Stalked: The Boy Who Said No

by Patti Sheehy

  Tomás’s face grew stern, and he looked Lazo in the eye. “Well, I need to know whether I can trust you.”

  “I told you then that I’m trustworthy, and I meant it,” said Lazo. He stood and looked over his shoulder. “But, if you’ll excuse me, right now I need to use the john.”

  “Sure. Take your time.”

  Lazo went into the house, grabbed Matia by the arm, and pulled him aside. “I’ve got to talk to you—now!”

  “Why?”

  “I’m in the middle of a conversation with the boss. And I don’t know how to handle it. He’s going on about trust in a way that’s making me nervous. He’s been egging me on to say things against the communists.”

  Matia smiled. “Calm down, will ya? Tomás is a good man. He won’t betray you. Stop worrying.”

  “You’re sure? I need to be sure.”

  “I wouldn’t mess with you on something as important as this.”

  Alina came up behind Matia and handed him a jar to open, nodding to a couple of guests who had arrived late to the party. She smiled at Lazo.

  Lazo fixed his gaze on Matia. “All right, I believe you.”

  He went back outside, his curiosity trumping his fears. He was dying to know what Matia and Tomás were doing. It occurred to him that he wouldn’t mind being involved in something exciting, something important, something that, as Tomás said, would “make a difference.”

  Lazo reclaimed his seat next to Tomás and sipped his coffee. “You started to say that you and Matia are doing some things to make extra cash. Is it something you can talk about?”

  “It’s a private matter. But there may be opportunities for us to explore. Not today, of course. But if you’re interested, we could get together and talk about it sometime—just the three of us.” Tomás stood. “No obligation, of course.”

  “It sounds interesting.”

  “It is.” Tomás put his hands on his hips and executed a backstretch. His ribcage pressed against his shirt, its architecture laddering itself against the green cotton fabric. He covered his mouth and issued a long yawn. “I’ll see you at work on Monday. Maybe we’ll get a chance to talk next week.”

  Tomás nodded his respects, and walked into the house to say good-bye to his hosts, leaving Lazo to wonder what the hell their conversation had been all about.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Lazo spent all day Sunday thinking about his discussion with Tomás. The man was smart and savvy enough to survive the politics inherent in his job. So why would he engage in such reckless behavior? Had the conversation gone a little further, it could be construed as treason. There was a lot for Tomás to lose. But what was there to gain?

  Matia’s reaction was equally puzzling. He wasn’t rattled at all. In fact, he acted blasé. It appeared that they were involved in something clandestine. But what?

  Although Matia had reassured Lazo that he could trust Tomás, he felt more comfortable questioning Matia about the issue. Spotting his old friend in the cafeteria, he sidled up to him in the food line.

  “I’d like to talk to you when you get a chance. It’s about Saturday.”

  “Sure.” Matia looked around. The cafeteria was crowded. The clank of dishes and the rattle of silverware filled the air. Someone had just spilled soda on the floor, and a woman was wiping it up with a rag. She glanced up at Lazo and smiled.

  “Let me eat my sandwich, and then we’ll go outside for a smoke,” said Matia.

  “Sounds good.”

  The men ate their lunch in silence and then walked outside. Matia leaned against the building, drew a cigarette from a cardboard pack, and offered Lazo one. When he declined, Matia lit his cigarette, puckered his lips, and blew a quick series of smoke rings. Lazo watched as they grew larger, wobbled, and then disappeared into the air.

  “What’s up?” asked Matia.

  Lazo shaded his eyes against the sun with his hand. “That was an interesting conversation I had with Tomás on Saturday.”

  “So I gather.”

  “Tomás said you two are involved in something where you earn extra cash.”

  Matia nodded. “We are.”

  “But he didn’t say what.”

  “I doubt he would.”

  “Pardon me for asking, but are you stealing from the refinery?”

  To Lazo’s surprise, Matia threw back his head and laughed.

  “No, my friend, that’s the last thing in the world we’d do. Tomás and I do everything possible to remain above reproach. We try very hard not to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “I’m sorry, but from what Tomás said it made me wonder—”

  Matia stopped Lazo. “No need to apologize. We’re making money but not in the way you think.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Look, Lazo. You see how the communists live. You see their beautiful homes, their fancy cars. They aren’t scrimping and scraping. They aren’t living the same lifestyle as the rest of us.”

  “I know,” Lazo said, a little testily.

  “And you know better than anyone the kind of weaponry Cuba has at its disposal—the guns, the tanks, the missiles.”

  “I do.”

  “Then you must also know that Cuba can’t afford all this stuff. Who do you think pays for it?”

  “The Soviets, of course. And China to a lesser extent.”

  “Right.”

  “So?”

  “So little by little Cuba is being swallowed up. Not only our economy, but also our ideals, our mores, and our way of life. We’ve turned into a little Russia. They used to call Batista a puppet of the Americans. But Fidel is a puppet of the Soviets. And, believe me, I’d rather be a puppet of the Americans any day.”

