by Patti Sheehy
“I want to know a lot of things, Frank, but that certainly ranks high on the list.”
Frank nodded, but remained silent. He looked out the window. A hummingbird sipped nectar from the coral blossoms of a hibiscus bush. It reminded him of a helicopter. He wondered how the bird could possibly suspend itself in the air the way it did. That was the kind of thing military engineers all over the world would study.
Frank looked at Carlos. “Do you have children?”
“Two,” he said. “A boy and a girl.”
“Helluva world to raise kids in.”
Carlos cleared his throat as a film of perspiration slicked his forehead. He took a deep breath. “The location, Frank,” he said softly. “Where’s the location?”
Frank looked at him and exhaled. “You aren’t going to believe this.”
“Try me.”
Frank sat back in his chair, momentarily lost in thought. Carlos watched him closely. Frank rolled his head in a circle to release the tension in his neck as Carlos eagerly awaited his response. Frank’s mind flashed back to when he was first taken to the place the missiles were kept.
He remembered being blindfolded and driven from base to an undisclosed location. At the time, he had no idea where he was going, but he knew enough not to ask questions. Not a word was spoken on the trip. As they drove, Frank became increasingly nervous that Pino had discovered his plans to escape. If so, he was being escorted to his execution. No trace of his remains would be found. That’s how things happened.
Frank’s gaze drifted to the palm trees rustling in the breeze, and a shudder coursed through his body. Suddenly, the hairs on his arms stood on end. He ran his hands briefly over his arms to warm them.
Carlos fixed his eyes on Frank. There was a long silence before he said softly, “Frank, you’ve got to help me out here. It’s important.”
Frank turned his head back to Carlos and nodded. “I know,” he said. He hesitated a moment and took a deep breath. He was about to provide the CIA with the very information Pino feared he would disclose if he ever got to the States. That’s one of the reasons why the lieutenant had pursued Frank so relentlessly. In a very strange way, this was Frank’s moment of triumph. But he didn’t feel triumphant. Instead, he felt a profound weariness.
Frank looked at Carlos and said softly, “The missiles are located in chicken coops.”
Carlos’s eyes widened as if he hadn’t heard right. “Chicken coops?”
“Yes, chicken coops.”
Carlos sat back while he processed this information.
“How do you know?”
Frank smiled briefly. “I was there. I was blindfolded, but I learned the exact location later.”
“Then we have a lot to talk about.”
“We do. But right now I’m hungry.”
Carlos hesitated a moment, thinking. “Then let’s get some lunch.”
The men pushed back their chairs, walked down the hall, and stepped outside. They blinked against the Florida sun. Jasmine scented the April air. They got into Carlos’s black Buick and drove to a mom-and-pop restaurant in Little Havana. The owner greeted Carlos warmly and escorted them to a small table at the back of the restaurant near the kitchen. They heard pots and pans clang against a stainless steel sink.
Since Frank had arrived in America, he felt as if he couldn’t get enough to eat. He devoured two roast pork sandwiches piled high with meat and roasted peppers and finished off the meal with a tall glass of iced tea. Carlos watched Frank eat with satisfaction. He waved to the waitress to bring him another drink. Frank smiled his appreciation and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“Tell me about your family, Frank.”
Frank nodded, thinking about them. “My parents live in a small house in Guanabacoa. My father works in a fertilizer factory. Backbreaking work. Long hours. He takes the night shift for extra pay. Money is tight. My mother’s a housewife.”
“Siblings?”
“Yeah, a whole bunch.” He laughed thinking about them. “Little rascals. I’m the oldest.”
“Aunts, uncles?”
“Another whole bunch.”
“Anyone else you were close to?”
“My grandfather—” Frank started. His voice cracked a little, and he stopped speaking.
Carlos regarded Frank with curiosity but remained silent. Finally, he nodded as if to signal Frank to continue. Frank cleared his throat.
“Other than my parents, I was closest to my grandfather. Smart man. If it weren’t for what he taught me, I would’ve never made it.”
“What did he do?”
“For a living?”
“Yes.”
“He was a fisherman.”
“What did he teach you?”
“Survival skills—how to read the stars, the currents, and the wind. How to outsmart the communists.”
“So, he wasn’t a communist?”
“Hardly! He was a religious man. He hated communism. We used to have long talks about it.”
Carlos smiled as if remembering something. Then he dropped his napkin on the table and signaled the waitress for the bill.
When they got back to the office, Carlos gestured for Frank to again take a chair. He flipped through his notes before turning his gaze toward Frank.
“We were talking about the location of the missiles,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Where is the facility located?”
“Not far from the airport in Rancho Boyeros.”
Carlos raised his eyebrows. “The airport? That’s a highly populated area.”
“I know. They did it on purpose.”
Carlos nodded slightly.
“Why?”
“For protection against enemy attack. They figure the Americans won’t bomb a site where too many civilians could get killed. Propaganda and all that.”
“I understand. Can you describe the facility?”
Frank pulled his chair closer to the table. “Several buildings are lined up next to each other. Chickens are kept on either end of the buildings to make it look like a real chicken farm. You’d never suspect it was a missile storage facility.”
