Stalked: The Boy Who Said No

by Patti Sheehy

  STALKED:

  The Boy Who Said No

  Also by Patti Sheehy

  The Boy Who Said No: An Escape to Freedom

  STALKED:

  The Boy Who Said No

  Historical Fiction

  Patti Sheehy

  Copyright © 2014 by Patti Sheehy

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-60809-125-6

  Illustration copyright © 2013 by Emily Baar

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing,

  Longboat Key, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  This book is dedicated to my amazing husband and friend,

  Robert J. Hunter. And to my whole crazy—and wonderful—

  Sheehy family, especially my daughter, Patricia.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to acknowledge Frank Mederos for providing the basis for this story, for his keen memory, his patience, and attention to detail. He has been central to the writing and promotion of both The Boy Who Said No: An Escape to Freedom and Stalked: The Boy Who Said No, and I owe him a great debt of gratitude. He is not only my partner, but also a dear friend. My sincere thanks go to his wife and family for their understanding of the time demands in introducing these books to the world.

  My husband, Robert Hunter, made writing my books possible through his unwavering support in holding the fort, running errands, and cooking endless meals, while I slaved away at the computer. Hats off to Bob!

  The success of Stalked depends partly on the success of The Boy Who Said No. Hence, I owe a debt of gratitude to Christopher Walter and the Board of Trustees of the Haddon Heights Public Library for naming The Boy Who Said No One Book Haddon Heights and for their work in the book’s successful launch.

  Thanks to my family for their support, especially my father, William V. Sheehy Jr., and my brother, William V. Sheehy III, for their exceptional efforts in promoting The Boy Who Said No to their colleagues, neighbors, and friends. Their efforts exceeded all expectations, and I am truly grateful.

  Civic organizations, book clubs, and individuals too numerous to mention contributed to the success of my first book by inviting Frank and me to speak to their clubs. You know who you are. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  The International Thriller Writers (ITW) organization played a key role in getting The Boy Who Said No off to a memorable start at an honorary event that remained fresh in my mind for months.

  I want to thank my amazing friends, Patty and Rich Israel; Patrick and Michelle Delaney; Barbara and Tom Gardner; Laura and Ted Todd; Rose Fitzgerald, Joyce Herrman, Carol Larro, Nancy Gulick, Lin Sweeten, Dorie Gilchrist, Carol Beahm, Maureen D’Andrea, Ellen Youseffian, Sue Comfort, Peg Carney, Ruth Griesback, Anne McAdams, the folks at the Kennedy Health System, and so many others who went out of their way for Frank and me by opening their homes to host book events.

  Thanks to the crew at Oceanview Publishing: Pat and Bob Gussin, Frank Troncale, David Ivester, and Emily Baar for their continued professionalism. Kudos to Susan Hayes for superb editing and to George Foster for another dynamite cover design.

  PREFACE

  In The Boy Who Said No: An Escape to Freedom we follow the harrowing adventures of Frank Mederos, a member of Fidel Castro’s Special Forces, as he defects from the army, spends five months on the run from his fellow soldiers, and makes a desperate escape by boat to Key West, Florida.

  When Frank arrives in America his trials are far from over. While he works to make a life for himself, sinister forces in Cuba plot his destruction. This is his story—a tale of love, loss, courage, and friendship.

  Stalked: The Boy Who Said No is based upon countless hours of interviews with Mr. Mederos. He was able to attest to the parts of the story that directly involve him. In many areas of this narrative, however, Frank knows what set events in motion and how they played out, but the details of what happened in between remain in shadow.

  As a result, many scenes, descriptions, and dialogue have been written based on how Frank imagined them to have occurred knowing the characters, time frame, and history. Liberties were taken in creating material that Frank could only surmise, given the outcome of events. The experiences of Frank’s former commanding officer, Pino, in the cane fields and in the Soviet Union as well as the interactions among the Cuban operatives are fictionalized.

  Nonetheless, the skeleton of this story—Frank’s attempted recruitment by the CIA, his relationship with Magda and Chris, his life as an immigrant, and his encounter with his friend Lazo and the Cuban operatives in the hills of north Jersey—are true. Thus, Stalked: The Boy Who Said No is called a true-life novel.

  The names of some characters have been changed to protect the privacy of family members and those still residing in Cuba.

  No friendship is an accident.

  —O’Henry, Heart of the West

  Stalked:

  The Boy Who Said No

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lieutenant Pino picked up the phone. The forty-year-old Cuban military officer had one message for Commander Martinez, one sentence that would change the course of his life. He didn’t bother to identify himself when the commander answered.

  “It’s over,” he said. “The son of a bitch has escaped.”

  “Jesus Christ. When?”

  “Just now!”

  “How?”

  “The American Coast Guard picked him up. We intercepted the radio transmission.”

  “Christ almighty, this is all I need!”

  The lieutenant took an audible breath, but did not respond.

