“How can you so sure,” I said. “Have you seen the manifest?”
“Don’t ask me how we know — we just do. Some of our people think missile launchers are under the netting, but others disagree. They say the Russians wouldn’t be crazy enough to provoke another missile crisis.”
“And you want me to find out what’s really on the ship when it reaches Cuba.”
“That’s right. And to do the job, you’ll need these,” he said. He opened his briefcase and handed me an illustrated copy of Jane’s Weapons of the World and a camera with a long telephoto lens. “You’ll be able to identify the type of launchers on the deck — if indeed there are launchers — with the help of this book.”
When I looked at his handouts doubtfully, he hastened to say, “Jane’s is the best source on military hardware available anywhere. And they’re proud of that camera at Langley. It’s the latest Japanese model with a lens modified in our research laboratories to take photographs in dim light.”
“I haven’t done this sort of thing before,” I said. “Any tips?”
“Your predecessor tried to blend in with the general population by dressing like a campesino — scruffy pants and a straw hat. MININT — that stands for Ministry of the Interior if you don’t already know — never caught him, but the experts in Langley think he was taking a big risk. They suggest you dress like an off-duty Russian soldier in green military-style pants and in a green long-sleeve shirt.”
For a moment I thought I was playing a role in Graham Greene’s Our Man in Havana, a black comedy movie where Alec Guinness, the anti-hero star, is recruited by the SIS to spy on the Cubans and ends up making a laughing-stock of everybody. Or James Bond being outfitted by Q in the London SIS gadget lab to fight the KGB in To Russia with Love. After what I had been through in Colombia, my new mission to Cuba had a distinctly amateurish air. I had to resist asking Lieberman if he had been joking when he told me the CIA expected me to skulk about in green pants and green shirt with a copy of Jane’s Weapons of the World in one hand and a James Bond–style camera in the other. Instead, I told him to thank his people for the special camera, but to send me a smaller one. “With something that size,” I said, “MININT would catch me on my first day on the job and send me home.”
“I’ve given you all you need to do your job,” he sniffed. “But if you insist, I’ll get you another camera, but it won’t do as good a job. Just do your best and Langley will be happy.
“How about bringing me back from Havana for a formal training session at your headquarters?”
“That’s completely out of the question. But if you ever happen to be in the Langley area, I’d be pleased to arrange a tour of our museum.”
After Lieberman left, Longshaft came by to see how the meeting had gone. “I had the impression the CIA doesn’t attach a lot of importance to my mission,” I said. “Lieberman just handed me a camera and Jane’s Weapons of the World and told me to do the best I could. His people aren’t even inviting me to their headquarters before I go.”
“I wouldn’t read too much into that. Lieberman is always telling me how much Langley values the work of their Canadian spies — even if only to confirm what its U2 flights and its other people on the ground tell it. The president of the United States even thanks the prime minister whenever he visits Canada. But more important, our collaboration is good for Canada’s intelligence program. Every year when we go to Cabinet to get approval for the security and Intelligence budget, we always bring up the work we do for the CIA in Havana.”
“You tell Cabinet the CIA considers Canada’s help to be of vital importance to the United States.”
“We don’t say it that crassly, but you’re right.”
“And as a result, Cabinet passes the budget as presented to it by officials.”
“I like to think Cabinet passes the budget because all the items listed are needed to safeguard our national security, but it never hurts to remind the ministers of the good work we do for the Americans in Cuba.”
“But surely the officer sent to spy for the CIA can also spy on Cuba for Canada?”
“He could if he wanted, but that’s not necessary. Our strategic interests in Cuba coincide with those of the Americans, but our bilateral relations are different. We trade with the Cubans and the Americans don’t. We maintain correct diplomatic ties and the Americans don’t. We allow our citizens to travel and holiday in Cuba and the Americans don’t.”
“What about the FLQ?” I asked. “Rojas told me when I first met him in the church said they’d been to see the Cubans. Have we asked them what the FLQ wanted?”
“We have. We sent our ambassador in to speak to officials in the foreign ministry after we got your message. The Cubans confirmed the FLQ had been in the country but denied offering them any support.”
“Do you believe them?”
“The Cubans, like everybody else, want to keep their options open. It could well be they were really saying they hadn’t provided any support to date but might well do so in the future. Eventually we’ll want to make sure the views of the foreign ministry coincide with the position of the communist party and Castro himself. So look around, and let me know if you run into the FLQ, but don’t do anything to jeopardize your work for the CIA.”
Before leaving for the airport, Longshaft called me into his office for a briefing on Ambassador Cook and MININT. “Before you left for Colombia,” he said, “I told you there were three types of ambassadors in the Department: pragmatists, idealists, and do-nothings. I said O’Connor was a do-nothing and you wouldn’t be able to turn to him for help if you were in a jam. Cook, on the other hand is a pragmatist, a hard-working officer who values a job well done and the respect of his peers more than ambition. If you get into trouble, don’t hesitate to turn to him. Now what do you want to know about MININT?”
“Anything you can tell me.”
