Four Months in Cuba

by Luana Ehrlich

  “Not so far, and that’s why I asked C. J. to contact Alex and get further clarification from the asset on the location. Yesterday, when Alex checked in with C. J., he said he hadn’t been able to get in touch with her for a couple of days.”

  “We can’t afford to wait much longer.”

  “I’ll give it one more day, and if Alex hasn’t heard back from the asset by then, I’ll send the POA up to the deputy’s desk.” He paused a moment. “Just between us, the DDO’s convinced Ben is being held at Lorenzo’s compound.”

  “As much as I hate to say it, I agree with him. I’ve seen no evidence to contradict that.”

  The moment I made that statement, Mitchell’s face flashed in front of me, and I immediately recognized it as the image from the second photograph the cartel had sent the Senator.

  As soon as I got off the phone with Carlton, I pulled the image up on my phone and studied it again.

  Even though I couldn’t shake the niggling sensation there was a hidden meaning in Mitchell’s expression, after several minutes of staring at the photograph, I gave up trying to figure out what it was.

  However, I didn’t let go of the image completely.

  I allowed it to sit there at the outer perimeter of my cerebral cortex, where I felt sure the synapses would eventually fire and the neurons would start communicating with each other.

  Whenever that happened, I’d have my answer.

  In the meantime, I walked down the hallway to Café Tropical to join Gabriel for breakfast.

  * * * *

  When I sat down across from the jazz musician, he was having a conversation with a waitress and he barely acknowledged my arrival. Once she’d left, he proceeded to give me a play-by-play description of their conversation.

  If I understood him correctly, they’d been discussing whether it was more important to be liked or to be respected.

  “What’s your take on that question?” Gabriel asked, shoveling a forkful of scrambled eggs in his mouth. “Would you rather be liked or be respected?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m late?”

  “No. No, I’m not. And you know why?” he said, pointing his empty fork at me, “because I respect you, that’s why.”

  “If you respect me, why didn’t you wait for me to get here before you ordered breakfast?”

  “That’s an excellent question, and a perfect one for this discussion. I believe the answer has to do with the difference between respecting a person and liking them.”

  “Am I hearing you correctly? You didn’t wait on me because you respect me, but if you liked me, you would have waited on me?”

  “I do believe we’ve come full circle here. Now, let me ask you once again; would you rather be liked or would you rather be respected?”

  At that moment, the waitress returned with the extra strong coffee I’d ordered, and I was able to ignore his question. Before she walked away, I told her to bring me another cup.

  I had a feeling I was going to need it.

  * * * *

  I said nothing to Gabriel about Carlton’s phone call until we were inside his van and on our way over to the safe house. Then, I told him about the missing gas canisters and the delay in getting the POA approval from the DDO.

  He didn’t seem concerned about the missing canisters, but he questioned me about whether I thought Carlton was having doubts about the protocols for rescuing Mitchell from Lorenzo’s compound.

  “No, he’s not having doubts,” I said. “Douglas is just being cautious, and if he thought there was any real urgency about getting the DDO’s approval, he would have sent the POA up to the seventh floor already.”

  “I guess that depends on how you define urgency. If I don’t honor my commitment to appear at Club Nocturno tomorrow night, then The Governor’s Gig won’t even get off the ground.”

  “There’s no reason for you to change those plans.”

  Gabriel had called his original plan to rescue Mitchell from Lorenzo’s compound The Governor’s Gig, and now, even though several aspects of the plan had changed, he refused to call the POA anything other than The Governor’s Gig.

  He’d come up with the rescue scenario after he’d read an article in the local newspaper about Lorenzo’s plans to host an event at his compound called La Celebración del Turismo Cubano. Gabriel had called his rescue plan The Governor’s Gig, because at the celebration on August 8, Lorenzo would be honoring Santiago’s provincial governor for his success in bringing tourism to the region.

  Along with local city officials and the members of Santiago’s tourism council, dignitaries from several foreign countries, including Canada, Iran, and Venezuela, had been invited to the festivities.

  Javier Santino, the manager of Club Nocturno, was in charge of booking the entertainment for the event, and the success of the POA depended on Gabriel being asked to be one of the featured artists on the program that night.

  In order to make that happen, Gabriel had been showing up regularly at Club Nocturno. One night, he’d even played a few songs with a local band in an effort to convince Santino to invite him to Lorenzo’s celebration.

  Although that hadn’t happened yet, the club manager had asked Gabriel to perform a couple of sets at the club tomorrow evening. If all went well—which Gabriel assured me it would—he felt certain Santino would bring up the tourism celebration and invite him to be on the program.

  Juliana and I would be tagging along tomorrow night as part of Gabriel’s entourage, and if Santino issued the jazz musician an invitation to play at the celebration, Gabriel would insist we be put on the guest list as well.

  The protocols for the POA depended on all three of us being invited to Lorenzo’s compound. If that didn’t happen, revisions would have to be made.

  As the POA stood right now, on the evening of August 8, while Gabriel was entertaining everyone on the grounds of Lorenzo’s compound at La Celebración del Turismo Cubano, Juliana and I would make our way down to Lorenzo’s guesthouse where we expected to find Ben Mitchell in residence.