  “I want you back at base, pronto, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’d better have one hell of an explanation for this.” The phone went dead. Pino lifted his chin as if he were preparing for a fight and signaled to his driver to start the engine.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lieutenant Pino arrived at base at four p.m. Sensing his mood, his driver remained silent during the trip, regarding the lieutenant cautiously in the rearview mirror. The lieutenant seemed agitated, his hands fisted, his mouth twitching uncharacteristically. Thick blue veins throbbed at his temples, looking as if they were about to explode. He appeared shell-shocked and bone-tired.

  The driver pulled into base and opened the door of the Russian-made jeep. Pino stepped out of the vehicle and straightened his back. He glanced at his watch, then at his driver. His eyes were hard as cement.

  The base was unusually busy with men scurrying in different directions in frenzied activity. They saluted smartly when they saw the lieutenant, but Pino detected a trace of fear in their eyes. He found this unsettling. He knew it was going to be a long, trying day.

  Before the lieutenant walked three feet, he was told to report to Commander Martinez’s office. He tightened his shoulders and hastened down the hallway.

  The commander stood against the open window, red-faced, nostrils flaring. Pino sucked in his breath. He had seen that expression on the commander’s face before, and it never preceded anything good. Martinez stabbed Pino with his eyes, turned,
and lowered his chin. A thin layer of fat settled above his collar.

  “Shut the door, Lieutenant,” he barked. The older man’s eyes were flinty, his lips starched.

  Pino turned slowly to close the door, hoping to buy a little time to think. He pivoted to face his commanding officer.

  “So, we have a situation,” Martinez said curtly.

  Pino blinked, dreading this conversation. “A situation?” he countered. It was an instinctive reaction. He knew full well what the commander meant. He also knew this meeting would involve no fiery tango, no point-counterpoint. He could offer no real defense. He had gambled and lost. Now, there would be hell to pay.

  “What situation?” mocked the commander. “You told me an hour ago that Mederos has escaped—picked up by the American Coast Guard. I’d call that a situation. Wouldn’t you, Lieutenant?”

  Pino bit his bottom lip, not wanting to respond. He hesitated a moment and looked at the ceiling. He needed a drink—a double scotch. Finally, he nodded and said in a strangled voice, “Yes, sir.”

  “Can’t hear you, Lieutenant. Speak up!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Martinez shook his head in exasperation. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Pino straightened his spine as his stomach dropped away. “Couldn’t be helped, sir. We did everything possible to bring the worm in.”

  Pino’s commanding officer looked incredulous, as if he were still trying to process what had happened. The air in the room grew as still as that preceding a tornado. Pino looked at the commander, and an image of a Cuban boa flashed before his eyes, its body coiled, its jaws unhinged to consume its prey. Like the rodents it attacked, Pino felt he was about to be asphyxiated, eaten alive.

  “Everything possible, Lieutenant? Everything possible?” The commander paused, trying to quell the roar in his ears. “I’ll tell you what was possible,” he spat. “It was possible that we followed procedure in this situation. It was possible that we notified the police, the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR), the goddamn militia. It was possible that they would’ve posted Mederos’s picture on every window and on every telephone pole in this goddamn city, in the goddamn country if necessary.” He shook his head.

  “It was possible that Mederos would’ve been arrested the day he defected.” The commander’s voice climbed an octave as he concluded his monologue. “It was possible that this whole damn fiasco could’ve been avoided, and Mederos would rot away in some rat-ridden jail.” He hesitated a moment, giving his words gravitas. “For your information, Lieutenant, that’s what was possible.”

  The commander exhaled loudly, eyes blazing. Pino stiffened. He felt like all the oxygen had been siphoned from the room, and he was gasping for breath. Only he wasn’t. “But you! You, with your stubbornness, your willfulness, your know-it-all attitude, you made all of that impossible!’

  Pino squeezed his lips together and lifted his chin, but said nothing. The room seemed suddenly hollow, devoid of power on both of their parts. The clip of boots hitting pavement drifted through the open window. The sun cast a puddle of yellow on the linoleum floor.

  When the commander spoke again, his voice was hoarse, almost a whisper. “You and your damn arrogance will cost us plenty, Lieutenant. Both of us. Do you understand?”

  Pino bit the inside of his cheek and returned the commander’s glare. He felt a tickle at the back of his throat but resisted the urge to cough. Bile, he thought. The two men stood in silence.

  “Make no mistake about it,” said Martinez. “We’re through with this little game of yours. Your so-called state of emergency at this base is officially over.” He scoured the lieutenant’s eyes. “I am in charge now. And, as your commanding officer, I’m placing you under house arrest.”

  Pino blanched. His body grew rigid, fear cramping his stomach. Small beads of perspiration dewed his hairline.

  “I’ve notified the administrator at headquarters in Managua, and a delegation is on its way to deal with the issue,” said Martinez. “They will arrive first thing tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, you are confined to base. You will not leave, you will not go home, you will not go anywhere until further notice. You know the drill. Am I making myself clear?”

