Four Months in Cuba Read online

  From the text Mitchell had sent, it was easy for the Ops Center to assume he must have thought he’d found the missing shipping containers and the two hundred canisters of lethal sarin gas stored inside of them.

  However, my Hezbollah asset in Damascus had told me a much different story.

  He’d informed me the canisters had been removed from the shipping containers by members of the Los Zetas drug cartel before Mitchell had even taken the photo, and within hours of being removed, the canisters had been on their way into the U.S. via Tijuana, Mexico.

  A few days later, the FBI had interdicted the truck transporting the gas canisters from San Diego to Washington, D.C., and hours after that, they’d arrested the terrorists planning to use them.

  However, Senator Mitchell hadn’t summoned me to his office five days ago to talk about terrorism or chemical weapons.

  He’d summoned me there to talk about his missing son.

  Now, I decided Juliana needed to hear the gist of what we’d talked about that day.

  I said, “The reason I requested a Top Secret classification for Peaceful Retrieval was because Senator Mitchell was recently contacted by a lieutenant in the Los Zetas drug cartel.”

  She didn’t look surprised. “They have Ben, don’t they?”

  I nodded. “Los Zetas has him. You’ll be hearing all about it in our briefing today.”

  I told Juliana about the email message the Senator had received from the cartel with the photo of his son attached. When I mentioned Ben was holding a current edition of The Miami Herald, she nodded. “Let me guess. They’re asking a million dollars for his return, and they want the cash in untraceable bills.”

  “I’m sure the ransom will be substantial, but the message they sent the Senator was a don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you type of communication. They assured him they’d be in touch.”

  “When the SOF unit couldn’t locate Ben, I knew the cartel must have grabbed him.”

  The Select Operations Force (SOF) was a unit made up of highly trained men and women who were deployed when Agency personnel went missing during an operation. The DDO had ordered a SOF unit to Santiago less than twenty-four hours after Mitchell had been declared missing.

  A few days ago, after the DDO had signed the authorization for Operation Peaceful Retrieval, he’d recalled the SOF unit from Santiago.

  I asked, “Are any members of the SOF unit still around? I’d like to ask them if they’ve learned anything about the timeline of Ben’s disappearance.”

  She nodded. “Their unit commander is still here. He stuck around so he could talk to you. Evidently, the two of you know each other.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Keith Gabriel.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I know Gabriel. Did he bring his horn?”

  * * * *

  Whenever the Agency sent a SOF unit on a search and rescue mission, they tried to minimize the effect of five strangers suddenly entering a hostile environment by making sure their cover stories were both exceptional and plausible.

  Keith Gabriel’s SOF unit was made up of several musicians. It was a legend that worked nicely for him because Gabriel was a jazz musician who played a mean trumpet.

  As an added bonus, he occasionally managed to snag a gig or two while he was in country.

  Juliana said, “Keith not only brought his trumpet with him, he booked some venues here as well.”

  “Did one of those venues happen to be Club Nocturno?”

  She smiled. “That’s why Keith stuck around. He said he wanted to brief you in person about the nightclub.”

  “He probably just wants to make sure I give him credit for all the hard work he’s done.”

  “If you ask me, I was the person doing the hard work. He must have grilled me for three hours about the night Ben disappeared.”

  “I don’t need the three-hour version, but would you mind going over what happened after you and Ben arrived in Santiago? I’ve read all the reports and seen all the analysis on the events, but it might help me to hear the specifics from you personally.”

  Juliana glanced in her rearview mirror.

  “I’m sure you know the ships carrying the canisters didn’t arrive in port as scheduled,” she said, suddenly maneuvering the SUV into the left lane of traffic and accelerating past a couple of slow-moving vehicles.

  She said, “In a way, the delay was a good thing because it gave Ben plenty of time to get the surveillance cameras set up around the dock so he could film the shipping containers as they were being offloaded. I tried to warn him the additional time he was spending down at the pier could draw some extra attention to himself.”

  “What kind of attention?”

  “Nothing professional was going on. As far as I could tell, Ben wasn’t under any kind of surveillance, but he did mention the dock workers were beginning to take note of him hanging around the area all the time.”

  “Tell me what happened the morning the ships finally arrived in port. I heard there was heavy fog in the area that day.”

  Juliana calmly pulled back into the right lane of traffic just as another vehicle crested the hill in front of us.

  She said, “It was a pea soup type of fog, and we weren’t able to get any video of the containers being offloaded until after the fog had lifted. Once it cleared up, we realized two of the containers were missing from the count we’d been given. You can probably imagine Ben’s reaction when he realized two hundred canisters of sarin gas were missing.”

  “I saw his reaction firsthand on the video update he sent the Ops Center. I thought he looked pretty desperate when he was telling Salazar about the missing canisters.”

  She frowned, as if she didn’t agree with my assessment.

  “I wouldn’t describe Ben as desperate. I’d say he was determined, and he certainly didn’t waste any time before coming up with a workable plan to locate the missing containers.”

  I knew Mitchell would have been happy to hear Juliana defending him. From the moment they’d first met in Buenos Aires, he’d made no secret of the fact he wanted to have more than just a working relationship with her.

