“Yes, by every dog between here and the bus stop,” he said.
Suddenly Clara, a hefty woman in her forties, burst from the kitchen carrying a plate heaped with food and a bottle of Cristal beer.
“Alberto!” She placed the items on the table in front of her son and proceeded to smother him with hugs and kisses. He squirmed a bit, offering a token resistance, a habit he had formed as a little boy.
“Is that boliche I smell?” he asked, using his technique of distracting her by mentioning her food to secure a reprieve from the onslaught of affection.
“Yes, my darling. Your favorite,” she said, placing her hand on his head very gently, as one might rest their hand on the head of a beloved dog.
Alberto put some of it into his mouth. His eyes closed in ecstasy. Boliche Cubano was indeed his favorite dish. The eye-round beef roast marinated in Mojo Criollo and stuffed with chorizo was slow cooked in a wine broth until the meat was so tender that it melted in his mouth. It was unique to Cuba, and nobody made it better than his mother.
“Are you showing them what real Cuban food is, Alberto?” asked Emilio.
“I do what I can, papa, but they still like their beans from a can.”
“You’re a good boy, Alberto,” his mother said. She took her husband by the hand, and the couple went back into the kitchen to tend to business, leaving their son to enjoy his supper.
As he took a long pull from the cold beer, Alberto heard a rustling sound in the brush behind him and moments later was joined by a lanky, bearded man with a cowboy hat wearing a .45-caliber Colt automatic sidearm. This was Camilo Cienfuegos.
Along with Fidel and Raúl Castro and Che Guevara, Cienfuegos had been commanding a column of the rebel forces in the nearby Sierra Maestra mountains. The rebels had been fighting and adding more columns, and now that 1958 had arrived they were gaining ground as more men dissatisfied with the government began taking up arms.
Despite the constant danger he was in, Cienfuegos was in a particularly good mood that evening. In the actual fighting, the Cuban army had been getting the worst of it, succumbing to guerrilla tactics that were not only effective but extremely frustrating as well. But more importantly, the people were behind the rebels, donating food, cash, and other supplies to further the cause. Alberto and his family were among many who did what they could to help.
Alberto called into the kitchen for another plate and a beer for his dining companion.
When it arrived, Cienfuegos raised his bottle to the revolution, then began shoveling the food into his mouth with gusto. “Damn, this is good!” he said. “I’m recommending this place to all my friends!”
Cienfuegos was loquacious, always quick to tell a joke and quick to laugh at himself. Not that he wasn’t a serious person—he was remarkably earnest—but as a leader he thought it helpful to keep things light, reasoning that with such high stakes and so many people sacrificing so much for the cause, the last thing needed was for him to take himself too seriously. The revolution, yes; himself personally, never.
“How are things going up there?” asked Campos.
“Not too bad, man,” Cienfuegos replied. “We know where they are, and they don’t know where we are. It’s just a matter of time before we run out of guys to shoot.”
Alberto leaned in. “I want to join you in the mountains, Camilo. If you had more fighters, this thing would be over much more quickly. I’ve earned the right.”
Camilo laughed. “We have too many cooks but not enough food. You’re more valuable where you are now. Besides, your parents would blacklist me from this place if you got killed, and I can’t risk that.”
“I can do more for the cause than steal food, you know,” Alberto said. “A person can hear things on the base.”
Cienfuegos let loose with a deep belly laugh. “What do you hear in the kitchen besides complaints?”
“Not me, but others. I have friends that work in more sensitive areas.”
Alberto told Camilo about Alicia. “There’s a girl working in the administrator’s office, for example. She’s a friend of mine.”
Cienfuegos raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes, I think she could be helpful.” Alberto’s expression was very grave.
Camilo shook his head and laughed, “Yeah, I’m sure she could be very helpful.”
Alberto’s facade was cracking under Camilo’s gaze. “OK, OK, she’s a pretty girl. I admit that, but I’m not stupid,” Alberto said.