  As long as the Agency’s aerial drone had done its job by temporarily disabling the guards stationed around the guesthouse, Mitchell, Juliana, and I would meet up with Gabriel and all four of us would exit the compound and drive out to Maceo International Airport, where a chartered flight would be standing by, ready to fly us back to the States.

  Since Carlton and I had tweaked the POA down to its simplest form, the protocols weren’t that complicated.

  Unfortunately, they still hinged on Gabriel’s ability to be persuasive.

  Chapter 14

  Sunday, July 26

  When I woke up Sunday morning, I immediately called Gabriel and told him I couldn’t meet him for breakfast. Nothing urgent required my attention, but I could only take so much torture.

  He didn’t seem to be bothered by the change in schedule.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “I really shouldn’t be talking to anyone today anyway, since I need to be in reflection for my appearance at Club Nocturno tonight.”

  I had no idea what being in reflection meant, but I immediately stifled the urge to ask him and told him goodbye.

  A few minutes later, after ordering room service, I picked up my Bible and sat down on the bed to read a few chapters before breakfast arrived.

  There was nothing in Nacio Bandera’s legend that required a Bible, and one hadn’t been included in The Kit—a term Support Services used to describe the items issued to an operative in order to validate a cover story—but since there was nothing in Nacio Bandera’s background that ruled out the ownership of a Bible, I had purchased a Spanish hardback copy from the airport gift shop during my brief layover in Port-au-Prince.

  Even though a Bible wasn’t required by Nacio Bandera’s persona, my Titus Ray persona required it.

  I’d started reading the Bible after I’d returned to the States from a two-year assignment in Iran. Before then, I’d never owned a Bible, looked at a Bible, or found a Bible r
elevant.

  That all changed after my network in Tehran was blown, and I was forced to take shelter with some Iranian Christians who jeopardized their own lives to keep me hidden in their home for three months, while VEVAK, the Iranian secret police, were conducting a massive manhunt for me.

  I’d spent that time with Javad, his wife Darya, and their son Mansoor, while I was recovering from a broken leg I’d suffered after jumping from a three-story building while being pursued by an agent from VEVAK.

  Every evening I’d listen as the three of them would gather around the kitchen table to read from a well-worn copy of the Scriptures. As soon as they were finished reading, they would immediately return the Bible to its hiding place behind a wall in their living room.

  Even though they faced intense persecution for their faith, they exhibited a joy I found incomprehensible, and as the weeks went by, it made me question whether the dull ache I sometimes felt in my own life could be the result of my lack of faith in God.

  Finally, when I got up the courage to share my feelings with Javad, he wasn’t shy about discussing his beliefs with me, and he backed up his convictions with verses from the Bible. Although I’d read the Quran several times, even memorizing portions of it for an assignment, the words from the Quran never affected me the way the words from the Bible did.

  The more I talked with Javad, the more I wanted to have what he described as a “relationship with the Lord.” At the time, I had no idea what making a commitment to follow the teachings of Jesus Christ really meant, nor how it would affect every aspect of my life, including my career with the Agency.

  Nevertheless, just hours before Javad’s uncle arrived at the safe house to take me across the mountains of Iran to a border crossing in Turkey, I’d made my own commitment of faith and become a follower of Jesus.

  Nothing dramatic happened to me at that moment—I didn’t hear a voice from heaven or see any fireworks going off—however, in the weeks that followed, I began to notice some changes in my life.

  For one thing, if I lost my temper, or told an unnecessary lie, or committed any of a dozen other transgressions, I would immediately experience a feeling of remorse, like I was carrying around a heavy burden, and it would continue weighing me down until I was willing to admit my wrongdoing.

  Grappling with a guilty conscience was a noticeable change for me because after years of working on it, I’d perfected the art of ignoring the guilt that occasionally cropped up as a result of my own actions.

  On a different note, the discontentment I’d carried around with me since childhood began to disappear. Instead, I experienced a sense of well-being—a kind of happiness mixed with contentment—and when I took the time to pray, I became even more aware of it.

  Before meeting Javad, I’d never been around anyone who prayed, and the whole concept of talking to God had always sounded pretty intimidating to me.

  After telling Javad how I felt about it, he said prayer was less about sounding holy and more about pouring your heart out to someone who found you irresistible and who loved you unconditionally.

  I remembered Javad’s advice when I returned to the States and attempted my first prayer. It happened moments before a debriefing session at a safe house outside of Langley. Not surprisingly, the only words I could get out of my mouth were, “Help, Lord.”

  Even though I knew my short petition was answered, my prayers had gotten a little longer and a little more detailed since then.

  Now, as I finished reading a chapter from the gospel of John, I talked to God about my feelings for Nikki and my concerns for Mitchell, and I also asked him to stop Gabriel from doing something stupid at Club Nocturno tonight.

  Even though room service arrived before I had a chance to explain what I meant, I felt sure God knew I was talking about Gabriel, the jazz musician, and not about Gabriel, His angel.

  * * * *

  As I was finishing up my breakfast, I received a text from the Ops Center informing me Carlton would be calling me in twenty minutes.

