“You’re trespassing on government property,” he said.
Mateo was obviously intimidated by the man’s rough manner, and as he tried to explain my desire to have a tour of the coffee plantation, he also got flustered. Before long, he was exaggerating my role at the Haitian National Museum and calling me the museum’s major benefactor.
I decided not to correct him when I noticed the man appeared less belligerent and looked at me as if he might be considering permitting me to see how the farm operated.
But, after staring at me for a few seconds, he shook his head. “No, I can’t allow you on the property. If you want to have a tour, you’ll need to get a permit from the governor’s office in Santiago.”
Mateo looked at me and shrugged. “I’m sorry, Señor Bandera. I guess we’ll have to come back after we get the permit.”
“It certainly looks that way.”
As Mateo and I turned around and began walking back toward the Bel Air, I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye that caught my attention. When I turned back around and took a few steps toward the security barrier, both guards raised their weapons and pointed them at me.
Teddy Bear Man reacted by reaching for his own gun.
I immediately put my hands up and said, “No. No problema.”
I nodded at Teddy Bear Man. “I just wanted to say thank you for your time, and I hope to come back and visit you real soon.”
Real soon.
Chapter 42
Saturday, August 15
The next morning, I was awakened by a ding from my Agency phone. When I raised my head and squinted at the screen, I saw an alert box from the Ops Center staring back at me.
Coach had sent me the photographs of Número Diez from the recon satellites. After quickly scrolling through the images, I went back and examined each frame in detail.
According to the time stamps, the pictures were taken at two different intervals over an eight-hour period. The high-definition close-ups were so clear I was able to read the license plate on the GAZ pickup parked in front of the barn and see what kind of clothes the coffee pickers were wearing as they worked in the fields.
One of the images had captured an older woman carrying a tray of food out of the farmhouse, the same thing I’d noticed before Mateo and I had been told to leave Número Diez.
I’d seen her come out of the house and disappear behind the barn, but the satellite image showed her walking past the barn and over to the workers’ cabins. When she arrived at the last cabin in the row, she handed the tray to a man standing outside the door.
It was the sort of thing I’d expect to see if someone were being held prisoner in one of the housing units.
Of course, I guess she could have been delivering food to a sick worker, but my gut said the old woman was feeding a prisoner.
My gut said this cabin was where Lorenzo was holding Mitchell.
* * * *
The other satellite images didn’t reveal anything new, but I could understand why the number ten farm in the Alma de Cuba cooperative wasn’t as productive as the other farms.
Productivity depended on workers, and, as far as I could tell, the workforce at Número Diez was made up of just fifteen men. Twelve of them were harvesting the coffee and three of them were standing underneath a tin shed sorting the beans.
I was disappointed to see the only access to the property was the road from the main highway, the same one Mateo and I had driven down the day before. I was hoping the satellite images would reveal another way to get onto the property, since it appeared Lorenzo kept two armed security guards stationed at the front entrance 24/7.
Still, with only two men standing guard and a flimsy wooden barrier across the road, overall security at Número Diez appeared to be minimal compared to Lorenzo’s compound.
At no time during the eight-hour period did I see more than three vehicles parked beside the barn. One of them was the GAZ pickup. It never left the property during that time period, which led me to believe Teddy Bear Man might be the person occupying the farmhouse.
After viewing all the images, I came to the conclusion a Special Ops Team shouldn’t have any trouble getting in there and rescuing Mitchell without causing too much of an uproar.
However, I wasn’t about to make that recommendation without driving back up to El Cobre and taking another look at Número Diez.
This time, I planned to leave Mateo behind.
In order to do that, I called the hotel’s concierge and arranged for a rental car. When I asked him for an SUV, he said all they had was a Zoyte Jeep, a Chinese version of an SUV.
I hesitated a moment, especially when he told me it only came in red, but then I told him I would take it.
That was my first mistake.
* * * *
Before I left the hotel, I phoned Carlton. After we discussed the images from the signals intelligence, he said he was optimistic Número Diez was where Ben was being held. He also agreed the farm’s lack of security meant Ben’s rescue could possibly happen within a few days.
“I’ll have Coach start putting together a Special Operations Team,” he said, “but we’ll wait to finalize anything until after we’ve heard back from you. I have to admit I’m a little surprised at the lack of security, but I agree Lorenzo’s farm looks like the perfect setup for holding a kidnap victim.”
“I imagine Lorenzo uses the farm for other cartel activities as well, but I didn’t see any evidence of that yesterday. I should know more after I’ve spent the day up there.”
“I doubt if it will affect you, but you should know there’s been some movement around Lorenzo’s compound overnight.”
“What kind of movement?”
“Mark Stevens said there were more vehicles than usual going in and out of there. We’ve also picked up some chatter indicating Lorenzo has been in contact with another lieutenant in the Los Zetas cartel. I suspect Lorenzo may be making a play to move into Franco’s spot in the organization.”
“But you’ve seen no evidence they’ve moved the canisters?”
