Four Months in Cuba

by Luana Ehrlich

  Gabriel told me he’d be driving the maroon van he’d leased when his SOF unit arrived on the island, but the only vehicles I saw behind us were a city bus, an Emgrand—a Chinese import—and a couple of Russian-made cars. I decided either the traffic had delayed him or Gabriel was having a hard time keeping up with Mateo’s driving.

  It looked as if I’d be watching my own back this evening.

  That wouldn’t make Carlton happy.

  * * * *

  After driving for about twenty minutes, Mateo turned onto El Morro Boulevard where the Velazquez Museum was located. As we got near the museum, I noticed the building was dark, illuminated by one lone streetlight.

  “I hope you’re not disappointed, Nacio. The museum is already closed for the day.”

  “I expected that.”

  “But why did you—”

  I quickly explained. “I had you bring me here because I wanted to take some photographs of the building at night when there was no one around.”

  “Do you take photographs as part of your job?”

  Mateo’s response was exactly the opening I was looking for, and I said, “No, I’m not a professional photographer like Luis Torres, but I make it a practice to photograph all the museums I visit. I find the most interesting shots are the ones I take at night.”

  “Señor Torres showed me a travel magazine with some of his photographs in it. That’s what he was doing in Santiago, taking pictures of all the landmarks.”

  “Is that right? If he shows up at the Meliã again, I’ll ask him if he’s planning to photograph any of the museums in the area. Maybe I could use some of his shots for my travel journal.”

  Mateo made a right turn and pulled into a parking space at the side of the Velazquez Museum. “You won’t find Señor Torres at the Meliã. He told me he’d checked out of the hotel and was renting a private room on Paseo de Martí.”

  “Is that where you picked him up the other night?”

  Mateo nodded. “That’s right.”

  I smiled. “Since I reimbursed you for the money Luis owed you, perhaps I should have you drive me over to Paseo de Martí tonight so you can introduce us. Maybe he’ll give me my money back.”

  Mateo shook his head. “That would be a wasted trip. When I tried to locate Señor Torres after I took him to Club Nocturno, I found out he wasn’t registered at any of the private rooms along Paseo de Martí.”

  “So you think he’s left Santiago?”

  He looked away from me and nodded. “That’s right. Señor Torres isn’t in Santiago.”

  The certainty of Mateo’s response surprised me, and as I got out of the car to shoot a few pictures of the museum, I was determined to bring up the subject again.

  I didn’t have to wait long.

  * * * *

  After Mateo told me a few facts about the museum, I left him standing beside the Chevy and began moving around the grounds, shooting the museum from several different angles.

  As I moved from one spot to another, I caught a glimpse of a maroon van parked in the shadows of a building across from the museum. Evidently, Gabriel had been able to keep up with Mateo’s driving after all.

  Once I’d taken several photographs of the museum’s exterior, I played the role of an interested museum archivist by going over and examining a plaque attached to the side of the building.

  Using the light from my cell phone, I read the inscription, which said the building had once been the residence of Diego Velazquez, the first governor of Cuba. According to the plaque, the structure had been built in 1522 and was the oldest house in Cuba.

  I got distracted for a few minutes as I read all about the conquistador who’d traveled to the New World with Christopher Columbus.

  Later, when I thought about it, I realized getting distracted by the explorer was a mistake on my part. In my defense, though, I was depending on Gabriel to keep an eye on Mateo. However, I didn’t see any sign of Gabriel when I came around the side of the building.

  All I saw was a man holding a gun to Mateo’s head.

  Chapter 10

  Mateo was gesturing at The Man With The Gun as if he were arguing with him about something. Although I was too far away to hear what was being said, I had a feeling Mateo wasn’t going to win that argument.

  A white Emgrand was parked directly behind Mateo’s car. Whether it was the same car I’d seen earlier, I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that a whole fleet of the Chinese imports had been purchased by the Cuban government for use by members of the DSE.

  Since most DSE officers traveled in pairs, I quickly slipped behind a statue of Diego Velazquez and removed my Glock. Then, I took stock of my surroundings.

  Within seconds, I spotted a shadow at the corner of the museum.

  After observing the figure for a moment, I realized the long dark ponytail belonged to Gabriel, and he was—quite literally—watching my back.

  Carlton would be pleased.

  After I signaled Gabriel to stay put while I made my way over to Mateo, I crept forward along the hedge surrounding the museum and arrived at the rear bumper of the Emgrand without alerting The Man With The Gun.

  Mateo sounded desperate as he continued to argue his case. “The information I gave you was correct,” he said. “I wasn’t lying.”

  The Man With The Gun said, “After we questioned Valentino, we searched his house. We didn’t find a drone. False information has consequences.”

  “He showed me the drone,” Mateo shouted. “I saw it.”

  Even though I was tempted to let the situation play itself out in hopes of learning more about Valentino and his drone, I had no reason to believe the outcome would be advantageous to me if I let that happen.

  With that in mind, I brought the matter to a quick conclusion by walking up behind The Man With The Gun and hitting him on the back of his head with the butt of my Glock.

  As he slumped to the ground, he dropped his gun.

