The Yankee Comandante

by Michael Sallah

  The men had gathered and were waiting. Augusto Ferrando introduced himself. The Dominican Republic’s consul in Miami, Ferrando was Trujillo’s bagman. If El Jefe needed a favor from someone in Miami, Ferrando whipped out the paper bag stuffed with cash.

  Next to Ferrando stood Manuel Benítez, once one of the most corrupt cops in Cuba. Benítez made a splash during World War II when he joined the FBI investigation of a Nazi spy hiding in Havana. Both he and J. Edgar Hoover took credit for the arrest of Heinz Lüning, a low-level, eccentric operative. But the real credit belonged to British postal inspectors who turned up the leads that led to the mole’s arrest.

  Under Batista, Benítez had commanded the national police force and an intelligence network that infiltrated every level of Cuban society. During his tenure, Benítez was brutal, putting his most savage cops on the revolutionaries plotting Batista’s overthrow. By all counts, he was responsible for more dead bodies turning up on remote, dirt roads than any single person. While he was kicking ass on the student rebels, he was amassing a small fortune from the casino owners.

  Benítez had been itching for days to finalize a plan to take care of Castro for good. No one knew the underhanded methods of getting things done in Havana better than he did. In a snake pit, he was a rattler. He would advise Morgan, and after Castro’s death, he would help lead an insurrection.

  Morgan learned in just the first few minutes of the meeting that this wasn’t about just Castro. Benítez and Batista wanted the whole damn country back. They would send as many as three thousand mercenaries to the island if necessary. They even had one of Batista’s former generals ready to lead the charge: José Pedraza Cabrera.

  Morgan seized the moment. First, his job was to flush them out, every one of them. So far, it was working. If they wanted to launch an invasion, he was game. In fact, he and Menoyo could rustle up more than a thousand men themselves. If an invasion was to succeed, there would have to be a simultaneous internal revolt.

  Castro controlled every branch of the military except the navy and a good part of the air force. Morgan could recruit some of those men, too. “We could win the country tomorrow,” he boasted.

  That’s all that the men in the suite wanted to hear. Bartone jumped in, saying he could supply the guns, the ammo, and the C-47 transport planes. He already had a Globemaster parked in a hangar in Miami.

  The plan was in motion. They would meet again. From now on, they would communicate by shortwave radio only—no telephones. They would make sure Morgan got his transmitter, and they would adopt fake names to disguise each man’s identity. They also insisted that some of their own men camp with Morgan, just a few. That way, they’d have a front-row seat. Benítez already had people in Havana, so he’d send them.

  Bartone agreed that he’d start funneling some of the money to Morgan so that he’d have some start-up cash. In fact, Bartone was already prepared. He reached over and handed Morgan two envelopes. Inside were two cashier’s checks, each for five thousand dollars, from the Pan American Bank of Miami, both dated April 27. Morgan needed to set up two bank accounts under aliases and deposit the checks. Bartone would be in touch. Whatever Morgan needed, he had only to ask.

  The men cleared out of the suite.

  By the time Morgan boarded the plane for Cuba, he realized that the plans had changed dramatically. His life was about to be turned upside down. He wasn’t just beholden to Castro and Trujillo. Now he was about to cross a sacred line, one he had never crossed before. He had prided himself on his loyalty to the streets, the mob. When he had nothing, they were there for him. Though he had embarked on a new direction in his life, he didn’t want to do anything to betray them.

  Now he had no choice.

  Castro was pacing. There was nothing he could do until Morgan arrived. The secret police were waiting. Castro’s bodyguards were on alert.

  When Morgan and Olga came to the door, Celia Sánchez greeted them and ushered them upstairs. Castro was walking back and forth in his bedroom, smoking a cigar. Newspapers and magazines lay strewn about the floor and tables. It looked like Fidel—in his signature olive-green fatigues but with his boots untied—hadn’t slept in days.

  “Tell me what you have,” he said, leaning against the headboard.

