The Girl from Guantanamo

by Donald Lloyd Roth

  After President Eisenhower had experienced a series of heart attacks, military officers were encouraged to take time off to do physical exercise as part of their work week. The joke at GTMO was that the restriction on vehicular traffic, which had come in the face of rebel activity nearby, was really a government-mandated exercise program.

  Pilar, who had loved track so much in high school, was quick to get into the routine, running pretty much every day in her blue running shorts and a gold singlet she purchased at the base’s Navy Exchange. She became known for her discipline and the sight of her lithe body in motion was appreciated by the guards, who would smile and wave at her as she passed them on her long daily circuit.

  One afternoon when she was circling the numerous baseball diamonds, Chip Thompson jogged up beside her. Startled at first, she nodded but said nothing. The two ran side by side silently except for the sound of their feet striking the ground in unison until Thompson finally said, “Pretty impressive pace . . .”

  Pilar, her ponytail swinging back and forth, said, “I just run the way it feels good. I have no idea of how fast it might be.”

  “Well, you’re sub seven.”

  With her eyes looking straight ahead, she asked, “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re running under seven–minute miles, and even better, you aren’t sounding short of breath,” he said.

  She smiled. “Would you like me to slow down?”

  “How much further did you plan to go at this pace?”

  Glancing at him briefly, she saw his eyes fixed straight ahead and replied, “I can go another thirty minutes and still make my bus home.”

  With that, Pilar accelerated, leaving Thompson in her wake.

  Although she maintained appropriate coworker boundaries with the reputed ladies man, Pilar bonded with Thompson through running. They started a routine of running together three times a week, often discussing the happenings on the base and the progress of the revolutionaries. Thompson was fairly open in his political conversations with Pilar, but he was careful with his information. Likewise, Pilar was careful to play the role of a good Cuban citizen, always loyal to her government. She hadn’t forgotten how she ended up here in the first place.

  For his part, Thompson seldom talked about his work, deflecting all questions by telling her that telecommunications business was “just a bunch of wires.” Although to many on the base, it was obvious that he was more than just a telecom man, he did not want her to know that he was in the CIA, not so much for security purposes, but because he wanted to develop a relationship based on something other than work. She was his pleasant distraction from the tangled web he was caught up in.

  It was good for Thompson’s ego to have one person in his life who liked him just for him, and he tried to take it to the next level by asking Pilar on an actual date. She liked him, but was inclined to keep the friendship professional. Her mother had taught her the importance of maintaining a good reputation, and common sense told her to listen to her mother in this case. She politely declined his invitation.

  For three weeks Alberto Campos had been watching Pilar from a distance. He would wave to her in the cafeteria when he saw her waiting in line, or say hello to her if he saw her on the bus, but he was giving her some time to settle in before approaching her with his proposal.

  He had seen her running on the base with Chip Thompson more than once, apparently becoming quite chummy with him, and felt he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. So when he saw her at the bus stop, as he had the day they met, he decided to strike up a conversation.

  It was raining and she was taking shelter under a green wooden structure with a tin roof next to the bus stop. This gave him an excuse to sidle up next to her as he got away from the downpour.

  “Hello, Alicia,” he said, wringing out his shirt tails.

  She remembered his face and his politeness, but it was obvious she had forgotten his name, having met so many new people recently. He reminded her of his name, and they struck up a conversation while the heavy raindrops reverberated on the metal cover above their heads. It was so loud they were practically shouting, which wasn’t helpful given the confidential nature of what he had hoped to discuss with her. When the bus came, it wasn’t much better. Between the relentless downpour and the diesel engine, Alberto found himself mostly smiling awkwardly as he waited for better conditions to communicate.

  The bus arrived at Pilar’s usual stop, but instead of waving goodbye to her as he had done before, he got off with her. Both of them became instantly drenched in the torrential deluge. Pointing across the street, he grabbed her hand and they ran to the shelter of a small café. The place was quiet at this hour—too early for dinner, too late for lunch.

  “Can I buy you a coffee while we wait for it to stop?” he asked, his unusually green eyes lighting up under the florescent lights.

  “Good idea,” she replied, removing her light jacket that was soaked all the way through.

  They made themselves comfortable in a booth, and each ordered a café con leche, to which she added way too much sugar just the way her father had always done. As they sipped their drinks, they traded gossip about the base brass and rumors about the revolution until the conversation turned to politics.

  Unlike her talks with Chip, she felt at ease to speak freely with a fellow Cuban and coworker, and before long they were openly sharing their disdain for the Batista government and their support for the revolution.

  Alberto expressed his opinion about how unfair he felt the Americans had treated Cuba, inviting Pilar to weigh in and take a few shots at the Yanquis herself, but she was torn. She became quiet as memories of Miami flooded in. Alberto couldn’t help asking her what was wrong. As the rain ran down the window outside, Pilar tearfully confessed, telling Alberto the entire story about moving to Miami when she was eight, about her father being arrested, about fleeing Miami with her mother. She then told him about their finding their house in Cuba burnt to the ground and her decision to assume her cousin’s identity so she could work at the base.

