Stalked: The Boy Who Said No

by Patti Sheehy

  Frank shook his head in dismay. “What would you need me to do?” His voice sounded high and slightly shrill.

  “We’d need you to feed us information regarding strategy, weapons, troop movements, matters of high importance to our national security.” Carlos waited for Frank to absorb this information, and then added, “You may be involved in disinformation activities, suggesting certain things are true that aren’t.”

  Frank curled his lips inward and looked at Carlos skeptically. “I understand.”

  Carlos studied him for a moment and returned to his seat as Frank worked to corral his feelings.

  “I’m not saying this isn’t dangerous work. It is. But you would be well compensated.”

  Frank did not respond. Carlos fingered the folder before him and shuffled some papers. The overhead lights flickered. A fly buzzed a screen in entreaty, searching for an opening, desperate for a way out. The silence lengthened before Carlos said, “Let me outline what we have to offer.” He glanced at Frank. “If you agree to join us, you will receive further details from our personnel office.”

  “Fine,” said Frank, hoping his lack of enthusiasm wasn’t too obvious.

  “First, we’d waive the waiting period for American citizenship. You would be granted it immediately.”

  Frank nodded, eyes wide.

  “You would undergo a rigorous education and training program, with special emphasis on English.”

  “I could use English lessons.”

  “As a government employee, you’d be entitled to our generous benefit package, including full health benefits for you and your family. If you remain with the agency, you will be enrolled in our pension program. Are you familiar with pensions, Frank?”

  Frank blushed slightly. “I’m sorry, no.”

  “Depending on your length of stay, the government would provide you with a very comfortable retirement income.”

  Frank’s mind drifted to his father. He had no such benefit, and Frank thought about what a difference it would have made in his parents’ lives. Even though retirement was far off for Frank, the idea was appealing. He wondered whether pensions were common in America, or whether this was a unique opportunity.

  Carlos turned a page in the folder. “We will provide you with a generous financial package. I won’t go into the figures right now, but it’s enough for you to buy a car and put a down payment on a home for you and that girlfriend of yours.”

  “Magda,” Frank said, surprised that Carlos hadn’t used her name.

  “For you and Magda,” he corrected.

  “I see,” said Frank vaguely. He was trying to sound coherent, while ignoring the heaviness gripping his chest.

  “Of course, there’s room for negotiation. But joining the agency would give you a great start in this country—a real leg up.”

  Frank considered for a moment. Carlos was intent on his mission. He reminded Frank a little of himself.

  “I share your goals regarding the overthrow of Fidel—that goes without saying,” said Frank. “And I appreciate the offer. But this is a lot to take in.”

  “I understand. But I urge you to think seriously about this, even if you decide to do it for only a year.”

  “Why a year?”

  “Joining the agency would help ease your transition to this country. Finding a job can be difficult for new immigrants. If they do find work, it is usually menial and low paying.”

  “I imagine it is.”

  “Of course, we would like to get you into the field as soon as possible, while your knowledge of Cuban military operations is still fresh. But after a year, we would reevaluate your assignment, perhaps bring you back to the States.” Carlos hesitated, smiled, and added, “Besides, a year isn’t that long, is it, Frank?”

  Frank looked at Carlos, wondering how he could possibly say such a thing. He thought about months spent on the run from the army, endless nights longing for Magda, terror-filled hours on the dark, open sea.

  “No,” he said slowly. “A year can be an eternity.”

  Carlos looked at Frank, comprehension dawning on his face. “Of course,” he said. “A year can be an eternity. But the agency would use its considerable resources to make sure things go as smoothly as possible for you.”

  Frank looked pensive. “What are you thinking?” asked Carlos.

  “Knowing the military the way I do, I’m not sure you could protect me. Could you give me more details on how that would be done?”

  “That’s classified information you would be privy to once you agree to come on board.”

  “Would I be able to return home periodically?”

  “We would make every effort to make that happen, but I can’t promise anything right now.”

  Frank nodded. “Thank you for the offer. It’s very generous. But I’d like to think about it, if I may.”

  Carlos stood. “You have a couple of days. Mull it over before we meet again. Tomorrow the army will debrief you. I’m sure you can provide them with important details regarding the force’s operation in Cuba.”

  “I’m happy to oblige.”

  “Good,” said Carlos, standing. “We’ll talk again on Thursday regarding you joining our team.”

  “Yes, sir,” Frank said, gulping his breath.

  Carlos hesitated and looked Frank in the eye. “You know this conversation is strictly confidential. Do not mention it to anyone—anyone.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  The two men shook hands. Frank had a lot of thinking to do.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was time to take a walk. Whenever Frank had a problem as a child, he would stroll with his grandfather through the park and they would talk. Abuelo taught Frank to look at issues from different angles, examining them like shards of glass in a kaleidoscope. He had played a great role in the development of Frank’s critical thinking.

  Facing this important decision, Frank wished his grandfather were there to counsel him. For a moment, the possibility of never seeing that dear man again stung his heart.

