by Gil Hogg
We were very thorough. We took the rooms apart. We looked under the carpet, took out the wardrobes and bath panels, opened up the mattresses, got inside the TVs, and went over the curtains and pelmets. Burton provided useful advice, and claimed not to know about the other pieces we found that he hadn’t mentioned. We finished by noon with a laptop PC, a bundle of notepaper, two notebooks, five thousand dollars in cash, several cassettes of tape, a cassette recorder, two revolvers and boxes of shells. The rooms looked as though they were ready for redecoration.
I dispatched Yarham to find a hotel somewhere where we could hole up for the next few days, study our find, and talk to Burton.
While Yarham was away I had a long, hot shower, using the perfumes and unguents that hotels provide for their guests which I usually ignore. Then, while Kershaw was taking his turn in the shower, I tried to get Burton to work the PC. Whether he was playing dumb, or genuinely ignorant, I couldn’t decide. We made no progress.
Yarham returned in two hours, task accomplished, though apologetic at the result. I had to accept that in the shapeless jacket and trousers he had borrowed from the closet in the Excelsior, and without luggage, this flame-haired gringo was not well placed to check into an establishment of any quality. With customary cunning, however, Yarham had purchased a suitcase, which he had carried, empty, on his search. He returned with the suitcase, into which I placed our haul, and we departed.
On the way to our destination, the Club Atlantico at Playa Guanabo, in a cab, I stopped to purchase toilet gear. The Atlantico was not a peso hotel for Cubans, but a run-down beach hotel for tourists. It had long grass in front, a peeling sign, faded paint, a half-awning over the swimming pool which sagged, and the pool itself had a dusty scum on top. We had two large rooms with cracked walls, a terrace, a shower and a lavatory. The rooms were shady, even if the beds were short, narrow and hard. An insidious agguanco rumba beat came from nowhere and throbbed through the entire premises. Yarham looked crestfallen.
“Cheer up man. You did well. We should imbibe the Cuban culture at all levels,” I said. “And talking about imbibing…”
“I asked the desk boy to bring four Cuba libres,” Kershaw said.
I liked the idea of four rather than three. It made Burton seem like an ally.
I settled on one of the beds to consider our haul. Despite his calling, Gino Carmelli was an inveterate note-taker. That had been my thought the night I looked through the door from his secretary’s room, and saw his desk covered with handwritten papers. He was a pre-PC man. And here was more proof, jottings, which I guessed would form part of a longer report. It was my good fortune.
I took about an hour and a half to get a dim picture of what was happening from the notes and the cassette player, and consulting with Yarham. He worked with Burton on the PC, and managed to locate a few files. Kershaw wasn’t much help because he didn’t know what we were looking for, and he wasn’t very sharp, but I had decided there was no point now in keeping anything from him.
“The way I see it,” I said, when Kershaw produced the second round of Cuba libres, “is that a man codenamed Gomez from Al Qaeda or some other jihadist group is here, masterminding operations. He has technical help from a scientist or engineer codenamed Hertz. They have two mobile platforms – built on thirty-ton trucks with hydraulic stabilisers, under cover. The rocket fuselages have been smuggled in, in short sections. There are only four rockets; they are kit-sets under assembly. The chemicals for fuel have been imported and stored. There are four warheads, which Carmelli estimates in the one hundred kiloton plus range. That is about six times more powerful than Hiroshima. Compared with the ICBMs of thirty years ago, this model is less than a quarter the size, has a longer range, and flies very low in the atmosphere. There is a foreign, Arab, technical team that can handle the assembly and firing without local help. The cover for their work is that they are a construction company building housing units. It that it, Burton?”
“Yeah. It’s crazy.”
“I think you’ve done good work,” I said mildly, thinking what a brilliant intelligence coup it was, and how indebted I was to the late Gino Carmelli. “What has Carmelli done about this information?”
“Nothing. We were about finished when Gino saw you in the hotel. He was going to put a report together after we’d… ”
“After you’d murdered us. I understand.”
