As he spoke, I understood I was talking to members of the FLQ. It was important to keep the discussion going.
“At least we’ve never had colonies overseas,” I said to provoke him.
“But Canada exploits the people of the Third World by bribing their leaders into allowing mining companies to pollute their lands and take their mineral wealth for the benefit of a few fat cats in Toronto and New York. We export our cigarettes around the world and pretend tobacco is good for your health. And you say Canada isn’t a colonialist power?”
It was a damning indictment, but I remained silent.
“You haven’t thought about these matters, Mr. Whoever-You-Are from the Canadian embassy, n’est-ce pas?”
“I have, but I still think Canada’s the best place in the world to live, and is doing more for the people of the Third World than anybody else.”
“That’s the problem with Indians, Métis, and Quebeckers. They don’t know they’re both the oppressors and the oppressed. They’ve been brainwashed by the blood-sucking oligarchs, the boot-licking media, the Roman Capitalist Church, and their pussy-footed governments over the years. They need to shed their slave mentality before they can change society.”
“How do you do that?”
“That, mon ami, is not so hard. You need to take dramatic revolutionary action to make the people the aware of their true condition and prepare them for the coming classless society.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just wait and you’ll see. Now if you don’t mind leaving, we’ve got work to do.”
They weren’t smiling when I left their table, perhaps wondering if they had said too much to a stranger who had come out of the night to ask them questions they shouldn’t have answered. Maybe they thought I really was an undercover agent. Maybe they thought I had lulled them into saying too much by claiming I was a Métis — a member of a downtrodden race they assumed would automatically share their views. I had some questions of my own. What was a FLQ delegation doing in Havana? Was it seeking Cuban help for the big operation it had been talking about for years? Was the Cuban government paying their hotel bills? If so, were Canada’s relations with Cuba as good as we thought they were?
12: The Communist Central Committee
Ambassador Cook, whom I consulted, was as worried as I was, and I sent off a message to Longshaft with my account of my encounter at the Riviera. The following day, I received the following reply:
I have discussed your report with the Task Force and would like to register four points.
We were most interested to receive yet another indication the FLQ may be planning a major operation “to prepare them for the coming classless society.”
The consensus among members of the Task Force is that Cuba values its relations with Canada too highly to put them at risk by supporting the FLQ. Without access to cheap agricultural products, tourist dollars from Canadian visitors, and spare parts for American model cars, trucks, and tractors, its economy could collapse.
By separate message, the Latin American Affairs bureau is sending instructions to Ambassador Cook to call on the vice minister of Foreign Affairs to seek assurances Cuba will not support the FLQ. We expect the vice minister will once again confirm that FLQ members sometimes visit Cuba but that Cuba does not provide them support.
The Task Force now believes assurances of this nature from the government of Cuba are not enough. We need to be certain that the Communist Party, the power behind the government, is aware of our concerns. Since, it is not appropriate for the ambassador to open up back channel contacts with the Party, the Task Force wants you, as deputy ambassador, to approach the Central Committee to pass a clear message that Canada will not tolerate any interference in its internal affairs. To that end, please meet at the earliest opportunity with Juan Carlos Rodriguez, head of the Americas Department of the Communist Party.
Longshaft
At noon two days later, a Soviet Zil limousine with darkened windows pulled up in front of the embassy. The policeman on duty saluted as the driver, who looked like a professional wrestler in a well-tailored black suit, got out and walked to the reception desk and asked for me. I had been waiting for the call, and came down the stairs where he greeted me with unsmiling courtesy and informed me he had been instructed to drive me to the headquarters of the Central Committee. At my destination, another black-suited giant accompanied me to meet Rodriquez, who shook hands and said with apparent sincerity that he’d been looking forward to meeting me ever since I arrived in Cuba.
“If your embassy hadn’t phoned to set up this appointment,” he said, “I would have called you myself. Now let’s have some lunch. We’ve got a lot to talk about.” He then led me down a corridor lined with black-framed photographs of members of the communist party who had fallen in combat in Cuba’s wars abroad to a small dining room with a table set for two.
“This is where I like to receive special visitors,” he said, smiling and motioning for me to take a seat. “There’s nothing more pleasant than agreeable conversation with a good friend over an excellent meal of Cuban seafood washed down with a glass of chilled Crimean white wine. You agree, I assume.” I agreed.
As the waiter entered with two glasses of wine and set them down before us, Rodriguez said, “I’m told you have an interesting background.” I took that as a cue to tell him about my early years in Penetang, including my summers as a deckhand on the freighters.
“So the deputy ambassador has a proletarian background,” he said.
“I understand the head of the Americas Department has a bourgeois background,” I said, repeating what I had read in his official biography.
“Many of us who fought with Fidel in the struggle to overthrow capitalism come from middle-class backgrounds,” he said, not amused by my attempt to be witty. “My father owned sugar plantations and ensured I went to a Jesuit private school.”
“Just like the president,” I said.
“That’s right, but my brother and I went to Harvard to study law. Fidel studied law but did that here in Havana.”
“Did you fight in the Sierra Maestra with the president?”