  Frank’s biggest concern was being able to provide for Magda and himself. He had no idea where or how to find a job. His only experience was in the Cuban military, and that would be of no use to him in finding employment. He wasn’t even a high school graduate.

  When Fidel instituted mandatory military service for boys age fifteen and over, it robbed Frank of an opportunity for high school and college degrees, at least in Cuba. What’s more, English had never been his strong suit, and he worried about how quickly he could learn it. The agency would provide him with a job and English lessons, neatly solving both problems.

  Frank tried to imagine being back in Cuba after working so long and hard to leave his country behind. He tried to imagine providing intelligence to the Americans. He tried to imagine providing disinformation to the Cuban military.

  But as soon as he did, his thoughts turned to Magda. The idea of being separated from her a moment longer than necessary sapped his soul. The memory of her lips, the sound of her voice, and the softness of her skin reverberated in his brain like an echo off a fjord.

  Their relationship was solid as silver. But he wondered about the timing. Was he sacrificing their future financial stability for his immediate needs and desires? Was he being selfish in wanting to be with her right away? In the long run, would a year in the agency make a difference to their lives together?

  With the agency, Frank would have a direction, a position, a career. Without it, he’d start at the bottom, just another Spanish-speaking immigrant in search of a job.

  That night Frank went to bed feeling anxious and restless. He tossed and turned for hours, examining the alternatives in his mind. This is an opportunity of a lifetime. Would I be foolish to turn it down? If I joined the agency, Magda would be disappointed, but she’d support my decision. She’d wait for me. That’s not the question. The question is whether I can wait to be with her.

  And then there’s the risk. Carlos says the agency would have
my back, that they would protect me. But could they? Really? I have my doubts. And what would happen to Magda if I weren’t there to care for her? She has her family. But still—

  Frank turned on his side and tried to empty his mind. After a while, he fell into a deep sleep. His eyes shifted beneath his lids like they were dancing under the stars. As daybreak approached, Frank heard a strange sound, a yelp that jerked him awake. It emanated from deep within his throat. He bolted upright and then fell back upon the pillow, haunted by an image that sat on the cusp of his consciousness.

  Abuelo once told him it was easier to remember a dream if you returned to the same position you were in when you awoke. Frank turned on his side and slipped his hands beneath his head, trying to recapture fragments of a dream that was quickly dissolving.

  He closed his eyes and Magda appeared in a dotted Swiss dress, her hair arranged in beribboned braids. She was holding the hand of a blue-eyed boy, a familiar boy, one Frank had seen before. They were smiling and saying something he couldn’t hear.

  The dream was slipping away. Frank clung to it like a man holding onto a lifeboat. He felt the roll of the ocean and heard the shriek of seagulls. The air was cool and redolent of salt and fish. The boy was calling Frank’s name, faintly at first, then louder. He was beating a drum. A word rang out across the open sea, sounding as sharp and as clear as a foghorn.

  Frank sat straight up. He glanced at a fellow refugee snoring in the next bed. He knew this word, this call, this command. It was the same word this boy had used when Frank was trying to decide whether to board the Guatemalan freighter.

  He relaxed as the tightness in his chest dissolved like Jell-O in hot water. He smiled, knowing exactly what to do.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next couple of days Frank spent with various army personnel who peppered him with questions regarding military operations in Cuba. They asked him about the distance and velocity of rockets, their depth of penetration into steel, the kinds of vehicles used to transport them, and the location of fuel.

  Frank identified items of interest in films they had of Cuban military parades and thought he recognized himself in one of them. The army personnel were respectful and grateful for Frank’s time and input. They concluded their discussions with mutual respect.

  That night Frank had trouble sleeping, thinking about his upcoming meeting with Carlos. He was not looking forward to informing him about his decision. During their short time together, Frank had developed a genuine respect and fondness for the man. Carlos was smart and compassionate, a combination Frank valued.

  Frank was in full agreement with the agency’s goals, and he knew he could help. But the idea of reentering the vortex that was Cuba cramped his throat. The next morning, as they drove to Carlos’s office, Frank approached the subject. “I know you want an answer regarding our discussion the other day.”

  Carlos raised a hand to stop him.

  “Let’s wait until we get to the office to talk about it,” he said. Frank could tell from the disappointment in his eyes that he knew what he was going to say.

  “All right.”

  When they arrived at the office, Frank settled himself in a chair and turned toward Carlos. “I’m sorry. The thought of telling you my decision has been weighing on my mind. I hate to disappoint you, but I cannot accept your offer. I—”

  Carlos gestured his acceptance. “No need to explain. Your priorities are your priorities. You have every right to your decision. You must do what’s best for you. This is America, you know.”

  Frank smiled. “Thank you for that. I appreciate your consideration. But there are more important things I want to do right now—like getting married.”

  “I understand,” said Carlos. He looked out the window and said in a tone that surprised Frank, “It’s hard to argue with love.”

  Frank nodded, not wanting to pursue the subject.

  Carlos closed the manila folder on his desk and turned to retrieve another one sitting on his credenza. He smiled at Frank. “If you aren’t going to join the agency, can you help us in another way?”

