The Girl from Guantanamo

by Donald Lloyd Roth

  Thompson took the bait, “That guy is not CIA.”

  Pilar followed up, “How do you know? Are you CIA?” Her face flushed red because she was nervous, having bet that Campos was right, and if he was, this could be the end of the relationship, or worse.

  Fortunately, Thompson interpreted her physical reaction as something else entirely, something that fit in with his plans. In his optimistic view, the young Cuban beauty was sexually turned on by the prospect of a liaison with a genuine secret agent, and what he said next was the result of too many mojitos and an ego that was hungry for recognition and validation.

  He looked around, over both shoulders, more for her benefit, to make her feel that she was in on a big secret, than any real concern over being overheard. “I am CIA.”

  Pilar feigned surprise. “Really?” Except for the unexpected appearance of Salazar, the scenario was playing out exactly as Campos would have wanted it to.

  Chip drained his drink. “It’s not a good idea to talk here. Besides, I’ve got much better rum at my place,” he said, running his hands through his hair and smiling. He laid several bills on the table. “Would you care to join me for a night cap?”

  Thompson’s apartment was tastefully and simply decorated in tone-on-tone shades of tan. Now that Pilar believed that he was CIA for certain, she took in all the details, or rather the absence of details. Thompson explained that like all CIA-owned housing, in the event of the operative being compromised, the place was designed to convey nothing about its occupant and to be able to be turned over to the next operative on a moment’s notice. To Pilar, everything was too perfectly in its place.

  Thompson gestured to double doors off the living room. “Let’s sit on the terrace,” he said, as he plucked a bottle of aged rum and two glasses off a sideboard in the dining room.

  Pilar went out on the terrace and sat down in one of the two comfortable oversized chairs. The terrace had a view of a winding cobblestone street. Lights from the main street twinkled in the distance. The Cuban night air smelled fresh and sweet. A wave of patriotic feeling swept over her. She thought about how proud her Papa would be if she played a part in helping the rebels succeed in defeating the corrupt Batista regime.

  Pilar pulled a rubber band out her pocket and tied her hair into a ponytail. Flirtatiously, she threw her legs over the arm of the chair and faced Thompson. “If that guy back at the bar wasn’t CIA, then who is he?”

  Thompson sipped his rum and contemplated possibilities that he had hoped for since the first day he saw Pilar running. Telling her that he was CIA was definitely a rookie mistake, but it had gotten her to his apartment, so he went with the best gimmick he seemed to have going for him.

  “If I told you that, I might have to kill you.” He cocked an eyebrow playfully. She laughed. He moved a little closer to her, a predatory look in his eye as he drained his glass, chewing on an ice cube.

  “Now I really want to know. Tell me, who is he?”

  “How bad do you want to know?” He asked as he refilled both of their glasses.

  The alcohol was making him bolder. She needed to assert some authority before things got out of control.

  “Not that bad. I’m just curious about the stuff you’re involved in, that’s all. My job is so boring. I want to hear about something interesting. Something dangerous.”

  “You like danger, huh? I’ll make you a deal,” he said matter-offactly. “You want me to reveal my secrets to you, I want a quid pro quo arrangement. I want your secrets.”

  Perhaps he knew more about her background than she thought. Suddenly she was nervous.

  “What secrets?”

  The way he was looking at her changed her anxiety to terror. Maybe he does know who I really am, she thought. Oh no, maybe he even knows I killed the man Salazar delivered me to! Maybe that’s what his business with Salazar is! Maybe it’s all about me!

  She felt as if the walls were closing in on her and the color drained from her face. She took a large gulp of rum to calm herself.

  She found her voice again, “I don’t have any secrets.”

  “Oh, but you do. You are one big mystery wrapped in a beautiful dress.” He paused for effect, watching her reaction closely. “Why don’t you take your shoes off, Alicia. Reveal your feet to me and then you can ask me to reveal something to you. Anything you like.”

