Comrades in Miami

by Jose Latour

  The sonofabitch had been very clever, Silvestre concluded. He had never shown curiosity about computer hardware or software, accounting, or banking transactions, as the depositions given by his subordinates confirmed. Until his final day in Cuba, the bastard had pledged his support for the Revolution, participated in the rallies and voluntary works, expressed profound admiration for the Chief. How could Counterintelligence have detected his real feelings and evil machinations? Impossible. Nonetheless, it was decided that Pardo and the chain’s database manager had to go. The chain’s specialist, a mother of two recovering from a mastectomy after contracting breast cancer, had suffered a severe nervous breakdown during the investigation and was still hospitalized. They were made an example, anyway. An example of what? Nobody knew.

  Victoria and Pardo knew they had to show deep sadness and embarrassment for what had happened. Behind doors, however, they screwed like oversexed rabbits: $2.6 million salted away in a Jersey, Channel Islands, bank and twenty thousand buried at Pardo’s father’s farm proved to be a strong aphrodisiac. Ariel Camacho, the Science and Technology computer expert who had learned to admire Pardo’s professionalism while working with him in the commission, arranged for the disgraced major to make a living as a computer specialist in the Institute of Meteorology.

  “And I’ve been thinking, Victoria,” said Pardo to his wife after a month on the job, the Sunday afternoon he returned from the island’s westernmost lighthouse, the Faro de Roncali, overlooking the Yucatán Strait, “that we should start considering how to get out of here fast, in case we have to.”

  Although she had never discussed it with her husband, the lieutenant colonel had been mulling over the same thing for a while. Life had taught her that the wisest always take precautions and have alternatives. “Would you care to elaborate?” she asked.

  “Sure. The institute has stations all over the country. Some of them are in pretty inaccessible, almost deserted posts by the coastline. The most important ones have radar to track hurricanes, computers, two-way radios, and other instruments. I told you my job includes thorough maintenance checks of the computers in Pinar del Río and Havana Provinces every two or three months, and reconfiguring those that crash. When I go there, in my spare time I can fish and pretend to bird-watch, befriend rangers and coastguardsmen, check what kind of security they keep on boats, clock the patrol boat’s rounds, that sort of thing.”

  “It’s not a bad idea. But be careful.”

  Aware that the change in her husband’s life was too profound not to affect him, Victoria boosted his ego constantly and followed circuitous paths to provide indirect psychological counseling. Pardo adapted well and by January 2002 had everything ready: He and his wife could escape whenever they wished, or needed to.

  Victoria’s career had peaked thirteen months earlier, at 3:30 A.M. on December 5, 2001, when the Commander, true to his lifelong habit of working nights, had her summoned to his office. First she was promoted to full colonel, then conferred the Heroine of the Republic of Cuba medal. Her job was so secret that just three others attended the ceremony: the minister of the interior, General Lastra, and Colonel Morera.

  Catching a glimpse of the dictator’s inner circle astonished Victoria. Men who usually wore somber expressions chuckled at every cheery comment the Chief made. Knowing that he hated interruptions, they kept a respectful silence even when a pause lasted for a minute or two. They took down every significant word he said in their notebooks. None gave an opinion unless directly asked. General Lastra, a ten- to twelve-cigar-a-day smoker, knew better than to light a Lancero in his presence. The brand-new colonel left the Palace of the Revolution thinking that what was alternately referred to as respect or admiration came across as undiluted fear to her.

  Next week Victoria was presented with a well-appointed two-story penthouse on Paseo Avenue, a four-door Tico, a Dell Pentium-3 desktop computer, and an Acer laptop. What elevated her to the very privileged status that precious few Cubans enjoy, however, was to be granted unfettered Internet access from her home. Ms. Victoria Valiente had truly arrived.

  Forced to return the laptop after getting sacked from XEMIC and restricted to browse only weather sites from the Institute of Meteorology, Pardo lagged considerably behind in his field, which had progressed by leaps and bounds in two years. For this reason, the perks he valued above all others were access to the Internet and the laptop. His overconfidence grew disproportionately as well. In his opinion, Victoria was beyond the reach of surveillance, criticism, or impeachment. Nobody would dare to mess with her. And this led him to commit a grave mistake.

