Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (35 page)

Sebastian ignored Franco’s remark. “Phones have been installed
for your use, and food will be brought in to you. You will provide advice and direction regarding the mission where needed.”

“I’m quite aware of what’s expected of me,” said Franco. “I’d like to know what your role is in all of this.” He almost added the words “fat man” to the end of his sentence, but he thought better of it.

Sebastian chuckled, revealing a mouthful of disordered teeth. “My mission is to make sure your mission is completed. Do you understand?”

“Don’t ask me if I understand. I’m not an idiot.”

Franco finished his drink and wiped his face with his napkin. He leaned down, opened a paper bag, and handed Damian a thick manila envelope.

“Here’s all the information you’ll need on Mederos—where he lives, what he did as a member of the force, how he escaped, and the role he’s playing in bringing down the Cuban government. The picture was taken several years ago, so his looks may have changed.”

Damian opened the envelope, extracted the photograph, and held it up to the light. “Study the eyes,” urged Franco. “It’s all about the eyes and the height. Mederos could’ve gained or lost weight, changed his hair color, started to wear glasses. Who knows? But the eyes don’t change.”

“How tall is he?” asked Damian.

“Five ten,” said Franco.

Damian scrutinized a photograph of Frank standing in front of the Santa Maria base. “He’s not bad looking. Nice teeth, regular features.”

“Don’t get hung up on that either,” interrupted Sebastian. “If he gets wind that we’re following him, he could blacken his teeth and change the contours of his face. A skilled makeup artist could give him a big nose, puffy cheeks—whatever. They can do a lot. But as Franco said, the eyes don’t change.”

“I’m aware of that,” snapped Damian. He returned the photograph to the envelope and then folded and tabbed the flap.

“Elias and I will accompany you to Union City. We leave first thing in the morning. The sooner we get this mission completed, the better. Once you settle in up north, José will call Lieutenant Franco every night to update him on the day’s events. Do you understand?”

“I understand the situation,” said Damian. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Lazo arrived in Key West the next day, exhausted. Despite Tomás’s reassurances, he had tossed and turned the night before, failing to get more than three hours’ sleep. He was worried that Franco’s team had a couple days lead on him.
They could’ve completed their mission by now. What if I’m too late? What if they’ve already gotten to Frank?

Tomás had been very specific in his directions. Two members of Alpha Sixty-six—Augustin and Curro—would meet Lazo at the dock in Key West and take him to a safe house in Miami for the night. They would begin their drive to Union City the following day. Augustin and Curro would stay with Lazo until the mission was completed. A man named Javier would help them in Union City. Reinforcements would be brought in if necessary.

Lazo’s orders were clear: to identify Damian and return to Cuba as soon as possible. He was not to get involved in any dirty work. It sounded simple.

The men stopped for sandwiches on their way to the safe house in Miami. It was the first time Lazo had been in America, and he was amazed at the similarities between Havana and Miami. The weather, the flowers, the colors, all reminded him of Cuba.

When they arrived at the safe house, Augustin unfolded a map of New Jersey and flattened it on the kitchen table. He was a tall, amiable man who exuded confidence. His intelligent eyes and quick wit reminded Lazo of a friend from high school.

Less outgoing, Curro was a handsome man who resembled Cary Grant. His hair was combed to the side, his features were aristocratic, and his teeth were perfect. Although both men were middle aged,
they were strong and limber with muscles bulging beneath their shirts. From the way they carried themselves, they had obviously handled similar missions. They inspired confidence in Lazo.

Curro glanced at the clock, and then pointed his finger to a dot on the map. Still single at forty-five, he filled his spare time thinking of ways to rid Cuba of Castro. “This is Montclair where Frank works,” he said. He moved his finger slightly and pointed to Lincoln Park. “And this is where he lives, about twenty miles away. He drives to work in a blue Grand Prix. He has a daughter around nine or ten and a red-haired girlfriend.”

Lazo’s face creased in puzzlement. “He’s not already married?”

“Our surveillance indicates that he dates a woman named Chris,” said Curro. “But they aren’t married.”