“No, Coach said there’s been nothing in the satellite imagery that would lead us to believe things have changed down at Lorenzo’s guesthouse. Another batch of photographs will be available in the next couple of hours, so we should know more then.”
After telling Carlton where I planned to set up my surveillance—at the abandoned gas station across from Número Diez—he suggested I have Mark Stevens or someone from his crew follow me up to El Cobre and watch my back.
I immediately nixed that idea.
That was my second mistake.
* * * *
After picking up the Zoyte Jeep, I stopped at a gas station and topped off the tank. When I went inside to pay for the gas, I grabbed several candy bars and a couple of bottles of water to sustain me on my stakeout of the farm.
While I was standing at the counter paying for everything, I noticed a Santiago de Cuba baseball cap on a rack behind the cashier, and I had him add it to my bill as well.
As the cashier handed me the baseball cap, he touched the team’s logo—a black wasp with red stripes—and said, “So you’re a fan of Las Avispas?”
I’d purchased the cap for a disguise, but I vowed my eternal loyalty to the Cuban baseball team anyway. My fervor caused him to start naming his favorite players, their statistics, and which players he felt sure would make the Cuban National Team.
By the time I got out the door, I felt sure I knew more about Las Avispas than the most avid fan.
That was my third mistake.
* * * *
I arrived in El Cobre around ten o’clock, and before heading out to Número Diez, I spent a few minutes making sure I hadn’t drawn the attention of la policía who tended to give extra scrutiny to a rental vehicle, especially an eye-catching red one.
After making two trips around the plaza and spending a few minutes in the parking lot at the basilica, I felt sure I was clean, so I headed north on the Camino Viejo highway.<
br />
When I drove past the entrance to Número Diez, I glanced over at the abandoned gas station and decided it still looked like the perfect spot to spend the day observing the farm.
However, setting up my observation post required getting to the gas station without being observed by anyone at the farm, so I continued driving north for another mile until I came to the turnoff for the sugarcane plantation. The sign on the highway identified it as Vadala Plantación de Caña de Azúcar.
Mateo told me the sugarcane plantation was the most popular tourist site in El Cobre, even more popular than the basilica, and when I saw all the cars in the parking lot, I was happy to see he hadn’t been exaggerating.
My plan was to take advantage of the crowded parking lot by leaving my rental vehicle there and hiking back to the gas station across from Número Diez.
When I’d viewed the satellite images, I’d noticed a dirt trail behind the sugar mill that led over to the gas station. I was guessing the owners of the plantation had been regular customers of the gas station before it had gone out of business, and the well-worn path was the result of all the trips they’d made back and forth to get gas.
To access that shortcut, though, I needed to get behind the plantation’s office building and over to the sugar mill, which was about two hundred yards away.
Although I’d planned to play the role of an interested tourist and just wander back down to the sugar mill on my own, a sign in the parking lot notified visitors they were required to register at the office and join a tour group. A warning at the bottom of the sign pointed out the dire consequences for violating this policy.
Since the brochure I’d picked up in the hotel lobby indicated the sugar mill was part of the plantation’s tour, I went inside the main building and paid my fee to join a group of about a dozen people who’d signed up for the walking tour.
When I went back outside to join the group, I noticed a GAZ pickup with the Alma de Cuba emblem pulling out of the parking lot and onto the Camino Viejo highway. Teddy Bear Man was behind the wheel.
Although I wanted to believe his sudden appearance at the sugarcane plantation was just a coincidence—maybe just a neighborly visit?—I couldn’t ignore the lingering look he gave my red Zoyte Jeep as he drove off.
After I saw the pickup disappear over the horizon, I joined my tour group and didn’t give the incident another thought.
* * * *
Our tour guide said his name was Escobar Vadala, and before we set off, he explained where we’d be going and what we’d be seeing.
I was glad to hear the sugar mill was the second stop on our tour, and as Escobar led us out of the parking lot, I made sure I was at the back of the line. Since I planned to leave the group as soon as we arrived at the mill, I tried to minimize the chances someone might notice my absence by remaining aloof and not introducing myself to anyone.
The tour group’s first stop was a green field of sugarcane. Escobar told us the bamboo-like plants were considered members of the grass family.
I wasn’t interested in anyone’s family at the moment, and neither was the guy in front of me, who was allowing his kids to throw dirt at each other. He appeared as bored as I was.
Before long, he turned around and tried to engage me in conversation by pointing at my ball cap and asking, “Will Las Avispas win the Nationals again this year?”
I assured him they would, and then I added a few facts about the team which I’d learned from the cashier who’d sold me the hat.
It turned out the guy was a major fan of the team, and before long, I’d become his best friend and he wouldn’t leave my side. By the time our tour group finally arrived at the sugar mill, I knew I’d made a mistake and should have been rude to the guy instead of trying to impress him.
Now, I was racking my brain trying to figure out how to get rid of him so I could hike over to the gas station.
As we stood there listening to Escobar give a lecture on how the mill operated, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and acted like I was reading a text message on the screen.
