Morgan leaned in close enough for Pedro Ossorio and Edmundo Amado to hear him above the din of the other inmates. News was starting to trickle in from the outside: Their supporters were making contact with guards on the inside, including a supervisor. Someone with authority could make sure the right exit was cleared and the right guards were on duty.
Whatever plan was in place, they needed to bide their time and keep quiet. “These people in here are all traitors,” he said. Morgan was getting his information from visitors bringing messages to the other inmates, who passed them to him. It was risky, but it was the only way the two sides could stay in contact. If they needed to get word to Morgan on a day’s notice, they could do so.
He dropped to the dirt in a corner of the prison yard, throwing himself down for a set of push-ups. As the men gathered around to watch, he slowly pushed himself down and back up. After one set, he did another. Then another.
Morgan had started the day by jogging around the enclosure, picking up speed until he was running. After taking a break in the galería, he went back to the prison yard and started the afternoon by doing jumping jacks, barking orders at himself. After one set, he did another. Then another. He had been recovering from his bout with bleeding intestines. No one expected him to jump into a training regimen.
At first, everyone just stared, including the guards. Then he sprinted, oblivious to everyone around him.
“Comandante Morgan es muy loco,” one guard said.
It wasn’t just the physical exercise. Morgan had started to pray, sometimes whispering just a few quick words in the morning. But in the afternoon, he spent more time at his bunk. For Morgan, it was all he could do to control his own fate. He didn’t have any control on the outside. The men working to help him and his men lay beyond his reach. He didn’t even know them. But if he could push himself beyond his endurance level, he would be prepared for anything they could throw at him.
Families were gathering along 16th Street, setting up chairs and stringing decorations around the streetlights. Along La Rampa, musicians were setting up on the sidewalks.
Olga watched from her balcony as the New Year’s Eve celebration was about to unfold on the streets of Vedado. Her visit to La Cabaña had been a disaster. She would no longer be returning to the facility to see her husband. Any more outbursts and she could be sent to the women’s prison.
She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders as a cold breeze blew off the Malecón. Two years ago, she was on her way to Cienfuegos to meet Morgan in what was one of the happiest moments of her life. All the promises they had made to each other were about to unfold.
Last year at this time, she took a long drive with Morgan along the ocean, staring up at the stars as they determined to make their life in Cuba. Unless she did something drastic, they would never see another New Year’s Eve together. It was that clear. She needed to save her husband.
She thought about her own plan, conceived several days earlier. She wasn’t sure it would work, but now she didn’t have a choice. She had to make her move. Tonight was as good a night as any to pull it off. The guards would be relaxed, maybe even in a festive mood. They wouldn’t see it coming.
She went into Loretta’s room and pulled the blanket up. If she was ever going to have a chance, it was now. Olga walked downstairs to see which shift of guards was in place. She was immediately heartened by the men she saw in the living room. These were the guards she despised the most. If they were held responsible for her escape, then so be it. They deserved to be severely disciplined. Olga came into the room and told them that since it was New Year’s Eve, she was going to make hot chocolate. Would they like a cup?
It was cold outside and the men looked like they could use some. They all nodded.
Olga went into the kitchen—but instead of grabbing the chocolate, she grabbed a bottle of Equanil, a powerful sedative and muscle relaxer. She then bounded up the stairs and into her room, and then slipped into the bathroom. Removing the pills, she began crushing them with a spoon. After gathering up the powder, she went back downstairs and tossed it into a pot with chunks of chocolate and milk. Stirring the ingredients so that everything dissolved, she poured the hot liquid into three cups. Then, as a precaution, she sprinkled in sugar to mask any bitter taste.
After handing the cups to the guards and setting down a tray of biscuits next to the sofa, she walked upstairs to be with her daughters and wait for the drugs to kick in. Her heart was racing as she closed the door to her room. The guards were either going to discover her ruse or fall asleep. In one move, she had risked everything. If she was caught, she’d be thrown in prison and her daughters taken from her.
She looked at the clock. It was 5:00 a.m. Everything was quiet downstairs as she opened her door. She crept down the stairs and peeked around the corner. One guard was sprawled on the sofa near the main entrance; the others slumped in armchairs. All were fast asleep.
She turned around and bounded up the stairs. First, she went into Loretta’s room and woke her up. “Let’s go see Daddy, my little one,” she whispered. Then she went over to the crib and picked up Olguita. With the baby in her arms, Olga walked with Loretta out the kitchen door. In the darkness, Olga shuffled two blocks down the street with her daughters until she saw a passing car. Running to the side of the road, she flagged down the driver.
“Please, can you help us?”
The man hesitated but then saw the baby in Olga’s arms. Flinging open the door, he let them in. As they sped through the streets of Vedado, Olga knew she didn’t have much time. In just hours, Castro’s entire police force would be looking for her.
46
Clutching the baby in her arms, Olga tiptoed down the hallway, careful not to disturb the other people in the house.