  “So, your name isn’t Alicia? What is it?” he asked.

  “Pilar. My name is Pilar!”

  It felt so good to unburden herself of this secret that when she said her real name out loud for the first time in many months, her tears turned to laughter.

  “Nice to meet you, Pilar.”

  They both laughed and celebrated by ordering another round. The rain wasn’t letting up anyway, so they continued talking until Alberto felt the time was right to get to the point he had wanted to discuss with her.

  “You know, there is something you can do to help the revolution,” Alberto said. “You’re in a unique position with your job.”

  There, he had said it. Alberto sat quietly as she sipped her coffee and processed his statement.

  Finally, she asked, “Are you one of them? Are you a rebel?”

  “Damn right I am. And from what I’ve heard so far, so are you. Will you help, Pilar?”

  “What can I do?”

  Alberto explained that there were many sensitive documents coming through the office where she worked, and also many people who could say things that might be overheard. Things that could be very helpful.

  He leveled his gaze at her, hypnotizing her with those beautiful eyes. She felt weak in the knees.

  “Chip Thompson, for example,” he said, gauging her reaction.

  “What about him?” she asked.

  “He’s CIA,” replied Alberto. “And he seems to have taken an interest in you.”

  “CIA? Really? We’re more or less friends, yes. We run together, nothing more.”

  Pilar felt put on the defensive, owing perhaps to the fact that she liked the young man sitting across from her. She might even be falling in love with him, she thought.

  “But he’d like to be more than just friends, wouldn’t he?” Alberto was making a statement, not asking a question.

  “He has asked me to dinner, but I’m not inte
rested. He’s got a reputation with the ladies.”

  Alberto didn’t mean to be rude, but he found himself interrupting her. “And that’s sort of the point, his weakness, if you catch my meaning.”

  Pilar was taken aback. “What are you suggesting? I told you I wasn’t interested in him.”

  “I’m suggesting that if you wanted to be helpful, you should get interested, Pilar,” he said. “For the Revolution.”

  Pilar silently considered what Alberto was suggesting, trying to keep control of her emotions.

  Alberto continued, “He has his hands in a lot of pies; he knows things. Things that he might not share with a coworker, but that he might share with a lover.”

  Pilar was heartbroken. She was being asked to spy on Chip, the nice guy she went running with, and she was being asked to pretend to love him by somebody she was maybe developing feelings for, someone with whom she might feel real chemistry. She was terribly confused, and Alberto could read it on her face.

  “Just think about it—that’s all I ask.”

  The rain finally let up, and Pilar walked home in a reflective mood, wondering if she should tell her mother what had been asked of her. Alberto had strongly urged her to keep their conversation confidential, but she was torn since she had never kept anything from her mother before. At least not something this big. And it was big indeed, because she was leaning towards doing exactly as Alberto had asked.

  By the time she arrived at the apartment, she had concluded that whatever she decided, she wouldn’t tell her mother anything about what had transpired. She didn’t want to worry her, and she certainly didn’t want to betray Alberto’s confidence. Besides, if she did decide to move forward and accept his challenge, the less Maria knew about it, the better it would be for both of them if something went wrong.

  As she entered the apartment, the first thing she noticed was the absence of the usual aroma of her mother’s cooking. She called out, wondering if Maria was shopping.

  Maria answered, an excited tone in her voice. “In the bedroom, baby. Come quickly, I have wonderful news!”

  Pilar rushed into the room to find her mother packing. “It’s your papa, he’s getting out! Pablo got them to drop the charges. The nightmare is over, Pilar! Our family will soon be together!”

  Pilar, shocked, sat down on the bed. “Mama, I can’t go. Not yet.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Three days after Alberto Campos issued his challenge to Pilar, Chip Thompson picked her up at her apartment for dinner. It was their first formal date, as all their other social outings had been brief conversations at the base after runs. Always a natty dresser, Thompson had stepped it up for her. He was wearing a cream-colored linen suit over a dark blue shirt and brown suede lace-ups. Pilar did her simple equivalent of the same and wore heels with her sundress instead of her usual flats.

  The two walked down one of the main streets in Guantánamo City in the balmy night air. The cafés and restaurants were packed, and there seemed to be little sense of political urgency. The police presence was surprisingly light, given that there were reports of the rebels marshaling forces in the hills nearby.

  Thompson and Pilar arrived at Café Sansobol, one of the hot spots in town. A regular, he greeted the host with a back slap and the hostess with a kiss on the cheek. After conferring with them, he guided Pilar to the lively bar for drinks. They sat at a high-top table with a red “Reserved” sign on it. The waitress waved at Thompson from two tables away. He held up two fingers, and she soon returned with mojitos.

  Pilar took in the atmosphere. “This is a real treat,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to come here, but I never had the right invitation.”

  Thompson raised his glass. “A toast,” he declared. “To more invitations to come.”

  Just as they clicked glasses, Thompson quickly stood up, having spotted an acquaintance across the room behind Pilar. He was clearly taken out of the romantic moment. Pilar glanced over her shoulder to see who had so completely distracted Thompson.