Moments later, I told my new best friend I needed to make a call, and, while pretending to punch in a phone number, I walked over toward the back of the mill.
A few seconds later, I was startled when my phone vibrated and a text from Carlton appeared on the screen.
“Thought you might be interested in seeing some pictures from the game. After you’ve seen them, give me a call.”
The cryptic wording was there in case someone happened to be looking over my shoulder when I received the text, but I had no trouble figuring out what Carlton was saying—he’d sent me the new images from our satellite reconnaissance.
Since he wanted me to call him after seeing the images, I decided to head back to my SUV to prevent my conversation from being overheard. However, my curiosity got the best of me, and I didn’t wait to get back to the SUV before opening the file.
As soon as I began scrolling through the photographs, I realized Mitchell’s rescue from Número Diez had just taken a turn for the worse.
* * * *
The first three images were of Lorenzo’s compound, and the most troubling one showed several men removing the sarin gas canisters from Lorenzo’s guesthouse and loading them onto a truck. The other two pictures showed a line of vehicles leaving the compound. Lorenzo’s Mercedes was one of them.
The next five images were of the coffee plantation. The first two showed furniture being taken into the farmhouse, and the next two showed men taking equipment and boxes out of the barn.
The last image showed a concrete barrier being put in place at the fork in the road where yesterday there’d been a flimsy wooden security arm.
When I got back to the parking lot, I did a quick scan of my surroundings. No one in the parking lot seemed the least bit interested in me, so I got inside the SUV and made the call to Carlton.
After assuring him I was clear, I said, “I don’t like what I saw in those photographs.”
“It gets worse. Mark Stevens just sent Coach an update from the surveillance teams tailing Lorenzo’s convoy. He said Lorenzo and some of his men are on their way up to El Cobre. We believe he’s probably going to store the canisters at the farm, but he may also be planning to stay up there himself.”
“What spooked him? Why would he leave his compound?”
“We’re not sure, but another Los Zetas lieutenant was murdered in Mexico City yesterday, so maybe he doesn’t feel safe at the compound anymore.”
“Was Kamal responsible for the murder?”
“No. According to Sam Wylie, Kamal hasn’t left Venezuela, but Franco Cabello’s death has caused an upheaval in the cartel’s organization, and Lorenzo seems to be the leading contender for his position. That probably means he’s feeling vulnerable.”
“I imagine he’s also paranoid about losing the canisters. Having them in his possession gives him enormous power.”
“In the end, if Lorenzo is serious about making a play for Franco’s position, it may be beneficial for Ben.”
“I was thinking just the opposite. Lorenzo may want to get rid of him altogether.”
“I seriously doubt that. Lorenzo needs cash if he wants to reach the next level in the Los Zetas organization. Getting his hands on the Senator’s ransom money would mean the top echelon in Los Zetas would take a serious look at him. I think Ben is safe for now.”
“It looks like Lorenzo is constructing a concrete barrier around the property. If he also brings in his cartel soldiers to guard the place, rescuing Ben won’t be as easy as it looked yesterday.”
“That’s why you’re there, Titus. I trust you’ll find a way to get Ben out safely.”
* * * *
Although it was the Ops Center’s responsibility to delete the satellite images from my phone, a minute or so after I’d disconnected the call, I clicked on the file to make sure the images had disappeared.
Once I saw they’d been erased, and there was nothing on the phone excep
t Nacio Bandera’s innocuous emails, I grabbed my Las Avispas hat and exited the vehicle.
While I was getting out of the SUV, I was also running through some scenarios of how a Special Ops Team might be able to use the abandoned gas station to make an assault on Número Diez and rescue Ben.
Later, when I went back and analyzed everything, I realized I’d been so focused on sketching out those scenarios, I’d failed to observe my surroundings.
Otherwise, I would have noticed the GAZ pickup parked in the row behind me. However, by the time I glanced up and saw Teddy Bear Man staring at me, it was too late; a blue van had braked to a stop in front of me.
Before I knew what was happening, two men pushed open the cargo doors, grabbed me by both arms, and threw me inside.
As the van sped away, a black hood was thrust over my head, and zip ties were snapped around my wrists.
Moments later, someone jabbed a needle in my arm.
After that, my world went black.
Chapter 43
Sunday, August 16
An enormous black cloud enshrouded me. I tried pushing it aside; it wouldn’t budge. The weight seemed palpable, oppressive. I fought its blackness, pounding it, nudging it, shoving it aside.
The fog began to lift; a light glimmered in the distance.
I opened my eyes.
I was lying on top of a bed in a darkened room.
When I tried sitting up, my head exploded. The pain was intense.
The man standing over me pushed me down again.
“It’s too soon,” he said.
I tried protesting, but my words sounded like gibberish.
I took slow deep breaths.
The fuzziness began to fade.
I managed a single word.
“Agua.”
The man reached over, picked up a water bottle, and slowly dribbled a few drops on my lips.
Four Months in Cuba Page 35