I had seen the initials AA in Carmelli’s notes. I guessed his principal informant was Alfredo Arias, and Burton confirmed this. “Was a woman involved, Dolores Martinez?”
“As a go-between.”
Burton also confirmed that they paid half a million dollars. It seemed that Dolores had decided that patriotism ended with talking to the CIA, and it was time for her to make some private profit from the NSA.
Yarham sniffed. “You can’t blame her. And no price inflation either between deals which was reasonable.”
“And the Al Qaeda team are staying at Campismo Mercados in Pinar del Rio Province? What is that, Burton?”
“Yeah. I’ve been out there. It’s a motel or hotel. Isolated. They do riding and trekking from there when they’re doing normal tourist business. Once it was the centre of a big private estate, Rancho Mercados, before the revolution. Al Qaeda have booked it out. There don’t seem to be any other guests or vacancies.”
“How many of them?”
“We estimate ten plus a couple of bosses, Gomez and Hertz.”
“So how do we get to them, Burton?”
“I guess at the Campismo they wash and pray five times a day, but they do their whoring and drinking in Santa Cristobal town a couple of miles away. They spend, so the Cubans have beefed up a night club, brought in a new band, more girls, you know.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Sure, just to observe.”
“What did you see?”
“Guys drinking and dancing and picking up whores.”
“And where do they go to work?”
“In an old run-down part of Mariel. There are lots of junk yards and contractor’s yards there.”
I got a map of Mariel and made Burton identify the site. “How do they get from Campismo Mercados to Mariel?”
“They have a hired bus. All together. Every day. There and back. Seven days a week.”
I thought we had about everything we needed from Burton. I concluded that he didn’t have the guile or the experience to mislead us badly. “OK, Burton. You’ve done your part. I guess all this will check out. You go to the airport when we receive the money for your fare from Uncle Sam.”
“You have the money from the Excelsior stash.”
“We might need that in the meantime. Don’t doubt me, Burton. You’ll be going.”
I went into the other room alone and sat down with pencil and paper. I didn’t think it necessary to verify Burton’s account or Carmelli’s findings: they sounded completely authentic. Burton’s contribution would have been difficult to fabricate convincingly. I decided to take a chance. If there were errors or if Burton had misled us, I’d just have to send a correction later.
I jotted down notes for my report to C3. I was proud of it, the complete intelligence I had been instructed to gather. And all acquired from the CIA. Of course, I did not reveal that. I said, My surveillance and enquiries have revealed… Nor did I mention the unfriendly CIA activities, or their two casualties. I requested a further half-million dollars urgently for further important information. Clark would question this, but the quality and precision of my report and the importance of the mission would ensure a further prompt payment. My computer encrypted the message, and it was sent in a microsecond burst.
Afterwards, in the cool of the evening, I left Burton with Kershaw, and walked along the lightly peopled beach with Yarham. Red clouds were massing for the sunset. The sound of different South American and Caribbean rhythms from half a dozen radios intertwined: salsa, rumba, samba, reggae, cha-cha-cha. We found a small bar on the beach, and sat sipping pina co
ladas, watching tourists sun themselves. I needed an easy hour while the memories of the Carmelli nightmare subsided.
“That’s it, is it, Captain? Tidy up and go home?” Yarham said, hopefully.
“Technically, yes… The Disciples will then play their game of political and military brinkmanship, and get their men into power.”
“Does ‘technically’ mean the job is done, but we’re not going home?”
“You want to see wifey, Yarham – and I don’t blame you, but yes… I’m thinking about it.”
“I’d rather not put in any overtime on this one, Captain.”
“We could establish what the timing is on this crisis, Yarham. That’s the one thing missing from my excellent report. Is it going to happen in a month, or in six months? It’s important for the Disciples to know that. They’ll want to know how much time they have for their political manoeuvres in Washington.”
