ear.”
“I guess it’s because Una Casa Sin Esperanza didn’t live up to its name. I’m leaving A House Without Hope with a lot more hope than when I arrived.”
She gestured toward the backseat. “Are you talking about that box back there?”
I glanced over at the cardboard box on the floorboard. “No, I was actually talking about Ben, but you’re right; there’s a box full of hope back there.”
She smiled. “Let’s hope we don’t get caught delivering it.”
“Are you positive you want to be involved in my misdeeds? I could do this alone, you know.”
“Of course you could, but where’s the fun in that?”
* * * *
The box on the floorboard of Juliana’s car had nothing to do with Mitchell, the POA, or La Celebración del Turismo Cubano. It had everything to do with Phene and the little congregation secretly meeting behind the sand dune.
A week ago, at the end of an Ops Center briefing, Coach Thompson had told us to expect Wally and Margo, a couple of Level 2 operatives from Gitmo, to arrive at the safe house the following afternoon.
The purpose of their visit was to deliver a weapons package for Mark Stevens, plus a few other supplies and electronic gadgets we’d requested. Coach had also given us a phone number for Wally just in case there was some last-minute item we wanted in the delivery.
After Coach had logged us out of the briefing, I’d contacted Wally and told him to add another item to the packages he and Margo would be delivering to the safe house the next day.
I hadn’t said anything to Juliana about what I was doing, and when she heard me ask Wally to bring me a box of twenty paperback Spanish Bibles, she’d been surprised.
When I hung up, she began peppering me with questions.
“Did I hear you right? Did you just ask him to bring you a box of Bibles? What possible use could we have for a bunch of Bibles at Lorenzo’s compound?”
“We won’t be needing the Bibles for the operation. I plan to give them away.”
She shook her head. “Just when I think I know what’s going on, you throw me a curve ball.”
“I was planning to tell you about the Bibles after I made the request.”
“Why wait?”
“I didn’t tell you beforehand so you could claim ignorance of the whole thing. I wanted you to be able to say you didn’t know what I was doing.”
“So you were trying to protect me by not saying anything about the Bibles?”
“That’s right.”
She laughed. “You were protecting me from some Bibles? How ironic is that?”
“No, I was protecting you from the Agency rule that forbids an operative from exceeding the parameters of the mission’s original mandate.”
“What am I missing here?”
“There’s nothing in the protocols of Operation Peaceful Retrieval that mentions Bibles. If the DDO finds out I authorized Wally to deliver some Bibles to the safe house, the deputy will probably cite that particular Agency rule when he brings me up before the Disciplinary Committee.”
“You’re either paranoid about breaking Agency rules, or you and the DDO must have had some serious disagreements before.”
“I’m not paranoid about breaking Agency rules.”
“Okay, but I can’t imagine the DDO censoring you for bringing a few Bibles into Cuba.”
“Believe me he would, and he wouldn’t bother asking me why I’d decided to break the rule in the first place.”
“Why did you decide to break the rule?”
In order to fully answer Juliana’s question, I told her about finding Phene in my hotel room with my Bible, and then I explained about discovering the secret Cabana Church behind the sand dune.
After I finished my explanation, I said, “I figure if the Agency can give weapons to rebel fighters and food to hungry refugees, then I should be able to distribute a few Bibles to some persecuted believers.”
Juliana shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
“So you’re okay with this?”
She looked amused. “It doesn’t surprise me you want to help these people. I had you pegged as a religious guy the moment Ken Vasco introduced us.”
“Religious? Are you kidding? I’m not religious.”
“Then why did you look so disgusted when Ken kept joking about filming a dirty movie, or when he was making suggestive comments about women?”
“I looked disgusted because Ken Vasco is a disgusting guy.”
She laughed. “You won’t get any argument from me about that.”
“If I’d met Ken six months ago I wouldn’t have just given him a disgusting look. I would have lost my temper and said some things I shouldn’t have said.”
“Is that when you found religion?”
I smiled. “No, I didn’t find religion, but I did discover how to have a relationship with God. When my network in Tehran got blown I was forced to live with some Iranian Christians, and, believe it or not, even in their circumstances, they were a lot happier than I’d ever been in my life. They claimed it was because they’d made a commitment to follow Jesus, and they used the Bible to show me how I could have my own relationship with him.”
“So that’s why you want Phene’s little church to have some Bibles?”
I nodded. “I could never repay my friends in Tehran for what they did for me in sharing their faith, but now, I’ve been given the opportunity to do something good for these believers in Cuba, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t take advantage of it.”
“How exactly are we going to get these Bibles to them?”
I shook my head. “You’re not going to do anything. I plan to take the Bibles down to
the cabanas myself on Saturday before we leave for Lorenzo’s compound.”
“And I plan to help you.”
There was no talking her out of it.
* * * *
Even though I’d agreed to let Juliana help me deliver the Bibles to the cabanas, as she turned off the main highway onto the road leading up to the Meliã, I told her I wanted her to stay with the car.
I said, “It won’t take me but a minute to walk down to the beach and leave the box inside the cabanas.”
“Is this about protecting me?”
“No, it’s about la policía seeing an empty rental car parked on the side of the road.”
“Yeah, I guess that might get their attention.”
“The last thing we need is for them to start questioning us, especially today.”
She nodded. “You’re right. I should stay with the car.”
“Pretend you’re a tourist,” I said, opening up the glove box and pulling out a camera. “If la policía show up, tell them you’re taking pictures of the ocean. All tourists take pictures of the ocean.”
As she slowed the car down to a crawl, she asked, “Where should I let you out?”
“See that large palm tree just ahead? Pull over there. The sand dune is just down that incline.”
After Juliana pulled off the side of the road, I grabbed the cardboard box out of the floorboard. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, you know what to do.”
She nodded. “I’ll come find you.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
She smiled. “I know that’s not what you meant, and, yes, I know what to do.”
She gestured towards the ocean. “I’ll just sit here and watch the waves crashing against the rocks. That always takes my breath away.”
“Mine too.”
* * * *
As I made my trek from the highway down to the sand dune, I noticed the landscape had changed.
I attributed the change to a tropical storm which had hit the island a few days ago, and it made me wonder if the wind had damaged the cabanas or altered the shape of the sand dune. When I got closer to the beach, I couldn’t see any difference in the dune.
Four Months in Cuba Page 14
