Hostage in Havana ct-1

by Noel Hynd

  “Okay, so far,” Alex said. “But what about the passports? We’re husband and wife but the names don’t match.”

  “The Cubans are used to that. Not a problem.”

  “How do you know his passport is secure?”

  Meachum laughed. “We know its provenance. It’s good.”

  “Third finger, left hand?” she said. “I’m a married girl, am I not?”

  “Glad you reminded me,” Meachum said.

  He reached into his pocket, produced a ring box, and handed it to her. The wardrobe department had thought of the small details. She opened it and found an engagement ring and a wedding band. Gold and zircon in a breathtaking arrangement. Then the smaller details: She looked inside the band and found her fake initials joined with Paul’s fake initials. With mixed feelings, she put the rings on and gave back the box.

  “Careful what you wish for,” Meachum said.

  “Careful with your smart remarks,” she answered.

  “Continuing,” he said, “once we know that you’re on the island, we’ll need to send a signal to Violette to let him know that you’ve arrived to ‘bring him home.’ We’ll do this through the Swiss Interests Section once again. Nice lady named Elke, who has an American mother and favors khaki skirts from the Gap when she visits us in Washington. She does wonders for us, Elke does. The perfect Switzer lady: French charm with German efficiency instead of the other way ‘round. She’s from Minnesota. Thus, dead drop number seven. I’m told the location is the most convenient for Violette. Close to where he lives, on his regular path each day. Convenient means safest for him. He’s got the big itch, you know. Senile paranoia. Who knows what he’s going to do or who he’s going to talk to if we don’t get him off that island. So. Which drop number did I just mention?”

  “Seven,” she repeated.

  Seven was easy for her to remember. Rizzo, her Roman consort, had paved the way with his dwelling on the number seven.

  “Only holes six, seven, and nine are any good, by the way,” Fajardie said, continuing. “The rest are dead ends for the opposition in case the map falls into the wrong hands. It’ll buy a little time, at least while they chase their tails. Got that part?”

  She repeated. She had it.

  “You’ll pick up a cell phone at the drop. Then once you have it, you’ll enter a four-digit number: eight, eight, six, four, and hit Send. It will connect you to a voicemail. Just say, “I’m here.” Violette will immediately double-check the active drop each day. If the phone is gone, it means you’re clean and he’ll call you within the next twenty-four hours. You be sure to speak first. What was the name you used on the passport that the CIA had for you in Kiev?”

  “Anna Tavares,” Alex said without hesitation.

  “I’m told you’ll be using a similar cover again. Is that right?”

  “It is,” Meachum said.

  “It is,” Alex confirmed. “The same cover, but a new passport. Mexican this time.”

  “Then identify yourself as Anna immediately when you answer the call from Violette,” Fajardie said. “You’ll be speaking Spanish to him, not English. No problem with that, correct?”

  “Correct,” she said.

  “Your accent can pass for Mexican, right?”

  “I’m fluent and it’s from my mother and childhood,” she said. “It’s native.”

  “Violette’s window for phoning will be between 4:00 and 6:00 p.m., Havana time, but he’s erratic, we already know that, so he might call anytime. He’ll arrange to meet with you at a rendezvous point. You’ll have one go at it. One chance to sit down and talk him into coming to the U.S. with you. After you have him, you may need to babysit him twenty-four-seven if you have to; just get him to the aircraft.”

  “And where will that be?”

  “Near the city of Cienfuegos on the south shore of the island. Cienfuegos. ‘A hundred fires.’ See if you can prevent it from being a hundred and one fires. The city is about forty miles southeast from Havana. There’s an inlet another mile to the southeast. Your mob guy tells me he can arrange a driver.”

  “You talked to Paul?”

  “Twice,” Fajardie said. “In person. We know Paul,” he said.

  Alex was only mildly surprised. “That’s interesting,” she said. “How well do you know him?”

  “He’s dependable,” Fajardie said. “If he says he’s going to get something done, he gets it done. He’s not one of us, if that’s what you’re wondering, but he’s someone who has contacts in convenient places. We can work with him, hitch one of our operations alongside his. And that’s good.”

  “So what happens when we get to Cienfuegos?” she asked.

  “Your lift out will be a seaplane, limited seating,” he said. “Four to six passengers plus the pilot. There’s an army and naval base near Cienfuegos, and we’ll be using an inlet and pier near there. It’s no small task to clear the Cuban coast for a seaplane pickup, so there’s not much room for error or change in schedule, and the smaller the plane the better for beating the radar. There’s probably some U.S. Navy in the area for potential emergency help, but you can’t count on that, and you don’t want a distress call that the Cubans could follow.”

  “Much easier to sneak onto the island than off it,” Meachum added.

  “So it appears,” Alex said.

  “The aircraft, which will be coming from Grand Cayman, will take you to Yucatan in Mexico, then we’ll airlift you back, or somewhere else if you still need to stay away from New York. But Violette comes back to Washington.”

  Alex continued to listen.