  Pilar kicked off one of her stilettos, trying hard to maintain a sense of playfulness, as if Chip Thompson’s relationship with Salazar didn’t really matter to her, as if this was only a game. “OK, who was that man at the bar? And what is your business with him?”

  He wagged his finger at her. “That’s two questions for only one shoe. Both shoes and I’ll tell you.”

  Pilar blithely kicked off the other shoe, “OK, give.”

  That’s when she noticed that Chip had an erection. It would have been very difficult not to notice, and he certainly wasn’t hiding it. In fact, he seemed quite proud of it, sitting directly across from her, his legs open in that relaxed, masculine way. She averted her eyes.

  “You’re turn, Chip. We had a deal.”

  “You’re right, a deal’s a deal. His name is Salazar and he provided some information that may prove helpful. Or not. There. Question answered. I’m a man of my word.”

  “But it’s missing the exciting, dangerous parts. What information did he provide?”

  “What you’re asking for is quite sensitive, my dear.” A Cheshire grin spread across Thompson’s mug. “But I think you have something to trade for it. The dress.”

  Pilar hoped he wasn’t serious, so she laughed. “That isn’t fair.”

  “You’re right. Instead, I’ll take something off.” Thompson unbuttoned his shirt, removed it and held it out on one finger. “Here, take it and hang it on the chair, please.”

  Pilar rose slowly and approached him. She took his shirt and, turning her back on him, hung it over the back of a chair.

  Thompson leaned forward and grabbed Pilar, pulling her into his lap. She could feel his manhood, like a railroad spike beneath her.

  She struggled to stand up, but his thick, muscular arms were wrapped around her, holding her tight. She was powerless. She stopped struggling, surrendering, still pretending that she was playing a game with him.

  “OK, now you have to answer my question.”

  Chip picked her up as if she weighed nothing and carried her to the bed, “You know what? I’m tired of talking, let’s continue this conversation another time.”

  He sat her on the foot of the bed, pinning her there with his knees against hers. “I’ve got something better for you to do with your mouth than talking.”

  He unbuckled his pants and removed his erect member, the first one Pilar had ever seen in that condition. Her eyes couldn’t hide her shock. She was dumbfounded at the size and power of it as he held it in his hand in front of her face.

  She was silent, wide-eyed with fear. His tone had changed; he wasn’t playing anymore. It was like a switch had flipped, and his personality had gone from a sweet Midwestern gentleman to a depraved animal. He was a lion moving in slowly on a gazelle that was hypnotized by the grave danger it was in.

  His voice was a baritone whisper. “You want that?”

  He answered for her, now his silent victim. “Sure you do.”

  He grabbed her ponytail and, using it as a handle brought her face into contact with his throbbing cock, slapping it against her cheek as if he were knocking on a door.

  “Hello? Anybody home?”

  She refused it, panic in her eyes. She pushed back against his pelvis with her hands, but he was too strong.

  He admonished her, “If you don’t keep your hands to yourself, I’m going to tie them to the bed post. Is that what you want me to do?”

  She shook her head silently.

  “Answer me. Is that what you want? To be tied up? Hmmm?”

  “No,” she croaked.

  “Open your mouth then. Do it now!” His words exploded.
Her heart nearly did as well as he tightened his grip on her hair and slowly, inexorably, forced her to take him inside of her mouth. She began choking as he forced himself deeper into her throat. Then he suddenly stopped and pulled out.

  “Tell you what. I’m going to be a gentleman and let you do it the way you like. And if that doesn’t please me, we’ll try it my way again. How’s that sound, Alicia?”

  He didn’t really expect an answer, and without waiting for one, he stood her up so that she was facing him. “But first, let’s get you out of this pretty dress.”

  He removed his pants now and sat down on the bed where she had been a moment ago. “Go ahead, take it off. I want to watch.”

  Pilar, near tears, felt she had no choice but to comply. She unzipped and stepped out of the garment, letting it fall to the floor, standing before him in nothing but her bra and panties.

