Last Witness

by Glen Carter

  Jack shook it, tentatively.

  “Might I offer some advice?”

  Jack was surprised, having just met. “The burden of wisdom, I suppose,” he offered.

  “Touché.” Sevier replied.

  “Please do.”

  “If you’re here to harvest our displeasure, with more stories about angry Cuban-exiles, stay mindful of the fact that not all of us are opposed to President Denton’s initiatives. Ernesto over there is an angry man, but his hatred doesn’t speak for me or the great many others who share my love of Cuba.”

  Sevier was right. The violence. The upheaval and angry protest made great news. The more violent, the more airtime.

  The old Cuban waved his hand. “Even your own network has painted us as bloodthirsty savages. This is foolhardy and a grievous falsehood. We are a passionate people. But not uncivilized.”

  Jack nodded thoughtfully. “Point noted,” he simply replied.

  Sevier wasn’t to be patronized. “I’m sorry if you see me as the old fool, Mister Doyle, but I have seen what irrational men can do, and I have seen what happens when they are spurred on by fictions. Lies are the tools of men who can not achieve their ends through truth.”

  Jack thought Sevier might be overreacting, which could also be a fundamental mistake of the irrational. In Sevier’s case it was a benign sin that elicited Jack’s empathy. Still, Jack knew that if not handled deftly, Sevier could easily turn, and frankly he saw no way to disengage. “Senor Sevier,” Jack said. “It was never our intention to show any disrespect.”

  “No matter. It is not your fault. Besides, your beautiful wife has been more than fair in her reportage. Unlike the others.”

  There was no escaping the public eye. It was also true for Kaitlin.

  “I guess I have no secrets,” Jack said, smiling.

  “I would sing it from the hills if I had a wife so beautiful and intelligent.”

  Jack was warmed by the oldman’s charm. Though baffled by him as well.

  A vendor walked to them, carrying a carafe containing hot coffee. “I’m buying,” Jack said, curious about the old guy.

  Sevier nodded. “Thank you.”

  Bothmen took their cups. Sevier waved away an offer of milk but Jack held up two fingers, and while the vendor poured, he stuffed a bill into his tin box.They were then left alone. Listening to the racket of domino tiles.

  After a moment, Sevier spoke, nodding in the direction of the pavilion. “Many of them are veterans of Giron,” he said. “The game distracts them.”

  Jack felt as though he had dropped into the middle of a conversation.

  Sevier sipped his coffee. “What do you know of Operation Pluto?”

  Jack wondered what the man wanted. He shrugged and told him that Pluto was the name given to the Bay of Pigs in its early stages. It was an operation conceived under Eisenhower and stillborn with Kennedy. More than a hundred Cuban-American troops died that April day. It was a fiasco in military planning and execution and decades later was a wound that continued to ooze bitterness and resentment. “It was a mess from the get go.”

  “Yes,” said Sevier. “A great embarrassment for everyone involved. Our troop carriers struck coral reefs and sank. The supply ships were forced to flee Castro’s remaining air force and of course there was the little matter of US air cover that Kennedy failed to approve. Eventually we just ran out of ammunition. Still, we wouldn’t surrender, Mister Doyle. We were captured.”

  Jack understood why old soldiers were never able to shed their nightmares. Eventually they became a gallery of macabre memories visited only by them. Sevier had clearly been a member of Brigade 2506. Jack had already guessed he would find many more like him at the domino tables.

  “There was a paratrooper named Romero whom they executed,” Sevier continued. “The bastards kept his body on ice for years while the CIA denied any knowledge of him? Castro put him in a glass case, which they occasionally spat upon. Thankfully he is home now, in a grave that can be visited by his family.” Sevier paused. “That is also a burden I live with, since it was I who recruited him.” A moment later he lifted a palsied hand, lazily pointed towards a mural painted on a wall next to the park. “I would like to die in Cuba. In the same village where my mother’s family is buried. I have outlived the beast Castro and now this becomes a possibility.” Sevier turned to face Jack, something in his eyes that Jack couldn’t identify. “So not all of us are angry Cubans like Ernesto over there. Swinging at imaginary devils. We fought our demons at the Bay of Pigs before Ernesto discovered his pene. Please tell your lovely wife not to forget us.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her,” Jack replied, with a glance at his watch. Malloy wasn’t due for awhile, so a decision was made. Jack pulled the original cropped photograph of the mystery man from his pocket.