  “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “I’m sure you are aware of Alpha Sixty-six, the organization of Cubans in America who are dedicated to overthrowing Fidel.”

  “I’ve heard of them.”

  “They are a very disciplined group, and they number in the thousands. They are involved in clandestine operations. They keep a low profile. Most Americans have never heard of them. They are better known in the Cuban community, but they keep a tight lid on disclosing their activities. They are well armed and well trained, and they will stop at nothing to undermine Fidel’s regime.”

  “Most of them are refugees, I understand,” said Frank.

  “Yes. Some of their members participated in the Bay of Pigs operation. The CIA works with them on a variety of security issues, including getting people in and out of Cuba.”

  “I see.”

  Carlos cleared his throat. “It would be a great help if you could supply us with information on anyone in Cuba who might be willing to cooperate with us.”

  “Cooperate with the CIA?”

  “With the CIA and with Alpha Sixty-six, if necessary.”

  “I’d have to think about it.”

  Carlos exhaled. “Why don’t you start by telling me about who helped in your escape.”

  Frank took a deep breath. “I made three escape attempts, and a lot of people helped. But in terms of army personnel, it was my friends Manny and Lazo. They covered for me at the base so my absences weren’t noticed.”

  “They took a big risk.”

  “They did,” said Frank, feeling guilty that he had made it to the States and they had not. “They were fellow ATGM operators. If it weren’t for them, I’d be rotting in jail. Or worse. In any event, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking with you.”

  Carlos touched the end of his pencil to his lips. “Describe Lazo for me.”

  “He’s a light-skinned mulatto. Five foot ten. Well-built. Neat dresser.”

  “Smart?”

  “Very. He’s also well spoken, charming, and sophisticated.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I’ve already trusted him—with my life.”

  “That says it all.”

  “I guess it does.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “In Guanabacoa with his family. I’ve been to his house many times.”

  “Describe his house for me.”

  Frank wrote down the address and color of the house and handed it to Carlos, who added it to his file.

  “Can you tell me a story Lazo would recognize?”

  Frank thought for a moment and smiled.

  “What?”

  “At one point Lazo was in charge of a basketball team for the force. One night we left the game early and went to a nightclub in Havana. I forget the name. If it comes to me, I’ll let you know. Anyway, Manny, Lazo and I spent a couple of hours drinking and dancing with the girls.

  “Lazo met a girl named Regina—a real looker. He flirted with her shamelessly. She had a few too many drinks and ended up dancing on the bar. Lazo decided to join her, but he was so tipsy he fell off and landed flat on his face. We all laughed ourselves silly. Except Lazo. He was mortified. None of us will ever forget that night.”

  “Perfect! That’s just what I needed.” Carlos penned some notes in a slanted script before looking up again.

  “And Manny. Could you describe him?”

  “Sure. Manny’s about five-foot-eight, slight build. Not very strong. Again, very smart. Well read. His math and analytical abilities made up for his physical shortcomings.”

  “How so?”

  “He could figure out equations needed to determine a rocket’s trajectory in a blink of an eye, which made him one of the force’s best operators. Lieutenant Brown was willing to overlook his physical limitations because of it.”

  “Sounds like a smart cookie.”

  “He is.”<
br />
  Carlos made another note. “Where does he live?”

  “In Regla, not far from the oil refinery.” Again Frank wrote down the address for Carlos.

  “Can you give me a list of other men in the Special Forces who hated the communists?”

  Frank took pen to paper, wrote down several names, and handed his notes to Carlos.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to say before we conclude our discussions?”

  Frank thought for a moment. “Keep in mind that new recruits are inducted into the army twice a year, in June and December.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Lazo and Manny will get out of the army in December. The timing may be an important consideration, should you decide to contact them.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Carlos. He stood up and smiled. “Well, I think that’s about it for you.”

  “I’m free to go?”

  Carlos extended his hand. “It was a pleasure getting to know you, Frank. I hope our paths cross again someday.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Perhaps we will have a drink together when Fidel is overthrown.”

  Frank nodded. “Perhaps.”

  Carlos hesitated. “One more thing: I was wondering why you decided not to join the agency.”

  The truth halted in Frank’s throat like a heel of stale bread. He looked at Carlos, wondering whether the agent would understand. The last thing he wanted was to appear foolish. He faltered for a moment and then reclaimed his courage.

  “There’s a boy,” he said. “I have no idea who or what he is. But he guides me when I need him.”

  Carlos knitted his brows. “A guardian angel?” His tone of voice did not betray his views.

  “Call him what you will. But I trust him. I dreamed of him standing beside Magda. I was trying to decide whether to go to her or to join the agency. The boy looked at me and said: ‘Come.’”

  Carlos did not respond. He shot Frank a look so penetrating it felt like it scraped the back of his skull. “Interesting,” he said. The men walked down the hallway without further comment.

  When they reached the door, Carlos took Frank’s hand in both of his. “I wish you the very best in America.”