  Matia extended his fingers and studied them for a moment. “The way I figure, if you really care about what’s happening to Cuba, if you care about what’s happening to us, to our families, then you have to do something about it. You can’t stand by and let it happen. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes and no. I understand what you’re saying about Cuba, but I don’t understand what you and Tomás are doing.”

  “It’s nothing special, nothing more than lots of other people are doing. Tomás introduced me to this line of work, and I’m glad he did. We provide some very important services.”

  Lazo thought for a moment, refining an idea that had been floating at the edge of his consciousness since Matia’s party.

  “The way you’re dancing around this subject makes me wonder whether you’re involved in counterrevolutionary activity.”

  Matia didn’t respond. “Tell me, Matia, are you planning to blow up the refinery? Are you a saboteur?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then, what?”

  “We work more with information gathering and dissemination.”

  “Christ almighty, can we stop beating around the bush and speak plainly? I’m not going to rat you out if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “I’m not worried about that.”

  Lazo studied his friend’s face. A web of lines edged the corners of Matia’s eyes, wrinkles he hadn’t noticed before. He looked around before asking, “Are you working for the CIA?”

  Matia did not respond. He dragged on his cigarette and blew the smoke out his nostrils. A minute marched by, then two. The rattle of dishes rose from the cafeteria kitchen. The question hung in the air, raw and ripe.

  Lazo was not about to let the question go unanswered. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Are you telling me you’re a CIA operative? That you spy for the Americans?”

  “I’m more than that, Lazo. I’m a patriot of Cuba, a true patriot. The CIA provides me with the tools and information I need to help free our country from this cancer Fidel calls the ‘revolution.’

  “Contrary to what the government says, there are a lot of good people in the CIA—people who are as concerned about what happens to Cuba as you and I. They understand what it means to fight for freedom. What’s more, they are the o
nly people on the planet who have the power and the guts to save us.”

  “I understand. And I’m sympathetic to your convictions. But aren’t you afraid?”

  “Sometimes. But we have the US government behind us. They’ve promised Tomás and me safe passage and safe haven in America should either of us need it.”

  Lazo shook his head. “It’s hard to believe.”

  “I know. It took me a while to get used to the idea too.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Three years.”

  “Have you run into any problems?”

  “We’ve had a couple of close calls. But it’s gone smoothly for the most part.”

  “And you get paid for this?”

  “Yes, but that’s not what motivates us.”

  “I’m sure it’s not. But out of curiosity, how do they pay you?”

  “Every other week.”

  “In US dollars?”

  “Most of the money is deposited into a US bank account for my kids’ education and in case something happens to me. I’m also paid in pesos.”

  “Aren’t you afraid the authorities will find out that you have a bank account in the States?”

  “C’mon, Lazo, we’re in the intelligence business. The bank account is listed under a fictitious name. Nothing can be traced to me.”

  “Do you have any idea how many Cubans are involved?”

  “With the CIA?” Matia waved his hand in a grand gesture. “Thousands.”

  “That many?”

  “Yes, thousands of Cubans are providing information to the Americans. And thousands of Cubans are in the States providing information on America to Fidel. It’s the Cold War, for chrissakes. It’s all about information.”

  Lazo thought for a moment. “Why would Tomás get involved in something like this? He’s got a good job, great pay, and security. He has a lot to lose.”

  “He does. But like the rest of us, Tomás was born and raised here. He cares what happens to Cuba, and he’s in a good position to help. He was approached by the agency and decided it was the right thing to do.” Matia paused. “Never underestimate Tomás. He is well respected within the oil industry as well as within the intelligence community.”

  “So, is Tomás your boss in the CIA as well as at the refinery?”

  Matia nodded. “He heads up the entire Havana operation.”

  “Jesus!” Lazo thought for a moment. “But what made him think it was safe to approach me without knowing my political leanings? All he knew was that I was a member of the Special Forces, hardly a recommendation for the CIA.”

  Matia smiled smugly. “We are far more careful than that, Lazo. We had targeted you long before you came to work at the refinery.”

  Lazo felt stunned, bewildered. He was trying to control his burgeoning anxiety. “What are you talking about?”

  “The CIA informed Tomás that you might be amenable to our cause, and we made sure you came here to work at the refinery so we could groom you.”

  “How could the CIA possibly know what I think?”

  “The agency learned from a friend of yours that you might be someone we could recruit.”

  “What are you talking about? What friend?”

  “Frank Mederos.”

  Lazo paled. Fear rose in his chest, heavy and primal. He had carried the burden that he could be executed for his part in Frank’s escape for months, lying awake at night imagining what would happen if anyone found out. He wondered how much Matia and Tomás knew about what he had done. The more people who knew about it, the more dangerous it was for him. He needed to protect himself.

  “Sorry, never heard of him. You were given faulty information.”

  Matia smiled indulgently. “Relax, Lazo. We know you and Mederos were friends. And we know what you did for him. It was an act of bravery. There’s no point denying it.”

  Lazo looked up at the sky. This was an unexpected development, and a lot to take in. He felt disoriented.