Escipion Encinosa had been giving shelter to members of the underground movement, but he didn’t expect the wife of the Yanqui comandante to show up at his door. Olga had ended up at the house after fleeing her apartment and begging for help from members of the underground.
The forty-six-year-old father was taking a risk by letting Olga and her daughters stay in his home, but he knew the government would show no mercy if they caught her. Rumors of Olga’s escape were starting to leak out, but the government had managed to keep it quiet. How could it explain a twenty-four-year-old woman with two babies fleeing past three dozing guards?
Police were still scouring the neighborhood around her apartment house, and the G2 was rounding up people in the area who might have seen her. She could stay with the Encinosa family, but she would have to leave by morning. There were too many chivatos in the neighborhood.
Encinosa walked into his son’s room and told him not to say a word. “This is something that I have to trust you with,” he said. “I don’t want you to tell anyone, not your aunts, not your grandmother.”
Eleven-year-old Enrique shook his head, still struck by the image of the young woman clutching her two little girls in the hall outside his room.
For most of the night, Olga peered into the darkness, just hoping her daughters would sleep. She had no money or clothes and nowhere to go in the morning. As the hours passed, she thought about how she and the girls would survive.
If she could get to Santa Clara, she might be able to leave them with her mother, but she worried the police would retaliate against her family. Sooner or later, Olga knew she would run out of time.
That morning, Encinosa reached out to the underground network and learned the Venezuelan embassy would take Olga. But delivering her was like tiptoeing through a minefield.
So many people were seeking asylum at the Latin American embassies that the Cuban government was countering with checkpoints near the entrances. Before leaving his house, Encinosa turned to Olga and warned her, “We have to be careful.”
As they moved down the street, they walked on opposite sides until they reached the next block to wait f
or a driver. The police would certainly be on the lookout for a woman with two children.
When the driver arrived, he looked nervous. Everyone was under watch these days, even the cabbies. As he drove, Olga pulled her daughters close, trying to duck down in her seat. Everything was changing. Apart from the police checkpoints, Cuban army trucks were rolling up and down the main roads. Before the taxi reached the building, the driver stopped and pointed to where she needed to go.
Olga stepped out of the car, holding her daughters. As she approached the front gate, she saw the sign. But it wasn’t the Venezuelan embassy; it was the Brazilian. For a moment, she froze. She had no idea if the diplomats inside would even talk to her.
Her other option was to run down the street to look for the Venezuelan compound, but the police would no doubt find her. Just then, a guard in the booth asked what she wanted. She ran over to him. “I am the seamstress for the ambassador’s wife, and she is waiting for me.”
The guard looked at her suspiciously and ordered her to wait. As he called the main house, Olga quietly told Loretta to scamper into the garden beyond the open gate. That would give Olga an excuse to chase after her and slip into the compound.
Little Loretta did as told. Before the guard could give chase, Olga ran up to a man tending the flowers. “I am in trouble,” she said, “and I arrived at the wrong embassy. Please help me.”
The man could see that she was desperate. After waving off the guard, he told her to follow him into the house. With two babies in tow and police cars patrolling in front of the gates, her only refuge lay inside.
The first sign that Menoyo was in trouble came from a government agent at dawn. The guns had made it to the Escambray, but the secret police had set up surveillance. The movements had been tracked.
The weapons—M1s, British Stens, and hand grenades—had been stashed in a safe house in an area dominated by the Second Front. With Morgan in prison, someone else in the unit had given the orders. The secret police shifted their attention to the founder of the Second Front. They were following him during his trips to the unit’s small, cramped office in Vedado. They drove by his apartment just blocks away.
Menoyo had never been targeted, not like this. In the early morning hours, a government agent sympathetic to the Second Front came to the home of one of Menoyo’s most trusted advisers, Armando Fleites. He made it clear that it wasn’t a social visit. Menoyo was no longer safe. Castro had taken a radical shift, mostly because of the steady stream of reports that the island was about to be invaded.
The government had built its case against Morgan and Carreras. Now it was going to take down the last remaining comandante.
It all made sense. Just days before the agent’s visit, Menoyo and Fleites had gotten invitations to come to the presidential palace on January 26. At first, they couldn’t understand why they were being invited to a government gathering. Now they understood.
The next day, Menoyo, Fleites, and others met. “They are going to come after us,” Menoyo told his men. They had two choices. They could head to the mountains, or they could go to America and build their own invasion force. In Miami, they could get money and arms from the exile community, recruit new members, and return to Cuba to fight Castro.
They had to leave.
They had twenty-four hours to find boats, fuel, and enough arms to protect themselves. The last jefe of the Second Front was about to depart.
With the secret police prowling the streets outside the embassies, it was too risky for Olga’s supporters to come to the Brazilian compound. Granted asylum, Olga was one of Cuba’s most wanted fugitives. But the man who came to the gate insisted on seeing her.