  “The whole exit operation, the seaplane coming in and leaving,” Fajardie said, “has to take place in under half an hour. The connection time will be 5:15 a.m. You’ll be there ahead of time and hide out in a hut near the beach. I’m told you can’t miss it. The hut will be flying a Brazilian flag because we have a contact there from Sao Paulo. Watch the southern horizon until you see the plane land and taxi to the pier. Got to beat the daylight, and you also have to beat the radar. When you see the plane come to the pier, the assembled passengers head for it, maybe ten feet apart, hands by your sides. If anything looks queer, the pilot turns and takes off without you. If you’re not there and don’t make the connection, it leaves without you and then who knows where we are? We’d have to reschedule and work another pickup and that is not the easiest thing to arrange. So let’s avoid it, all right?”

  Alex tried to process all of it. “I’ll try to make things as convenient for you as possible,” she said. “Seriously, if this thing falls apart, I’m in a Cuban jail and you’re having beer and burgers in Georgetown the next day. I’d hate for you to feel bad over lunch.”

  “I would too,” he said, going with it. “What’s the numerical code for calling Violette?” Meachum asked.

  “Bush Johnson,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Bush was elected in eighty-eight. Johnson in sixty-four. That’s how I remember these things.”

  “You’re good at this,” Meachum offered.

  She smiled.

  “Okay, today is June eighth,” Fajardie continued. “You’re going into Cuba tomorrow night, getting there the morning of June tenth. You’re on your own getting in; Guarneri says it’s a north shore landing between Havana and Matanzas. That’s his arrangement for his personal part of the operation, not mine, so good luck. I’m setting up the airlift to get you out, along with anyone coming with you on June sixteenth. Questions?”

  “A couple.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What if we have to alter the date of exit?”

  “Ha! Please don’t. It’s hell to bribe a gap in Cuban radar.” He paused. “But if you do …” He pulled out his own cell phone. “Dial 7734 on the phone you will have. It will connect with me. Keep the call under one minute and call close to the hour on the hour. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “What else?”

  “What’s the backup if I lose the phone?” she a
sked.

  “There isn’t one. Don’t lose it.”

  “What sort of dead drops are we talking about?” Alex asked.

  “One of them is a brick wall,” Fajardie said. “Another’s in a church. Iglesia de San Lazaro. That’s the first place you should try. Go in, enter two rows to the left, sit down, and search under the pew. There’s another one in a cemetery. You’ll see it all in your notes, plus the map,” he said. “Memorize everything because you shouldn’t bring the notes onto the island.”

  “What’s in it for you?” she asked. “For the CIA?”

  “We’re getting back a defector and turning him over to the Justice Department.”

  “I know that part, but what’s in it for you?” she asked again.

  “It doesn’t make sense. Violette comes back to spend the rest of his life in prison. He’s cut a deal somewhere with you, I’d guess.”

  “He’ll be carrying a small suitcase,” Sloane said. “He’s managed to rifle some Cuban intelligence documents. Mostly political stuff. Shore defenses. Whatever. The deal is that we get him and his booty back to the U.S.; then we assess what value it has. If it has good value, he may serve less than five years and die a free man.”

  “With senile dementia?”

  “All the more reason to get him back now,” Fajardie said, “before he goes popping off to the wrong audience, if you know what I mean, and sells his bag of goodies somewhere else. At least if we have a collar on him, we can control him.”

  “He’s cut a deal with you?” she asked. “Or someone has on his behalf?”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  “Because I’m going to Cuba and have to sit down with him.”

  “A deal exists in principle,” Fajardie said. “He’s got one of the red lawyers from New York, one from the Brandeis/New School/Columbia axis of Maoist legal training, all right? Does that keep you happy?”

  “Almost,” she said.

  “Look. He wants to come back, Alex,” Fajardie said, his voice rising a notch in irritation, “and we’re willing to take him. That’s all. We’re even arranging free pickup and delivery, rather generous, I would submit. What more could he want after the acts of villainy he’s committed against this country?”

  He settled down.

  “So he can enjoy his old age and retirement in America,” Meachum said.

  “Like all the agents whom he caused to be slaughtered could never do,” Fajardie added. “Further questions?”

  “None for now, other than whether I should read your notes now while you’re still here or look at them tonight.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  She thought about it for a moment, then opened his packet. She read them and followed. “Okay,” she said. “One final question. What’s the Mayday scenario. What do I do in the case of complete disaster?”

  “Complete disaster,” Fajardie said, “is if you get arrested. And then there won’t be an awful lot we can do for several months, if then.”

  “What if it’s disaster and I’m still at liberty?” she asked.

  “Remember the Swiss lady I just mentioned? Elke? Go to the Swiss Consulate. Not the embassy, but the Consulate. It’s in Miramar, which is the upscale section of Havana where the embassies are. Ask to see Elke Bruhn. She’s a political officer there. Use your Anna Tavares identification. Elke will take it from there.” He paused. “Keep in mind, also, that if you’re badly blown on an operation, that Cuban authorities – police, army, civil guard – will be looking for you in exactly that area. So be forewarned and be careful. Whatever you do, stay out of custody. They’ve got some military stockades in Camaguey and Santa Clara that are human roach motels. You go in, but you never come out. It’s where they stash their toughest prisoners and most valuable captives.”