Yarham looked alarmed. “It is very important to find this out, but I can’t see why we should nominate ourselves to do it.”
“It would be quite a coup, and we’re probably best placed to find out. Don’t look so unhappy, man.”
“I detected a certain inconsistency between the completion of our work and your request for further funds.” Yarham spoke with funereal gravity.
“Well, I thought that if we were going to answer this timing question, we might need money.”
“It’s rather a generous sum, Captain,” Yarham, said stroking his jaw.
At the same time, I was also thinking that it was comfortable to be awash with dollars. “If we’re going to go on here, we’ve got to be solvent, Yarham.”
“Certainly, sir, but I would prefer not to be sitting on the beach when the US strike,” Yarham said cautiously. “Cuba will be flattened. Pity. I’m getting to like it here. Nice climate. Friendly people. The atmosphere is free and easy.”
“Don’t worry, Yarham. The Disciples have a lot of domestic machinations and back-stabbing to do before they get to the point of an actual strike against Cuba.”
“That may be so, Captain, but look at it another way. Forget Washington. Suppose Gomez is ready to unleash his rockets now?”
“Good point, Yarham. Virtually instant retaliation by the US, you mean, and pffft! – we’re all gone? Brings a certain tightening of the scrotum to our activities, doesn’t it?”
“My scrotum is already as taut as a drum, Captain.”
“Hence the importance of solving the timing question.”
It was actually very difficult to focus on imminent disaster as I basked in the sultry air and watched the near-naked asses of the sunbathing girls, the children dipping in the vast, flat, ultramarine sea, and the small white hulls of distant yachts.
When we walked back to the hotel, I was still confident enough to think I might win further plaudits from my masters by solving the timing question. I was also thinking about dinner, and hoping the cuisine would bear no relation to our mouldy premises.
As I approached our rooms, I saw the door was open. I ran forward. I found Kershaw on the floor, half-conscious and bleeding from a head wound, a heavy glass ashtray bloodied by his side – and no sign of Burton.
“He’s bolted,” Yarham said. “We’ve saved the air fare.”
21
Kershaw seemed to be concussed, and we called a doctor who prescribed rest, produced pills from his black bag, and charged a hefty fee. It was too risky to remain at the Club Atlantico, and we decamped that night to a small hotel up an alley in the Boca Ciega area. I decided that when we had more time, we would find a better place.
I reasoned that Burton, who was naively straightforward in his thinking, would go straight to the local CIA, and tell them everything. He would blame us for the deaths of Carmelli and Harkness, trump up a story. The likely result was that we would have some of the local resources of the CIA looking for us with extreme violence in mind. The only saving point in the debacle was that Burton had been left with the impression that for us, the job was over and we were going home. If we weren’t found in a couple of days, maybe the CIA would relax their search.
I had, however, now finally decided that I would pursue Gomez and Hertz at least to establish the likely timing of their assault. When I announced this to the recovered Kershaw the morning after our move, his white eyes squinted. He knew the risks, but he was too much of a tough guy to back down. Yarham simply cracked a grin and swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing. For me, the tension was lessened, if not removed, by the fact that our intelligence suggested that the Gomez team still appeared to be working on their weaponry.
Within twenty-four hours I had a signal that the money was available at the Bank of Chile, as promptly and unquestioningly as I had predicted. I stowed the greater part in a locked holdall, the security of which would, I knew, haunt me whenever I went anywhere without it. I gave a substantial wad each to Yarham and Kershaw, and took enough for myself to pay for taxis, a new and better hotel for a couple of weeks, and some new clothes – including the inevitable dark glasses and a collection of sun hats and baseball caps.
After fixing these domestic details, I hired a car and driver and with Yarham and Kershaw, drove to the town of San Cristobal. When we left the car, we arranged to meet outside the Church of Santa Antonio, in the Square of the Revolution at around eleven that night. Then – it was seven in the evening, we split up. Kershaw who was nearly back to normal, and Yarham, were both to keep me in view and assist if necessary.