  However, I’d seen nothing to indicate his feelings were reciprocated, and since I knew Juliana had spent several years in the San Francisco Police Department before joining the Agency, I figured she had to be a few years older than Mitchell.

  In Buenos Aires, when I’d pointed out this age discrepancy to Mitchell, he’d ignored me.

  No surprise there.

  Mitchell often ignored my advice.

  “There’s no doubt Ben can be a creative thinker,” I said, “but I’m happy to hear he was able to keep his emotions in check.”

  Juliana laughed. “He told me you were constantly razzing him about his temperament.”

  Was that true? I’d mentioned it a time or two, but was that considered razing?

  I ignored her remark and asked, “Were you able to learn anything about the missing containers on Wednesday?”

  She made a quick turn into a residential area before answering me.

  After glancing in her rearview mirror again, she said. “No, nothing turned up. Well, practically nothing. Ben said one of the fruit vendors near the docks told him whenever a ship’s cargo went missing, it could usually be found in a warehouse on the west side of town. Personally, I thought that was a long shot, but I agreed we should check it out.”

  “Are you talking about Almacén Santiago? The Ops Center tracked the GPS coordinates on Ben’s phone to that location an hour before he went missing from Club Nocturno.”

  Juliana made another quick turn, which took us out of the residential area and onto a busy highway.

  “That’s right. It was too late on Wednesday for us to check it out, but Ben said he was going to put it under surveillance early Thursday morning.”

  “The tracker on Ben’s phone shows him at Almacén Santiago around three o’clock in the morning on Thursday, so, evidently, he decided not to wait.”

 
Juliana shook her head. “I didn’t realize he’d left the safe house until I woke up around six.”

  “Why didn’t he tell you where he was going?”

  Juliana suddenly accelerated through an intersection. “Believe me, I’ve asked myself that question several times. All I can come up with is—”

  “Have we got company?” I asked, glancing in the side mirror.

  “Two cars behind us, there’s a black Chevy that’s been on our tail ever since we left the airport.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I was too busy answering your questions.”

  “Any idea who the guy is?”

  “No, but he’s good. I haven’t been able to shake him.”

  I pointed at a coffee shop up ahead. “Let’s pull in there and have some coffee.”

  “Now?”

  “Maybe the guy just wants to talk. We should give him an opportunity to have a chat with us.”

  Chapter 3

  Santiago was Cuba’s second largest city. It was located at the far southeastern tip of the island, about a twelve-hour drive from Havana.

  It was home to over half a million people, and because of its Haitian and French immigrants, it had a diverse culture. Its history dated back to the Spanish conquistadors, but, nowadays, Santiago was known as the birthplace of the Cuban Revolution led by Fidel Castro.

  Tourists in Santiago usually stayed near the plaza, where Revolutionary Square, San Pedro Castle, and the Velázquez Museum were located. The latter was a museum Juliana and I would need to visit in order to maintain our cover as employees of the Haitian National Museum.

  At the moment, we were on Avenida Federico in an area of Santiago known as Santa Maria. Restaurants lined both sides of the street, and when I suggested we stop for coffee, Juliana turned left at the next intersection and parked in front of Café de Isabella.

  When we got out of our vehicle, I noticed the black Chevy sedan continued north on Avenida Federico.

  Juliana also noticed it and said, “Evidently, he’s not in the mood for a conversation.”

  I pointed to one of the restaurant’s outdoor tables. “Let’s grab a table and see if he changes his mind.”

  When a waiter came over, Juliana ordered a café con leche, the Cuban version of an American latte, and I asked for a café cubano, about a thimbleful of very strong Cuban coffee.

  Once the waiter had left, I said, “Before I interrupted you, you were explaining why you thought Ben had slipped out of the safe house without telling you.”

  “It was probably because of the disagreement we’d had about the warehouse. I considered it a dead end, but he insisted it was a viable lead, and he wanted us to look into it.”

  “Didn’t you tell him you were willing to investigate it?”

  She stared down at her feet for a second. When she raised her head, I was surprised to see the dejected look on her face.

  I’d seen the same look in Buenos Aires when she was explaining how her husband had been killed in a shootout with some gang members. Like Juliana, he’d also been a cop in the SFPD.

  She said, “I told Ben I was willing to investigate it, but I could tell he was disappointed when I didn’t totally agree with him about checking it out.”

  “So you blame yourself for his kidnapping?”

  “No, I don’t blame myself.”

  Although Juliana sounded convincing, I thought her quick response was a little too quick, and I decided to follow up on that.

  However, at that moment, the waiter returned with our order, and when he walked away, I reconsidered that decision. Other than satisfying my own curiosity, I saw no need to probe any further into Juliana’s psyche.

  Juliana, on the other hand, had other ideas.

  “Okay, in a way, I do blame myself,” she said. “If we hadn’t argued, maybe Ben wouldn’t have felt the need to prove me wrong, and he wouldn’t have put himself in a position to be kidnapped.”

  “So you think that’s why he went to the warehouse without you?”