  “All right, I knew him. But how can I verify what you’re saying? How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

  “Because Mederos told a CIA agent something that would prove you can trust us. It’s a story he said only you and your friend Manny would know.”

  Lazo crossed his arms. “Go on. Convince me.”

  “You and Manny were fellow ATGM operators. One day you left a basketball game and went together to a bar in Havana. Frank mentioned a girl named Regina—”

  Lazo shook his head, held up his hand, and smiled. “All right, you don’t have to elaborate on that story. It’s not something I care to relive. I believe you.” He shook his head, remembering. “How is Frank? Do you know?”

  “We’ve been keeping an eye on him. He’s fine. Living and working in New Jersey.”

  “Did he ever marry Magda?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then it was worth it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.”

  Matia threw his cigarette to the pavement and crushed it with the toe of his shoe. He looked at Lazo. “Tomás thinks very highly of you. He believes you are smart and cautious—a combination the agency values. We can’t afford cowboys or nitwits in this line of work.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Would you like to continue this conversation with Tomás? Perhaps at my house?”

  “Yes.”

  “And while we’re at it, let me be perfectly clear. Would you be willing to work with us for the good of Cuba?”

  Lazo looked somber. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for some time now.”

  “Good. Then we understand each other.”

  “We do.”

  “Okay. I’ll set it up. We’ll meet with Tomás in a couple of days and go over things.”

  “Fine.”

  “One more thing. I don’t need to tell you that I’m talking to you like a brother here. Do not breathe a word of this conversation to anyone. Anyone! My life and the lives of my family are at stake.”

  “I understand. I look forward to our meeting.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  For several weeks First Lieutenant Torres had been aware that a new group of officers would be called to the Soviet Union for further military training. This was an honor and privilege afforded to Cuba’s brightest, most loyal, and competent military officers. To his delight, Torres had been selected to be among one hundred and fifty officers from throughout the communist world to be part of the contingent.

  What’s more, he had been given an opportunity to select an officer of lesser rank to accompany him, someone who could handle the intellectual demands of advanced training, someone fiercely loyal to the Party, someone whom he could guide and mentor.

  Torres’s last discussion with Pino had convinced him that the former lieutenant was the man for the job. Now he had to convince the oversight committee. He told the committee that Pino had been humbled by his stint in the fields, that he now better understood the needs of the people, and that his loyalty to the Party was unwavering, despite the hardships and rigors of his punishment. He tried to convince them that Pino was a new and reformed man, that he was completely rehabilitated.

  Some members of the committee bought his argument, others did not. No matter. Torres vowed to himself that he would continue to speak on Pino’s behalf until the former lieutenant was again allowed to bring his full knowledge, expertise, and talents to bear to benefit Cuba and the Party.

  Meanwhile, he was eager to broach the subject with Pino, eager to impress him with the fact that he was highly regarded in the eyes of the Party, eager to share the good news with someone he liked and respected.

  Pino was in the midst of hacking cane when Torres arrived at the plantation. The day was blistering hot, and perspiration dripped like rain from the tip of Pino’s nose. His sweat had mixed with field dust, filming his skin like pond scum.

  He was wiping his brow with the back of his hand when someone tapped him o
n the shoulder and told him to report to the foreman’s office immediately. It had only been a week since Pino had last seen Torres, so he knew he was not being summoned for his regular interview. But being ordered to the foreman’s office usually spelled trouble. His throat clutched as he wondered why.

  When he opened the door to the office, Pino was surprised to see Torres sitting behind the foreman’s desk with a copy of the Granma butterflied between his hands. Torres stood, neatly closed and folded the newspaper, and shook Pino’s hand.

  “What brings you here?” asked Pino. “We’re not scheduled to meet until the end of next week.”

  Torres waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve got some good news to share.” A smile played on his lips and he gestured toward a chair. “Please, sit down.”

  Pino took a seat opposite Torres, attempting to disguise his hope. Maybe my strategy has worked. Maybe they’re sending me to do something more in keeping with my intellect and abilities.

  Torres looked at Pino for a long minute, imagining their days together in Russia. He was looking forward to being Pino’s sponsor, someone Pino would need to come to for answers and advice.

  “As you know, I’ve been getting consistently good reports about you over the past several months,” said Torres.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ve been working hard at improving my behavior.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  Torres enjoyed a moment of silent anticipation before he broke the news to Pino.

  Pino shifted his weight in his chair and said, “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

  Torres’s smile broadened. “I might as well come right out with it. The Party has requested that I travel to the Soviet Union to advance my knowledge of communism and to further my study of Soviet weaponry.”

  “Congratulations,” said Pino. “You must be thrilled.”

  Torres continued without acknowledging Pino’s comment. “I don’t know the duration of my training yet. It will be at least four years, maybe five.”

  Pino’s heart sank at the implications of Torres’s revelation. With Torres gone, he would be assigned a new political investigator. He had worked hard to prove to Torres that he had learned his lessons and learned them well. Now he would have to prove himself to someone new. This was a body blow to his strategy. A headache coalesced across his brow.