  Morgan recounted everyone: Benítez, Ferrando, Bartone. This wasn’t just about an assassination; this was about overthrowing the entire government. They were planning an invasion and simultaneous insurrection.

  Castro didn’t say a word. He had been talking about the plot with his aides ever since Morgan brought it to his attention, and was intent on learning everything.

  Morgan said it might take weeks before it all came together, but they were determined to make it happen. They had the men, they had the money, and they had people planted all over Cuba, ready to help. It was just as Fidel had suspected. It was also just what he needed to flatten his enemies.

  Morgan indicated that all further communication with the Trujillo conspirators would take place over shortwave radio. He was going to host some of the plotters as well, including former soldiers from the regime loyal to Batista.

  Castro needed to think. This was indeed much bigger and with more moving parts.

  The first thing Morgan needed to do was move into a bigger place, Castro said. With more people being drawn into the plot, he needed more space. Fidel would also add a few more of his men to Morgan’s entourage. No one had to know they were loyal to the government.

  The secret police would monitor all people coming and going to build files on them for later arrests. Menoyo would help maintain the cover. The Second Front would stay and present themselves as willing to help the plotters. With Castro’s help, they would snare as many of the plotters as possible and smash the coup. But that was easy for Castro to say. His life wasn’t immediately on the line.

  Morgan’s was.

  33

  Even in 1959, the sprawling estate in the heart of Havana’s Miramar neighborhood was worth a million dollars. A mirror covered the entire wall of the dining room, and the long dining table was made of glass. Paintings adorned the walls, and expensive furniture filled every room. In the rear of the house were a courtyard, a pool, and a cabana bar.

  The last owner, Alberto Vadia Valdes, a building contractor who reaped a fortune from government work for Batista, moved most of his money offshore before fleeing. The bar still had liquor in it, and Vadia left behind most of his suits, shoes, and personal items neatly stacked in closets.

  Nothing in the house seemed real to Olga. She wanted to pack her bags and get on a plane for America. But Morgan reminded her that they needed to stay. It was the only way for him to save his men. When it was over, they would resume their lives together. No more assassination plots, no more revolutions.

  “Listen to me. We are going to be fine. Nothing is going to happen to us.”

  The Batista people were showing up soon with the radio transmitter. Every room needed to be wired—ceiling to floor. Microphones would be tucked in lamps in the office and living room. The telephone would be bugged. Every conversation in every room would be monitored. No word uttered in darkness would go unheard. But that meant they had no room for error. Every man in the house needed to play his part and keep his mouth shut. They were about to crawl into bed with the enemy.

  Morgan set up the shortwave in a room within the main house that shared a wall with the garage, which would serve as the control center. Next to the radio were reel-to-reel tape recorders ready to be hooked up.

  Morgan flicked on the transmitter. At first, it emitted a low buzz, and then the dial on the Viking Valiant radio flickered on.

  Already the house was attracting more of Morgan’s men. Just hours after he and Olga moved in, a handful of grimy barbudos in soiled shirts and old shoes showed up at the door, asking for a place to stay. Most of them had been bouncing around for weeks at flophouses with little m
eans of support. Morgan couldn’t say no. With more than five thousand square feet at his disposal, he assigned the new arrivals to various bedrooms, couches, and floors.

  Then along came Tony Chao, who located Morgan through other men in Havana. Morgan hadn’t seen “The Americanito” for more than a year. It was Chao’s heartfelt plea that had convinced Morgan to head to the mountains. The once skinny kid had grown and put on twenty-five pounds. He also looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Chao had made it to the mountains to fight in the revolution, and when it ended, he began looking for Morgan.

  “You are staying here with us.” Morgan hugged him and introduced him to Olga.

  Olga knew most of the rebels who were settling into their home, but when she went to answer the door, she got scared.

  Standing in the entrance was a man sent by the Cuban secret police to help monitor the transmitter. Manuel Cisneros Castro—no relation to the Cuban leader—avoided eye contact as he stepped into the foyer, armed with spools of wiring.

