RW14 - Dictator's Ransom
Page 33
The great thing about Ken is that he has exactly no sense of humor, and it took him quite a while to figure out if I was joking or not. Which was my cue to leave, though I didn’t take it.
The man in the photo was Fidel Alejandro Castro Ruz, dictator par deviance of Cuba. At the time, he was said to be ailing, though a dictator’s health is never something you can count on. The favor Ken wanted was deceptively simple, as they always are: impersonate Fidel on a special tape el Presidente was leaving as his last will and testament. I didn’t even have to talk—the words had been carefully spliced together by the CIA’s technical dweebs. All I had to do was look menacing and pretend to rant for the camera.
“Do what comes naturally,” said Ken. “Pretend you’re talking to our accounting division about where your check is.”
I SUPPOSE BEFORE going any further I should mention that I’ve had a warm spot in my heart and other body parts for the Cuban people. Most Cubans I know are expatriates, but I think even those still on the island are, as a general rule, happy, loving people who make loyal and open friends. They’re certainly warm and gracious to strangers. The women are pretty, for sure; they’re rarely demanding and grateful for small favors and a little bit of attention.
In my experience, of course.
Fidel . . . Well, maybe at one time his heart was in the right place, but his brain and ass just couldn’t provide. After he took power, rats replaced the chickens in every pot. Anyone who opposed him was imprisoned, tortured, and worse.
Before this op, I’d been to Cuba many times, but with one exception always to Gitmo—our base at Guantanamo. It may surprise you to know that a good number of Cubans work there. They were “shaken down” every night when they crossed back to go home—the government was anxious for any tiny rewards they might have reaped. Kind of a shame to watch.
The one exception I mentioned was a short stay in Havana. And then, of course . . . well, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.
I TAPED THE bit a few days after talking to Ken, reporting at 0600 to what looked like an abandoned warehouse building in northeastern Virginia. I took two of my associates with me—Trace Dahlgren and Matthew “Junior” Loring. Junior’s one of our technical experts, and was along to help me pick out some gear from a vendor we use who happens to be located a few miles from the taping site. Trace was along allegedly to help make sure we got the right stuff, but really to make faces at me while I was taping.
We were met at the door by a little old gray-haired man wearing a barber’s smock. He smiled when he saw me, nodded to himself, then led me across the dimly lit foyer to a thick steel door. Beyond the door was a studio that would make the folks at the Today show jealous. The dressing room was twice the size of my office, with thick wood paneling, a pair of overstuffed leather couches, another half-dozen chairs of various but expensive description, and—especially important to Junior and Trace—a table laden with a variety of breakfast goodies.
“What, no omelet station?” snarked Trace.
“Scrambled eggs here,” said the barber, showing her the tray. “If that’s not all right—”
“It’s more than all right,” I said. “Pay no attention to her. She has PNS.”
(No, it’s not a typo—Permanent Nasty Syndrome.)
Trace gave me a scowl, then started force-feeding Junior donuts in an attempt to add a little weight to his scarecrowlike frame. I left them to divvy up the goodies while I donned a slightly wrinkled set of green army fatigues for my star turn. After that, the barber took me next door to a room that looked like a 1950s version of the perfect barbershop. A makeup artist—thirty-something, blond neck with the scent of ripe strawberries—stood next to a counter that looked to contain every cosmetic product known to woman.
“Sit, sit,” the barber told me. “You are a very good likeness. You’re not related, no?”
“To Fidel?”
“A good thing.” The barber flipped on the television on the counter. Fidel’s face filled the screen. I studied his mannerisms, watching the way he furled his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks as he ranted about bourgeoisie yankees trying to impose democracy on the world.
Meanwhile, the barber went to work, trimming my hair and dying it gray. One thing Ken hadn’t made clear: I had to give my ponytail for my country. Seeing as how I’ve sacrificed just about every other part of my body, I suppose losing a little hair was no big deal.
When the barber was done, the makeup artist daubed a little bit of makeup around my eyes, adding some aging lines and liver spots. She worked for about fifteen minutes, fussing like Michelangelo finishing the Sistine Chapel.
When I looked over at the barber, he was frowning. “You look too much like him, senor.” He glanced at his razor on the counter. “If I did not know any better, I would take the razor and . . .”
1 See: “What I did on my summer vacation,” aka Rogue Warrior: Dictator’s Ransom, available at finer bookstores and pawnshops across the land.