The Girl from Guantanamo
Page 1
Advance Praise for
The Girl from Guantánamo
“Don Roth may be a literary late bloomer, but he is a born storyteller whose vivid tale is told with stunning urgency.”
—Robert Klane, acclaimed filmmaker and author of Where’s Poppa?, Weekend at Bernie’s, and European Vacation
“If you’re fascinated with Cuba—and today who isn’t—this one’s for you.”
—William Stadiem, New York Times best-selling writer and coauthor of Daughter of the King: Growing Up in Gangland, the autobiography of mob boss Meyer Lansky’s only daughter
“Cuba conjures up so many amazing images—timeless beauty, beautiful women, and the charisma of a soon-to-be great leader in Fidel Castro. Don Roth melds these wonderful elements together using fact and fiction, as he weaves a compelling story of a beautiful femme fatale and a group of wily men that changed the course of a nation.”
—Nick Reed, Academy Award-winning producer
“Don Roth’s riveting tale of Cuban life on the brink of the Revolution is fresh, sexy, and exciting, and reads like it was written by someone who was there to witness it all—and Roth was.”
—Peter Callahan, award-winning filmmaker, writer/director of Last Ball and Against the Current
The Girl from Guantánamo is a work of fiction. All characters and their dialogue and the incidents in their lives, with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues with or concerning those persons are fictional. Such incidents and dialogues are not intended to change the imagined nature of this work. In all other respects, any resemblance to real persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Donald Lloyd Roth
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.
This edition published by SelectBooks, Inc.
For information address SelectBooks, Inc., New York, New York.
First Edition
ISBN 978-1-59079-429-6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Roth, Don (Donald Lloyd), author.
Title: The girl from Guantanamo / Don Roth.
Description: First edition. | New York: SelectBooks, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016047179
Subjects: LCSH: Women revolutionaries--Fiction. | Spies--Fiction. |
Subversive activities--Fiction. | Betrayal--Fiction. |
Cuba--History--Revolution, 1959--Fiction. | Guantbanamo (Cuba)--Fiction. |
Florida--Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | GSAFD: Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3618.O8574 G57 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016047179
MAP OF CUBA IN 1959 (on page 2)
In 1879 Cuba was divided into the six provinces created by the Spanish colonial government. With few changes the same boundaries and capital cities, with some modifications in their official names, existed until 1976 when Cuba was divided into fourteen provinces. Today there are fifteen.
Book design and map of Cuba created by Janice Benight
10987654321
NEARLY SIXTY YEARS AGO, A NEWLY-WED JUNIOR U.S. NAVY OFFICER RETURNED FROM A BRIEF HONEYMOON TO DUTY ON A SHIP OPERATING FROM AND AROUND THE BASE AT GUANTÁNAMO BAY, CUBA. EVERY NIGHT HIS YOUNG WIFE WROTE HIM A LETTER, AS SHE HAD BEFORE THEIR WEDDING DURING HIS LONG MEDITERRANEAN DEPLOYMENT TO THE SIXTH FLEET, AND HE AT EVERY OPPORTUNITY REPLIED TO HER. OVER THE COURSE OF A HECTIC LIFE, INCLUDING THE BIRTH OF THREE CHILDREN, SIX GRANDCHILDREN, AND SEVERAL MOVES TO NEW HOMES, THOSE LOVE LETTERS, WHICH ALSO INCLUDED OBSERVATIONS RELATING TO THE REVOLUTION OCCURRING NEAR THE GUANTÁNAMO BASE, HAVE GONE MISSING.
THIS NOVEL IS DEDICATED TO MY WIFE JACQUELINE IN THE HOPE IT CAN TAKE THEIR PLACE.
“You were born into freedom.
You don’t truly understand freedom.”
—JOSÉ FERNÁNDEZ
Miami Marlins All Star Pitcher #16
1992–2016
(Formerly imprisoned in Cuba three times for attempting to leave the country)
Contents
Acknowledgments
Part One: Southern Florida 2015–2016
Cia Operation “Clean Sweep” Revisited
The Tabloid Reporter
Casa Hernandez
Beginning the Tale
Part Two: Guantánamera by Douglas Evans
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Part Three: A Tour de Force
Pride and Infamy
Selected Bibliography
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Daughters, from early childhood on, endow their dads with so many wondrous gifts. To write a book with a compelling story and interesting characters may no longer be anywhere near enough to achieve publication.
“Dad, I have a friend who can help you with comments and finding an agent,” she said. I muttered “sure you can,” barely able to disguise my condescension. Was I ever wrong.
My eternal gratitude is owed to my daughter Stacey Brumbaugh and to her friend, the New York Times multiple best-selling author Josh Young, who told me it was a good, incredibly interesting book, and then showed me how it could be much better. My thanks also to Jon Klane who assisted Josh, and whose experience in the film industry together with that of academy award winner Nick Reed, may have sprinkled just enough cinematic spice on The Girl from Guantánamo to help deliver her to the silver screen.
But first comes the book, and Josh helped with that most elusive need of a new writer by introducing me to his agent, John Stuart, who in turn found publishers willing to take a chance on an eager elderly rookie.