  Mateo looked stunned, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. “Where did you—”

  “We need to leave,” I said, holstering my weapon. “Give me your keys. I’ll drive.”

  Mateo, who appeared to be in shock, handed me his keys without saying a word and got inside the Chevy. As I slid behind the wheel, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

  Keith Gabriel was approaching the Emgrand.

  I pulled away from the curb and headed north on El Morro Boulevard before Mateo spotted a member of Soft Euphoria standing over a DSE officer with a gun in his hand.

  A few minutes later, Mateo came out of his stupor and said, “You came back just in time. That man was trying to rob me.”

  I didn’t dispute his story.

  That would come later.

  * * * *

  When I pulled up to an intersection, my Agency phone vibrated, and Mateo looked surprised when I removed it from my pocket.

  “It’s a text from Juliana,” I explained.

  He nodded.

  Actually, it was a text from Gabriel.

  “He’s out cold. Not looking good. Might need an ambulance.”

  I punched in some numbers on my phone.

  A few seconds later, a dispatcher from BNUM, Cuba’s national ambulance service, came on the line. When she asked about my emergency, I told her a man at the Velazquez Museum was in need of their services.

  I hung up without leaving my name.

  Mateo looked surprised. “Why did you do that?”

  “I hit the guy pretty hard. He might need some medical attention.”

  He shrugged. “He deserved it.”

  If the guy was a member of Cuba’s secret police, he probably did deserve it, but I knew Carlton wouldn’t be enthusiastic about a dead body showing up, and I didn’t even want to think about what Deputy Ira’s reaction might be.

  At the next intersection, after I took a right turn onto Avenida Las Américas, Mateo suddenly took an interest in my driving.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Julian
a leased a house on Nuevos Pinos. She just texted me to let me know some of the workers from the Velazquez Museum were coming over to her place tonight. She wants us to drop by. You don’t mind, do you?”

  I was hoping he’d say yes to the invitation, otherwise, I’d have to put Plan B into play.

  At the moment, I didn’t have a Plan B.

  “I guess so,” Mateo said.

  “I’ll call and let her know we’re on our way.”

  My next move was a bit dicey.

  In Buenos Aires, I’d observed Juliana’s ability to think on her feet, especially when I’d thrown her a curve ball when I was interrogating an asset in Buenos Aires, but I had no idea how good she was at understanding doublespeak.

  “Hi, Juliana. It’s Nacio.”

  “Nacio, . . . ah . . . hi. It’s good to hear from you.”

  “I got your text inviting Mateo and me over to your place tonight.”

  She was quiet for a couple of beats.

  Finally, she said. “Oh, good. Does that mean you and Mateo are on your way over here?”

  “That’s right. We should be there in about twenty minutes.”

  “You’ll be happy to know our friends arrived a few minutes ago.”

  “I told Mateo you’d invited some of the museum workers over tonight. Do you have enough food for all of us?”

  “I have plenty of food, and I even bought you some bottles of your favorite beverage.”

  Juliana’s mention of my favorite beverage was a code word—sometimes called a Fallback in Agency jargon—and intelligence operatives often used a Fallback if they suddenly received an unexpected communication from another operative in the field.

  By referencing something unique, preferably something discussed within the last twenty-four hours, an operative could be assured a partner wasn’t under duress or being forced to make a phone call or send a text.

  If I replied I was looking forward to having a Coke, Juliana would immediately know I was in trouble. As soon as I hung up, she’d make sure everyone was prepared for a hostile arrival at the safe house and then she’d inform the Ops Center of my status.

  “So you bought me some lemonade?” I asked.

  She sounded relieved. “That’s right.”

  “Thanks for remembering. We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  I figured twenty minutes would be enough time for Juliana to brief the surveillance team members and explain how they needed to morph themselves into employees of the Velazquez Museum.

  Of course, since surveillance crews weren’t known for their skills in the dramatic arts, Mateo might see through the whole charade within minutes of our arrival.

  * * * *

  When I pulled into the circle drive of Una Casa Sin Esperanza, I noticed there were three vehicles parked in the driveway. Besides Juliana’s Hyundai, there was an older model Peugeot SUV and a van similar to the one Gabriel was driving, except this one was black.

  Since museum workers in Santiago wouldn’t ordinarily be driving airport rental cars, I was hoping Mateo wouldn’t notice the stickers on their back bumpers.

  I had nothing to worry about.

  He wasn’t paying attention to the cars.

  He was more interested in the loud music coming from inside the house and the woman standing at the front door motioning us inside.

  “I’m Gloria,” the woman said, as we walked up. “What can I get you to drink?”

  Gloria was a tall, curvy woman with dark, shoulder-length hair and bright red lipstick. I had a feeling she’d just applied the lipstick.

  Mateo smiled and pointed at the glass in her hand. “I’ll take whatever you’re drinking.”

  “Good choice,” she said. “Follow me. I’ll get you fixed up.”

  Mateo did as he was told and followed her into the kitchen, pausing a moment to say hello to Juliana, who was standing just inside the doorway.