At that moment, the waiter arrived with the first course. “We’re starting with fish,” Rodriguez said. “It’s snapper caught this morning in the Bay of Pigs, grilled to perfection and served with fresh lime juice. You won’t find anything better in any of the great restaurants of downtown Penetang.”
But when I picked up my fork and dug into the snapper, the fish released a horrible odour — like the smell of a bloated, long-dead bear I once came across in the weeds while fishing on Georgian Bay. I put my fork down and looked at Rodriguez who was already eating his fish with gusto and carrying on our conversation as if nothing was wrong.
“No, I wasn’t in the Sierra with the commander-in-chief,” he said as I took a tentative bite of the snapper, only to gag at the taste and spit it out. “Anything the matter with our proletarian food?” he asked me, sounding concerned. “There shouldn’t be. Our portions are from the same fish.”
“No,” I said, “I was just getting rid of a bone.” With a great effort of will I ate two or three forkfuls, forcing them down with a glass of what turned out to be vile, warm rotgut.
Rodriquez surveyed my struggle impassively as he carried on with his story as he ate his snapper and took sips of what appeared, from the condensation on the glass, to be cold white wine. “As I was saying,” he said, “the struggle against Batista was conducted on two fronts — a rural one and one in Havana. I fought in Havana. My job was to organize the people, plant bombs, and eliminate enemies of the revolution.”
“Were you supported by your family?”
“Sadly, that wasn’t the case. My father even betrayed me to the secret police, but I managed to escape and go into hiding in Havana. He left with my mother and brother for Miami after the revolution. But the less said about that period in my life the better. Let’s get back to you. Have you had an opportunity to get out
of Havana to see some of the country?”
I was sure MININT had briefed Rodriguez on my travels and assumed he was making small talk. I made small talk in return, describing the museums, shrines, and sugar mills I had visited. He appeared interested and so I told him about a trip I made to a prison, now a museum, on the Isle of Youth where Castro had been imprisoned after the failed attack on the Moncada barracks in the mid-1950s.
As we chatted, the waiter cleared away the dishes and brought in new glasses of wine and the second course. “It’s fresh Cuban lobster,” Rodriguez said. “One of the things Canadian tourists love to eat when they visit Cuba.”
Rodriguez proposed a toast to the health of Canada–Cuba relations. I raised my glass and reluctantly took a sip of my plonk, but he made a great show of sniffing the bouquet and examining its colour before downing his with a sigh of appreciation. And when I turned to my lobster, I once again could smell putrefaction. By this time my stomach was aching and I was certain the Cubans were deliberately serving me foul wine and spoiled food. I had no intention of playing their game and told Rodriguez I wasn’t hungry. “Something the matter with the lobster?” he asked, smiling.
“I’ve just lost my appetite,” I said, forcing myself to smile back. To change the subject, I asked him about Che Guevara.
“I knew him well,” Rodriguez said, becoming animated. “I helped him hunt down war criminals and CIA agents after the revolution. I helped organize his trips to the Congo and to Bolivia to fight imperialism. I’m still mourning his death at the hands of the CIA. I mourn all the great revolutionary leaders, such as Diego Rojas, likewise murdered by the CIA.”
Taken aback by his mention of Rojas, I said that I had heard that Cuba had been one of his biggest backers.
“It is Cuba’s revolutionary duty to support national liberation movements like the ELN that are struggling to bring change to their countries.”
That was my opening. “I hope Cuba doesn’t think Canada is governed by a repressive government that needs revolutionary change. We’re a social democracy that treats everybody equally.”
“Including your people — the Métis and the Indians,” he said, not smiling.
Dessert was served — vanilla ice cream covered in whipped cream smothered in hot chocolate fudge sauce and cherries. I declined and he ate. The waiter then came with coffee. It smelled wonderful but I said no and he picked up his cup and drank slowly. The time was approaching to speak frankly. Rodriguez made the first move.
“I know why you wanted to see me. And you know I know,” he added, looking at me sharply.
“I’m listening.”
“You met members of the FLQ in the bar of Riviera Hotel two days ago and your government wants to know if the Party supports their campaign to install a revolutionary government in Quebec.”
“That’s right.”
“You can tell your government that Cuba has no intention of harming its friendly relations with Canada by supporting the FLQ — whether it takes its fight to another level or not. That’s a promise from the commander-in-chief himself. All sorts of people who want to overthrow their governments come to Cuba for help. From time to time, individuals show up uninvited, like the people you met at the Riviera. We put them up for a few days, feed them well, give them boxes of cigars and bottles of rum, and send them on their way.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said. “Canada wouldn’t want to join the American blockade and cut its trade ties with Cuba.”
“Now you probably want to know why I wanted to see you.”
“Not really,” I said, suddenly afraid he was about to give me bad news.
“We’ve known for a long time that you helped the CIA get Rojas. ‘Why would the person responsible for the death of one of Cuba’s best friends in the Americas accept a posting to Havana?’ That was the question we debated when we received word you were coming.”