  To avoid the listening ears in my room, I made my way down to the hotel’s private beach again. This time, instead of taking a seat in one of the Adirondack chairs, I strolled down the beach.

  After walking along the shoreline for about ten minutes, I headed toward a rocky promontory. Before I arrived, I caught a glimpse of two of the Meliã’s red-striped cabanas off to my right.

  They drew my attention because they were quite a distance away from the hotel, and I could only see the tops of the two tents, the rest were hidden by a massive sand dune.

  Once I passed the sand dune, I began ascending a steep incline. From this elevation, I was able to see several people inside the cabanas. However, I was too far away to see their faces, much less hear what was being said.

  Because the gathering appeared to be covert in nature, I figured the people inside the tents were probably dissidents or disgruntled Cubans planning their escape from the island.

  Considering Cuba’s repressive society, there could be several other reasons why a group of people would decide to meet at the beach in secret, but, even though I was curious about the clandestine get-together, I had no intention of disturbing them, and I continued my trek up the rocky escarpment.

  A few seconds later, my phone vibrated.

  “Are you clear?” Carlton asked.

  “Clear,” I said, circling around behind a large boulder.

  “What’s that noise?”

  I sat down with my back up against a gigantic, wedge-shaped rock. “I’m down at the beach. You must be hearing the waves crashing against the breakers.”

  “I hope you’re enjoying the view. It’s drizzling rain here.”

  Carlton didn’t know it—in fact, I’d never told anyone—but I hated large bodies of water. Whether it was the undulating waves or the endless horizon, I felt disoriented when I was around an ocean or, for that matter, even a large lake. Besides experiencing vertigo, I usually ended up with a bad case of nausea.

  If possible, I avoided assignments involving ships, boats, or other watercraft, and when I couldn’t avoid them, I used other coping mechanisms to deal with my problem.

  Today, I was on the far side of the promontory, where I couldn’t see the ocean. All I could see was a ridge in front of me with dozens of palm trees lining the highway leading up to the Meliã.

  “The view from here is incredible,” I said, “and did I mention the sun is shining?”

  “Don’t rub it in, Titus.”

  Carlton was always grumpy when it rained, and I often wondered if he viewed the rain the same way I viewed the ocean. Whether that was true or not, it was never wise to comment on his moods, so I didn’t.

  “Any good news?” I asked.

  “If you’re asking me if I finally sent the POA up to the seventh floor, the answer is yes. It’s now in the DDO’s hands.”

  “I’d say that was good news.”

  “The bad news is that Alex hasn’t made contact with his asset yet, so that means C. J. doesn’t have any more intel on the El Cobre location.”

  “I’m inclined to believe that’s good news as well.”

  “I can’t imagine why you’d think that was good news. We need to know if Ben is being held somewhere besides El Bonete.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I still want to know if Alex makes contact with his Queen Bee, but at this stage of the game, I’m not sure my team could handle a POA for El Bonete and another one for El Cobre.”

  “What’s happening with your team? Is Keith already giving you trouble?”

  “You probably don’t want to hear this, Douglas, but I’m afraid our jazz musician might have an artistic meltdown if I told him we needed to change the POA. He says he’s looking forward to performing at Lorenzo’s tourism celebration, and he’s up in his hotel room right now doing something he calls being in reflection for his gig at Club Nocturno tonight.”

  “You’re right. I don’t want to hear that.”

  * * * *


  After Carlton ended the call, I didn’t move from my secluded spot. It wasn’t because I was enjoying the view—a bunch of palm trees had never done that much for me—but I stayed put because I was curious why a gray, late-model sedan had pulled off the highway on the ridge above me.

  Even though I was several hundred yards away when two people emerged from the vehicle a few seconds later, I could see they were both wearing uniforms.

  The passengers, both female, had on the type of clothing worn by the housekeeping staff at the Meliã, but the vehicle itself had no markings on it to indicate it belonged to the hotel.

  After dropping the ladies off, the driver made a quick U-turn and headed back the way he’d come, in the opposite direction of the hotel. As he drove off, the two women began descending the sloping incline toward the beach.

  When I realized where they were headed, I immediately pulled a black disc out of my pocket.

  The disc was no bigger than a quarter and attached to it was a narrow, rectangular piece of plastic which I used to secure the disc to the camera on my phone. Now, by accessing an icon on my screen, I was able to use my satellite phone as a pair of field glasses.

  As I zoomed in on the faces of the two figures, I immediately recognized the older woman.

  Her name was Euphemia, and I’d met her a few days ago when I’d returned to my room after having breakfast with Gabriel.

  The moment I’d gotten off the elevator, I’d noticed the door to my room was ajar. However, a cleaning cart was parked outside, so I hadn’t expected to find any surprises inside Room 1029.

  Even so, when I’d slipped past the doorway, I’d been careful not to make my presence known. After doing a quick analysis of the scene, I’d determined everything was normal.

  The trash had already been collected—there was a garbage bag on the floor next to the door. The bathroom had already been cleaned—there was a pungent smell of disinfectant in the air—and the bed had already been made—there were a couple of gold foil-wrapped pieces of chocolate on both pillows.