At first, the embassy guards were suspicious of the stranger. They checked his identification and insisted he answer their questions. After Olga was summoned to see the man for herself, she told the guards she didn’t know him. But as she stood with her protectors, the man held up a cigarette lighter. It was the same one that Morgan’s mother had sent him.
“This is William’s,” she said, taking it from the visitor. Olga turned to the guards. It was all right. She would talk to him.
He didn’t have much time, but he had something important to tell her from William—the message coming from a visitor at the prison. Morgan was about to break out of La Cabaña. After months of biding his time, he was ready. The messenger didn’t know the details, but Morgan wanted her to know that he would be heading clear across the country to Camagüey. More than anything, he wanted to see her.
Olga couldn’t believe the words. This is what she had been waiting for. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she needed to be there.
Clutching the lighter in her hand, she thanked the messenger and scurried back into the house. The guards warned her that this could all be a setup. How did the man manage to get the lighter if Morgan was locked up? It was too dangerous for Olga to leave.
Olga thought about it, but she was desperate. She knew Morgan had been working on an escape plan for a long time. If anyone could do it, he could. She would get word to her mother that the children would be at the embassy and that she would retrieve them later.
The race had begun. If he was going to be in Camagüey, she wanted to arrive first. After conferring on the phone with one of her contacts, she was told to travel to Cienfuegos, where a car would be waiting for her. It would take a driver at least four hours to reach the city. Olga had to wait until the driver arrived.
During her stay at the embassy, Olga had grown close to the ambassador, who had reached out to protect her and her daughters. He warned her that she could be captured and separated from her children. She could be executed. “I am asking you not to go,” he said.
Olga shook her head. If the ambassador couldn’t help her, she would find a way. She needed to be with her husband.
He knew he wasn’t going to convince her to stay, but he couldn’t just let her walk out the gates. He ordered his staff to ready the car. He was risking his own diplomatic status, but he would make sure she got out of Havana.
47
The guards locked the gates for the night. The entire prison was on edge. Jailers were prowling the halls outside, making sure the inmates were jammed inside the galerías. Bunks were pushed against the walls, leaving most of the men to compete for space on the floors. The sheer number of prisoners was making the fortress vulnerable. There were only so many guards. If enough men rushed the exits, most would more than likely get out.
In the darkness, Morgan heard the inmates breathing in their sleep and the sounds of the guards passing by the galería. Then came a crackling sound echoing down the long cavernous hall. At first, it startled some of the prisoners. It was way too late in the night for the dreaded voice. But they all knew what it meant. It was the roll call for prisoners being called to trial. No one wanted to hear their name, but they all listened intently.
They knew the drill: The guards would show up to grab the condemned and take them to the special cells below. There, they would wait until the next day to appear before the court.
The footsteps of the jailers were getting closer as Hiram Gonzalez brushed the sleep from his eyes and looked over at the nearby bunk. Nearly every man was sitting up to watch as the guards came into the room.
Morgan was already waiting as they marched down the aisle. The lights came on as the other inmates sat dazed, watching. This couldn’t be, they said to each other. No one expected his name to be called. But it was.
William Alexander Morgan. The Yanqui comandante was being called to trial.
Loretta Morgan couldn’t finish the conversation on the phone. Crying, she had been trying to reach Thomas “Lud” Ashley, the congressman from Toledo, but he had been steeped in House sessions on the Hill.
She had been trying to contact the Kennedy White House, sending a telegram on March 9. She reached out to Cardinal Richard Cushing, one of the most prom
inent American Catholic clerics. She even tried Cuban President Osvaldo Dorticós Torrado. Since the United States no longer had diplomatic relations with Cuba, the White House had reached out to the Swiss embassy.
This was the nightmare she had been pushing back, hoping it would never come. She had warned Bill. She had begged him to get out of Cuba, bring Olga, and come to the United States. She didn’t care what kind of trouble he was in with the FBI. Anything was better than being there.
For the past several days, she had been haunted by the image of La Cabaña. As a young woman, she and her husband had vacationed in Havana, and she remembered seeing the stone fortress looming over the harbor. “That awful prison,” she later recalled. “I never thought I would ever have a son there.”
She had reached out to members of the church altar society, asking for prayers. If she could travel to Cuba herself and plead with Castro for Bill’s life, she would have done that, too.
Ashley had already contacted the State Department about getting Morgan a lawyer. Unfortunately, Morgan wasn’t a US citizen anymore, so there was nothing the department could do. “An informal approach to the Cuban government no longer existed,” wrote Ashley in a letter.
There was only once place for Loretta to venture: the large, looming cathedral at the end of her block. There, she slipped into a pew, clasped her hands, and prayed.
Morgan yanked on his bootstraps to make sure they were tight and then tucked in his shirt. At the far end of the prison, the judges were waiting. After hours of leaning over a table and jotting down notes, he was ready.
The Yankee Comandante Page 23