  Sevier craned his neck to see what he was unfolding.

  “This man,” Jack tapped the photograph and offered it to the old Cuban. “He was one of you at the Bay of Pigs. Did you know him?”

  Sevier glanced around before taking the photo. He studied it carefully and after awhile shook his head. “His face I don’t recognize. But understand, there were eleven hundred eighty-nine of us imprisoned in crowded despicable conditions at Castillo del Principe.”

  “Is there a chance you would recognize him from some other time in the operation?”

  Sevier stared more closely at the photograph. “In all of our training and preparations, this was not a man I ever met.”

  It was more a disappointment than a surprise. What were the chances?

  “I’d ask the reason for your curious photo,” Sevier said. “But I’m sure you would never say.”

  Jack’s look confirmed it.

  Unexpectedly, the old Cuban reached back for his cane and got up to leave. “My granddaughter does an exquisite roast pork with fried plantains and she insists on feeding lunch to this old soul.”

  “Nice meeting you.”

  “You also.”

  They shook hands and Sevier walked away without looking back.

  24

  Instinct and skepticism kicked in once Jack had a chance to rethink the conversation with Roberto Sevier. Quickly, he decided it had the look and feel of a big fat pack of lies.

  He’d never said that the man in the photograph was captured at the Bay of Pigs. “He was one of you.” That was all he’d offered and it could have meant many things. It occurred to him as well that nothing had been said about the mystery man being a combatant. It was possible he had played a support role aboard one of those retreating supply ships Sevier mentioned. Jack also found it strange that Sevier had no questions of his own after being shown the picture. The old Cuban had failed the test of reason, which made him disingenuous, to say the least.

  Then something else occurred to him. Why had Sevier used the word “curious” to describe the photograph? It was a judgment he had no cause to make. Jack had missed it all.

  His cellphone rang. It was Kaitlin with an invitation to lunch at the Versailles. He arrived five minutes early and took a table beneath a large picture window with a view of Eighth Street. He ordered a bottle of his favourite Cuban beer and was taking his first cold sip when Kaitlin and her crew marched in. Kaitlin kissed him lightly and plopped down in the booth next to him. “How’s your day going?”

  “Great,” Jack replied, noting her large smile.

  Seth had his face in a menu already. “No Guinness.”

  “Cuban restaurant, Seth,” Maria piped up. “No Bangers and Mash, no pee-warm beer.”

  Kaitlin took a taste of Jack’s ale, wiped lipstick from the rim. “Sorry.”

  “You look like things went your way,” Jack said.

  Maria flipped open her notebook. “Two great interviews, one with a guy who claims Pilious Ortega was his torturer at Castillo del Principe. Of course that one might be problematic.The second guy was part of Castro’s forces during the Bay of Pigs, but later defected. He didn’t want his face shown. No surpr
ise.” Maria grabbed Seth’s menu. “By the way, McCoy’s on the ground.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. Tim McCoy was a fool but had managed to curry favour with the brass at CNS.

  Maria continued. “I hear the honcho’s are grooming him for something.”

  Seth snickered. “He comes cheap. Like his work.”

  “And you get what you pay for,” Kaitlin added.

  They all ordered. Salads for the women. Jack was having blackened bass, and Seth opted for the special which was something deep-fried.

  Ten minutes later the food arrived and, between mouthfuls, Kaitlin went over the basics of their story.That afternoon they were to visit a local school where children were preparing gift boxes for kids at a school in Havana and then it was off to interview a shop owner whose father committed suicide when the revolution took his families textile factory. Great elements, Jack thought, slightly disappointed he wasn’t part of this. He suggested they stop by the domino park but Maria nodded noncommittally. Jack didn’t push. It wasn’t his call.