“They’re really good at what they do. They receive their training from the East Germans — one of the best spy and counterspy outfits in the world. They’re almost in the same league as the CIA and the SIS, although that’s something the Americans and the Brits would never admit. They’ve blocked dozens of assassination attempt on Castro’s life, from defusing bombs hidden in lobsters to uncovering explosives in cigars and detecting poison in his Sunday dinner. Sounds farcical but they’re the only reason the president is still alive. And they’ll be keeping a close eye on you just as they do with every Western diplomat posted to Cuba.”
“But why would MININT go after a Canadian?” I said. “Aren’t we supposed to be Cuba’s best friend in the capitalist world?”
“Friendship has nothing to do with it. MININT doesn’t trust anyone — not their own people, the Russians, the Chinese, much less the Canadians. The locally hired Cuban secretaries, clerks, drivers, mechanics, handymen, maids, cooks, and cleaners at our embassy all work for MININT. You can take it as a given that the houses and apartments provided to the Canadian staff are bugged. So is the embassy building and the ambassador’s residence. We used to send technicians from Ottawa to dig them out of the walls, but MININT just put them back in when weren’t looking. Now we leave them in and assume the Cubans listen to everything we say.”
“I suppose protesting or complaining to the government wouldn’t help.”
“We did that once but the Cubans showed us a basket full of microphones we’d planted in their embassy in Ottawa and said they’d stop listening to our conversations if we stopped listening to theirs. And so we dropped the subject. We provide guards to patrol the embassy but they’re elderly commissionaires from Ottawa who can’t stay awake at night. So be careful what you say, even in your own office. You’ll probably be tempted to hold discussions in your garden or on one of the nearby beaches. Bear in mind the Cubans use directional microphones that pick up those conversations. They bug our vehicles, and we do the same to theirs. The only secure place to talk is in the safe room — that’s a special room inside the embassy communications c
entre, custom built to keep out MININT’s electronic ears. It’s hot as hell inside, but you’ll have to use it to discuss sensitive matters with Ambassador Cook — especially anything to do with the CIA.”
“How about personal security? Would I be roughed up if I was caught taking pictures? Not that that would stop me from doing my job.”
“More likely MININT would try to blackmail you into working for it. They wouldn’t hesitate to slash your tires or run your car off the road in the dark if you kept on monitoring military movements and the like. But don’t be surprised if a sexy woman approaches you on the street and tells you you’re the most handsome person she’s ever met and wants to know you better. If you turn her down, a man or boy will come along with the same offer. Sometimes they’ll offer you Cuban pesos at a cut-rate exchange rate. These are all standard MININT seduction techniques, and if you fall for any of them, you’ll soon find your tryst or money exchange has been filmed and a not-as- friendly MININT officer will be threatening to tell your ambassador on you if you don’t co-operate. They do these things with all our new staff as a matter of course, and some even fall for them. But then again,” he said, “we use the same tactics with the Cubans coming to work at their missions in Canada. Sometimes we get lucky.”
“What about Heather? Do you think MININT will target her because she’s such a free spirit?”
“I thought about that when I saw O’Connor’s letter. I told the undersecretary the Department’s old patriarchal ways were out of date and officers should marry whomever they wanted and he agreed.”
“Even if their wives believe in free love?”
“Even if they believe in free love, smoke pot, and accompany their husbands to communist countries. It’s up to you to be sure she behaves herself and doesn’t jeopardize your mission. Just remember, what she doesn’t know, she won’t be able to tell MININT. ”
10: The Workers’ Paradise
On a hot September Monday afternoon, Heather and I left Ottawa for Havana on a Cubana charter filled with happy tourists downing the first of what would be many complementary rum drinks handed out by the smiling cabin staff during the flight. They had answered ads placed in the Ottawa Journal by the Cuban embassy offering package vacations at derisory prices on the pristine beaches of Varadaro, the playground of the American rich before the Cuban revolution. As soon as the plane was at cruising level, Heather joined the others in the aisle, laughing and drinking and sharing her enthusiasm for our coming posting.
“It’ll be a chance to see the workers’ paradise up close,” I heard her say, her voice rising. “I’m going to be a volunteer in a worker’s brigade cutting sugar cane and maybe teach English in a Cuban school. I’ll get to hear Castro deliver a speech on Cuba’s national day. I’ll attend performances of the Cuban National Ballet and see the great prima ballerina Alicia Alonso dance in a performance of Giselle.” I stuck to cups of heavy sweetened black Cuban coffee with an uneasy feeling that Cuba wouldn’t live up to Heather’s expectations.
“Welcome to George Orwell’s 1984,” said Rolly Anderson, the embassy’s administrative officer, as we disembarked at Havana’s José Marti International Airport. Heather frowned, upset that he would criticize Cuba’s socialist paradise. He then led the way to the VIP room, a brightly lit deserted room furnished with uncomfortable sofas and armchairs, took our passports and baggage tickets, and went off to clear us through customs and immigration. The official hostess, a sour-faced woman in a uniform several sizes too small for her, appeared and silently offered us mojitos, Cuba’s favourite rum cocktail, from a selection on a tray.
