by Jose Latour
“Hey, what’s the matter?” he asked.
“He’s clean,” he heard over him. “Stand up,” he was ordered.
Elliot straightened up looking at a pair of cordovan loafers and suspected he would be facing a civilian, or an officer of the law in civvies. Sure as hell, Smith was glaring at him. To find himself winded, as if he had jogged a mile, baffled Elliot. At the other extreme of the hallway, a neighbor had very cautiously opened his front door just a crack.
“Is she dead?” Steil asked, starting to feel sorry for his captor.
“It doesn’t seem so,” Smith answered. “Who is she?”
“Don’t you recognize her? She’s Berta Arosamena.”
“What was she doing here?”
Steil turned on his heels. “You are not going to believe it. Give me a minute. Let me first …”
Smith grabbed Elliot’s arm. “Hold it, Steil. What was she doing here?”
“Wait a moment, Smith,” breaking away in anger. “I have to untie Fidelia.”
“Hey, Steil, get in here,” Hart said in a loud voice at that precise moment as he exited the apartment, looking relieved. The special agent dashed around the SWAT officer lifting Victoria in his arms, stole a look at her face, and strode purposefully to where his boss and Elliot were standing. “Your friend is worried sick,” he added.
“Did you untie her?”
“Sure. Go in,” reholstering his gun.
As Elliot stormed into the apartment, Hart told Smith they had found Fidelia bound hand and foot, the phone cord plucked out. She had gabbled that a Cuban woman had abducted Elliot at gunpoint. The officer carrying Victoria rushed to the elevator, the door being held open by another cop.
“It looks like she had taken Steil hostage,” Hart was telling Smith. “Did you see how fast she drew her gun? Makes me think she had been aiming it at him before leaving his place.”
“Take them to headquarters and make sure of that. I’ll go to the hospital with the suspect. I want no expense spared to save her life. HOLD IT GUYS,” Smith bellowed, and sprinted to the still open cage.
…
As part of the aftershock, Elliot and Fidelia were kept apart and interrogated individually, making both quite mad. Four hours later, incontrovertible proof—the reddish abrasions around Steil’s wrists and ankles at the top of the list—had dissipated Smith’s last doubts, and Hart tried to make up with the fuming Elliot.
“Listen, Steil. I didn’t sleep last night and probably won’t sleep tonight, either. I’ve got a zillion things to do, check, verify, and countercheck. But I’ll give you ten because your collaboration in this case is crucial …”
“WAS crucial. I’m quitting.”
“Okay, fine. You’re upset. I can understand that. I don’t want you to be pissed off at us, though. So, I’ll give you ten minutes, tops. It’s 1:12. Listen to me. These are the bare bones.
“This woman called Cuba from your home. She called … some-one who … is a high government official. She is a Ministry of the Interior officer, that’s a fact. She had entered this country illegally, a woman she had been trying to extort money from had been murdered, and that woman’s gardener had been found dead …”
“Who?”
“Eugenio Bonis, Maria Scheindlin’s landscaper. Ever heard of him?”
Frowning, Steil looked at the floor and reflected for a few moments. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, this guy was found dead at the airport. Capdevila, too, same place. Berta was on the run and … what comes to her mind when seeking a place to hide? Your place. This led us to briefly consider the possibility … that when you went to Cuba … perhaps you were blackmailed or coerced into collaborating with CuIS.”
“What’s CuIS?”
“Cuban Intelligence Services.”
Elliot slapped his thighs and rolled his eyes. “That I was … ? I can’t believe this. You suspected Cuban State Security of doing to me what the FBI had done to me?”
Hart turned his head and let his gaze roam over the interior of his office. The muscles at the base of his jaw swelled. “Steil, you know nothing about the methods and procedures intelligence and counterintelligence agencies employ. Many are patriotic and straightforward. But sometimes they are forced to do things that apparently are unorthodox or ethically questionable …”
“Like tapping my phone line,” Steil barged in.
