Four Months in Cuba Read online

  Whether he was sad, happy, or something in between, Ben’s face usually reflected those feelings. Hiding his emotions was an attribute he hadn’t perfected yet.

  “Are they drugging him?” Juliana asked.

  Carlton replied, “We’re checking into that.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Look at his eyes. They’re not bloodshot. He doesn’t appear lethargic.”

  Carlton said, “We’re having the photograph analyzed. We’ll know more in the next twenty-four hours.”

  The DDO seemed oblivious to our remarks about Mitchell’s appearance. “Senator Mitchell is having one of his staffers do some research on the cartel and how they usually handle kidnappings. He mentioned he was concerned about the absence of a ransom demand from Los Zetas.”

  Coach spoke up. “Maintaining the top secret status of this operation will be next to impossible if Senator Mitchell is blabbing about it all over Capitol Hill.”

  The DDO shook his head. “That’s not what he’s doing. He said he told the staffer he wanted the research for a piece of legislation he intends to bring up in the Senate. He assured me he hadn’t mentioned his son’s kidnapping to anyone, and I made sure he knew I’d classified the operation as top secret.”

  Although the DDO made it sound as if the top secret classification had been his idea, I’d actually requested it.

  Primarily, I’d done it to prevent the media from hearing about the kidnapping. A media frenzy could ruin my chances of getting Mitchell out alive, especially if the cartel got nervous about the publicity and decided to get rid of the evidence—namely, Mitchell himself.

  There was also a secondary reason for my request, but it didn’t have anything to do with the media.

  It had everything to do with the DDO.

  I knew if the mission were to be classified as top secret, the DDO wouldn’t be able to brief any Congressional committee on the ongoing operation, and, in turn, this restriction would prevent him from using the kidnapping to further his own political agenda when Mitchell was out of the cartel’s hands and back at Langley.

  I hadn’t shared my secondary reason with the DDO.

  Carlton said, “Perhaps the Senator should let the Agency handle the data on cartel kidnappings. I had the ASA office explore the existing data on kidnappings by the cartels in the last five years, and the data is pretty extensive.”

  Carlton lifted a sheaf of documents from his stack of papers and held it up. The only thing I could see was the front page, which had the Analysis and Strategic Assessment (ASA) logo displayed across the top, along with the word CLASSIFIED stamped below it.

  The ASA division was a multi-faceted department employing several hundred intelligence analysts who not only studied and evaluated information from all open sources, such as the internet and other media outlets, but who also hacked into closed systems, such as banks, businesses, and foreign governments.

  Carlton was a data nerd who could spend hours poring over the readouts, but he always insisted on having his own hard copy of any data run he requested. Katherine Broward, the Agency’s chief counter-terrorism analyst, had once told me the ASA had to ask for an increase in its budget just so they could accommodate Carlton’s paper fixation.

  I believed her.

  Carlton folded over the top sheet of the ASA report. “Here’s an example of a recent pharmaceutical executive’s kidnapping that’s similar to Ben’s. In this case, the cartel waited six months before putting a price on his head.”

  After going over some of the mind-numbing details of the report, he asked the DDO if he’d like to hear some other examples, but the DDO suddenly realized he was late for his next appointment and excused himself.

  Before making his exit, he paused at the door and gestured toward the camera.

  “Titus, as I’m sure you’re aware, the President is in the process of normalizing relations with Cuba. Right now, those talks are at a very critical juncture. Should the Castro regime discover the CIA is playing around in their backyard again . . .” He paused and shook his head. “Well, I think you get the picture. Just don’t take any unnecessary risks while you’re there.”

  He walked out without hearing my response. Had he waited, I would have told him I never take unnecessary risks.

  Whenever I take risks, they’re always necessary.

  Most of the time.

  Chapter 6

  After the DDO left, Coach Thompson went over some of the more mundane details of the operation with us. He called these details his game plan.

  The first part of his game plan had to do with the two Agency surveillance teams that would be arriving in Santiago in a few hours. The second section was about the reconnaissance images from the El Bonete and Santa Rita locations.

  As soon as he mentioned images, I thought about the image of Mitchell’s face in the photograph. Something about the way he looked continued to bug me, and before Carlton logged us out of the briefing, I asked him to send the photograph to my sat phone.

  I didn’t explain why I wanted the photograph, and Carlton didn’t ask.

  Maybe he already knew.

  Carlton and I had a rather convoluted relationship—one that didn’t always make sense to me. Sometimes, I felt my handler could read my mind. But there were other times when I knew he didn’t have a clue where I was coming from.

  When Juliana closed the lid on her laptop, she asked, “Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat.”

  “I’ll go make us a sandwich.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’m not much of a cook, so I hope you’re not picky.”

  “I’m not picky.”

  After Juliana went downstairs, I explored the rest of the rooms on the upper level.

  There were three other bedrooms besides the one where the communications equipment had been set up, and I found Juliana’s personal belongings in the bedroom at the end of the hallway.

