Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (2 page)

The commander’s eyes widened. “Christ almighty, Lieutenant. You just don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about being a loyal communist. It isn’t about being an educated Marxist. It isn’t about being a good soldier. This is about being a total asshole!” He turned and pointed outside. “Do you see what’s going on out there, Lieutenant?”

Pino looked out the window. He had been so self-absorbed that he had barely noticed what was happening around him. Now things were becoming clear.

“Mederos knew everything about our operation—Christ, nobody knows that better than you.” Martinez shook his head in frustration. “He’s probably spilling the beans to some eager little CIA officer right now. This is a matter of vital importance, Lieutenant. Even an imbecile like you knows that.”

Pino took a step backward, watching the commander carefully as he crossed to the other side of the room. A couple of minutes elapsed before Martinez spoke again.

“I’ve ordered the men to take measures to protect us—Cuba— from the consequences of Mederos’s treason. God knows what the imperialists will do with the information he provides them. They could attack at any time—take out our missiles before we have time to move them. That’s why this base is in such an uproar.”

Pino remained mute as a mime, knowing full well that Martinez spoke the truth. He exhaled loudly as the commander opened the door and signaled to the soldiers standing guard outside. They advanced quickly and surrounded the lieutenant, while he stood like a bronzed statue, his icy eyes staring straight ahead. To Pino’s chagrin, Martinez ordered the soldiers to escort him to his office.

Pino walked stiffly down the hall while the soldiers held his arms. He could feel their condemnation. He could feel their hatred. Humiliation burned his cheeks.

He checked to make sure his shoulders were back and down. He
didn’t want to appear stressed in front of the men. Not now. He puffed his chest, trying to look less vulnerable. He worked to keep his breathing regular. He worked to control his rage. But he startled like a frightened alley cat when his thick office door slammed shut behind him.

Pino looked at his large mahogany desk, at his black telephone, at his gray filing cabinet. But in his mind’s eye he saw a narrow cot, iron bars, and a pitted porcelain basin.
Is this my future? My life?

He knew a similar crime in Russia would prompt a sentence of hard labor in the ice-laden camps of Siberia where your fingers, toes, and ears would blacken and wither from frostbite. Or you could be sent to work the uranium mines in the Urals where your teeth would rot from the roots from radiation and your hair would drop in clumps, leaving your scalp red, scaly, and exposed. At least there weren’t any uranium mines in Cuba. And the country was warm. But Cuban jails were no picnic either.

Pino stomped around his office. “Damn Mederos!” he muttered. “Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!” He lifted his arm and threw his fist into the cinder block wall, leaving scraps of skin behind. He shook his hand to release the pain, and then drew it to his mouth to suck out the sting.

Years of work, years of study, years of kowtowing to the likes of Commander Martinez and to Lieutenant Brown and it’s come to this? For what? For one little worm?

A shudder surged through the lieutenant’s body. His stomach clenched as a headache bloomed behind his eyes. He sat down at his desk and shuffled a few papers. He signed some forms, wondering whether this would be the last time he ever conducted official business. It was too much for him. He dropped his pen and stared at the wall.
How could I, a person who drinks scotch from Waterford tumblers, ever survive some concrete cesspit? Besides, it wasn’t my fault. I tried everything. I did my best.

Pino rested his forehead on his fingertips while a fury as dark and black as lava churned his belly. He worked to control it, to harness it. As bad as things appeared right now, he knew he would be the victor. He would prevail. When he put his mind to something, he always did.

Accompanied by two soldiers, Pino headed back to his room in the officers’ barracks, located in the imposing mansion once occupied by a wealthy Cuban landowner. It was just past eight p.m. He climbed the five marble steps and entered the commodious lobby filled with gilt-framed oil paintings and fine European antiques.

A Tabriz carpet covered the floor beneath a leather couch. The first movement of Mozart’s Symphony no. 40 in G minor played softly in the background. Cuban military officers were treated well. Pino nodded to the sergeant on duty before ascending the wide interior staircase.