It has been a pleasure to work with Nancy Sugihara and Yoji Yamaguchi, my editors at SelectBooks, and I also want to thank Janice Benight for giving “The Girl” a face in the exciting cover design.
It takes a lot of support to help someone who passed through his mid-seventies with nary a thought or desire to create a set of characters and take them through a full manuscript set against a historical background. A sympathetic bartender can be a big help. And for that I thank Nuala Foster whom I dub “Queen of the Pub” at The Club at Ibis in West Palm Beach, Florida. It was at the Ibis Cultural Association Writers Group, so ably led by Barbara Taub, that I received so much encouragement from Barbara and the regular attendees, Don Schaffer, Judy Zalesne, Gordon McClenithan, Carol Holzer, Carol Davis, Al Dawson, Jeanne Lavoie, and Roberta Weiner. Patrice Wilton, the New York Times best-selling author in the group, encouraged me and introduced me to her book coaches Christopher Hawke and Traci Hall, whose patient teaching is gratefully acknowledged.
In the spring of 2015, I met Maribeth Fischer, founder of the Rehoboth Beach Writers Guild who introduced me to the amazing diversity of activities offered by the Guild. Talented writers and teachers from
whom I received stimulation include, Sarah Barnett, Patty Bennet, Ellen Collins, Paul Dyer, Stephanie Gajar, Tom Hoyer, Frank Minni, Ceil Payne, and Katherine Pickett.
On all things US Navy, I checked my recollections with my younger brother, Vietnam war veteran Elliott J. Roth, LT, USNR. And my college classmate and close friend, author, and printer, Michael Spett, was an always available source of good advice.
Finally, I want to thank for their patience encouragement and help, my wife Jacqueline, and our children, including the wonderful children they each were wise enough to marry a couple of decades ago. Thank you, Stacey and Scott Brumbaugh, Jonathan Roth and Mariam Berlak, and last, but by no means least, Gary and Laura Roth.
PART ONE
SOUTHERN FLORIDA
2015–2016
CIA OPERATION “CLEAN SWEEP” REVISITED
Chip Thompson didn’t look his eighty-plus years.
Despite the brutal heat and humidity, the tall, muscular man with the thick white crew cut, blue striped Lacoste golf shirt, and pressed khakis barely broke a sweat as he exited his golf cart at the exclusive golf course in West Palm Beach, Florida. His bearing, resembling that of a retired military man, was a striking contrast to the spastic convolutions of Héctor Salazar, the bedraggled soul he hadn’t seen in almost six decades who awaited him inside as Thompson entered the clubhouse.
Although they were approximately the same age, Salazar looked ancient, shivering in a soiled white linen shirt, with the haunted expression of one who had missed his last several meals. Salazar’s deep-set eyes followed Thompson as the distinguished looking man walked in and seemed to look right past him. Thompson stopped, stood frozen for a moment, and then turned to get a better look at the bearded Cuban staring back at him.
“Salazar?” asked Thompson.
“It’s me,” replied Salazar, carefully reading the other man’s expression before offering a cautious smile. “Still alive, but freezing to death in this place.”
“They keep the air conditioning set pretty low. You’ll get used to it.”
Thompson judged Salazar’s attire to be marginal but acceptable for the clubhouse. “Are you hungry?” He gestured to the dining room, which was filled with well-dressed senior citizens, mostly golfers, eating lunch at 11:45 in the morning. “I never use up my annual food minimum, so we can gorge ourselves.”
Salazar took in the buffet, which occupied a large alcove of the main dining room named the Atrium. Along one wall, three areas overladen with food were attended by men dressed in white. A help-yourself soup table was flanked on its left by fascinating small appetizers in miniature pans. Today’s were salmon with mango salsa and frogs’ legs with herb garlic butter, and a choice of three soups, one of which Chip proclaimed to Salazar was always chicken noodle, “the tastiest chicken soup you’ll ever have in your life!” Next was a chipotle beef vegetable with garlic croutons and a gazpacho with delicately cut cucumbers and tomatoes and a delicious sour cream sitting in appropriately placed bowls. Near the soups sat a variety of breads, rolls, and all kinds of bagels.
The second area, the omelet station, began with a take-all-you-want tray of long shimmering bacon strips, savory sausages, and browned potatoes mixed with grilled onions. Standing behind a white mountain of eggs a white-hatted attendant was ready to produce just about any egg dish imaginable.
“Here’s the meat,” said Chip, at the completion of the wall of plenty. The carving station was manned by knife-wielding, smiling chefs in white hats standing at the ready to serve roasted turkey breast, roast beef, and succulent corned beef.
Across the room was a salad bar, which overwhelmed newcomers with its vast variety of choices, and against the last wall of the room was displayed an all-too-tempting desert area. Thompson pointed out a wonderful pastry. “Key lime pie . . . used to be my favorite but I have to be careful with the sugar these days. So take a look at my new favorite, the no-sugar-added blueberry pie, which you can top off with sugar free, fat-free frozen yogurt. This is what clinched the deal on the day I decided to buy into this club.”
