Four Months in Cuba

by Luana Ehrlich

  “Neither. I think we’ll have a better chance of getting away if we wait two days for Hezbollah to show up at our doorstep.”

  Chapter 50

  Wednesday, September 30

  At first, Mitchell didn’t agree with me when I told him I wanted to wait for Hezbollah to show up at the farm before we put our escape plan into action.

  However, after I explained how we could use Hezbollah’s arrival to facilitate our escape, he finally agreed we stood a better chance of getting away from the farm if we didn’t execute our plans for a couple of days.

  Now, as we waited for Victor to bring us our dinner, we were both quiet.

  There was nothing left to say.

  The plan would either work tonight or it wouldn’t.

  If it didn’t work and Hezbollah showed up at the farm tonight, our fate was uncertain.

  If it did work and Hezbollah didn’t show up, our fate was also uncertain.

  However, if our plan worked and Hezbollah showed up, I knew our best chance of getting away from Número Diez would be to have Lorenzo’s security forces occupied with fighting off an assault from Hezbollah, while we slipped away unnoticed.

  There were a lot of variables in that scenario.

  Too many.

  Victor could refuse our request. That sometimes happened.

  Enzo could bring us our dinner. That sometimes happened.

  Then, there was the intel Carlton had received about Hezbollah’s plans to attack the farm. It could be wrong or misleading or postponed or . . .

  The door to Cabin Thirteen opened.

  Victor walked in with our food in one hand and his rifle in the other.

  Game on.

  * * * *

  Once Victor had handed Mitchell a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and tossed one over to me, he grabbed a couple of bottles of water out of the ice chest.

  As Mitchell unwrapped the sandwich, he began reciting the script we’d been rehearsing for the past two days.

  “Victor,” he said, “haven’t I done enough around here to earn something from you?”

  Victor handed him a water bottle and said, “Don’t tell me you want more books.”

  “No, I’m bored with books. How about a deck of cards?”

  “You wanna play solitaire?”

  He nodded. “I’d rather play poker, but I’d settle for solitaire.”

  As soon as I saw the expression on Victor’s face when he handed me the other bottle, I felt sure he’d taken the bait.

  He looked back over at Mitchell. “Do you like to play poker?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Victor stood there and looked at Mitchell for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he said, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt if you and I played a few hands.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure, why not?” he said, pulling a deck of cards out of his back pocket and slapping them down on the table.

  A few minutes later, Mitchell was sitting at the table in the middle of the room with Victor seated across from him, and Victor’s rifle on the floor within easy reach.

  As the game got underway, I stood at my cell door watching them as if I were engrossed in their every move.

  In reality, I was mapping out my own moves.

  Our escape plan called for me to create a distraction that would get Victor’s attention and give Mitchell enough time to grab his rifle. After much discussion, we’d agreed I would scream as if I were in excruciating pain and finish off my performance by collapsing on the floor of my cell.

  Timing was everything, and I’d decided to wait until they’d played a few hands before making my dramatic debut. I figured Victor wouldn’t be as alert then, and his inattentiveness would give Ben a few extra seconds to get the weapon in his hands.

  Since I wanted Mitchell to know when to expect the drama to begin, we’d also agreed I would walk over to the far corner of the cell, count to ten, and then let out my bloodcurdling scream.

  The perfect moment arrived, and I walked over to the corner and started counting.

  One, two, three, four . . .

  Before I reached five, the bomb went off.

  * * * *

  As soon as I heard the loud boom, I immediately knew someone had detonated the explosives in the cargo truck parked at the entrance to Número Diez.

  The instant the bomb went off, Mitchell quickly bent down and grabbed the rifle. I couldn’t tell if he had acted instinctively, or if he’d been so prepared for my scream, he’d acted automatically the moment he’d heard the loud noise.

  Victor seemed stunned by the sound of the blast, but as soon as he saw the rifle in Mitchell’s hands, he reached around and went for his handgun.

  He never made it.

  Mitchell shot him.

  The sound of the rifle being discharged in the cabin was so deafening, I fully expected Enzo or one of the other guards to come rushing into the cabin.

  Nothing happened.

  However, a few seconds later, I heard gunfire off in the distance, and I realized Lorenzo’s guards were probably occupied elsewhere—say, at the barn.

  “I’m guessing Marwan’s buddies have arrived,” I said to Mitchell when he unlocked my cell door.

  He handed me Victor’s handgun.

  “Their timing could have been a little better,” he said, glancing over at Victor’s body. “I would have preferred to lock him in my cell and throw away the key.”

  “You did what you had to do.”

  “It wasn’t my call. He made that decision himself.”

  I opened the cabin door a couple of inches and took a look outside. “We’re clear. Let’s go.”

  “Best news I’ve heard in months.”

  * * * *

  As we left Cabin Thirteen, we continued to hear gunfire, but all the shots sounded like they were coming from the barn.

  A few minutes later, it was quiet.

