Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (41 page)

“I understand.”

Members of Alpha Sixty-six appeared and prepared to remove Damian’s and Jose’s bodies. They had spent the past hour burying
Sebastian and Elias in the woods. As they unrolled a body bag, Frank stood to help.

“No need,” said Lazo. “We’ll take it from here.”

“Just let me do this,” Frank said. He leaned over and closed Damian’s eyes with his fingers.

As they carried Damian away, Lazo and Frank stood and raised their hands in a salute. After all, he was a member of the Special Forces. He was one of them.

Lazo moved to Frank’s side and draped his arm over his shoulder. They turned and hugged for a long moment, their hearts beating in joint rhythm. In a low voice, Lazo said, “Forget about all this, Frank. You’ve had enough to deal with in one lifetime. Go home, take care of your daughter, and marry your girlfriend.”

Frank pursed his lips. “I will,” he said. “I’ve struggled with the idea that it’s too soon after Magda’s death to get married—tradition and all. But I’ve come to terms with it.”

“How long has it been?”

“A little over a year.”

“It’s not very long.”

“I know. But Chris has found a place in my heart.”

Frank stood and shook Lazo’s hand, noting the web of lines that netted his eyes. He looked a lot older than he remembered. He guessed they both did.

Lazo withdrew his hand from Frank’s, stepped back, and saluted. Frank returned the favor.

Before turning to leave, Lazo reached into his pocket and pulled out a card with a phone number penciled in. “Call me early tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t have time to meet with you, but we can speak on the phone. We have much to discuss.”

Frank smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll call. I have a few more stories to tell you.”

Lazo laughed. “It would take a lifetime to tell each other our stories.”

Frank made his way back to his blind in hopes of finding Raúl. He sat on the ground, still in shock, put his head in his hands, and sifted through his thoughts. He couldn’t believe that Lazo had come all the way from Cuba to save his life.

He stood and fingered the pellets that riddled the trees near his blind. He imagined them entering his body, and he thought about how close he had come to dying. He was a lucky man.

An hour later, Raúl showed up, his shirt stained with coffee. Astounded to see the deer, he slapped his forehead and whistled.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” he said. “How the hell did that happen? I wasted my whole damn morning hunting, and I didn’t get a goddamn thing. Not even a squirrel. And you go and bag this big old buck!”

Raúl leaned down, examined the deer, and shook his head. “How in God’s name did you do this, Frank? There weren’t any deer anywhere.
Nada!
I never even spotted one. Those shots scared them away. Did you hear them? Must’ve been a bunch of jerks.”

Frank nodded. “Yeah, I heard them.”

“You’re such a lucky bastard. Why don’t I ever get lucky like you?”

“Lucky,” Frank repeated wearily.

Raúl examined Frank’s face. “Hey man, what’s wrong with you? This is a big damn deal. You should be ecstatic.”

“I am ecstatic,” said Frank. “Ecstatic.”

“Well, you don’t look it. Anyone who bags a deer like this and isn’t jumping for joy is nuts.” Raúl looked at Frank and laughed. “I think you need a shrink. I’m taking you to a psychiatrist as soon as we get home.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” said Frank.

Raúl handed Frank a line of rope to tie up the deer. They secured his front and hind legs. When they finished, Frank looped his arm around Raúl’s shoulder.

“It was quite a day,” said Frank.

“For you, yes. For me, it was pretty boring. The day is still young. Maybe we could do something interesting once we get this buck in the jeep.”

“No, I think I just need to go home,” said Frank.

Raúl made a face. “To do what?”

Frank smiled, and said, “To be a good American.”

Chico sat on the couch watching television in the Cuban operatives’ headquarters in Union City when a knock came at the door. He had just grabbed a can of beer from the refrigerator. It was a little early for a drink, but he thought
what the hell!

He popped the tab and mumbled to himself. He sure as hell didn’t want to be disturbed. He placed his beer on the kitchen counter next to a bottle of Cuban rum and wiped his hands on his pants. He walked down the hall and opened the door to see a man dressed in a brown United Parcel Service uniform.

The impostor glanced down at the paperwork, and said, “I have a package for a Damian Baez from Miami. Someone needs to sign for it.”

Chico glanced at the television. He had been absorbed in a John Wayne movie.

“All right,” he said, eager to get back to the show.

The impostor reached into his breast pocket for a pen. “Sorry, I must’ve left my pen in the truck. Do you happen to have one?”

Chico nodded. “Yeah, come in.” The man stepped inside the apartment and closed the door behind him. The lock snapped shut. A look of terror crossed Chico’s face as the UPS man drew a gun. His silencer muffled the shots.

When the deliveryman man left, Chico was dead on the floor. The imposter gathered the paperwork he found in the apartment and stuffed it under his jacket before he walked out the door.

Franco had been calling Damian in Union City all morning, but he was getting no answer. He was anxious to learn what had happened
on the hunting expedition. He couldn’t wait to notify Pino that the mission had been completed. And he couldn’t wait to return to Cuba and become a base commander—as Pino had promised. He smiled at the thought.

He had just finished a breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs when the doorbell buzzed. He swallowed the last of his coffee and signaled to his associate to answer it. When he did, a man with a UPS uniform stood before him, smiling congenially.

“I have a package for a Lieutenant Franco from Union City,” he said. “Sorry, but I need a signature.”

Adán turned to Franco with questioning eyes. The lieutenant stood and began walking toward the door, but not before the deliveryman stepped inside. When the imposter left, the files on the mission were under his arm, Franco and Adán were dead, and the deliveryman still held the package in his hands.