He motioned for his guest to follow him back to the seating area, where the mismatched duo chose a table next to a large picture window with a view of the 18th hole of the Legend golf course.
A waiter arrived to take their drink orders. Salazar studied Thompson’s tanned face and manicured hands as he ordered a mango, banana, and strawberry smoothie.
“How about you?” asked Thompson.
“Can they do that with rum?”
“A strawberry daiquiri for my friend, please.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve even had a sniff of this kind of splendor,” Salazar said, gesturing to the polished mahogany table and fine silver and crystal. “So Chip, you’re sitting here in your golf duds, in this overcooled air conditioned room, feeding me exotic food I can’t even afford to look at, let alone eat, lest my taste buds leave here craving more. This sure as hell makes it easier to say what I came here to tell you.”
Salazar then leaned closer to his former colleague, almost whispering. “What I’m here for is a matter of sixty years back pay for the work I did for Operation Clean Sweep. Who would I talk to about that?”
Thompson laughed. “Did you try sending an invoice to Langley?”
The bearded man wasn’t laughing. “I thought I’d talk to you since you’re the most important contact I ever had and the one with a large stake in the cover-up.”
The drinks arrived. Thompson took a sip of his smoothie. “Like I said on the phone, I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ve worked for a telephone company since 1963. For real, no excitement like we had together in the old days, but nice pension plan.”
“You have no idea what I’ve been through,” Salazar deadpanned.
“My hands were tied, Héctor,” Thompson said. A lot of people would’ve been happy to trade places with you.”
Salazar’s temper flared. “I seriously doubt that. Like who?”
“They are no longer around to ask, so maybe you should count your blessings. At least you are alive and it looks to me like you have your health.”
“I’ve been a man without a country, Thompson,” he answered sternly. “Like I said, you have no idea!”
“Perhaps your memory’s playing tricks on you, Héctor. It happens at our age. Let’s just enjoy our lunch and talk about the good times, all right?”
The old man was quite agitated. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I’m owed a debt and I intend to collect.”
Thompson spoke quietly. when he said “What do you want, Héctor?”
“What do I want? I want money. I need money.”
Thompson reached into his pocket, removed his wallet, peeled off a few large denomination bills, and slid them across the table. “Buy yourself a good meal and few more nice shirts. I can’t afford more.”
Salazar took a deep breath, trying to calm his temper. “You know there are people who would pay for what I know about how you screwed up the operation.”
“What you know or what you think you know?” Thompson asked, raising his eyebrows. “What you know hasn’t been relevant in decades. Face it, we’re both old men. Forgotten men.”
Salazar shivered, still not used to the air conditioning. He barked at a passing bus boy in Spanish about it being too cold in the room.” And then, to Thompson, he snapped, “You could freeze fish in this place!”
Salazar took a large gulp of his daiquiri, nearly draining it as Thompson scanned the room, hoping nobody he knew was judging him by his scrappy companion.
Suddenly, the angry man dropped his head, pressing his temples with his leathery fingers, apparently in great pain.
Thompson was startled, and still conscious of the eyes watching the spectacle Salazar might create. “What’s wrong? Should I call the paramedics? Salazar managed to shake his head. “Brain freeze.” he uttered. He spoke slowly, in measured words. “I think they have an obligation to me. I want you to remind them, is all—or the Miami
Herald will.”
He made a sweeping gesture with his bony hands—a headline hanging in mid-air. “CIA’s Top Cuban Informant Abandoned in Haitian Prison for 60 Years,” Salazar said, hitting each word hard. “How do you think that will go over?”
Thompson rolled his eyes, almost amused. “I think you’re embellishing a little, don’t you? Besides, Nelson Mandela you certainly are not.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Thompson said. “Look, I’d like to help you, but like I said, I’m out. I was booted out of the Company pretty much immediately, you know, for what happened.”
“Fine. I’m going to the newspaper.” Salazar dug into his plate with the gusto of a much younger man, as if trying to fill his belly before his imminent ejection from the establishment.
“Good idea, Héctor. You go to the paper with your story—they’re going to assume you’ve got dementia.”
Salazar spoke with his mouth full. “I remember it all.” Then he took a swig of water so his words would be clear. “I remember every fucking thing.”
THE TABLOID REPORTER
Doug Evans was feeling like a real journalist for the first time in months as he drove into the headquarters of South Florida World. The low-slung, rectangular office building was flanked by two oval, manmade ponds that were carved out of the swampland by the developer.
Evans was wearing his standard uniform, a long-sleeve, white button-down shirt, khakis, and white oxfords. He believed the benign clothes allowed him to blend in when pursuing stories. In reality, they failed to conceal the Bronx transplant that he was.
He had moved to Fort Lauderdale after his father died. He found an apartment near his mother who lived in a Century Village senior living community. With his master’s degree in journalism from Columbia University after majoring at NYU in Latin American history, he’d been optimistic about landing a job at a mainstream South Florida paper. Since this was harder than he though it would be, he took a tabloid gig at South Florida World to build his clip file, though that had also proven to be a challenge.