  When we came to the clearing between the housing units, we hunkered down near one of the cabins to see if we could tell what was going on at the barn.

  The first thing I noticed was a body—presumably one of Lorenzo’s security guards—lying in a pool of blood beside the tractor. I figured the rest of his comrades had met a similar fate.

  Parked in front of the barn was a large delivery truck and gathered around it were a group of men dressed in black carrying assault weapons.

  Two men were standing inside the bed of the truck. Two others were on the ground. The men on the ground were hoisting the metal canisters full of sarin gas up to the men inside the truck. Once inside, they were securing them in a wooden crate.

  The men looked well-trained, as if they might have handled chemical weapons before, and their actions left no doubt these men were members of Hezbollah’s militia.

  “Should we try it?” Mitchell whispered, pointing to the wide-open space between where we were and the single-unit cabins across the clearing.

  Although the sky was cloudy, there was a full moon, so we both knew there was a possibility the men gathered around the truck might be able to spot us as we ran across the clearing.

  “Yeah, let’s go for it,” I said.

  I covered Mitchell while he scurried across the open patch, and then he did the same for me a few seconds later.

  No one tried to shoot us, so I figured we were home free.

  Now, all we needed was some transportation.

  * * * *

  As we came up to the farmhouse, I was disappointed to see there were no vehicles parked in the carport at the rear of Alvarez’s house.

  The house itself was completely dark, and I noticed most of the windows had been blown out by the explosion. I figured the blast had also knocked out the electricity.

  It was impossible to tell if there was anyone inside.

  Where were Alvarez and his family? Were they hiding inside or had Hezbollah killed them all?

  I gestured toward the house. “Let’s check inside.”

  Mitchell shook his head. “We need
to find a vehicle ASAP. Why waste our time?”

  “My sat phone’s in there. If we grab it, we can call Douglas.”

  “That might work.”

  As soon as we came around the side of the house, we could see what remained of the smoldering truck. A huge crater had been created by the blast and debris was everywhere. The concrete barriers at the entrance to Número Diez had been reduced to dust.

  The front door of the farmhouse was barely hanging on its hinges, and Mitchell and I had no trouble getting inside. When we paused in the entryway to allow our eyes to adjust to the darkened conditions, we listened for any movements inside.

  The house was eerily quiet.

  After clearing the living room, I headed straight for the roll-top desk. However, when I jerked open the desk drawer where my phone had been two days earlier, it was gone.

  I rifled through all the other drawers.

  I didn’t find my phone, but I did discover a diamond-encrusted gold watch at the back of one of the drawers. I stuffed it in my pocket, thinking we might have to exchange the watch for cash before we made it to the safe house.

  “My phone’s gone,” I told Mitchell, who was standing guard in the foyer.

  “So much for that idea.”

  “While we’re here, let’s check out the rest of the house.”

  Mitchell agreed and we went through the farmhouse room by room. In the end, we came away empty; no cell phones, no people, no dead bodies.

  It didn’t appear Alvarez and the rest of his family had even been inside the house at the time of the blast. There was nothing to suggest anyone had been engaged in any sort of activity in the house when the blast went off. In fact, except for the damage caused by the explosion, the house was as neat as a pin.

  I found this puzzling.

  Did Alvarez know about the attack ahead of time and leave with his family? That seemed unlikely, yet it was the only explanation that made any sense to me.

  When we arrived back in the living room, Mitchell had just finished asking me about our next move, when we heard a noise at the front door.

  Both of us reacted immediately.

  Mitchell took a position on one side of the doorway, while I flattened myself against the wall on the other side.

  As I listened to the footsteps approaching the living room, I realized the intruder wasn’t trying to be quiet.

  * * * *

  Seconds later, Enzo entered the room. He was carrying his pistol in his right hand, but as soon as I placed my gun against the back of his head, he dropped it.

  When I told him to turn around and put his hands in the air, he seemed surprised to see us.

  “Where’s Victor?” he asked, eyeing the rifle in Mitchell’s hand.

  I ignored his question.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I need money.”

  I gestured in the direction of the barn. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a war going on out there. Why do you need money?”

  “It’s not my fight. I’m leaving.”

  Mitchell asked, “How?”

  For a moment, he seemed confused by the question, but then he said, “In my truck.”

  Mitchell and I looked at each other.

  “Where’s your truck?” I asked.

  He inclined his head toward the west side of the house. “It’s over by the shed.”

  I remembered seeing a couple of open three-sided sheds in the reconnaissance photos. Coach said they were used to sort and dry the coffee beans before they were shipped off to the mill for processing.

  I said, “Give me your keys.”

  Enzo, whose hands were still in the air, didn’t move.

  “Don’t leave me here,” he said. “Take me with you.”

  Mitchell threatened him with the rifle. “Give us the keys.”

  When Enzo stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his keys, I said, “Drop them on the floor and back away.”

  Once he’d followed my instructions, I grabbed the keys.