  A man with a dark complexion sporting a two-day shadow and a bright green hat, was weaving his way through the crowd. Pilar recognized him immediately. It was Salazar.

  Pilar froze. What the hell was he doing here? Had he come for her? Did Thompson know him? As fast as the questions swirled, she deflected them. Thinking fast, she dumped her mojito in her lap.

  She jumped up from the table, keeping her back to the approaching Salazar, and acted shocked at her accident. “Oh, how could you be so clumsy, Alicia!” she chastised herself.

  Thompson turned toward her. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and handed it to her. “Here, take this,” he said. “And don’t worry, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

  Pilar held her dress away from her body. “I’m completely soaked,” she said. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” a smiling Thompson said.

  “You’re so sweet,” Pilar replied. “But I need to change. I want to make it a nice night. It’ll just take a few minutes. Be right back.”

  Before Thompson could raise any objection, Pilar headed for the door, being careful to keep her back toward the direction from which Salazar was approaching. Thompson watched her dart through the crowd, smiling at her girlish charm and her desire to look good on their date.

  When Thompson turned back around, the waitress was wiping up the floor. A moment later, Salazar stood over the stool where Pilar had been sitting. “Mr. Thompson,” he said.

  “Mr. Salazar . . .”

  Salazar sat down and motioned for the waitress. “Who was that little beauty?” he asked. “Your girl? I didn’t get a good look at her. Knowing you, I bet she’s a real looker.”

  “Girl who works at the base . . . Alicia,” Thompson replied.

  Salazar nodded his approval. “I don’t need much of your time, but it’s important,” he said.

  After Pilar changed her dress, she debated about not returning to the restaurant. She was not afraid of Salazar abducting her. She was sure that Thompson would protect her. She pondered the connection between the two men. Whatever it was, she reasoned that it had to do with the revolution and not with human trafficking.

  Nevertheless, there was clearly some connection between Thompson and Salazar. If Campos was right about Thompson, could Salazar also be CIA? The chances were remote, given what he had tried to do to her. Still, the fact that Salazar was in Guantánamo, blocks from her apartment, made it imperative that she find out more about what that horrid excuse for a man was up to.

  Pilar had spent many nights thinking long and hard about Salazar turning her over to Lucien and her terrifying act of killing a man. She had told nobody the details of her ordeal, and she and Maria never spoke of it. Pilar could never fully grasp that the guy who sugared her up with Dots as a little girl could sell her into sex slavery. She thought she had almost buried the memory of those frightening events. But seeing him again brought all those scary emotions back to the surface.

  After turning the memories over and over in her mind, she had concluded that he was the coldest of opportunists who was either desperate for money or under the thumb of someone horrible. Either way, she felt that perhaps she could trust Thompson with what she knew about Salazar and warn him about the character of the man. She tried to figure a way of telling Chip about Salazar without revealing the whole truth—that she and her mother were fugitives from the US government. She couldn’t risk that.

  On the walk to the café, she hugged the storefronts and kept an eye out for the green hat. She was sure he hadn’t seen her long enough to recognize her, which gave her the advantage. The problem was that half the men walking down the street had the illshaven, hustler look of Salazar.

  When she reached Café Sansobol, Pilar felt a rush through her body. She knew that she was onto something. If she could only ignore her own danger and play into the persona that she had crafted for herself at the urgent prompting of Alberto, she felt like there was a chance that she
could get even with Salazar for his betrayal. She entered the bar area and scanned the room. The bar was crowded, but there was no sign of Salazar. Her eyes darting in every direction, she made her way back to the table where Thompson was sitting.

  “Alicia . . .” Thompson paused to admire her dark blue linen dress. “You look even more lovely.”

  Pilar smiled. “Thank you and sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said flirtatiously.

  Thompson pulled out her stool, and she sat down. The mambo band had started playing, and the crowd was loosening up.

  Pilar sipped her drink, tilted her head and smiled at Thompson. “Who was that guy?” she asked. “I saw your expression when you spotted him.”

  Thompson smiled and held up two fingers to the passing waitress, signaling for two more mojitos. He turned his attention back to Pilar. “Just an acquaintance,” he said.

  “Really?” She sipped her drink and leaned back, not knowing exactly where she was taking this. “Does he work in telecom, too?”

  She looked up at him through heavy lids, as if challenging him to lie to her, a move she imagined a femme fatale from a spy novel might employ.

  Thompson, oblivious, was too caught up in his own machismo to notice Pilar’s attempts at seductive manipulation. He had just received key information from one of his “bunnies,” the CIA’s code name for informants who come hopping to them with information in exchange for a carrot that they could bring back to those they were informing on. In Pilar, he only saw the most delicious woman he had seen since his Nebraska Cornhusker cheerleader girlfriend—only Pilar was lithe, fit, and half the size.

  “No. Trust me, he’s boring,” he said.

  “Want to know what I think?” Pilar asked flirtatiously. She couldn’t believe where she was taking this, but she said it anyway, “I think he’s CIA.”