Lazo’s eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of this information. As far as he knew, Frank was married to Magda. He wondered what had happened to her. He couldn’t imagine Frank and Magda getting divorced. He furrowed his brow but decided not to pursue the subject. “What’s happening with the communists?”

“Four guys are holed up in a headquarters in Miami. One has a military haircut—he’s not from around here.”

“That would be Lieutenant Franco,” said Lazo.

“There’s another military guy. We didn’t get a good look at him, but he sounded young on the bug we planted.”

“That’s the hit man,” said Lazo. “He’s been given orders to shoot Frank. He is smart and well trained. Don’t underestimate him.”

“Name?” asked Augustin.

“Damian Baez,” said Lazo. He stumbled over the name, knowing he was signing the young man’s death warrant.

Damian left Miami the next day for Union City, accompanied by Sebastian and Elias. It was a long drive, much longer than he anticipated. He and his companions took turns at the wheel, spotting each other when they got tired.

Damian found the company of his fellow travelers to be less than enthralling. While he considered himself to be a loyal communist on a vital mission, his companions showed no desire to talk about anything serious. They couldn’t care less about world events, and Damian’s attempts to discuss the merits of communism or Marxist doctrine fell on deaf ears.

Instead, Sebastian and Elias argued about cowboy movies, TV sitcoms, and Cuban beer. They agreed on nothing. Once they exhausted these topics, they blasted the radio to the point where Damian thought his eardrums would burst.
How can these guys be polar opposites and still be a couple of nitwits? Neither one has a convolution to his brain or a thought in his head.

They drove on two-lane highways through Georgia and South Carolina. Damian was amazed at the miles upon miles of squalid shacks that lined the roads. Barefoot children dressed in rags clung to the skirts of toothless, downtrodden mothers. Broken tractors and cars rusted amid piles of debris. The sights confirmed what Damian had been taught: Cuba was superior to the States in every way.

When he wasn’t driving, Damian pulled out his envelope to examine Frank’s information, memorizing his profile details, and his daily routine. He was a full lieutenant now, and he viewed this
mission as good preparation for the role he’d play when he returned to base. His mission was honorable. He was defending his country. He would be thorough. He would do a good job.

He thought about the despicable actions taken by the United States against the Cuban people, the exploitation by the sugar, fruit, and tobacco companies. He thought about the heroes who had lost their lives in the Bay of Pigs invasion. That atrocity was bad enough. At least the Cubans had defeated the Yanks. But what would happen to his loved ones if the United States attacked again? What if it were a nuclear strike?

Damian had seen pictures of Nagasaki and Hiroshima during his training. He had studied the images of the devastation, great swaths of land where nothing remained but bones, dust, and ash. Would Cuba fare any better? Could it?

Soviet-supplied ballistic missiles had been removed from Cuba during the Missile Crisis in 1962, rendering his country powerless in the face of a nuclear attack. According to Pino, Mederos was involved in subversive activities that could turn Cuba into a vast wasteland. Who knew what kind of threat he and his cronies posed? The freshly minted lieutenant smiled with pride at the thought of protecting his homeland from such a menace.

Around ten p.m. the three men stopped at a cheap motel. A neon sign blinked the word “Vacancy.” Sebastian checked in, while Damian and Elias unloaded the luggage from the car. When Damian opened the door to the room, a foul odor assaulted him.

The room reeked of mold, smoke, and urine. Crumpled, lipstick-smudged cigarettes sat in an ashtray on the nightstand. A couple was arguing in the room next door. Elias banged on the panel-covered walls and hollered for them to stop. The noise ceased momentarily but continued on and off throughout the night.

The room held two single beds and a foldout cot, which Damian volunteered to take. The thought of climbing into bed with Sebastian or Elias gave him the willies.

Before heading for Union City the next morning, the three men
stopped at a local diner for ham and eggs. They had a long drive ahead of them, and everyone was grumpy. No one had gotten much sleep.

They made good time and were lucky not to be stopped for speeding. When they arrived in the city a little past midnight, José and Chico were there to welcome them. They said a few words of greeting, and took a cursory look at the safe house before going to bed.