  “What should we do with him?” Mitchell asked.

  “He’s going with us,” I said.

  “I thought you might say that.”

  * * * *

  Enzo’s truck turned out be to an old Chevy panel truck from the 1950s with barely any paint left on it, but the engine fired up as soon as Mitchell turned the ignition.

  “Is there any way for us to get out of here without going through the front gate?” I asked Enzo, who was wedged in the cab between Mitchell and me.

  He shook his head. “No, there’s just one way out.”

  Even though Enzo appeared to be grateful we weren’t leaving him behind, I wasn’t taking any chances, and I’d bound his wrists together with some rope I’d found in the shed. I’d also warned him if he made any sudden moves, I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him.

  He’d agreed to those conditions.

  Mitchell drove without the headlights on along the dirt road at the back of the farmhouse until we got up to the crossroads. From there, we were able to see down to the barn.

  Mitchell slowed the truck down long enough for us to make sure the gunmen were still occupied loading the canisters.

  It was too dark to see exactly what they were doing, but since the delivery truck wasn’t moving, Mitchell gunned the engine and steered toward the front gate.

  After maneuvering the truck around the crater in the middle of the road, Mitchell narrowly missed hitting a body lying on the shoulder. It appeared to be one of Lorenzo’s men who’d been guarding the entrance. Once we’d cleared the remaining obstacles, we headed down the road toward the highway.

  Just as we thought we’d gotten away from Número Diez unscathed, someone began shooting at us.

  “Over there,” Mitchell shouted, pointing to a dark-colored van parked on the side of the road.

  I immediately returned fire with Victor’s rifle and the two shooters took cover behind the van. Although one man fell, the other one kept shooting at us, his bullets pinging off the panel truck as we drove by.

  “Can’t you make this thing go any faster?” I shouted.

  “My foot’s on the floorboard as it is.”

  As Mitchell came up to the highway, I glanced in the rearview mirror to see if the remaining gunman had decided to follow us.

  “I think we’re clear,” I said.

  “Let’s hope so. The gas tank’s sitting on empty.”

  * * * *

  I assured Mitchell we weren’t that far from El Cobre, but I didn’t mention I wasn’t optimistic any of the gas stations would be open at this time of night.

  “We should be able make it there,” he said.

  Enzo hadn’t said a word since we’d piled in the truck, but I decided it was time he answered a few questions.

  “Did you see what happened when those men showed up at the farm tonight?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “You didn’t see the truck explode?”

  “No.”

  “Where were you when it happened?”

  “Near the barn.”

  I tried a different tack.

  “What about Señor Alvarez? Where was he?”

  “He had left already.”

  “Where did he go?”

  Enzo shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “Did he take his family with him?”

  Enzo nodded.

  Mitchell said, “Maybe that’s why Victor only brought us a sandwich tonight. There wasn’t anyone around to cook.”

  As soon as Victor’s name was mentioned, Enzo looked over at me.

  “Is Victor dead?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “Victor is dead.”

  He nodded. “Good.”

  * * * *

  When we reached the outskirts of El Cobre, I spotted a gas station that still had its lights on, and after we purchased a few gallons of fuel with a ten-peso note we found in Enzo’s wallet, we headed toward Santiago.

  “Where are we going?” Enz
o asked.

  “Santiago.”

  He began shaking his head back and forth.

  “You don’t like city life?” I asked.

  “I don’t like la policía.”

  Although I didn’t really expect it, I waited to see if he would add something more to his response.

  He remained quiet.

  “Why don’t you like la policía?” I asked.

  He refused to say anything, and I decided to drop the subject. However, as we drove out of El Cobre, he spoke up.

  “Leave me here. Don’t take me to Santiago.”

  I wasn’t opposed to this request, and when I looked over at Mitchell, he said, “Sounds good to me.”

  I nodded. “Pull over up ahead and let him out.”

  When Mitchell pulled off the side of the road, I untied Enzo’s hands and got out of the truck with him.

  As we stood alongside the road, he said, “Could I have my gun back?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe you’ll stay out of trouble if you don’t have your gun.”

  He shrugged and started to walk away.

  “Wait a minute, Enzo,” I said.

  I reached inside my pocket. “Take this.”

  When he saw the diamond watch in my hand, he stared at the glittering object without moving a muscle. Even when I offered it to him, he seemed reluctant to take it.

  I said, “This is for your truck.”

  He took the gold watch and slipped it on his wrist. After admiring it for a few seconds, he smiled and said, “Thank you, Señor Bandera.”

  When he turned to walk away, he looked back and said, “Watch out for la policía.”

  Chapter 51

  There was very little traffic on the highway from El Cobre to Santiago, and when Mitchell started exceeding the speed limit, I reminded him if we were stopped by la policía, we’d have a hard time explaining why we didn’t have any identification papers on us.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he said, slowing down. “I’d hate to enjoy a few hours of freedom only to end up in a Cuban prison for the rest of my life.”