  Pino nodded. He opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. The commander looked like he would brook no argument. Still, he felt he had to defend himself. Finally, he said, “How could you do this to me? You know how loyal I’ve been to the Party.”

  The commander’s eyes widened. “Christ almighty, Lieutenant. You just don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about being a loyal communist. It isn’t about being an educated Marxist. It isn’t about being a good soldier. This is about being a total asshole!” He turned and pointed outside. “Do you see what’s going on out there, Lieutenant?”

  Pino looked out the window. He had been so self-absorbed that he had barely noticed what was happening around him. Now things were becoming clear.

  “Mederos knew everything about our operation—Christ, nobody knows that better than you.” Martinez shook his head in frustration. “He’s probably spilling the beans to some eager little CIA officer right now. This is a matter of vital importance, Lieutenant. Even an imbecile like you knows that.”

  Pino took a step backward, watching the commander carefully as he crossed to the other side of the room. A couple of minutes elapsed before Martinez spoke again.

  “I’ve ordered the men to take measures to protect us—Cuba— from the consequences of Mederos’s treason. God knows what the imperialists will do with the information he provides them. They could attack at any time—take out our missiles before we have time to move them. That’s why this base is in such an uproar.”

  Pino remained mute as a mime, knowing full well that Martinez spoke the truth. He exhaled loudly as the commander opened the door and signaled to the soldiers standing guard outside. They advanced quickly and surrounded the lieutenant, while he stood like a bronzed statue, his icy eyes staring straight ahead. To Pino’s chagrin, Martinez ordered the soldiers to escort him to his office.

  Pino walked stiffly down the hall while the soldiers held his arms. He could feel their condemnation. He could feel their hatred. Humiliation burned his cheeks.

  He checked to make sure his shoulders were back and down. He didn’t want to appear stressed in front of the men. Not now. He puffed his chest, trying to look less vulnerable. He worked to keep his breathing regular. He worked to control his rage. But he startled like a frightened alley cat when his thick office door slammed shut behind him.

  Pino looked at his large mahogany desk, at his black telephone, at his gray filing cabinet. But in his mind’s eye he saw a narrow cot, iron bars, and a pitted porcelain basin. Is this my future? My life?

  He knew a similar crime in Russia would prompt a sentence of hard labor in the ice-laden camps of Siberia where your fingers, toes, and ears would blacken and wither from frostbite. Or you could be sent to work the uranium mines in the Urals where your teeth would rot from the roots from radiation and your hair would drop in clumps, leaving your scalp red, scaly, and exposed. At least there weren’t any uranium mines in Cuba. And the country was warm. But Cuban jails were no picnic either.

  Pino stomped around his office. “Damn Mederos!” he muttered. “Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!” He lifted his arm and threw his fist into the cinder block wall, leaving scraps of skin behind. He shook his hand to release the pain, and then drew it to his mouth to suck out the sting.

  Years of work, years of study, years of kowtowing to the likes of Commander Martinez and to Lieutenant Brown and it’s come to this? For what? For one little worm?

  A shudder surged through the lieutenant’s body. His stomach clenched as a headache bloomed behind his eyes. He sat down at his desk and shuffled a few papers. He signed some forms, wondering whether this would be the last time he ever conducted official business. It was too much for him. He dropped his pen and stared at the wall. How could I, a person wh
o drinks scotch from Waterford tumblers, ever survive some concrete cesspit? Besides, it wasn’t my fault. I tried everything. I did my best.

  Pino rested his forehead on his fingertips while a fury as dark and black as lava churned his belly. He worked to control it, to harness it. As bad as things appeared right now, he knew he would be the victor. He would prevail. When he put his mind to something, he always did.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Accompanied by two soldiers, Pino headed back to his room in the officers’ barracks, located in the imposing mansion once occupied by a wealthy Cuban landowner. It was just past eight p.m. He climbed the five marble steps and entered the commodious lobby filled with gilt-framed oil paintings and fine European antiques.

  A Tabriz carpet covered the floor beneath a leather couch. The first movement of Mozart’s Symphony no. 40 in G minor played softly in the background. Cuban military officers were treated well. Pino nodded to the sergeant on duty before ascending the wide interior staircase.

  A soft breeze wafted through his bedroom window as Pino unbuttoned his shirt and removed his hat. His body was lean and muscular, and he worked to keep it that way. He fell to the floor and did a hundred push-ups before he removed his shoes and squared them at a right angle to the wall. Tomorrow morning he would set them outside his door to be polished.

  The lieutenant performed his usual evening ritual of showering and brushing his teeth before he climbed into bed. The mattress was firm, effortlessly supporting his back and weight. He set a glass of water on a cherry-veneer bed stand, anticipating a long night ahead.

  Tomorrow the brass from headquarters would arrive, throwing their weight around, asking a million questions. He could picture their faces, stern and ruthless, their mouths tight wads of condemnation, their eyes stony and accusing.