  A short, squat mulatto from Bayamo in Oriente Province, Cisneros had hooked up with Castro’s rebels in the Sierra Maestra and had risen to lieutenant. Of all the government agents who would be staying in the house, Cisneros was probably the most important. He would monitor all the messages coming from Trujillo. Cisneros immediately went to work, helping to finish connecting the tape recorders to the shortwave.

  After he arrived, the doorbell rang again. Standing in the doorway were the men sent by Trujillo’s people. Men who were once enemy soldiers were now waiting just inches away. Morgan guided them into the house, pointing to a room where they could stash their gear and belongings. They would find their own corners of the house to sleep, but most of the time, they’d be out recruiting new guerrillas for the invasion.

  Olga looked at the visitors and then turned to Morgan. “What are you doing, boy?” she snapped. It was one thing to allow Castro’s people inside. Now they were letting in men who had tortured and killed her people.

  Morgan tried to calm her down. “Look, we have to bring them in, but we’ll watch them.” Morgan assured her that the Batistianos were only going to be in the house for a few weeks and that Morgan’s bodyguards would keep close tabs on them.

  In the driveway, Morgan had parked a blue Oldsmobile equipped with a two-way radio so he could keep in touch with Olga and the others. The car also contained a small arsenal of submachine guns and grenades. Morgan was working with Castro, but he was laboring under no illusions. At any point, it could all blow sky-high.

  The reel-to-reel tape recorders were running when Morgan walked into the radio room and shut the door. He sat down, grabbed the earphones, and pressed play. Usually they picked up nothing but static. But this time, something on the audio surveillance system caught him off guard. He rewound the tape and turned up the volume. Then he did it again. It was no mistake.

  A hidden microphone in another room had picked up a conversation between two of Batista’s men, who were bragging about what they planned to do after the invasion. They would assassinate Castro—­shooting him in the head—and then kill someone else: the Americano. No one gave them more grief and embarrassment in the Escambray than Morgan. No one beside Castro more deserved to die.

  Morgan turned off the tape. Turning to his men, he calmly instructed them not to say a word. He didn’t want them to scare off the Batistianos. Play along, he said. “They cannot know we picked this up.”

  The only other person outside the room who needed to know was Menoyo, said Morgan. After all, he was still their leader. But Morgan insisted they meet with Menoyo in person. Nothing would be divulged over the phone.

  Morgan and one of his bodyguards, Edmundo Amado, jumped into Morgan’s Oldsmobile and drove to the Peking restaurant on 23rd Street near the Colón Cemetery. Owned by Chinese-Cubans, the eatery was neutral ground where no one else would suspect anything. Menoyo met them at a corner table, puzzled.

  Morgan leaned over the table. “They are going to kill me,” he said.

  Morgan explained what he had heard. They wanted to put Pedraza in power and eliminate anyone close to Castro. The man talking about Morgan’s murder was Renaldo Blanco Navarro, a leader of the White Rose Society, an organization of former Batista officers operating in cells throughout the island.

  Menoyo was disgusted. He knew they were chivatos—informers, rats—but he never expected them to turn on the Second Front. From now on, they needed to stay in contact each day, even if only by phone, Menoyo said. At this point, they could trust only each other.

  Federal agents were already buzzing at the Miami FBI office. Leman Stafford Jr., a veteran investigator with a soft Texas drawl, pulled up his chair, leaned over his desk, and turned on the recorder to create a report to be sent across the country.

  Agents in Miami had just uncovered information that could damage already strained relations between the United States and Cuba. This wasn’t just another Cuban operative squawking about his connections in Havana. This came from someone who was once one of Cuba’s most influential leaders.

  After the meeting at the DuPont Hotel, Manuel Benítez turned to the FBI and told them everything. Under a secret plan, Cuba was about to be invaded. The mob was involved. So was Castro’s arch enemy, Trujillo. There was one more twist: The entire plan was being led by an American by the name of William Alexander Morgan.