“Thanks to which you are now sitting in this office,” jabbing a finger at him. “You could be dead, or wounded, or driving a criminal somewhere at gunpoint.”
Steil’s mental gears begrudgingly turned on that. “True. But why did you tap my phone line in the first place? Did you suspect me of being a spy or what?”
Hart pushed back his swivel chair and crossed his legs. “This case is still open. Years may go by before it’s closed, and I can’t divulge classified information. I’ll say what I can, though.
“Someone intimately associated to a person of your acquaintance was accused of spying for Cuba. When the investigation began, your name came up. You are Cuban; you work for a firm that does business with Latin American countries. At the outset you were only marginally involved. We didn’t tap your phone then.
“But two things happened that moved you to center stage: the death of Ruben Scheindlin and your planning a trip to Cuba. That’s when we sought authorization to tap your phone. And the tap strongly hinted you were just a victim of circumstance. Which was why we tried to recruit you. But you have a very short fuse, Steil. You were incensed at the airport. However, we were prepared to twist your arm if we had to. So we did.”
Hart paused. Steil breathed deeply. “But you kept the tap after I had agreed to collaborate with you.”
“On the chance the suspect called you,” Hart argued. He glanced at his watch. “And it paid off. Maybe the tap saved your life.”
Steil’s facial expression was doubtful. “If I had tried to wrest the gun from her, she would’ve shot me for sure. But had I done what she said, I don’t think she would’ve killed me.”
Hart smiled crookedly. “For what it’s worth, let me tell you this: Berta may have fired three nine-millimeter rounds into a guy’s head.”
“Really?”
“We are not sure yet, but it looks probable.”
“I wouldn’t have thought her capable of that. How is she?”
“It’s touch and go. She’s in ICU. Prognosis is not good.”
“Can I go see her?”
Hart’s chest and shoulders shook several times as he chuckled. Irritated by the agent’s reaction, Steil nevertheless noticed that laughter made the man’s face more human.
“No, Steil, you can’t. She’s under custody. Jesus Christ! You don’t get it, do you? That dame is a dangerous criminal.”
“Okay. I guess my ten are up. Can I go?” He got to his feet.
“Sure. But let me ask you one final favor,” Hart said as he stood, too. “If possible, try to keep your collaboration with the bureau from Fidelia. I told her that the airport cabbie who drove Berta to your apartment building mentioned her to the police when he learned that two bodies were found at the airport’s garage. He suspected her involvement in the double murder because she came from the garage looking very upset. That can provide an explanation as to how we found out where Berta was.”
Steil considered it. “Okay. Will you remove the phone tap today?”
“I can’t promise today. Tomorrow for sure.”
“I got your word?”
“You have my word,” extending his hand. Steil shook it.
“Bye.”
“Fidelia is waiting for you in the visitor’s area.”
“Thanks.”
…
The twenty-by-twenty-foot room dubbed the Cauldron in Havana’s Palace of the Revolution owed its name to the fact that all the problems of crucial import were cooked in it. The soundproof, most strictly protected meeting room in Cuba was scanned for bugs on a weekly basis and, besides Number One, only ni
neteen people had security clearance to go into it, two of whom were poor souls that cleaned up, fixed things, and applied coats of paint when necessary. The trash collected there, from crumpled papers to dust, was incinerated.
The Chief opened the door to the Cauldron from his office and crossed the threshold. He had changed from the double-breasted blue suit he had sported in the evening at the University of Havana’s assembly hall to his customary olive green military uniform. Number One was extremely pissed off by what he considered President Carter’s discourtesy. In the lecture on Cuban-American relations that Carter had just delivered at U of H, the former head of state had mentioned the Varela Project—a petition for a referendum signed by eleven thousand Cubans and filed before the National Assembly. Broadcast live nationwide, Carter’s speech had been watched by several million amazed viewers.