  I hesitated a few seconds before entering her bedroom, but after convincing myself I’d be remiss if I didn’t check it out, I went inside.

  The double bed in the middle of the room wasn’t made up.

  If I had to guess, I’d say Juliana had gotten dressed in a hurry. A pair of jeans, some underwear, and a couple of shirts were piled on top of the covers.

  I walked over to the closet, opened the door, and turned on the light.

  Draped over a clothes bar were two pairs of pants, three shirts, and a red dress. Evidently, Una Casa Sin Esperanza didn’t come equipped with hangers.

  A dark blue suitcase was on the floor.

  It was empty, except for a paperback novel.

  I found nothing between the pages of the political thriller.

  I turned off the closet light and closed the door behind me.

  I walked over to the dresser and opened the drawers one by one.

  The first drawer contained makeup, plus some other toiletry items. Next to it was a drawer full of underwear. The rest of the drawers were empty.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Juliana was extremely careful.

  If la policía showed up at Una Casa Sin Esperanza, they wouldn’t find anything to connect her with the Agency.

  * * * *

  The other bedrooms held nothing of interest, and, after checking out the bathrooms, I went downstairs.

  When I entered the kitchen, I told Juliana, “There’s no fire escape, and there’s no easy exit onto the roof from upstairs.”

  She shrugged. “I’m aware of that, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

  She lifted up her shirt and pointed to a gun nestled in a brown leather holster at her waist. “If the need arises, I’m prepared to hold the high ground.”

  As she placed a plate of sandwiches on the table, I said, “Didn’t I see a revolver in your purse?”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  She didn’t elaborate on why she was a well-armed woman.

  Pointing over to her left, she said, “Speaking of
firearms, I stowed your weapons package in the pantry. You can grab it now if you like.”

  “I’d rather eat first.”

  She smiled. “Ben said you weren’t much of a gun guy.”

  “I’m sure the two of you had much more important things to talk about.”

  “We discussed a lot of things, but your name cropped up pretty regularly in those conversations. The only person he talked about more than you was Senator Mitchell.”

  “Ouch. Since I know how he feels about his father, that can’t be good.”

  “Actually, I think he respects you a lot more than he does the Senator.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say after that, so Juliana and I ate in silence for a few moments.

  “Sorry,” she said, getting up and walking over to the refrigerator, “I forgot to ask you what you wanted to drink. There’s Coke—made in Mexico, of course—bottled water, and a few cans of fruit juice. What’s your pleasure?”

  “I’ll take some water.”

  She pulled two bottles of water out of the refrigerator and brought them over to the table.

  I asked, “I don’t suppose you have any lemons?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not much of a domestic diva. I’ve probably never bought a lemon in my life.”

  I laughed. “Well, neither am I, but I like to cook.”

  “Really? How do you manage that in our line of work?”

  “It’s not easy, but it comes in handy sometimes.”

  “Name one.”

  I told her about the time in eastern Afghanistan when I’d been able to get a tribal leader to come to the negotiating table after showing him how to make lemonade.

  “I’m not sure making a pitcher of lemonade qualifies as cooking.”

  “How about the time I had to impersonate a chef in order to get access to Al-Qaeda’s financial transactions?”

  She smiled. “I can’t wait to hear that story.”

  As I was describing an operation in a Dubai hotel, where I worked as a pastry chef in order to get access to a terrorist living in the penthouse suite, I suddenly realized I was talking a lot more than I usually did.

  I figured Juliana was the reason.

  She was timing her questions perfectly; they were the right questions, and, when she made a comment, she looked directly at me as if I were the most important person in the world—all signs Juliana was a good listener.

  I thought I knew why.

  To validate my theory, I said, “That’s enough about me. It’s your turn now. After working narcotics in the San Francisco PD, you probably have plenty of interesting stories to tell.”

  “That was almost eight years ago. I can barely remember the cases, much less the details.”

  She paused and took a sip of water. “You’re obviously a very detailed person. If I asked you what happened to you eight years ago today, I bet you could tell me what you were doing and what you had for dinner.”

  Juliana had just executed a classic deflection maneuver. She had taken a personal question, turned it around, and aimed it right back at me.

  People who were good at deflection made excellent listeners, primarily because they didn’t want to talk about themselves.

  I should know. I was pretty good at deflection myself.

  There could be any number of reasons why a person wouldn’t want to talk about themselves.

  In my case, I was an introvert, plus the nature of my job required secrecy. In Juliana’s case, outside of the secrecy issue, I wondered if her reticence had anything to do with her dead husband.

  I figured whatever it was, it was none of my business, and I had no plans to question her about it.

  “You’re right on both counts,” I said. “I am a very detailed person, and I can tell you exactly what I was doing, and what I had for dinner eight years ago today.”

  Juliana laughed, “I almost believe you.”

  “Almost? I guess I’m losing my touch.”

  She took our empty plates over to the sink. “After seeing how you handled yourself in Buenos Aires, I don’t believe you’ll need to sign up for a refresher course in Lying 101 anytime soon.”