  Lunch had been the luxury of a productive morning, but now it was time to get back to work. Kaitlin paid the bill, kissed him on the cheek, and they were out the door.

  Jack left a couple of minutes later, arriving back at the hotel in time for the first sidewalk performance of the Friday culture festival. A kid wearing a brightly flowered costume was gyrating to the Buena Vista Social Club and drawing an impressive crowd.

  That’s when he spotted Malloy. He was standing there, staring at the dancer like she was some kind of alien creature. He was sweating in a black suit and large sunglasses.

  Jack walked up behind him. “You look like a cop.”

  Malloy turned, unsurprised. “I am a cop.”

  “Were a cop,” Jack corrected.

  “You look like a reporter,” said Malloy.

  “Not funny.”

  Jack spent ten minutes briefing Malloy on his morning, beginning with the domino park and his strange conversation with the man named Roberto Sevier. His reaction to the photo. Malloy was pissed. Sometimes, he said, when you showed your hand like that you spooked people. Jack accepted that Malloy had worn out a lot of shoe leather and had earned the right to start calling some of the shots. So they grabbed a cab and Malloy told the driver where to go.

  It was a bungalow on the outskirts of Little Havana, a neighbourhood of postage-stamp lawns and low chain-link fences just north of the Metrorail and Coconut Grove. An old colourless pickup was parked in the driveway, a heap of topsoil spilling from its bed. Malloy followed a pathway at the side of the house, Jack on his heels, until they emerged at the backyard. Jack had never seen an urban green space so finely manicured and lush. Palms and countless exotic shrubs burst with colour and dotted a lawn so perfectly green it might have been painted. A trail of intricate terra cotta bricks snaked through the rising and falling landscape, past a small fishpond with its own trickling waterfall. Thick leafy trees stood shoulder to shoulder along the perimeter of the property,which had a footprint six times that of the home. It was from behind a large flowering bush that the librarian emerged.

  Sergio Pabon was bald and wore spectacles, and with his orange coveralls and black boots, he reminded Jack of a channel buoy. Pabon dumped his tools into a wheelbarrow and hopped onto the pathway. “Special Agent Malloy.” His voice was deep and seemed out of sorts with his diminutive size. They shook hands like old friends. Pabon studied Jack warily as he led them to a shaded patio. “And you are Jack Doyle.”

  “Guilty,” Jack said, punishing himself for the hackneyed quip. Malloy had briefed Jack on the way over. Sergio Pabon had once been marked for death. Back in the day, he was a robust anti-Castro voice and were it not for the FBI, Fidel’s assassins would likely have succeeded. Agents got wind of the planned hit and rounded up the nest of assassins at a Miami safe house. Pabon considered it a debt he could never repay. Malloy decided now was a good time to cleave off a little slice of Pabon’s gratitude.

  The librarian managed a professorial stature despite the outfit. He was well into his seventies and walked with a limp that Jack suspected had nothing to do with his age.

  Malloy waited for Pabon to sit. “I appreciate your time,” he said.

  “It’s good to see you, Malloy. How can I be of assistance?”

  “I need your help with some research I’m doing on Operation Pluto.” The librarian reached for a cigarette. “This is what I suspected after your phone call,” Pabon said. “You’ve come to the right place.” He then shifted his attention to Jack. “The story, as you reporters say, has no legs anymore and that would be a monstrous understatement, so what is your interest in our little Cuban adventure?”

  “For now, curious history buff.”

  Pabon showed his doubt. “There are many of you, especially on the subject of the Bay of Pigs.” A flame appeared. Pabon inhaled deeply. “But you are also a reporter, so there is to be no attribution. Background only. Agreed?”

  Jack had no problem with that, so he nodded.

  “Now that we understand each other, please callme Sergio.”

  Malloy wanted to cover some of the basics first. “Tell me about Michael Blatch,” he said.