The file of Damian Baez sat open on the desk of First Captain Victor Flores. Flores was a seasoned soldier and had been in the Revolutionary Armed Forces for more years than he cared to admit. He had risen through the ranks, and he prided himself on his ability to piece things together.

Flores had seen a lot of shenanigans in his day, including those of the now infamous Captain Pino. He never could cotton up to the man. There was something about him that made his skin crawl. Years ago he had railed against Pino going to Russia for further military training. He couldn’t see what good it would do. Pino was too hotheaded and stubborn for him. And, as far as he was concerned, zebras don’t change their stripes. But the authorities had ignored his advice, and the views of First Lieutenant Torres had prevailed.

Absorbed in thought, Flores rifled through some papers. Although defections were uncommon, he had seen them before. Several worms had taken it upon themselves to abandon their country after the escape of Frank Mederos in the late sixties. But standard protocol was followed. Hence, they were usually apprehended and suffered the consequences.

This case was different. Damian Baez was one of the most talented and dedicated members of the force. His family had a history of loyalty to the Party, and demonstrated unwavering dedication to the cause. He couldn’t imagine that Damian would defect.

The fact that he had was out of character for this ardent young man, and the fact that he did so without leaving a trace was even
more troubling. Something about this case didn’t add up. Damian had been labeled a worm, but Flores had his doubts.

The captain placed his pencil behind his ear and reclined in his chair. He had been thinking about this issue for a while, and he still had no answers.

He stood, yawned, and looked out the window. No rain had fallen in weeks. For a few minutes, he watched the birds peck at the hard, dry earth.
The poor things can’t even find a worm.
The captain smiled at the irony.
And neither can I.
He sighed, heavyhearted.
Maybe I’m getting too old for this work. Maybe I’m losing my edge.

Flores sat down, reached to the credenza, and switched on the radio. He liked to listen to The Voice of America. The station was funded by the United States government and provided news on a wide range of topics.

The captain had listened to the programming for several years and enjoyed the music, especially the Beatles’ songs. Periodically, Fidel tried to jam the signal, but Flores disagreed with that policy. He felt the military was better off knowing what the enemy was up to than not.

The captain settled himself in his chair and listened to the news—the weather, the state of the economy, the upcoming elections. Routine stuff—nothing out of the ordinary.

As he was about to turn the dial, his face froze. He extended his hand to increase the volume. The report was clear and succinct. A man with an authoritative voice stated that reliable sources from Alpha Sixty-six had reported that a member of Cuba’s Special Forces, Damian Baez, had been shot and killed in the hills of northern New Jersey in a failed assassination attempt on the life of a former member of Cuba’s Special Forces who had defected to the United States in 1967.

As a result, four Cuban operatives had been assassinated in Union City, and two more had been killed at the group’s operational headquarters in Miami. The victims in Miami included First Lieutenant Franco of Unit 2572 of the Santa Maria base in Havana.

Flores closed his eyes. As he was trying to piece the puzzle together, his door opened. A messenger dropped a manila envelope stamped top secret on his desk. Flores opened it and rifled through a stack of photographs. First Lieutenant Franco was pictured in a restaurant with a sign in the background that read Miami. Private Damian Baez sat at his side. The two were engrossed in conversation. Another photograph placed Baez in Union City. It all made sense.

Flores pursed his lips, fuming. Then he picked up the phone and barked one sentence to his secretary: “Get the Commander General on the phone, and do it pronto. I need to talk to him about Captain Pino.”

“Right away, sir.”

Flores slammed down the receiver, stared out the window, and smiled smugly.
Well, the chickens have finally come home to roost. This time there’s no way out for Pino. This time it’s treason.

And this time we’re going to execute the bastard.

In 1981, Mrs. Mederos came to the United States to visit Frank and his brother Carlos, who had escaped Cuba during the Mariel Boatlift. After her arrival, she applied for and was granted political asylum. She now lives in Florida, and Frank visits her several times a year.

In addition to Carlos, Frank’s brothers Robert and Raúl also escaped Cuba. His widowed sister and her three sons live in Cuba, and her daughter lives in Mexico. Frank’s brother George and his wife still live in Cuba along with their son, daughter, and grandchildren.

Shortly after the incident in the woods, Frank married his girlfriend Chris. They have two sons and live and work in New Jersey. Frank credits Chris with giving him the will to go on with his life. Darlene lives not far from her father.

In the spring of 2011, Frank took advantage of relaxed government regulations regarding Cuban visitation and returned to his homeland for the first time in forty-four years. He was astounded to receive a warm and enthusiastic welcome from family and friends in his hometown of Guanabacoa. He visited again in 2012.

Frank found the living conditions in his former country to be deplorable. After fifty years of communist rule, many people had given up their fight for freedom. He was saddened to see them resigned to their fate.

Frank donated all the money and possessions he had with him at the time to his Cuban friends and relatives, including his hat, his watch, and his belt.

Following the incident in the woods, Frank had several talks with
Lazo. The information he obtained served, in part, as the basis for this book. After his time in the States, Lazo returned to his position at the oil refinery and continued to work for the CIA.

However, when Frank went to visit Lazo’s home in 2012, he found it to be nothing more than a pile of rubble. No one knew of Lazo’s whereabouts, nor had they heard from him or his family in years.

Frank will continue to visit Cuba, and he hopes to be reunited with his friend Lazo someday.

Frank still suffers from nightmares, but they occur far less frequently.

The drum of the blue-eyed boy has been silent since 1980.