I was dressed like a tourist – straw hat, garish silk shirt, which is what I pretended to be. I had a number of unsolicited offers from young men who wanted to be my personal guide, and I chose Jose, a mulatto youth of about twenty-five, with sufficient English, who looked clean and streetwise. I started our relationship with ten dollars, which was more than sufficient for the whole day and night, and let him know there was more to come.
My thought was that if the Al Qaeda team came to town and spent money, the locals should be able to identify them at least as benevolent strangers. I had to have a guide who was desperately keen to earn more bucks, and who would consequently talk, and talk.
Jose took me through a succession of churches, civic buildings, parks, gardens, cafes and restaurants. I encouraged his chatter, and he was quite instructive. I was beginning to feel I knew the town of San Cristobal which had few industries or attractions, and seemed to live as a junction of roads and railways. I steered the conversation toward Jose, his family, the people, how they lived, what was happening in the town.
What was happening for the majority, according to Jose, was what we would call poverty, but there was always that Cuban buoyancy, a catlike delight in the sun, a respect for Castro, and an understanding that free healthcare and education were valuable. As we sat by the fountain in the square, Jose mentioned the hotels, and I asked him to tell me about Campismo Mercados.
“They pretty broke. Instead they have foreigners there, working in Cuba. Like a hotel.”
“Do the foreigners take Cuban jobs?”
“No. They have their own work. Maybe good for Cuba.”
“Where?”
“Mariel. They come here to enjoy themselves.”
“Where do they go?”
“To the Bar La Costa and the Sol Night Club. There are girls there. Nice girls. You want a girl? I can get you.”
“No, but I’d like to try these places. Have a drink. OK? We go.”
Jose set off enthusiastically. He was sure I wanted a girl and was being coy. The Bar La Costa was thick with cigar smoke. At one end of the bar, a beaded curtain swayed, catching the light, as patrons and girls passed through into the exciting darkness beyond. Music was being strummed and beaten, teased out into a rough rope of sound through an audio system by a trio of black Cubans on a small dais.
The tiny dance floor, testing ground for whether you liked your chosen girl enough to go through the curtain, was crammed with macho men clamping the firm, round asses of their partners as they moved, lock
ed pelvis to pelvis. Other men stood around staring, like buyers at a cattle fair, or sat at tables drinking. Jose and I took seats at the back, where we could watch.
“Are some of these men the foreigners from the Campismo?”
“Some. Why you ask the Campismo all the time?”
I was being too obvious. And I was finding I couldn’t tell a Cuban from a Saudi. “Let’s go look at the nightclub.”
“Eets early yet. Not much action. We wait. I get you a girl…”
He beckoned one of the girls with her elbows on the bar waiting for a partner. She came swaying toward me, big breasted in an almost transparent floral dress with a belly hole in it, and he whispered to her. I turned away from her inviting smile.
“We go, Jose,” I said, and headed for the door, with Jose trailing behind, protesting the quality of the girls.
At the Sol Night Club I paid our dues, and found there were very few people there. The band hadn’t started, the bartenders were still stacking the bar, and a woman was vacuum-cleaning a strip of carpet outside the toilets. Two coffee-skinned men, whom I thought were mulattos, were having an argument with a white-jacketed Cuban who looked like the manager. I sent Jose down to the bar to get me a daquiri and took a seat to watch the altercation.
A girl flounced up to the trio and said something. One of the men grabbed her by the wrist, and tried to drag her toward the door. A muscular, black, shaven-headed Cuban in a tuxedo intervened and broke the man’s grip on the girl. He grabbed the man by the back of his shirt and the back of his trouser belt, and propelled him across the floor and out of the door. The expelled man’s companion retired too, a few yards behind, still arguing with the manager and gesticulating.
When Jose returned with our drinks, I said, “What was that about?”
He shrugged wearily. “Fight over a girl. Who pays who. How much. The foreigners are always fighting over the women.”