People abroad were aware of the Varela Project; the foreign media had reported it. However, for the Chief—and by extension for the Cuban press, government, and party—it did not exist; inevitably, the overwhelming majority had not heard about the dissident movement’s initiative. To make matters worse, three of his henchmen, possibly to curry his favor, had expressed their disagreement with Mr. Carter. Viewers’ reaction to that would be negative, the Chief felt sure.
Number One had grasped the enormous importance of publicity and propaganda as a young man. In ’53 and ’54, while serving a fifteen-year sentence for launching a surprise attack against the most important army barracks in the eastern part of the island, he penned anti-Batista articles published by the best-selling Cuban magazine. When the tyrant pardoned him and all the other surviving assailants after only twenty-one months, several newspapers and radio stations let him argue his case before he went into exile. The New York Times introduced him to the world in 1957 with a front-page interview. A pirate radio station broadcast his message while waging guerrilla warfare. For several weeks after Che Guevara and Camilo Cienfuegos won the war for him, from Hudson Bay to Tierra del Fuego only Jesus Christ got better press. Having learned the lesson well, soon after deciding he would hold on to power as long as possible, he confiscated the Cuban media and made sure no adversary could present his views to the public. President Carter, however, had accepted his invitation on the condition that he would be allowed to address the Cuban people live. Canceling the visit on a pretext would have been worse.
Beside the Commander’s kid brother, the minister of the interior and the chief of intelligence sat on the other side of the Cauldron’s rectangular conference table for sixteen. Anger was stirring within Number One’s chest. Whenever Interior had to deliver devastating news, invariably the minister told his brother first and then begged him to arrange and be present at the meeting. The Chief believed that losing the perks that went with their jobs terrified many old men who had been fearless idealists in their youth. Which was the reason they supported him all the way. The minister of the interior was one of those.
Most Cubans believed the Commander’s kid brother to be the epitome of mediocrity. It seems that he screwed up many times for every single occasion he did things right. Despite Communist Cuba’s dependence on the USSR, from the beginning the Chief had realized that in most respects—history, culture, demographics, traditions—both countries were diametrically opposed. His brother, by contrast, had tried to turn Cubans into Russians. In the seventies, entrusted with reforming the economy, he had copied Soviet institutions and procedures in detail, down to naming the new ministries “state committees,” as in Moscow. Also in the seventies, and well into the eighties, he had imposed on the Cuban army, navy, and air force all the formal aspects of the Soviet military, from the insignia of its officers and enlisted men to its ribbons, medals, and full-dress uniforms. The Chief felt forced to draw the line to such shameful behavior after a military parade broadcast live. Following orders, Cuban soldiers had shouted “Hooray” three times—as the Red Army in Red Square did every November 7—rather than “Viva.”
Had he not been his brother, he would have bumbled along through life obscurely enough, the Chief felt sure. But since babyhood the poor guy had shown him unstinting devotion, shared his moments of glory behind the scenes, comforted him in his darkest hours, and provided unquestioning obedience always. As the lone man he felt sure would never betray him, he had appointed him second secretary of the Communist Party, first vice president of the Council of State, first vice president of the Council of Ministers, and minister of the Revolutionary Armed Forces. Moreover, he had indicated many times, in public and in private, that nobody was better qualified to succeed him than his younger brother, a statement that ranked alongside his most glaring lies.
“What the fuck is the matter?” Number One barked as he closed the door behind his back.
Over the course of time, courtiers and sycophants had learned that when the Chief cussed and swore, he was in a foul mood. His intimates had noticed he was cussing and swearing a lot lately. Refusing to sit was another sign of discontent, so the three men watched expectantly as Number One reached a chair, took hold of its back with both hands, but failed to pull it out from beneath the conference table. His brother cleared his throat. The minister of the interior opened a notebook and uncapped a pen. C in C asks what has happened, he wrote.