  “YOU WHAT?” yelled Victoria when he told her he had accessed his offshore bank site from home.

  “Hey, what’re you getting excited about? Calm down. Now you are one of the untouchables. Nobody on that server will check the sites you visit.”

  “Oh, Pardo, don’t you know there are only two untouchables in this country? That everybody else can be screened once in a while? Don’t you realize you’ve seriously compromised everything we’ve achieved so far?”

  “Take it easy. Nothing will happen.”

  “Pardo, honey, you had performed admirably. Today you screwed up atrociously. Let’s try to figure out how to cover your tracks and, if we can’t come up with an ironclad excuse, how best to face the consequences.”

  Three

  Flying over the Florida Straits, a disgruntled and crestfallen Elliot Steil scanned the sea below from his window seat. Maybe in that exact spot he had floated in desperation in the early hours of June 5, 1994, the victim of a conspiracy of which he had known nothing. His first encounter with death. And today, seven hours earlier, he had been unwillingly dragged into … what? He had not a clue. And he had not had an option. The sons of bitches! Every month thousands of people exceeded the amount of cash they could take to Cuba; some were doing it for a living and nothing happened to them.

  “Are you blackmailing me?” he had asked in astonishment, feeling his anger about to erupt, after McLellan suggested that he should call his lawyer. Then, seething with indignation, he had blurted: “Arrest me, goddammit, take me to court. I’ll tell the whole world what happened here tonight.”

  Tony had saved the day by calming him down. The cop had walked him to a corner, gripped his arm, whispered in his ear, gesticulated, urged him not to be a shit-eater, reasoned with him for almost fifteen minutes. Elliot would be a fool if he refused to go along, Tony had contended. In the post–September 11 national hysteria, refusing to collaborate with the FBI on a case that involved a country accused of being part of the Axis of Evil was tantamount to high treason. Was Elliot willing to go to prison? Had he considered that he might have to spend all his money in fines and legal fees? That he could lose his job and Fidelia as well? “For Chrissake, Elliot, chill out, think,” his friend had said over and over.

  “Tony, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do,” he had objected feebly.

  “You don’t have to do anything, dickhead, that’s the beauty of it. Didn’t you hear what the man said? You go to the places you want to go, visit the people you want to visit, fuck the beautiful putas if you feel like it, and if—you hear me?—if someone approaches you with some suspicious-sounding proposal, like delivering a letter, a package, or a message to somebody here, you say yes, fly back, and make a report. C’mon. Let’s talk to these guys. Don’t strike an attitude. Say you’re sorry. You flipped your lid. C’mon, c’mon.”

  Following his acquiescence, they had taken it from the top. Hart gave him a crash course in what informers do. He had to commit to memory as much as possible; taking notes was out of the question. The FBI agent wanted detailed descriptions of people who asked Steil to do something for them in Miami, from mailing a letter to giving a message to someone. Where he had been approached had to be reported as well. And, most important of all, he must remember who he had to contact in Miami and what message he had been told to pass on. Hart insisted that Elliot must not agree to the proposi
tion immediately, especially if it stank of being unlawful. Were that the case, he should make himself difficult to persuade and pretend to dread a brush with the law to see if he was offered money, threatened (here Steil had chuckled), or asked to act out of patriotism. If neither of these overtures was tried, then he should say he would do it as a big, one-time favor.

  At 4:35 A.M., his money belt intact, his pride in tatters, he had returned to his place in the queue. The Latin-looking agent who he had been told was keeping his place was standing behind the guy with the salt-and-pepper mustache, with a dozen or so newly arrived travelers behind him. The cop, detective, snitch, or whatever the man was immediately turned on his heels and hurried to the exit.