  Juliana was playing the role of the gracious hostess, and she smiled and told him to go enjoy himself. Since I’d just exposed the location of the safe house to a possible hostile, I wasn’t sure I’d get the same treatment.

  “I love what you’ve done with the place,” I said, looking around the living room.

  The dreary-looking living room had been transformed into a brighter version of itself by the addition of the white wicker furniture I’d seen out on the patio earlier.

  The bright red and orange seat cushions, plus several vases of cut flowers, had changed the lackluster room into something more livable. Along with the physical changes, there were eight other people scattered around the room eating, drinking, and pretending to have a good time.

  Juliana smiled. “I’m glad you approve.”

  She glanced over at the kitchen and added, “To be truthful, I’m not sure I like this location as much as I did twenty minutes ago.”

  “Give me a chance to explain, and I think you’ll change your mind about that.”

  * * * *

  Coach had sent two surveillance teams—consisting of four watchers in each team—to set up surveillance on the Santa Rita and El Bonete locations. When I looked around the room, I recognized one of the team leaders immediately.

  His name was Mark Stevens.

  Once Mateo had followed Gloria into the kitchen, Stevens stopped pretending to have a conversation with a tall, skinny guy and walked over to where Juliana and I were standing.

  After we greeted each other, he asked, “What’s up with the taxi driver? What’s he doing here?”

  I quickly gave Stevens and Juliana a brief synopsis of what had gone down at the museum.

  When I finished, Stevens, who was a get-to-the-heart-of-the-matter type of guy, said, “So the guy’s a DSE snitch?”

  I nodded. “I also suspect he knows more about Ben’s disappearance than he’s told me so far. I don’t know if this is connected to his DSE activities or not, but I believe the only way we’ll get that information out of him is by forcing him to talk to us.”

  “Some type of overt interrogation might work,” Stevens said, glancing over at Mateo. “He seems to be a friendly guy.”

  While there were numerous ways to get a free agent—someone who wasn’t a prisoner—to divulge his secrets, the methods used to achieve that objective fell into two categories.

  The overt method was a slow process which involved befriending the subject, cultivating a relationship, and becoming his confidant. The covert method was a much faster process. It involved administering one of several mind-altering drugs—sometimes called truth serums—which caused the subject to start answering questions immediately.

  I said, “Time isn’t on our side here, so I’m opting for the covert method. If Mateo knows something about Ben Mitchell, we need to have that intel right away.”

  Juliana nodded. “I agree.”

  “Todd Barnes is our team medic,” Stevens said. “He should have something in his black bag to make that happen.”

  “Which one is he?”

  “He’s the guy over there in the corner sitting all by himself.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go have a talk with him.”

  “Just FYI. He and Gloria sort of have a thing going, so he hasn’t been a happy camper since I ordered his girlfriend to go flirt with the taxi driver.”

  “What I have to say should cheer him up.”

  * * * *

  When the Ops Center sent a surveillance team to an area, they often embedded specialists among the members. Depending on the type of operation, the individuals might be experts in linguistics, electronics, explosives, or any of a number of other skill sets.

  Medical personnel were always included in any operation involving a kidnapping or a hostage taking. They were there to care for the victim’s physical injuries and to treat the psychological aftereffects of the ordeal.

  Since Mitchell didn’t look that bad in the photographs, I was optimistic he wouldn’t need any medical attention from Todd Barnes after we got him away from the cartel.

  First, thou
gh, I needed the medic’s expertise to get Mateo to talk.

  I’d noticed Todd Barnes when I’d first walked in the safe house. He’d drawn my attention because his dark-framed glasses made him look a lot more like a museum employee than any of the other team members.

  I’d also noticed him because he was sitting all by himself in a corner of the room studying a folded newspaper.

  As soon as I sat down beside him, he said, “What’s a five-letter word for fake, not genuine?”

  “False?”

  He shook his head. “Won’t work. Has to start with a p.”

  “Try phony.”

  He carefully wrote down the letters in the squares on the newspaper’s crossword puzzle.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  He offered me his hand. “I’m Todd Barnes.”

  “Bogus,” I said, grasping his hand.

  “Pardon?”

  I pointed to the puzzle. “A five-letter word for fake could also be bogus.”

  He smiled. “How about fraud?”

  I nodded over at Mateo. “We could be describing that guy.”

  When he looked over at Mateo, his smile disappeared. “He looks like a phony all right. What’s his story?”

  After telling Barnes I suspected Mateo might have information on Ben’s whereabouts, I asked, “What kind of narcotics do you have in that little black bag of yours that might help me get some quick answers out of him tonight?”

  His smile was back. “You want a pill or an injection?”

  “I’d prefer something I could just drop in his drink.”

  “Sodium pentothal won’t work then. I’ve got some scopolamine tablets. They work just as well as sodium pentothal, and they’re tasteless. You could easily add them to any drink.”

  “Are you talking about yellow poppers?”

  He nodded. “That’s their street name. There’s a couple of drawbacks to scopolamine, though. For one thing, it causes drowsiness, so he might get too sleepy to answer your questions. Then, when he wakes up from his twilight zone, he probably won’t remember anything that happened.”