The worried Lastra instinctively took a cigar from the top pocket of his uniform. This won him a fierce glare. The general realized his mistake and pocketed the Lancero. Ever since the Commander in Chief, had to give up smoking for health reasons, only foreigners could light up in his presence. American businessmen in particular, hoping to ingratiate themselves with their new client, arrived puffing on the choicest habanos. They had not a clue that they were subjecting their host to the ordeal of Tantalus. The wonderful smell of a burning habano made the Chief remember his years of glory, when taking a deep drag on a Cohiba was among his most cherished pleasures. Sometimes a sassy young visitor asked him why Mr. President was not smoking. His reply, invariably delivered with the resigned look of a Christian martyr, was in keeping with his role of Great Leader. He had quit to set a good example to his people.
“Look, Fidel,” his brother began, “there’s been a defection. We have a new traitor.”
“Who is he?”
“It’s a she: Micaela.”
“WHO?”
“It’s hard to believe, I know, but we are sure. She has betrayed.”
The Chief remembered her well: One of his few geniuses. Contrary to rumor, defections failed to make him seethe with rage. He was inured to it. All through forty-five years, in addition to the million Cubans who had chosen emigration to living under communism, and the two-odd million hoping to move anywhere except North Korea, hundreds of trusted members of his inner circle had turned their backs on him. A few had served time with him, fought in the mountains against Batista’s army, repelled anticommunist guerrillas years later, renounced promising futures elsewhere. Men and women who had risked their lives, sacrificed family and friends to serve the cause. Micaela was not one of them, but she had gathered, collated, and correctly evaluated the information needed to thwart three attempts on his life. The night he decorated her, she had seemed entranced, her eyes said she idolized him. He made her one of his favorite cadres, gave her a nice place to settle in Vedado, presented her with a car and computers. What were the hard-and-fast reasons for her betrayal?
Number 2 gives C in C the gist, scribbled the minister. An ominous silence reigned among the group.
The Chief squinted, turning his gaze to Lastra. The general was the only one in the room, probably in all of Cuba, capable of providing well-informed answers and plausible conclusions. For an instant, Number One wondered if he should ask. He was aware he would be fed a concoction of a few truths, numerous half truths and exaggerations, plus several outright lies. He had refined and tropicalized Machiavelli’s teachings only to become the victim of his success, for his brightest pupils had taken his precepts one step further; Lastra was one of them. The Chief’s rosy che
eks became rosier. The gray hairs under his sagging chin quivered.
“What happened, dear Comrade Chief of Intelligence?” he asked in the soft tone people dreaded even more than his explosions of anger.
Lastra stood up. “She placed herself on the auction block, Commander in Chief, and they bought her. She and her husband were spirited away three weeks ago. Both are currently in Miami.”
Number One assented thoughtfully. “How do you know this, Lastra?” he inquired next.
The general began giving the carefully crafted, succinct explanation that he had suggested, and the other two participants had approved, three days earlier. The CIA had approached Victoria Valiente’s husband during one of his many trips abroad in the nineties. In all probability, American Intelligence just hoped to recruit one more low-level informer. They had no way of knowing who the man’s wife was. But then this individual, Manuel Pardo was his name, had revealed to his recruiter that he was married to a senior Cuban Intelligence officer. Lastra admitted to not knowing when or how Pardo had managed to turn Victoria, but it wouldn’t be far-fetched to assume that she gave away the Wasp ring to furnish evidence of the sort of revelations she could make if given safe passage to the United States and paid $2.5 million.
Gabriel makes full report.
“Is that what I asked you?” trembling now, knuckles turning white on the back of the chair. What really pissed him off about successful defections was the inability to detect the traitors beforehand and send them to jail. Chief of intelligence, this naive moron! He had lost good agents right, left, and center because of his inability to find and yank out moles. A repository of incompetence is what he was.
“No, Comrade Commander in Chief. Excuse me. I know this because she called me from Miami and let on all.”
A short, reflective pause ensued. As usual, Number One’s gaze shifted over the room before veering sharply to Lastra.