  What would Fidelia say should she learn what had just happened to him? She would rant and rave about governments and their agencies, curse politics and politicians, remind him that the first time he had mentioned his desire to visit Cuba, she had objected in the strongest possible terms. Women and their sixth sense.

  Having sex on Friday night, he had felt wetness on her face, and found her silently crying. “What’s the matter?” he had asked. Stupid question. He knew what the matter was and there had been nothing to discuss. Fidelia had started sobbing disconsolately. He had pulled himself out and lain at her side. Then she had rested her head on his chest and cried herself to sleep, her fingers twitching every few minutes.

  They had debated his trip on five or six different occasions since Christmas. She had been firmly against it. “You can send money, clothes, and medicines with a mule. You can afford it,” she had argued a couple of times, as if he had not known. Once she had asked: “Are you still in love with Natasha?” Natasha was his first wife, a hopeless mental patient for many years now. “Elliot, tell me the truth, do you have a son or daughter in Cuba I don’t know about?” He had tried all possible means to reassure her, calmly explaining that he considered it his duty to lend a hand to relatives and friends; that he longed to pace the streets of his hometown and the city in which he had lived for so long. All to no avail. Then he had tried to laugh off her fears and reservations. Nothing had persuaded her, she had never agreed.

  “Is this your first time back?” the overweight, very light-skinned black woman next to Steil was asking. She appeared to be well into her sixties.

  “Yes, señora.”

  During takeoff she had been slipping the beads of a rosary through her fingers, but as soon as the plane leveled off she dropped the rosary into her purse. She carried several thousand dollars in gold and precious stones on her. Chains, medals, bracelets, rings, earrings, and anklets. It had to do with status. Some impoverished Miami Cubans even rented jewelry when visiting their relatives in Cuba, had themselves photographed alongside a Lamborghini or a Ferrari Testarossa—while the rightful owner had lunch or dinner at some fancy Miami Beach club—to prove how well they were doing in La yuma to their friends and relatives. Cuban criminals had killed a few to rob them.

  “And when did you leave?” she asked after a moment, too obviously trying to strike up a conversation.

  “In 1994.”

  “Almost yesterday. I left in ’61. Can you imagine? I’ve visited eleven times, not counting this. The first was in ’78. I used to work at Woolworth’s before the revolution. The ten-cent store at the corner of Galiano and San Rafael. You ever been there?”

  “No, sorry,” he lied, then turned to the window.

  “Well, the ten-cent was the most beautiful department store in Havana,” the woman went on, undiscouraged by the snub. “Now it’s in ruins. Last time I was there, I nearly cried. Why do they let things deteriorate so much?”

  Her traveling companion, in a foul mood, abstained from answering and kept looking at the clouds and the sea. The woman sighed and clammed up. He saw a merchant ship sailing dead south. Elliot estimated that the shortest route to the Panama Canal would be considerably westward; to South America much more to the east. Was this one of the U.S. ships transporting American agricultural produce to Cuba? Probably. Having baited the hook with a billion dollars of potential annual purchases, the old fox had American farmers drooling, and administration officials seething. In the future he would demand trade reciprocity. No country can only buy from another, he could correctly argue. But not now. Now he was just buying and immediately paying with cash. Establishing a good reputation with the farmers, businesspeople, and traders who hadn’t been born or were kids when he had assured worried folks the world over that he was not a communist. Guys who had not yet reached middle age when he was exhorting Third World countries to default on their external debts. The man knew that, given the chance to make money, businessmen overrode other considerations, Steil concluded with a sigh. Well, they would learn their lesson in good time.

  Elliot turned his gaze from the sea below to the horizon straight ahead and yes, there it was, still a hazy promise in the Gulf’s palette. Emotions failed to stir inside him. His admiration for Cuba’s geographical beauty and for the kindness of its people had been tempered by the unpleasant realities he had experienced there, by the years of frustration and discrimination, by the tiny percentage of bastards he had had to deal with. Even though Christopher Columbus had allegedly termed the island “the most beautiful land human eyes have ever seen,” Elliot speculated whether the emotion of discovery had carried the admiral away. Were it possible only to consider their nature and nice people, most countries in the Caribbean may be justly proclaimed Gardens of Eden.