“Where are the missiles kept?”
“Underground.”
“How do you access them?”
“Through a trap door in the floor. It’s well disguised.”
“Do you know how many missiles are kept there?”
“Precisely.”
Carlos regarded Frank curiously. “How do you know that?”
“I took inventory. I counted all the missiles and recorded their serial numbers.”
“How many are there?”
“Upward of a thousand.”
Carlos leaned back in his chair and whistled. He sat up straight again and made another note.
“Is there any way to identify the missile sites from the air?”
“I doubt it. They’ve gone to great lengths to disguise the operation. It would look just like a chicken farm from the ground or from the air.”
“Could you locate it on a map for me?”
“Of course.”
Carlos reached behind him and unrolled a map of Cuba. He handed him a felt marker, and Frank circled the area in question. Carlos stared at it for a moment and then excused himself. Frank heard him speaking in hushed tones to someone in the hallway. When Santo returned, he looked more relaxed.
“This is important information,” said Carlos. A hint of a smile danced on his lips. “I appreciate you being so forthcoming.”
Frank nodded.
Carlos glanced at his watch. “That’s about all for now. I have other men I must interview. I’ll pick you up in the morning. We’ll talk more then.”
As they shook hands, Frank thought about what Lieutenant Pino might do if he ever got wind of what he had just disclosed to the CIA.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning Carlos arrived at Freedom House around ten o’clock to pick up Frank. He was dressed in crisp chino pants
and a madras shirt. They stopped for a light breakfast of coffee and bagels and chatted about baseball on the way to the office. Carlos was a Yankees fan and had an impressive knowledge of the sport, regaling Frank with stories about Yogi Berra.
Once they arrived, Carlos escorted Frank to the conference room and then stepped away to discuss a matter with someone in the hallway. It only took a few minutes. Frank could hear snippets of a hushed conversation, but he couldn’t understand more than a few words.
Frank settled back in his chair, beginning to feel more rested. He stretched his legs and gazed outside. The sun poured into the room through the open windows and created golden squares that waltzed across the floor.
His mind drifted to his days with Magda. He pictured her dancing in her poodle skirt to the steady beat of “Secret Agent Man,” and he smiled at the irony that he was about to talk to the same.
He recalled Magda standing in her blue bathing suit looking out to a sea that stretched to the unfathomable shores of America as curls of foam nibbled her toes. He imagined her standing next to a hibiscus bush, its ruby flowers opening to greet her. He knew he was romanticizing, but he didn’t care.
It had been a long six months since he’d seen her, and more than a lifetime of events had transpired. He wondered whether she wore her hair the same way, whether she liked her new school, whether she dressed in American-style clothes. It was inevitable that she had changed. But how?
Carlos entered the room, interrupting Frank’s thoughts. He took a seat at the end of the table, perpendicular to him. He seemed relaxed but distracted.
“I forgot to ask,” he said amiably. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like the dead.”
“Are they taking good care of you? Do you need anything?”
Frank smiled, rearranging his body in his chair. “Everything’s great.”
“Good.”
Carlos righted the folder before him, opened it, and glanced at it briefly. He scrutinized Frank as if assessing him for some unknown reason. Feeling uncomfortable under his gaze, Frank shifted in his chair.
“There are a couple of things I’d like to talk about today,” said Carlos.
“Fine. Whatever you want.”
Carlos placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “First, I’d like to hear your take on Fidel.”
“Personally or politically?”
“Both.”
Frank thought for a moment, considering how to express his feelings. He had strong views on the subject. But thinking about what Fidel had done to Cuba invariably made his head pound and his insides clench. He didn’t want to get into a full-blown discussion on the matter. It would be emotionally draining. It was time to look toward the future, and he was determined to make short shrift of the topic.
Frank closed his eyes for a moment before he spoke. “Castro’s an enigma.”
Carlos rested his chin on his fisted hand and waved his fingers in a gesture for Frank to continue. “Go on.”
Frank hesitated. “For one thing, he studied under the Jesuits, yet he’s determined to do everything possible to dismantle the Church.”
“Are you Catholic, Frank?”
“Born and raised.”
“Religion is important to you?”
“Of course.”
Carlos folded his hands in front of him. “Any other thoughts?”
“Fidel was trained as a lawyer, yet he’s totally disregarded the rule of law.” Frank waited a moment, editing his thoughts. Anger fortified his voice. “He claims to be a man of the people, but he runs Cuba like a police state. Anyone who disagrees with his policies is labeled a worm. People have no rights—you can land in jail for the slightest transgression. Not to mention being shot on sight.”
“Do you know people who’ve gone to jail, Frank?”
“I do.”
“Friends of yours?”
“Friends of mine.”
“And people who have died?”
Frank’s mind formed an image of Joey López, his sparkling brown eyes, his mischievous grin. The boy had been shot and killed during an aborted escape attempt. Frank had saved him from drowning a few weeks earlier when they tried to leave Cuba together. He was only thirteen. Tears filmed Frank’s eyes, and it took him a minute to regain his composure. “Yes,” he said. He did not want to elaborate.
Carlos allowed Frank a moment to recover. “What do you think of Fidel politically?”