  “Okay,” she said at length. There was an uneasy pause. “Is that it?” she asked.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Buen viaje. See you in a week. We hope.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The room was cold and gray, with concrete walls and soundproofed. Manuel Perez was strapped to a steel chair in the middle of the room, his clothes filthy, his shirt soaked with sweat, red welts and gouges across his temple.

  The first interrogator, the taller, younger, and leaner of the two men surrounding him, reached for the end of the duct tape across the lower part of Perez’s face. He yanked it off with a sharp ripping sound. Perez responded by gasping for air, then with a torrent of obscenities in Spanish. Then the interrogator yanked a second tape off Perez’s eyes, taking blotches of the prisoner’s eyebrows with it.

  “Buenos Dias, Senor Perez,” the interrogator said. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “Who are you?” Perez demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter, Manuel,” said the interrogator. “You’re our prisoner.”

  The hostage continued in Spanish. “Americans? Police?” Perez asked.

  The two men laughed quietly. There was one stream of light in the room, and it came from directly above Perez. “What do you want?” he asked. “An admission? You get no such thing. I know American law. I want to see a lawyer.”

  “Manuel,” the second man began. “We don’t obey the law, and we’re not in America. We wish to put you to work. We are going to put a proposition to you, and you will have to decide what you wish to do. Either we will pass you along for imprisonment – or possibly even execution – or we will restore you to your liberty in your beautiful home in Mexico. The choice will be yours.”

  A profound silence overcame Perez. He sat motionless, like a massive rock. His eyes followed his interrogators.

  “It is true that the American police would like to discuss matters with you,” the first man said. “They were a few hours behind us, ready to smash into your hotel room and put handcuffs on you. If that had happened, you would have appeared before a judge by now, and your picture would be all over American television. Then you would have had a long prison sentence.”

  There was a pause and Perez still held his silence.

  “You’re not going to deny that you were the sniper on West 61st Street the other night, are you, Manuel?”

  Perez tried to move his ankles. He couldn’t. They were attached to the chair by straps. His arms, he was now aware, were attached to the arms of the chair in the same way. He glanced to the floor. The front of his chair was bolted to the floor. He assumed the back of the chair was also. Still, he didn’t speak.

  “Do you remember Suarez, the Venezuelan? Gattino, the Italian? Brave men whom you served with when you were young. Do you know why you never see them or hear of them now? They were turned over to the filthy Islamics in the Middle East, whom they fired shots against. So naturally, they will never be seen or heard from again.”

  Finally, Perez spoke. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Be a sniper. Perform an execution,” the first man said.

  “The woman is either in hiding or has protection,” Perez answered.

  The first man smiled. “Oh, she is in Cuba,” he said. “She is vulnerable and you will see her again. We will take you to Cuba. So why don’t we discuss the details, what we need you to do so that we can send you home again.”

  Perez looked back and forth at them.

  “How do I know I can believe you?” Perez asked.

  “We keep our word,” the second questioner said. “And we’ll prove it.”

  “How?” asked Perez.

  “We have your wife and your daughters in protective custody,” he said. “And your bodyguard, Antonio, we have him too, in a different location.”

  Perez’s eyes went wide, but he controlled his rage.

  “We will let you speak with them,” he said. “After you have spoken and agreed to finish this assignment for us, we will escort them home to your villa. We will allow you to speak to them again tomorrow. Then, once you complete your mission in Cuba, we will put you on a plane to Mexico City. And that will be that.”

  The first in
terrogator undid the strap that had held Perez’s right arm. He handed him a cell phone. “Phone your wife, Manuel. She has been waiting with her cell phone for two days. She expects your call any minute. You can tell her that you will be home soon, or you can tell her that she will never see you again.”

  “The choice,” the second man said, “is yours.” As he spoke, he fiddled with a silver pen in his hands. It had Alex LaDuca’s name engraved upon it. “Make the call and choose wisely,” he said.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Alex flew to Miami International Airport the next day, still accompanied by MacPhail and Ramirez. They were met at the airport by Special Agent Frank Cordero and Special Agent Linda Rosen from the local office. They would serve as her new driver and bodyguard. With embraces, Alex thanked MacPhail and Ramirez, who had now completed their assignment. They turned around and headed to their flight back to D.C.

  Cordero led her to a black Lincoln Navigator. Alex carried a small duffel with her personal effects. They were minimal.

  The SUV was soon on the expressway that led to downtown Miami. Agent Cordero drove. He said little. Agent Linda Rosen sat in the backseat and was friendlier. She made some small talk about her dog and how the two of them, Frank and she, would be with Alex for the next day. “Pretty much till you hit the water for Cuba,” she said.

  “Water?” Alex asked, surprised they knew so much about her plans.

  “It always starts with water, continues in the air, then ends on a beach. No matter which way you go.”

  “You send people in and out of Cuba frequently?” Alex asked.

  “If it happened any more frequently, they could print a schedule.”

  Breaking his silence, Frank in the front seat laughed. But not for long.

  Outside the Navigator, ninety humid degrees gripped Miami. Even the beaten-up cars on the expressway had air conditioning. Mere survival.