  She nodded. “That’s my assessment. He wanted to prove something.”

  Juliana took a drink of her café con leche. Afterward, she dabbed at the frothy foam on her upper lip with a napkin. Somehow, she managed to miss a tiny spot right next to the black beauty mark at the corner of her mouth.

  I decided not to mention it.

  I said, “This was Ben’s first assignment as the primary for an operation. I’m sure that was his motivation. It probably didn’t have anything to do with the disagreement you’d had with him.”

  She smiled. “I know you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “On the other hand, I could be wrong. Maybe his kidnapping really is your fault.”

  She stopped smiling.

  For a brief moment, I thought perhaps she didn’t realize I was kidding. Then, she pointed over my left shoulder and said, “Looks like you weren’t wrong about him.”

  I glanced behind me.

  Parked next to our Hyundai was a black Chevy sedan. A man wearing a pair of dark sunglasses was just getting out of the vehicle.

  After taking a look around, he headed straight for our table.

  * * * *

  Since I hadn’t made it to the safe house to pick up a weapon yet, I took out my Agency sat phone and punched in a three-digit number. Then, I placed the phone on the table beside my coffee cup.

  In spite of the fact I’d seen a snub-nose revolver in Juliana’s purse earlier, if things went sideways in the next few minutes, the digital device might be our only means of survival.

  Juliana, who was wearing her small leather purse draped across her body, calmly put down her coffee cup and unsnapped the clasp on the handbag.

  “Excuse me,” the man said, “would you mind if I joined you?”

  I gestured at an empty chair. “Please do.”

  When the man sat down, he removed his sunglasses, and I saw an immediate flicker of recognition flash across Juliana’s face.

  “Have we met before?” she asked.

  The man smiled and extended his hand. “Mateo Aguilar. We met at the airport when you first arrived in Santiago. I was your driver.”

  She shook his hand. “Of course.”

  After Juliana introduced me—Nacio Bandera—to Mateo, she explained he operated a taxi privado, an independent taxi service.

  Once the introductions were over, Mateo addressed Juliana. “The day I drove you over to the Meliã Hotel when you first arrived on the island, you shared your ride with another guest of the hotel, the photographer, Luis Torres.”

  She nodded. “That’s right. When Luis and I met at the airport, we realized we were both staying at the Meliã, so we decided to share your taxi.”

  Ben Mitchell had entered Cuba on a Canadian passport in the name of Luis Torres. His entry papers indicated he was in Santiago to photograph the city for a travel magazine.

  Legends, a department in the Agency’s Support Services division responsible for coming up with an operative’s false identity, had created the photography story to give Mitchell a good excuse for wandering around Santiago with a bunch of cameras. They’d even supplied him with a couple of travel magazines with photographs inside that were supposedly taken by Luis Torres.

  Mateo smiled. “When I saw you at the airport this morning, I decided to follow you.”

  Juliana looked surprised. “You’ve been following me?”

  “I’m driving my uncle’s car today, otherwise, I’m sure you would have realized I was right behind you.”

  He glanced over at me and said, “I usually drive a ‘56 Chevrolet Bel Air. It’s hard to miss.”

  Mateo’s Spanish was a little different than the Caribbean dialect spoken by most Cubans. His had a distinct Castilian accent to it, and it made me wonder if he was originally from Spain.

  Juliana said, “I’m so sorry, Mateo, but if this is about offering me your services again, I’ll have to decline. My rental agreement on the Hyundai isn’t
up for a month.”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I was following you because I wanted to ask you about Señor Torres.”

  “I’m not sure I can help you. I hardly know the man.”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  Juliana looked thoughtful. “No, I don’t guess I have. Why?”

  “A few nights ago, I dropped him off at one of the clubs. He told me he’d call me back later for a pick up. We’d already agreed on a fare, but he never called me back that night. Since then, I haven’t been able to locate him.”

  “What club was that?” she asked.

  “Club Nocturno.”

  * * * *

  Although I knew Juliana had told the Ops Center she thought Mitchell had probably called a taxi the night he’d disappeared, she seemed surprised to learn Mateo had been his driver.

  Juliana asked, “When you say you and Luis agreed on a round trip fare, does that mean you didn’t get paid when he didn’t call you back that evening?”

  He nodded. “When I saw you drive away from the airport today, I thought perhaps Luis was with you. That’s why I followed you. I need the money he owes me so I can make some repairs to the Bel Air.”

  I asked Mateo, “How much does Señor Torres owe you?”

  “Fifty pesos.”

  When he saw me reaching for my wallet, Mateo smiled. But a few seconds later, when he got a call on his cell phone, he excused himself and got up from the table.

  The moment he walked away to take the call, Juliana leaned over and said, “That was unexpected.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  She hesitated a moment, but then she said, “It makes sense. When Ben told Mateo he was in Santiago to take pictures of the city, Mateo offered to chauffeur him around. I know he gave him his business card when we shared a ride to the Meliã together.”

  “I wonder where Mateo picked him up for the ride to the club that night. I know Ben wouldn’t have had him come to the safe house.”