  Nonetheless, when after a minute or two he watched the sea turn from indigo blue to cerulean to the sapphire of shallow waters, as he squinted at the sun’s blinding reflection on the sand of a beach resort, then delighted in the lush green of planted fields, in the reddish tones of the soil, in the olive-colored hills, he felt an indefinable, enervating nostalgia. Elliot was scanning the coastline for Santa Cruz del Norte when the captain announced over the PA that within a few minutes they would land in Havana, where the temperature was 28 degrees Celsius and humidity 85 percent.

  The bejeweled lady pulled the rosary out, closed her eyes, and began to mouth prayers. Elliot stared at her. That woman had to love or miss someone or something in Cuba very much. Obviously terrified of flying, she had visited on eleven different occasions over twenty-four years. For whom or what did she submit to something she dreaded so much? A religion? Her parents? A son or daughter? A lover? Friends? Her neighborhood? He would never know.

  The Havana skyline diverted Elliot’s attention from the praying passenger. For the first time he was seeing the Cuban capital from a plane. He searched for the highest structures: the National Capitol, next the José Martí monument in the Plaza de la Revolución, the FOCSA, the Habana Libre Hotel, in which he had booked a room. The sprawling metropolis looked peaceful, dreamy, its pockets of poverty invisible. Elliot figured that had capitalism gone unimpeded, now the horizon would be dotted with hundreds of shining glass-and-steel skyscrapers. Was it better to have kept its architecture frozen in time, the old contaminating American cars blending in with it? Highly debatable, he thought.

  Approaching the runway, he was pleased by the asymmetry of ploughed and planted fields. Buildings gained in size, the roads got wider, the trees and palms bigger; several men hoed what seemed like a recently planted sweet potato field. Bump. Aaand bump. The praying woman heaved a sigh of relief and, grinning, started what turned into a round of applause. Her rosary swung wildly in all directions and the silver crucifix scraped Steil’s left cheek.

  “Ouch.”

  “Oh, señor, I’m so sorry.”

  Steil inspected the palm of his hand. No blood. “No problem, señora. It’s nothing.”

  “Let me see. There’s a small scratch, but no bleeding. A crucifix will never harm anyone, señor. The Lord has touched you. Maybe I was his instrument. If not, please forgive me.”

  “You are forgiven, señora,” Steil said, thinking that some heavenly intercession would be most welcome.

  “I’m so excited! And you?
”

  “Yes, I’m excited, too.”

  The plane taxied to the oldest of three terminals, reserved for national flights and for those from or to Miami. The young immigration lieutenant who took Elliot’s Cuban passport and the form he had filled out on the plane looked self-important and wet behind the ears. Apparently surprised at finding an Anglo name on a Cuban passport, he asked where Mr. Steil would be staying and seemed relieved when the visitor said “Habana Libre.” Next the officer wanted to know when he would go back to the United States. “In a week.”

  “Where did you live before leaving Cuba?” Elliot dictated the address.

  “Visiting relatives?”

  “And friends,” he added. The man stamped his passport and waved him to the baggage claim area.

  A uniformed young woman approached him and volunteered to find his carry-on. He nodded and surrendered his receipt. Forewarned that trained dogs sniff every piece of baggage for drugs and explosives, Steil braced himself for a long wait. Twenty-five minutes went by before the conveyor belt began spewing out “worms,” suitcases, carry-ons, and cartons sealed with all sorts of sticky tapes. Three-quarters of an hour elapsed by the time the young woman found his carry-on. He tipped her a dollar and moved along to where four customs inspectors were asking passengers whether they had something to declare and, in seemingly random manner, inspecting one out of every ten or so pieces of baggage. Steil’s won the lottery and it was superficially examined. From Transtur he rented a Mitsubishi Lancer at $125 a day. He had been told that visitors were milked dry mercilessly, but this rate made him click his tongue, smile, and shake his head sadly.