  Pabon nodded thoughtfully. “The Agency’s task force chief on Operation Pluto. He was a veteran of the CIA and the OSS. Burma, Guatemala, Panama. Deputy Chief of the Western Hemisphere division, which did the recruiting for the operation. Eventually it was his job to dismantle the assets left in the wake of the Pigs fiasco, which meant getting rid of ships, safe houses, even the several hundred Cubans still getting ‘Company’ paychecks. Blatch wanted the job because he wanted it done right. His heart was always with us. That’s why he was so tortured by the mistakes that led to the operation’s collapse. In fact, it haunted him for the rest of his life.” Sergio flicked his ash. “God rest his soul.”

  Jack has actually met Michael Blatch once and found him to be engaging and intelligent. A man dedicated to his country. “Died when?”

  “1999,” Pabon said, “Thankfully, he bequeathed most of his declassified files to us.”

  Jack knew that Pabon was the curator for the new Bay of Pigs Museum, a position that gave him unique access to a mountain of files. Pabon was also a member of Brigade 2506—had been wounded and then captured. Malloy deserved credit for isolating the gold-plated source.

  Pabon disappeared inside, returned a few moments later with a large pitcher of iced tea. He poured three glasses, lit another cigarette, and leaned back. “In the beginning we were supposed to go in at Trinidad at the foot of the Escambray Mountains. There are a great many people in the region—many of them anti-Castro.” Pabon stopped to collect his thoughts. Then he continued. “Guerrilla ops were Blatch’s specialty,” he said. “He had it figured well. The mountains were everything, as they had been for Fidel’s revolution, but for us they meant life. If things turned ugly we would have escaped to the mountains and become a force of guerrilla fighters. It was a sound strategy. But then Kennedy’s advisers stuck their skinny noses in and decided the Bay of Pigs would be less conspicuous.”

  Malloy pulled out a notebook and began to scribble.

  “That was just the start,” Pabon continued. “Then JFK decided there were too many B-26’s—making it look as though this were a full-scale American invasion instead of something mounted by Cuban freedom fighters. So the President ordered the number of bombers be halved from sixteen to eight. And instead of three pre-invasion air strikes, there would be only two. In the end it was one. I am convinced to this day the decision to restrict those advance air strikes was the mission’s death. As a result, a small number of Castro’s T-33’s were left intact, and when our forces went in, they had no protection. American jets actually circled the battlefield but were ordered to stand down while those few Cuban pilots strafed the beach, killing our men and sinking our supply ships. Castro knew the more superior American aircraft would do nothing—because Kennedy and his UN ambassador had said as much in the days leadin
g up to the invasion. By the time the invasion launched, it was already doomed because Kennedy and his fools were more interested in deniability, covering America’s ass. We became expendable assets to protect the morality of American foreign policy.”

  Pabon shook his head. Even five decades later the anger in his eyes was intense. “Days before the green light, Blatch was so troubled by the operation he went to Richard Bissell who was the Agencies top dog on Operation Pluto. He threatened to resign if they didn’t call it off. Bissell convinced him to stay on. The rest is history.”

  Malloy put his pen down and from the back of his notebook he removed the original photograph of the mystery man. “I’m going to show you a photograph, Sergio, and the shitty part is I can tell you almost nothing, except the man in the picture was part of Operation Pluto. What we need to know is whether the photograph has any meaning to you.”

  Sergio stubbed out his cigarette and took the photo and in that second the colour drained from his face. He stared at it for a long time and then placed the picture on the table in front of him. Shaking, he reached for another cigarette, and drew hard, sending a cloud of thick grey smoke into the air. “Can you tell me where you acquired this photograph?”

  Malloy leaned forward, poker faced. “Sorry, that’s not possible.”

  Tell him, Jack wanted to shout.

  Pabon inhaled and said almost too quietly to hear. “This man is known tome, yes.”

  Malloy reached up to loosen his tie and then drained half his glass.

  They’d made the mystery man.

  It seemed slightly bizarre. The explosion of colours and perfumes wafting through Pabon’smagnificent garden while the three of them picked at a fragment of blackened human history.

  Pabon quietly sipped his beverage while his fourth cigarette burned untouched in the ashtray.

  Jack watched him.

  Malloy sat on the edge of his chair and waited.

  “As I said, Blatch was convinced of the operation’s failure. So he came up with a plan, inside the plan.”