  “Those too.” He was enjoying her powerlessness and humiliation, savoring every moment of what he read in her expression, watching her cross the full spectrum of her fears until she accepted that there was no possibility of escape.

  She reached behind herself, head bowed in submission, and unsnapped her bra, revealing young breasts with puffy brown nipples pointing slightly, impossibly, upward. She paused.

  “Now the panties.” He cajoled her in an “almost done” kind of tone, the way a dentist might reassure a nervous patient that the drilling was almost over.

  Of course, it wasn’t. It hadn’t even begun.

  The sun came through the curtains which were blowing softly from the trade winds coming in off the Caribbean as Thompson slept. The sex had gone well into the morning hours until his lust was overtaken by exhaustion. Pilar had paid a steep price, but for what? She was making coffee, naked. In for a dime, in for a dollar, she figured. There was no way she was going to let him off the hook now, not after what he put her through. She would proceed “as if.”

  As if . . . she had enjoyed herself. As if . . . he had shown her an unforgettable evening of carnal delights. As if . . . she wanted more.

  But first, the coffee. Then some pillow talk, playful but informative. He stirred when the smell hit him and she served him in bed, affectionate, with a warm smile, as if . . .

  They spent the morning together and she played her role well. It was clear he was angling for an encore, but with a hangover now replacing last evening’s head full of rum, the advantage had shifted. Pilar was able to learn a great deal about Salazar and what information he had for the CIA.

  She learned about a secret meeting of all the revolutionary commanders at a farmhouse later that week. Cienfuegos, Guevara, the Castro brothers, all of them. It was supposedly a meeting with the CIA to discuss receiving major armaments support for their revolution from a US government that all the way up to, and including President Eisenhower, had become disillusioned with “that corrupt mulatto,” Batista.

  Weapons would be delivered at the meeting as a show of good faith just for showing up, making it an irresistible win–win situation for the rebels. She learned where and when—and most importantly, she learned that it was a trap. The farmhouse would be blown up, effectively ending the revolution in one fell swoop with the capture, or much more likely, the death of the rebel commanders.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The events of the previous evening in Thompson’s apartment, while traumatic, had begun to fade as the importance of what Pilar had learned gained purchase in her consciousness. If the adrenaline jolt at seeing Salazar again hadn’t instantly reminded her of her narrow escape from a horrid future as a sex slave, the experience of sexual violence with Thompson would have. She knew she had to act quickly.

  That morning she rushed home to shower and dress for work. She arrived at the base and went directly to the kitchen to see Campos under the guise of getting a special breakfast for her boss.

  “It’s bad, Alberto,” she said, her haunted expression conveying the urgency of what she had learned.

  Campos turned the vent fan on high to prevent their conversation from being overheard, and she told him about the meeting between the rebel commanders and Salazar.

  “The meeting is a trick,” she told him. “The rebels are being told the CIA wants to support the revolution and abandon Batista. They even promised to bring them weapons like mortars and bazookas as a show of good faith. But it’s a trap to end the revolution. The military is going to kill them.”

  Campos grilled her about the information. “I must be certain before I take this to Cienfuegos. Are you sure he’s not feeding you false information? They need those weapons. If I get them to cancel the meeting, that could have dire consequences, too. Maybe Salazar is a good guy and Thompson is trying to queer the deal.”

  “Salazar is no good guy,” Pilar stated with conviction.

  “But how do you know?” pressed Campos.

  It was a moment of truth, literally. Pilar told Campos what she knew about Salazar, about how he had betrayed her and tried to sell her into sexual servitude. She couldn’t bring herself, however, to tell him about the previous night with Thompson.

  “The information is good,” she concluded. “Thompson’s guard was down; he wasn’t lying to me. I know it.”

  Pilar’s expression conveyed as much as her words. Campos knew that something heavy had happened between Pilar and Thompson, and out of respect for her, he didn’t press the issue.

  After his lunch shift was over, Campos left the base in a big hurry. He didn’t wait for the bus. Instead, he hitched a ride out to his father’s café. He needed to get word to Cienfuegos as soon as possible and knew there would be a supply runner there that afternoon who could deliver the urgent message to the rebel guards’ post at the base of the Sierra Maestra.