“No, it’s all right,” Cienfuegos said. “It’s the job of pretty girls to make us stupid—part of nature’s plan. Remember, God gave men two brains but only enough blood to operate one at a time. Make sure you use this one.” He tapped Alberto’s forehead.
Camilo checked the time. “Listen, I’m meeting a guy here in a bit . . .” he said. “He’s a little paranoid, so . . .”
Campos understood. He gave Cienfuegos the purloined bacon from his pack. “A little something for breakfast. My father has more food for you inside.”
Cienfuegos extended his grateful hand. “Thank you, Alberto. I’ll see you next time, my friend.”
Camilo Cienfuegos sat alone, enjoying his dinner. He had planned to have a good meal, a shower, and hopefully a woman that evening—in that order. He had never had difficulty finding women willing to satisfy his needs. In the morning he would journey back into the mountains, bringing much needed supplies with him and carefully avoid the military checkpoints. Normally he wouldn’t risk the trip himself for such a mundane task as collecting supplies, but tonight, after an important bit of business that required his presence, he saw no reason to return empty-handed.
He had been communicating through intermediaries with a Cuban man from Miami, a patriot who had been supplying guns to the rebels by bringing them over by boat and unloading them under cover of darkness west of Santiago. The man obviously had access to US military weapons and now claimed to be able to procure mortars and bazookas for the revolutionaries. As he had reliably delivered shipments of small arms—the only weapons the rebels had for fighting against the well-equipped Cuban army—the man had established his credibility, but was now taking things up a notch. Cienfuegos had reason—and motivation—to believe that he could do as he claimed. The condition for delivering the heavy weaponry was simple. The guy wanted to meet Fidel personally, and it was Camilo’s task to meet with him first and determine if it was prudent to arrange such a meeting.
At precisely nine o’clock, the man arrived at Emilio’s restaurant and made his way, as instructed, to the private table in the back where Cienfuegos was waiting.
“You must be General Cienfuegos,” said the man, stepping out of the shadows.
Camilo stood to take the man’s extended hand. “Actually if rank is important to you, I am a major. But Commandante Cienfuegos is more alliterative, so as long as it’s just the two of us I don’t mind your calling me that,” he said with a smile. “You must be Salazar.”
“That’s me,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you maj—uh, Commandante.”
“The honor is mine, sir,” Camilo said, removing his cowboy hat and holding it over his heart. “The revolution owes you a tremendous debt of gratitude, Mr. Salazar.”
Salazar seemed to Camilo to feign humility. “Nonsense, I consider it my duty as a patriot to do what I can to help.”
Cienfuegos studied the man across from him in silence for a moment, then leaned in, his elbows on the table. “I need to ask you an indelicate question,” he said. “It’s my job, so promise me you won’t take offense.”
“I promise not to; ask me anything.”
“I need to know what it is that you truly want, because I don’t buy the patriot story. In fact, I’m quite sure that it’s bullshit,” Cienfuegos said.
Salazar bristled defensively, obviously put off by the blunt accusation.
Camilo cautioned him. “Remember, you promised not to take offense. Salazar regained his composure. “Why do you have doubt, my friend? Hav
e I not delivered in the past?”
“Yes, but you’ve never demanded a face-to-face meeting with the commander before,” Cienfuegos said. “You must realize that such a thing is extremely inconvenient and very likely perilous to all involved, yourself included. What is your reason to ask for this? Tell me why if you want me to consider your request.”
Salazar sat quietly for a moment, as if calculating whether to trust Cienfuegos. “You’re absolutely right,” Salazar said. “I need a good reason, and that is exactly what I have. You’re a good and trustworthy man, fighting for a just cause, and the time has come for me to put my cards on the table.”
Salazar hesitated another beat, then appeared to do exactly that. “I’m asking you to put your trust in me, so I’m going to put my faith in you. I’m working with the US government. The CIA, to be precise. There it is.”
“Can you prove this?” Cienfuegos asked.
“These orders come directly from President Eisenhower,” Salazar said. “He has lost confidence in Batista. He’s switching sides.”