I said no but Heather took one and asked the hostess to join us. Within a few minutes, the woman was smiling and telling Heather her troubles — about how hard it was to get to work in the mornings in the overcrowded buses, how the things she wanted to buy in state-owned stores were always sold out when she went shopping, how noisy it was in her apartment, how difficult it was to look after her old parents and her own family, how big the lineups were at the clinics when she took her daughter to see the doctor, and much more. Heather, fueled by three hours of drinking on the way down, recounted her life story and told her that her husband was the new deputy Canadian ambassador to Cuba.
As she spoke, Fidel Castro watched me from a framed picture on the wall. I got up and moved to another seat but his eyes followed me. I went to the washroom and his eyes accompanied me to the door and I was uncomfortable. Perhaps for that reason when I came back and joined Heather and her new friend, I worried the woman might get into trouble for speaking with such little restraint to outsiders. But I liked it even less when she gave Heather her telephone number and asked her to call her. “It would be an honour to show you how a typical Cuban lives.”
Rolly returned with our passports and we went together to pick up our luggage and go the car park. “I gave the Cuban driver the evening off, I’ll drive you to your house,” he said. “That way we’ll be able to speak freely.”
On the ride in, I mentioned to Rolly my impression that the eyes of Castro in the VIP room picture had followed me around the room.
“That’s an old illusionist trick that official artists and photographers in this country incorporate into posters and photographs of Castro. I wasn’t kidding when I said welcome to 1984. Thousands of MININT functionaries listen in to telephone conversations, and any hint of dissidence is met by a kangaroo court trial and imprisonment or death by firing squad. Having Castro watch them all the time helps maintain control.”
“Don’t the children receive free education and medical care?” asked Heather.
“They do,” said Rolly. “And there are no gamines and homeless people in the streets like you see elsewhere in Latin America.”
“Then how can you say Cuba is totalitarian?”
“Mussolini’s Italy and Hitler’s Germany provided free education and homes for orphans too.”
“At least in Cuba everyone is equal.”
“No they’re not. The party elite shop in special stores for things not available to ordinary people.”
The conversation was becoming heated. I intervened to calm things down by noting how friendly the woman in the VIP room had been. She had even complained about her troubles with the bureaucracy.
“The Cubans are like that,” Rolly said. “They like human contact and will joke and gossip with you endlessly if given a chance. Just don’t forget — they’re required to account to MININT for every contact they make with diplomats. As we speak, that friendly woman is probably reporting on Canada’s new deputy ambassador and his wife. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a member of MININT itself.”
“I don’t believe you,” Heather said angrily. “I’m a good judge of character and know sincerity when I see it. She wants to show me Havana and I’m going to take her up on her offer.”
“You might want to check with the embassy security officer before you do,” Rolly said. “You’ll save yourself some grief if she’s not genuine.”
“And who’s the embassy security officer?”
“He’s sitting beside you,” he said. “The deputy ambassador is always the embassy security officer.”
“Then it looks like I’ll be able to do whatever I want,” Heather said, but Rolly didn’t find that funny.
Our house was in darkness when we arrived. “The power’s out,” Rolly explained as he led the way inside with a flashlight. “Fuel’s expensive and the government shuts down the generating stations from six in the evening until six in the morning to save money. They do the same with the water supply, so there’ll be no showers for you tonight.”
Rolly lit a candle, set it on a table, and helped carry our luggage inside. He then provided us with the information we needed to get through the next twelve hours. “The master bedroom is upstairs on the right and your bathroom is next to it down the hall. Angelita — that’s your maid — will have breakfast ready for you when you get up. The office opens at eight and the embassy is just a hundred yards
down the street, so it’s easy to walk to work.”
After a difficult night trying to sleep in the heat, I woke up to hear water running in the adjacent bathroom and the window air conditioner humming. A few minutes later Heather came in wrapped in a towel, looking happier than I’d seen her for weeks. “I’ve been poking around this old house,” she said. “It’s a wonderful place filled with decaying furniture, mildewed paintings, and bookcases of mouldy old books. The cockroaches here have wings and are the size of sparrows. I even saw a scorpion, but they don’t scare me. It’s like a southern mansion after the Civil War in a Hollywood movie.”
“The owners were probably well-off Cubans who opposed Castro in the war that brought him to power and left everything behind when they fled to Miami.”
Heather’s manic enthusiasm spilled over during breakfast in the kitchen where bacon and eggs, toast, orange juice, and Cuban coffee were on the menu. “I didn’t know you could get food like this in Cuba,” she told Angelita.
“If you are a diplomat, you can buy anything you want for dollars at the diplomatic duty-free shop.”
“What do Cubans eat,” Heather asked.
“We eat our own food,” Angelita said with a forced smile.
But Heather continued to raise issues that embarrassed Angelita. “And this beautiful old house,” she said, “Why would anyone abandon it to leave for Miami — even if they opposed Castro? I’ve read the Cuban constitution and Cubans today have more rights today than they did in the old days.”
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