A soft breeze wafted through his bedroom window as Pino unbuttoned his shirt and removed his hat. His body was lean and muscular, and he worked to keep it that way. He fell to the floor and did a hundred push-ups before he removed his shoes and squared them at a right angle to the wall. Tomorrow morning he would set them outside his door to be polished.

The lieutenant performed his usual evening ritual of showering and brushing his teeth before he climbed into bed. The mattress was firm, effortlessly supporting his back and weight. He set a glass of water on a cherry-veneer bed stand, anticipating a long night ahead.

Tomorrow the brass from headquarters would arrive, throwing their weight around, asking a million questions. He could picture their faces, stern and ruthless, their mouths tight wads of condemnation, their eyes stony and accusing.

He could hardly believe it had come to this.
If only that imbecile at the Coast Guard station had followed my orders, this never would’ve happened.
That’s always the way, isn’t it? You give some miserable peasant a little power and it goes to his head. Hell, if the Cuban Coast Guard had done what I ordered, we would’ve gotten Mederos before the Americans did. All that babble about triggering an international incident was just stupid talk.

Suddenly, Pino felt hot and sticky. The paddle fan twirled overhead, but the room was closing in on him. He sipped some water, kicked off his upper sheet, and banged his feet against the mattress.
How could Mederos elude me for so long? He must’ve had help. He wasn’t smart enough to pull this off alone. But who?

Pino ran through the possibilities in his mind.
Manny? Lazo? Lieutenant Brown?

Nah, Brown was too smart for that. He was far too fond of Mederos, but he wouldn’t actually help him escape. That would be treason. He would be executed for such behavior. And he knew it. He’d never risk it. But the other two? They were always palling around with Mederos. Thick as thieves. They’d do anything for each other. That’s the way it is with the Special Forces.

Pino rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand, trying to soothe his pounding headache.
What difference does it make now? Any way you look at it, my goose is cooked. Still, it would help to point a finger at someone else when the hard questions are asked.

Suddenly, he remembered the smirk on Jabao’s face the night Mederos vanished into thin air.
What did he say?
He tried to recall the exact words.
“Do you think you are going to find Mederos here? On his own turf? Impossible.”
He sighed.
Maybe it was inevitable. Fate. Destiny. Whatever you want to call it. Christ. What am I thinking? Something like this wasn’t meant to be. Mederos was a menace, a wart on the face of communism. A cancer that needed to be excised, removed forever.

Pino sat up in his bed. His vision blurred for a moment before the face of Frankie Mederos pirouetted before his eyes. It was as if he were right there in the room with him. “You stinking bastard. You’ve screwed up everything. My whole damn life is ruined because of you.” It barely registered to Pino that he was talking to himself.

The lieutenant slammed his right fist into his left palm, feeling the force of his self-inflicted pain. He stifled a scream, imagining
his fist connecting with Mederos’s jaw. He wanted to mangle his face, to bash in his brains.

“I’ll get you, Mederos. I’ll get you, Mederos. I’ll get you, Mederos,” he said in a voice loud enough to be heard through the walls. He repeated the oath like an ancient Buddhist chant sung in a monastery high in the Himalayas. The words looped round and round in his head and on and off his tongue until the morning light wedged itself through the shutters. Then he slowly lifted his body from the bed to face whatever the day might bring.

Glancing out his office window, Pino watched as the delegation from Managua drove onto base. Looking starched and official, two captains and three first lieutenants disembarked from their vehicles. They saluted the guards and asked to be taken to Commander Martinez’s office.

Martinez greeted the delegation and gestured for them to be seated. Pitchers of iced tea and coffee sat on a sideboard along with a tray of sliced mangoes and fresh pastries. The commander took his position behind his desk while the other officers settled themselves in wingback chairs.

Captain Carrilles, a man of fifty with a deep, sonorous voice, spoke first. “We are here regarding your call to headquarters about a member of the Special Forces who escaped. We need a full accounting of what happened—step-by-step, starting with you.”

Martinez leaned back in his chair. “I’ll tell you what transpired to the best of my ability.”