  Stafford couldn’t dictate fast enough. The secret report was already being prepared for transmission to FBI offices in the embassy in Havana. “The subject [Morgan] appeared motivated by anti-Communist sympathies, a desire for reprisal against Fidel Castro, who had excluded [Morgan], Eloy Gutiérrez Menoyo and other leaders of the SNFE [Second Front] from recognition in the Castro government,” Stafford said. “[Benítez] said [Morgan] would establish this new revolutionary front in the Escambray Mountains within two weeks, with forces numbering between five hundred and one thousand men at the outset.”

  Ever since fleeing Cuba, Benítez had wanted to score points with the FBI. He could boost his own stature in America and at the same time send a message to Hoover that he was still a dependable snitch from his days in Havana.

  Agents in Cleveland had been backgrounding the Yanqui comandante since his name began appearing in the New York Times and other papers during the final days of the fighting. This would raise his profile. They were now looking at a man thrust into an international conspiracy that could completely change the course of the Cold War. It was a dangerous game. It wasn’t that Morgan was hooking up with the mob—he had done that most of his adult life. He was meddling in the affairs of a foreign country. He was breaking the law and risking America’s relations with other nations.

  Stafford had one order: Bird-dog him. Watch him carefully. Get the files from Cleveland and keep building on them.

  A World War II veteran who graduated from Texas A&M with a degree in accounting, Stafford was a numbers man who always looked like he was heading to Sunday church service: white shirt, sport coat, tie. He was good with numbers—embezzlement, money laundering, bank fraud—but this was a different case. Stafford was now steeped in a shadowy world of mob figures and angry Cuban exiles who were hell-bent on killing Castro.

  He had been wrestling with a deep secret. So many times he had wanted to pull Morgan aside, but he just couldn’t. Sometimes he accompanied Olga on her trips outside the house; other times, he drove with Morgan to his meetings.

  “William, I need to see you—alone,” Ossorio finally said.

  During his time with Morgan and Olga, Pedro Ossorio had grown close to both. His real family lived in Mexico, but the couple had treated him like a son. He had watched Morgan rise to the pressure of an impossible task—first with Trujillo, then Castro, then the mafia. Morgan could have cashed in his fame and split for Miami or even Ohio. Instead, he stayed. He refused to leave his family or his men.

  “I was sent here on a mission,” Ossorio sa
id.

  He was supposed to report everything by phone to the secret police. For a while, he followed his orders. But then he couldn’t do it anymore.

  Olga, who was listening, walked over to Ossorio and hugged him. “I respect you for telling us,” she said.

  She had grown fond of the young rebel everyone called El Mexicano. For him to come forward and tell them what was eating at him took guts.

  Morgan assured his bodyguard that he had nothing to worry about. They would keep the secret between them. But from that moment on, Morgan knew he had to be careful with Fidel. The Cuban leader had been touting the cooperation between the rebel forces to save Cuba, but it was clear he was still suspicious of the Second Front.

  34

  Trujillo had been calling on the radio all night. Cars were pulling into the driveway. People were coming to the door. Olga didn’t care that Morgan was busy. She wanted to know what was going on.

  Morgan had spent so many hours on the radio that he lost track of time. He knew she wasn’t going to like what he had to tell her. But it had to happen: They were ready to move forward. Day after day, Trujillo had been agonizing over the plan. The longer Castro remained in power, the more difficult it would be to take him out. It was time to pull the trigger.

  Morgan would go to Miami to firm up the details and gather more weapons. He would return by boat just in time to lead the charge. But Morgan wasn’t going alone. He had left so many times without her. Not this time.

  “I am going with you,” Olga said.

  “You’re pregnant,” he replied.

  She wasn’t going to budge. “Then I will have the baby in the United States. That would be even safer for us.”

  He had seen that look on her face before. He couldn’t tell her no. But he insisted that she travel with Alejandrina, their housekeeper, and Olga’s fifteen-year-old sister, Irma. He would send them back by plane after a couple of days. That was the deal.