“You mean he wants to switch puppets? Because we will never agree to that kind of arrangement. Cuba’s days of being a colony are over, whether the US helps us or not. This is nonnegotiable.”
“Hey, I’m just the messenger, OK? My job is simply to open a channel of communication between Fidel and the president of the United States who—and this is a key point by the way—happens to want him to win. And I will deliver a goodwill gesture of heavy weaponry that will virtually guarantee a swift and decisive victory for your men. If you’re not interested, it’s no big deal, and we’ll go our separate ways.”
Cienfuegos sat silently, digesting his dinner and the information he was just given. “I’ll talk to Fidel and get back to you. Thank you for coming.”
GTMO
UPON SEEING THE WORD ‘Guantánamo’ a reader might understandably envision orange jump-suited prisoners, indefinitely detained in a controversial prison camp. A prison which President Obama was unable to close during the eight years of his presidency despite being committed to doing so from its very first day.
Actually the word ‘Guantánamo’ applies to a vast region at the eastern end of Cuba—a basin first discovered when Christopher Columbus visited on his second voyage to the New World in 1494. Today, Guantánamo is a province containing ten cities within its almost twenty-four hundred square miles. Approximately half of the province’s half million people live in its capital, Guantánamo City.
The US Naval Base in Guantánamo Bay, Cuba, occupies an area containing forty-five square miles of land and water. It has been leased to the US in perpetuity since 1903. The rent was set at the equivalent of two thousand dollars in gold per annum. In 1959 the new Castro government cashed the first check it received (which was for $3,386.25), but since then has demonstrated its objection to a foreign base on Cuban soil by not cashing the rent checks. The lease may only be amended if both parties agree.
In this novel, the base is referred to as GTMO.
In 1958 the area surrounding GTMO was a hotbed of rebel activity and support for Fidel Castro and the revolutionaries. On the other hand, GTMO was both a CIA and military outpost where the US government’s activities in support of its puppet, Cuban President Fulgencio Batista, were carried out.
By the spring of 1958, the violence had spread from the nearby Sierra Maestra mountains, where the rebels were based, into the cities. In March, the US had embargoed the export of arms to the Batista government. But some weapons, then being run illegally by the CIA, continued to flow through GTMO to Batista’s forces. Yet many others on the base, both Cuban employees and US Navy personnel, were sympathetic to the rebels and were secretly passing them fuel, small arms, ammunition, and food through the gates.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As one of the five clerks to the GTMO base administrator, Pilar was at the center of a lot of activity. The clerks, three men and two women, worked out of the same large room as their boss Lt. Robert “Buzz” Holton. Located on the third floor of the headquarters building, the room had a large picture window overlooking the base. Pilar’s work station was closest to Holton’s desk.
Working for Holton gave Pilar immediate credibility on the base. Holton was an exemplary naval officer, a genuine “officer and a gentleman.” He was highly regarded and well liked by those who worked for him.
Pilar marveled at the variety of uniforms he wore. His shirt and pants were always well pressed, his shoes gleaming. Most work days he wore khaki pants with a short-sleeved khaki shirt with the pair of silver bars on each collar. He had combat ribbons which somehow were always transferred from uniform to uniform. Ever present were his gleaming gold aviator’s wings.
On Friday mornings, Holton wore white. For some special occasions, instead of a white shirt with gold braided shoulder boards, he wore buttoned dress formals with the corresponding medals replacing his battle ribbons. Most striking of all was the occasionally worn ceremonial naval officer’s sword which hung so naturally around his slim waist. He explained to her that the gold tassel that was wrapped around the handle was a little soiled because the sword had been passed from his grandfather to his dad to him, as successive generations of Holtons had graduated from the United States Naval Academy. His emphasis on family instilled admiration in Pilar. She had a fleeting thought in which she pictured herself as a mother attending the graduation of her son from her boss’s precious Naval Academy.