“You’ve got your facts wrong,” I said, a bit too defensively, “I assumed you knew Rojas was a friend of mine. I was devastated when I heard of his death, so soon after visiting him at his camp in the Llanos.”
“And accompanying him on the raid on Sucio to gain his confidence to better betray him?”
“He insisted I go with him to make a report to the outside world.”
“He was a trusting person and you took advantage of him. According to our sources in the ELN, you caused his death.”
“Then why did you accept me as deputy ambassador?”
“We wanted to turn you away, but we had our relations with Canada to consider. We didn’t want to create a diplomatic incident when your government appeared to think we were somehow supporting the FLQ in its plans to create a revolutionary government in Quebec. Would you like to hear more?”
“Do I have a choice?” I asked with false bravado.
“From the moment you and your wife set foot on Cuban soil, we’ve followed your every movement — your every activity. We were there when you played tennis. We were there when you went for drinks with Club Hemingway at the Bodeguita del Medio. We were there when you had drinks at the Floridita. We were with you when you boarded the SS Kama, like a common thief, to paw through its cargo. You obviously had come here on some sort of espionage mission — not for Canada — you don’t have an offensive spy agency. You were probably working for the CIA. That made sense, given what you did for the Yankees in Colombia.”
He paused to give me time to absorb his words, to take another sip of coffee, and to light a cigar. “Want one?” he said smiling, offering me the box.
I shook my head and he carried on with his indictment.
“Now where was I,” he said. “I’m having so much fun I lost my train of thought. Ah, yes I remember. We then had to decide what to do with you. We couldn’t just declare you persona non grata and expel you. Your people would retaliate and expel one of our people from Ottawa — someone a lot more valuable than you. The Canadian public wouldn’t believe us if we said you were spying for the Americans, and our campaign to attract Canadian tourists would be damaged. And so we decided to let you stay and continued our close observation of your activities. In the interim, we would try to find out if you were a spy for hire. Someone who’d work for the CIA one day might work for us.”
“Is that the reason you tried to blackmail me?” I said. “To threaten to show my ambassador pictures of my wife in bed with the Dutchman if I didn’t cooperate?”
“That’s right,” he said, after taking another puff on his cigar — he was enjoying himself.
“Then why send the pictures with the tennis coach to my ambassador and ask for nothing?”
“For a spy you’re not very smart. By that time, it was clear our approach to recruit you wouldn’t work. We wanted you out of the country but didn’t want to create a fuss with Ottawa. We calculated that your ambassador would order her home after he saw the pictures. We assumed you loved her — even if she’s a tramp — we thought you’d go with her and never come back. That would have solved the problem, but you didn’t go, and so we decided on a frontal approach – I’d host a lunch fit for a scum like you, and as we ate, to take measures at your house to force you out.”
I got up and hurried to the waiting Zil. This time the driver let me open my door for myself and didn’t respond when I said I wanted to get back as soon as possible. Instead, he took me on a slow tour of the city, deliberately keeping me in suspense until dropping me off in front of the embassy. I ran home to a horror show. The door was open and Bella was dead in the hallway, her throat slit, chairs were overturned in the dining room, dishes were smashed in the kitchen, dresser drawers were open and clothes and books scattered on the floor upstairs in the bedroom. The telephone rang. I picked it up but there was no one there. I called for Angelita but she was gone.
I rushed to the embassy and sent a message to Longshaft, telling him the Cubans knew I was working for the CIA and had trashed my home to make it clear they wanted me out of the country. I also said, almost as an afterth
ought, that Rodriguez had provided assurances, coming from the president himself, that the Cubans would adopt a hands-off policy on the FLQ.
The next day, even before Longshaft’s instructions to leave Havana arrived, Ambassador Cook was driving me to the airport. I watched the rear-view mirror, expecting to see the Zil, but nobody was following us. But as I boarded a Cubana plane filled with happy Canadian tourists returning to Ottawa from Varadero, I saw the sour-faced woman from the VIP room on the tarmac laughing at me.
13: The Kidnappings Begin
My first priority when my flight from Havana landed at the Ottawa airport was to get in touch with Heather. Our marriage was over but I wanted to say goodbye in person — to bring closure to a relationship that had never had a chance of succeeding. But when I went to a payphone and called her parent’s number in Winnipeg, there was no answer. I remained at the phone stuffing dimes into it and calling again and again until someone picked it up and I heard her father say hello.
“It’s me. It’s Luc calling from the Ottawa airport,” I said. “The posting to Cuba’s over and I’m home to stay. I need to speak to Heather.” But he hung up and I was left listening to the dial tone. I put in more dimes and called again and again, until I finally gave up and went to pass through customs and immigration, pick up my suitcase at the carousel, and take a bus downtown to the Daley building.
“You’re not disappointed the Cubans caught me?” I said when I met Longshaft.
“More surprised than disappointed — but that was bound to happen one of these days. You did some good work in the time you were there, and we wanted you back anyway.”
“What about their dirty tricks?”
“We’ll get even. We always get even in the end. We’ll start by expelling the resident MININT agent, but we won’t be killing any dogs.”
Exceptional Circumstances Page 16