  “If you don’t think—”

  I stopped in mid-sentence when I heard a ping from my Agency phone.

  Juliana walked back over to the table. “Was that an alert?”

  “Douglas just sent me the photograph the Senator received from the cartel this morning.”

  I held my phone up so she could see it.

  She glanced at the photograph of Ben without commenting.

  “Were you surprised at his appearance?” I asked.

  “Not really,” she said, resuming her seat at the table. “I didn’t expect him to look roughed up. He’s a piece of merchandise to them, so keeping him healthy is definitely in their best interests.”

  I studied Ben’s face again. “What was your first impression the moment you saw him?”

  “Umm,” she said, considering my question. “I thought he looked serious, but his eyes seemed different, like there was no life in them. That’s why I asked if the cartel might be drugging him.”

  “I’m not denying that’s a possibility, but I’m also wondering if his blank expression could be a deliberate act on his part.”

  She pointed at the photograph. “May I?”

  I gave her my phone, and while she took a look at Mitchell’s face, I got up from the table and walked over to the sliding glass doors that overlooked the patio and backyard.

  Besides a couple of banana plants near the patio, I counted five royal palms and two magnolia trees on the property. A variety of smaller bushes were scattered around the outer perimeter of the swimming pool. The pool itself was cracked, as dry as a bone, and needed extensive repairs.

  The terrazzo patio was in much better shape. It ran the length of the house and had an outdoor grill, a wooden picnic table, and some wicker furniture. The furniture looked brand new.

  Off in the distance, I could see the Sierra Maestra, a densely forested mountain range made famous when Fidel Castro and a small band of fighters took refuge there. After waging a bloody guerrilla war, the Castro brothers managed to overthrow the dictatorship of Batista and install their own version of undemocratic rule.

  “I see what you mean about Ben’s expression,” Juliana said. “I guess it’s possible he was deliberately trying not to show any emotion when the photograph was taken.”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  She walked over and handed the phone back to me. “Well, . . . maybe I am, but I’m open to hearing your thoughts. So you think the expression on his face means he’s trying to send a message?”

  “It’s something I’m considering.”

  As we stood in front of the windows, she pointed toward the palm trees at the back edge of the property. “When you look between those two giant palm trees, you’re looking directly north, up at the El Bonete ridge. If Ben is being held in Lorenzo’s compound, that’s where that photograph of him was taken.”

  I stared at the two palm trees for a couple of seconds. “Why did you sound so surprised when Douglas said there was a possibility Ben was being held up there?”

  “I sounded surprised? You were the one screaming so loud the house was shaking.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  She gave me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look, and I reconsidered my response.

  “Okay, I might have raised my voice a little, but after seeing the security around the place, I understood why Gabriel wasn’t authorized to do a snatch and grab. With the firepower around Lorenzo’s place, it would have been a suicide mission.”

  “Not to mention an international incident.”

  “There’s that, of course.”

  “Like Douglas said, we have to be patient, set up our surveillance at the sites, and target an asset on the inside.”

  “I know that’s the plan, but . . .”

  I hesitated, reluctant to put my thoughts into words without having form
ulated a definite plan.

  “But what?” Juliana asked.

  “What if we could come up with a more creative plan?”

  “Creative planning has never been my strong suit. If you want someone who thinks out of the box, you might have to get Douglas to send you a different partner.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. There’s already someone here in Santiago who’s an unconventional thinker.”

  “You mean Keith Gabriel?”

  I nodded.

  “You might describe Keith as unconventional. I would describe him as off-the-wall.”

  * * * *

  A few minutes later, I had Keith Gabriel on the phone. When I told him I was coming over to the Meliã in an hour, he immediately suggested we meet in his hotel room.

  “La policía have a presence in the lobby,” he said, “so make sure you look like you belong at the hotel.”

  “Don’t worry. Support Services has already made a reservation for me there.”

  “Why? Did Juliana throw you out of the safe house already?”

  “I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  Gabriel hung up before I had a chance to ask him why he thought my explanation sounded ominous.

  He probably didn’t mean anything by it. More than likely, it was his idea of a joke. At times, Gabriel’s sense of humor could be as off-the-wall as he was.

  Keith Gabriel had been with the Agency for ten years. Like me, he’d been recruited right out of college. Unlike me, he’d turned down the Agency’s recruiter the first time he’d been approached.

  A couple of years later, after Gabriel had traipsed across Europe, played an extended gig on a cruise ship, and lived on a kibbutz in Israel for six months, he’d finally signed up.

  When the two of us had worked together a little over six years ago in Libya, I’d asked him why he’d changed his mind about becoming a covert operative.

  “I knew I’d be good at it,” he said. “Just look at me. Would anyone ever believe I was a spy?”

  Chapter 7

  An hour later, Juliana and I headed over to the Meliã. To maintain our cover story, she planned to drop me off at the hotel and then drive over to the Velázquez Museum and introduce herself to the museum’s director.