In dealing with Pilar, he was patient and understanding. Pilar quickly picked up the peculiarities of the Naval jargon used around the office. Initially, she felt like she was back in grade school in Miami, trying to learn a foreign language. Because Holton was below the rank of commander, she was able to call him either Lieutenant Holton or Mr. Holton, though he preferred Mr. Holton. The floor was the “deck” and the “ceiling” the “overhead.” The walls were “bulkheads,” and to the men, the restroom was the “head.”
Holton also gave her the official Washington take on the revolution. “Many people in Washington see beards and berets and firebrand speeches but don’t think this will create any real change,” he said. “They are not convinced these guys will succeed. However, on the ground, things are rapidly changing, and we have to act in the interest of ensuring stability.”
Holton’s office was a clearing house of communiqués from the Pentagon, the CIA, and even the Eisenhower White House. All of them were written in code, and many were purposefully contradictory in case they were turned over to the rebels. Every operation had a different name, and only the higher-ups knew which were real and which were decoys.
Interesting people were always coming and going from Holton’s office. None of them caught Pilar’s attention more than Chip Thompson. The first time she saw him, Thompson was carrying a briefcase in one hand and a pair of running shoes in the other. Thompson strode into the office full of confidence—“full of himself,” as Pilar’s coworkers soon warned her.
Thompson was young, in his mid-twenties, and handsome to a fault. Tall, slender, and as fit as a professional athlete, he had, piercing blue eyes, a square jaw, and a military-style crew cut. Her office colleagues were suspicious of Thompson’s flirtations, but Pilar found him engaging and amusing. He worked as a private contractor on the base in communications, so he was often in the office. What exactly he did was unclear, but it was clear by the way Holton treated him that whatever this was, it was very important.
Chip Thompson, in fact, was one of the key CIA people stationed on the base. An All-American running back and class salutatorian at the University of Nebraska, he had been recruited out of college by the agency in 1955. Many of his teammates were joining the Army or the Navy straight out of college. To Thompson, spending time in boot camp to prepare for combat that you may never see seemed unexciting. He craved danger, which was exactly what the CIA was looking for when they recruited him.
Thompson quickly distinguished himself as a standout in training at Camp Peary, better known as “T
he Farm.” He had a photographic memory and a face that was very hard to read—excellent traits for a prospective agent. The teachers pegged him for counterintelligence in South America since he spoke fluent Spanish.
Thompson’s first posting was in Montevideo, Uruguay, where he worked under E. Howard Hunt, the powerful station chief. Hunt had served as station chief in Mexico and had run the operation to overthrow the elected president of Guatemala. He groomed Thompson and then personally repositioned him to Cuba in the spring of 1957, just months after Castro and his guerrillas returned from Mexico.
In Cuba, Thompson did what the best counterintelligence officers do: he played both sides against the middle. He had a line on the movements of the revolutionary forces through his relationship with Frank País, the leader of the Revolutionary National Action, a primary Castro support group. Only twenty-two years old, País was the main source of arms for Castro’s growing militia; he also carried out numerous attacks on Batista’s army and the Cuban national police force. Unfortunately for the rebels, he quickly became a priority target and was gunned down by a police officer in broad daylight on a busy street in Santiago in July 1957.
Thompson, of course, knew the officer who had killed País. The man was the second highest ranking police official in Santiago, with close ties to Batista. The officer had actually told Thompson that País was being targeted. Certain that this was a test directly from Havana, Thompson did not warn País, even though he had ample opportunity to do so.
In fact, Thompson’s ties to Batista went all the way to the Presidential Palace. Though not even the other CIA officers were aware of it, he served as a liaison of sorts between the US government officials who cautiously supported Batista and the CIA officials who carried out their wishes.
One of Thompson’s strengths as a secret operative was that he had no close friends, no real girlfriends, and no family attachments. He carried himself around the base with a casual apparent indifference, but that was all part of the “telecommunications contractor” role that he was playing. In private, whether dealing with the Batista regime or the revolutionaries, he was all business.
The Girl from Guantanamo Page 10