The next day Damian, Sebastian, and Elias scouted the area by car, driving past Frank’s house and his place of work. Damian made a mental note of the location of the police station, the layout of streets, and the local landmarks, wanting to be prepared for any eventuality.

In the days thereafter, Sebastian and Elias took turns accompanying Damian while he tailed Frank. They followed him from morning until night, observing his home routine, and watching him go back and forth to his sandwich shop.

As time went on, Damian began to see a different side of America than the one he witnessed in the Deep South. He also saw a different side to Americans than the picture presented to him by the Cuban military.

Americans got up early for work, drank coffee, dealt with traffic, and pushed their babies in strollers. He didn’t see them beat Negroes or use Whites Only restrooms. They didn’t seem arrogant, belligerent, or nasty. In fact, they didn’t seem very different from his friends and relatives in Cuba.

What’s more, Frank didn’t seem any different from anyone else. As Damian watched Frank wipe his counters, order his produce, mow his lawn, and fix his car, questions arose in his mind. Something was wrong. Something didn’t compute.

The days dragged on with Damian watching, waiting. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Franco was growing impatient. Nervous about being away from base too long, he called José from Miami every day, wanting to know when the mission would be completed. The clock was winding down, and he couldn’t fathom the delay. But Damian
was not to be rushed, nor was he to be intimidated—not by Franco, not by Sebastian, and not by José.

Damian watched and ruminated for a few more days before José approached him. “Why the hell are you futzing around? Don’t you have the guts for this mission? Just kill the damn worm and be done with it. I’ve got better things to do than watch you pussyfoot around!”

“I have to make sure of a few things before I go and shoot this guy,” Damian replied.

A week elapsed with still no action. Finally, José read Damian the riot act: “This is your assignment, but if you can’t come up with a decent plan and execute it, I’ll kill the worm myself. Then you can go back to base and explain yourself to your superiors.”

“Don’t give me that crap!” snapped Damian.

José shook his head in frustration. “What crap? I’ve never seen anything like this in my life! What the hell is your problem? Are you afraid of killing someone?”

“Are you forgetting I’m a member of the Special Forces? I’ve been trained to kill. I know how to do it. Fear is not part of this equation.”

“Then what?”

“I’m questioning—”

“You’re questioning what, Lieutenant? The mission?”

Damian turned to José with fire in his eyes. “No, I’m not questioning the mission, goddamnit. I’m questioning the target.”

José looked incredulous. “What are you talking about? You have his picture. You can tell for yourself that we have the right target.”

Damian drew his lips into a straight line. “I have a picture but it’s old, wrinkled, and faded. I can’t tell for certain whether it’s a photo of the target or not. What I do know is that the man we’ve been following is behaving just like a normal guy. He could be anyone for Chrissakes. I’ve seen no evidence of anticommunist behavior. He’s not meeting with Alpha Sixty-six or other subversives. He’s not leading rallies. He doesn’t even carry a gun.”

“What difference does it make?”

“You’re not a professional, so you wouldn’t know. But I am, damn it. I’m a full lieutenant, and I don’t go around shooting people unless I’m certain about what I’m doing.”

“Are you saying you’re not going to kill him?”

“No, I’m saying I’m unsure about the target, and I’m sure as hell not going back to Captain Pino and tell him I killed the wrong guy. Then there would be hell to pay.”

José’s face grew red with frustration. “I don’t give a damn about your rank or your so-called professionalism. Just do your job. Shoot the guy! That’s your mission! You weren’t brought here to waste time and to question orders.”

Damian glared at José, and José glared back.

The next day Damian sent Elias into Frank’s shop under the guise of buying a cup of coffee, while he and Sebastian waited in the car. He hoped Elias could obtain some actionable information. Elias drank his coffee, placed some coins on the counter, and left with a smile.

When he got back to the car, Elias told Damian that he overhead Frank on the phone making plans to meet someone that night. Excited, Damian went to a phone booth and called José.

“Mederos is leaving work early to see someone at six o’clock,” he said.

“This could be our big break,” said José. “Maybe Mederos is going to meet with counterrevolutionaries. The three of you follow him and report back.”