  Campos told the courier that he had important news and needed to personally speak to Cienfuegos.

  Alberto didn’t show up at work the next day. He was determined to wait as long as it took for Cienfuegos to arrive at Emilio’s. As he paced and chain-smoked cigarettes, his thoughts were only about the leaders of the revolution. Alberto hoped he was not too late. For all he knew, the meeting could have already taken place. The revolution might already be over. Not knowing was a grueling ordeal. He had never felt so powerless, but all he could do was wait. And pray.

  It was after midnight when Cienfuegos finally showed up in an old pickup truck with the same courier that Alberto had sent to find him. It had been thirty-six hours, and Alberto was worn out from stress and sleeplessness.

  Camilo sauntered over from the parking lot, stretching his legs from the ride after the trek down the mountain.

  “Hey, Alberto. What’s the good word?” he asked laconically.

  Campos was beyond relieved to see Cienfuegos. “Thank God you’re here, Camilo. I was afraid I might be too late.”

  “Too late for what? The end of the revolution?” Cienfuegos joked.

  “Exactly! There’s word that you, Che, and the Castros are meeting a guy named Salazar at a sugar plantation near Bartolomé Masó. It’s a trap, Camilo! The CIA is working with Batista. They’re planning to kill everybody!”

  Cienfuegos was impressed that Campos even knew about the meeting, but the fact that he knew the exact location meant that his information had to be strongly considered. Cienfuegos grilled him about the source. “How do you know all these details?”

  Campos told him that it came from the girl from Guantánamo, the one who worked for the base administrator that he had told Cienfuegos about. She had squeezed it out of a high-ranking CIA source in such a way that the source probably didn’t know he was giving up the information.

  “She goes by Alicia, but her real name is Pilar. She lives in Guantánamo City. I trust her,” said Campos.

  “This Guantánamera may have just saved the whole damn revolution, man. I hope to meet her when this is all over.”

  Cienfuegos quickly headed back toward the waiting truck. Before climbing in he turned toward Alberto and said, “See? You are more valuable
on that base than shitting in a hole up in the mountains. Which, for the record, is truly overrated. Good work, Alberto.”

  It was just past noon two days after Cienfuegos had met with Campos. Cienfuegos and two of his men swatted away a swarm of black gnats as they waited patiently for the arrival of the column of three vehicles they had been tracking from their vantage point in the Sierra Maestra foothills. They were 1,600 feet above the coffee plantation located next to a river. The main house, a stone building with a red, painted wooden roof, was over one hundred years old. It had been chosen one week earlier by Fidel as a meeting point because of its proximity to the mountains, making the transfer of the expected weapons shipment to the rebels more convenient.

  Fidel had been led to believe that the political wind had shifted in his favor in Washington, DC, and while he didn’t trust the Americans, the story they presented made sense. Batista wasn’t a stable partner, and it was known from other sources that the Americans were in fact shopping for his replacement. While Fidel Castro had no intention of becoming the next American puppet, he was certainly willing to listen to the Yanqui proposal and collect the good faith payment of mortars and bazookas they had promised.

  But a lot had changed in a week. New information had come to light, and the treachery they suspected seemed likely to come to fruition—but fortunately at a safe distance.

  Cienfuegos watched as the vehicles stopped about a third of a mile away, shutting off their engines. There were two civilian trucks, the kind used to transport sugar cane with canvas covers over the beds, and a cream-colored Oldsmobile sedan, which was leading the way. Nobody exited the vehicles. They just sat there under the brutal noon sun. The only sound was the droning of a far-off airplane.

  The three men watched the trucks and waited from the safety of their camouflaged position as the hum of the distant plane became louder. It seemed to be coming from the southeast, the Caribbean side of the mountains. But still, they could hear it getting closer and closer, until finally it crested Pico Turquino, the highest peak in the Sierra Maestra.