“Politically, he’s a disaster. The country is in a state of chaos. People are hungry. Unemployment is through the roof. Store shelves are empty. Nothing works anymore.”
Frank was working up a head of steam. He stopped talking and looked out the window. Carlos regarded him with concern. Frank thought about his mother trying to find basic ingredients for cooking: sugar, flour, meat, and beans. He remembered his father waiting in long lines to get her what she needed, only to return home angry, humiliated, and empty-handed.
He thought about the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution, friends and neighbors spying on each other, reporting every move to the authorities. He remembered how the bureaucratic restrictions imposed on fishing had robbed his grandfather of his greatest pleasure.
Frank shook his head and said, “Fidel is the worst leader Cuba has ever had—even worse than Batista. He has single-handedly destroyed the country.”
“Your country,” clarified Carlos.
“No, the country,” countered Frank.
“Isn’t Cuba your country?” asked Carlos, driving home his point.
“No, Cuba was my country. Now, America is my country.”
Carlos nodded, studying Frank. A vague smile played at the corner of his lips. “But don’t you care about what happens to Cuba, what happens to your family, the circumstances under which they live?”
Frank bristled at the question, wondering about Carlos’s implication. He crossed his arms. “Of course I care. I worry about them all the time.”
“Of course,” Carlos repeated.
Carlos studied the ceiling for a minute, pondering something. His eyes darted back and forth in a minuet while he thought. Frank straightened his spine.
Carlos returned his gaze to Frank, and said, “Would you like to see Fidel overthrown? See someone else in power?”
“Yes, as long as that person isn’t Raúl. He’s as bad as Fidel. They’d both have to go for Cuba to recover.”
Carlos’s smile waned. “You are in a good position to help make that happen, Frank.”
Frank looked at Carlos, curious. “How so?”
Carlos’s eyes became laser focused. A minute elapsed before he spoke in a tone as somber as a funeral dirge. “I don’t want you to answer right now, Frank. Give yourself a couple of days to think about it.”
“Think about what?” Frank’s heart began to race.
Carlos knitted his brows, creating two vertical creases that sliced his forehead. “Think about working for us to help overthrow Fidel.” The agent’s lips turned upward, but his eyes did not smile. They were grave, serious. Frank wasn’t sure what he meant, but he had his suspicions.
“Help you? In what way?” Frank’s larynx betrayed him, his voice was hoarse and ragged.
“We need people on the inside to feed us information.”
“I don’t understand,” Frank replied with false calmness. A seed of panic sprouted in his gut.
“Having been a member of the Special Forces, it would be easy for you to infiltrate the Cuban army—”
For a moment Frank failed to follow Carlos’s train of thought. Then he did. He gulped a breath as his heart dropped like a block of cement. “You’re suggesting I return to Cuba?” He could hardly believe what he was hearing.
“Yes, men like yourself often do.”
Frank felt a seismic pressure change, like a hurricane was forming in his brain. He tilted his head to the side and rolled his shoulders to relieve a muscle spasm. When he completed the circle, he looked at Carlos and said, “I’m sorry. Let m
e be clear. You want me to spy for the CIA?”
“Yes. I’m inviting you to work for us—for the agency.” Carlos hesitated a moment, searching Frank’s face for a sign of acceptance. But there was none to be found.
“I know what you’re thinking, Frank. You’re concerned about your safety.”
Frank scrutinized him, trying to get his mind around his proposition. He felt a sense of vertigo and a little nauseated. Being offered a job with the CIA was the last thing he had expected to happen that morning.
“You would be well protected. The agency has already infiltrated many areas of the Cuban military. Our people are excellent at what they do—they would be there for you.”
A raft of emotions competed for purchase in Frank’s throat: fear, confusion, and anxiety. He thought about his dealings with Lieutenant Pino, and crystals of perspiration erupted at his hairline. For a moment he re-experienced the fear he felt when Pino was shooting at him during his escape. He remembered hiding in a spider-infested cave. He remembered escaping his pursuers by swimming underwater and breathing through a reed.
He looked down, attempting to relieve his anxiety by examining his cuticles. Feeling chilly, he rubbed his arms with the palms of his hands. Frank’s first reaction was to reject the offer, but his thoughts were jumbled. He was fraught with emotion, so he hesitated to speak.
Carlos looked at Frank for direction. He awaited his response. Frank opened his mouth, not knowing what words would emerge. “I—”
Carlos raised his hand. “Hear me out.” His voice was graveled, like it was running small rapids.
Frank felt depleted, exhausted. “All right,” he said, exhaling.
Carlos stood, unrolled the map of Cuba and grabbed a pointer sitting on the ledge of the blackboard. A draft rattled the map against the wall. Carlos glanced at Frank before turning his attention to the image of Cuba.
“You were stationed in the center of Cuba—here,” he said. “To avoid detection we would send you to the far end of the island.” He pointed to the Sierra Maestra. “It’s hundreds of miles from your former base.”
“I’m well aware of the location,” Frank said a little too sharply.
“Several people in the Cuban command structure work for us. They’ll have your back at all times should anything go wrong.”