“Start at the beginning, Commander.” Martinez nodded to First Lieutenant Rodriquez who extracted a pad from his jacket and began scribbling notes.

“Tell me what you know about Mederos.”

The commander wove his fingers together and placed his hands on his desk. “Mederos was recruited into the force because of his good grades and his previous service to the country.”

“What service? Be specific.”

“He served in the National Literacy Brigade and spent time in the Sierra Maestra helping farmers harvest their crops.”

“Go on,” urged Carrilles.

“He was our best operator—could shoot the missiles like nobody’s business. He hit a ship out at sea during military exercises. Everyone was impressed, including Raúl.”

The captain inhaled, making a wheezing sound through his nose. “Anything else?”

“He trained new recruits.”

“So, he was an asset to the force?”

“Yes. Smart. Good at math. Likeable enough. That’s about it.”

“What about his knowledge of operations?”

“He knew everything someone in his position would know.”

“Besides what he knew as a member of the force, did he possess any special knowledge that might make this situation more dangerous?”

Martinez looked at the ceiling, thinking for a moment before blotches reddened his cheeks.

“What is it, Commander?”

“Now that I think about it, he took inventory of the missiles.”

“Goddamnit! When?”

“Several times.”

“When was the last time?”

“Right before he left.”

“So he knows where our missiles are kept, their number, and kind?”

“He does.”

The captain’s eyes bulged. “This is even more serious than I thought.”

Martinez’s stomach growled, and he cleared his throat. “I know.”

“Did Mederos ever give any indication that he was a counterrevolutionary?”

Martinez thought for a moment. “No. At times he was too outspoken for his own good—a bit of a hothead—but nothing you wouldn’t expect from a man his age. He had some run-ins with Lieutenant Pino over political issues, but he never indicated that he didn’t support the revolution.”

Carrilles nodded. “When did he first disappear?”

“He was supposed to demonstrate the rockets at the Multi-province Military Exercises in Las Villas at the end of November, but he never showed up. He was nowhere to be found.”

“What did you do?”

“We searched the base, of course, and questioned the men, but no one knew anything about the situation.”

“Why didn’t you call headquarters and tell us what was happening?”

“He hadn’t taken his gun, which led us to believe that he wasn’t trying to escape. He had a girlfriend, and we thought he might have family issues. Frankly, it occurred to us that he might’ve gotten her pregnant and needed time to sort it out.”

“This is highly irregular, Commander.”

Martinez took a deep breath. “I know, sir, looking back—”

“Did anyone search for him?”

“Lieutenants Pino and Brown visited his family members, ransacked his home—that sort of thing. But to no avail.”

“Then what?”

“After a couple of weeks, I told Pino that we needed to report the situation to headquarters. But he refused. Said it was a political matter, and he was taking charge of the base.”

“Because?”

“Because Mederos had such deep knowledge of our operation.”

“And you let him?”

“I had no choice.”

“You still could’ve informed headquarters.”

“I could have, if he hadn’t forbidden me to.”

“He forbade you from making a report?”

“Yes, sir. He said he could handle the situation himself, said there was no need to get anyone else involved, including the militia. I think he was afraid of being embarrassed.”

“And you went along with that?”

“There was nothing I could do. He became obsessed with finding Mederos—carried on about it day and night. He wasn’t
thinking clearly. He finally got so worked up he sent the entire force after him.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“He sent the Special Forces out to find him. He said they knew how he thought, and they would be in the best position to bring him in.”

“And you didn’t stand up to him? You were in command, why the hell not?”

“I have to admit I felt powerless in this situation, sir.”

Carrilles shook his head in disbelief. “So powerless you couldn’t pick up a goddamn phone and call headquarters?”

Martinez lowered his chin and remained silent.

The captain shook his head and stared at the commander.

“This is beyond belief! This isn’t bad judgment, Commander. This is lunacy. We are going to get to the bottom of this.”

“Do you want me to ask Lieutenant Pino to join us?”

“Hell, no, Commander. We have plenty of people to talk to before I speak with that idiot. Besides, if I got my hands on him right now, I’d kill him. Get Lieutenant Brown in here.
Now”