Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (6 page)

Frank smiled to himself. “I’m not quite sure. I think because I can read and write. I’m literate.”

“Any other reasons?”

“I attended a government-run school after I served in the Literacy Brigade.”

“Where did you serve?”

“In the Sierra Maestra. Tried to teach farmers to read.”

“Did you succeed?”

“As well as anyone, given the circumstances.”

Carlos nodded his understanding.

“How well do you know the Sierra Maestra?”

“Fairly well,” Frank said, having no idea why he was being asked this question. “I lived there on and off three times. I’m familiar with the geography.” He watched Carlos make a note.

“Where was the government school?”

“On the outskirts of Havana. Nice facility. But I hated the propaganda.”

“So?”

“So I escaped.”

Carlos arched his eyebrow. “Escaped?”

“Yes,” Frank said smiling. “It was kid stuff really. A bunch of my friends came and rescued me. On bicycles no less. We must’ve been quite a sight.”

Carlos tossed his head to the side, indicating he had no interest in this topic.

“Getting back to the force.”

“Yes?”

“How many men are in the force at any one time?”

“Between three hundred and three hundred and fifty. Men come and go.”

“What was your position?”

“I was an Anti-tank Guided Missile operator—ATGM.”

Carlos’s eyes shone briefly. From his reaction Frank could tell Santo knew precisely what he did. But Santo was a shrewd interrogator. Since there was no way to corroborate Frank’s story, he needed to make sure Frank knew what he was talking about.

“Who supplied the equipment?”

“It was Russian made.”

The light in Carlos’s eyes told Frank he was familiar with ATGMs and their capability. He seemed satisfied with Frank’s answer.

“What did you do specifically?”

“I launched missiles.”

“Were you good at it?”

“I could hold my own.”

Frank studied Carlos as his lips flattened and curled inward. He knew the agent was hoping he could tell him a great deal more about the missiles. Frank possessed the kind of information the agency wanted.

“Where are the missiles stored?”

Frank smiled slightly while Carlos watched him. “Is that all you need to know?”

Carlos leaned forward in his chair, expectantly.

“I want to know a lot of things, Frank, but that certainly ranks high on the list.”

Frank nodded, but remained silent. He looked out the window. A hummingbird sipped nectar from the coral blossoms of a hibiscus bush. It reminded him of a helicopter. He wondered how the bird could possibly suspend itself in the air the way it did. That was the kind of thing military engineers all over the world would study.

Frank looked at Carlos. “Do you have children?”

“Two,” he said. “A boy and a girl.”

“Helluva world to raise kids in.”

Carlos cleared his throat as a film of perspiration slicked his forehead. He took a deep breath. “The location, Frank,” he said softly. “Where’s the location?”

Frank looked at him and exhaled. “You aren’t going to believe this.”

“Try me.”

Frank sat back in his chair, momentarily lost in thought. Carlos watched him closely. Frank rolled his head in a circle to release the tension in his neck as Carlos eagerly awaited his response. Frank’s mind flashed back to when he was first taken to the place the missiles were kept.

He remembered being blindfolded and driven from base to an undisclosed location. At the time, he had no idea where he was going, but he knew enough not to ask questions. Not a word was spoken on the trip. As they drove, Frank became increasingly nervous that Pino had discovered his plans to escape. If so, he was being escorted to his execution. No trace of his remains would be found. That’s how things happened.

Frank’s gaze drifted to the palm trees rustling in the breeze, and a shudder coursed through his body. Suddenly, the hairs on his arms stood on end. He ran his hands briefly over his arms to warm them.

Carlos fixed his eyes on Frank. There was a long silence before he said softly, “Frank, you’ve got to help me out here. It’s important.”

Frank turned his head back to Carlos and nodded. “I know,” he said. He hesitated a moment and took a deep breath. He was about to provide the CIA with the very information Pino feared he would disclose if he ever got to the States. That’s one of the reasons why the lieutenant had pursued Frank so relentlessly. In a very strange way, this was Frank’s moment of triumph. But he didn’t feel triumphant. Instead, he felt a profound weariness.

Frank looked at Carlos and said softly, “The missiles are located in chicken coops.”

Carlos’s eyes widened as if he hadn’t heard right. “Chicken coops?”

“Yes, chicken coops.”

Carlos sat back while he processed this information.

“How do you know?”

Frank smiled briefly. “I was there. I was blindfolded, but I learned the exact location later.”

“Then we have a lot to talk about.”

“We do. But right now I’m hungry.”

Carlos hesitated a moment, thinking. “Then let’s get some lunch.”

The men pushed back their chairs, walked down the hall, and stepped outside. They blinked against the Florida sun. Jasmine scented the April air. They got into Carlos’s black Buick and drove to a mom-and-pop restaurant in Little Havana. The owner greeted Carlos warmly and escorted them to a small table at the back of the restaurant near the kitchen. They heard pots and pans clang against a stainless steel sink.

Since Frank had arrived in America, he felt as if he couldn’t get enough to eat. He devoured two roast pork sandwiches piled high with meat and roasted peppers and finished off the meal with a tall glass of iced tea. Carlos watched Frank eat with satisfaction. He waved to the waitress to bring him another drink. Frank smiled his appreciation and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“Tell me about your family, Frank.”

Frank nodded, thinking about them. “My parents live in a small house in Guanabacoa. My father works in a fertilizer factory. Backbreaking work. Long hours. He takes the night shift for extra pay. Money is tight. My mother’s a housewife.”

“Siblings?”

“Yeah, a whole bunch.” He laughed thinking about them. “Little rascals. I’m the oldest.”

“Aunts, uncles?”

“Another whole bunch.”

“Anyone else you were close to?”

“My grandfather—” Frank started. His voice cracked a little, and he stopped speaking.

Carlos regarded Frank with curiosity but remained silent. Finally, he nodded as if to signal Frank to continue. Frank cleared his throat.

“Other than my parents, I was closest to my grandfather. Smart man. If it weren’t for what he taught me, I would’ve never made it.”

“What did he do?”

“For a living?”

“Yes.”

“He was a fisherman.”

“What did he teach you?”

“Survival skills—how to read the stars, the currents, and the wind. How to outsmart the communists.”

“So, he wasn’t a communist?”

“Hardly! He was a religious man. He hated communism. We used to have long talks about it.”

Carlos smiled as if remembering something. Then he dropped his napkin on the table and signaled the waitress for the bill.

When they got back to the office, Carlos gestured for Frank to again take a chair. He flipped through his notes before turning his gaze toward Frank.

“We were talking about the location of the missiles,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Where is the facility located?”

“Not far from the airport in Rancho Boyeros.”

Carlos raised his eyebrows. “The airport? That’s a highly populated area.”

“I know. They did it on purpose.”

Carlos nodded slightly.

“Why?”

“For protection against enemy attack. They figure the Americans won’t bomb a site where too many civilians could get killed. Propaganda and all that.”

“I understand. Can you describe the facility?”

Frank pulled his chair closer to the table. “Several buildings are lined up next to each other. Chickens are kept on either end of the buildings to make it look like a real chicken farm. You’d never suspect it was a missile storage facility.”

“Where are the missiles kept?”

“Underground.”

“How do you access them?”

“Through a trap door in the floor. It’s well disguised.”

“Do you know how many missiles are kept there?”

“Precisely.”

Carlos regarded Frank curiously. “How do you know that?”

“I took inventory. I counted all the missiles and recorded their serial numbers.”

“How many are there?”

“Upward of a thousand.”

Carlos leaned back in his chair and whistled. He sat up straight again and made another note.

“Is there any way to identify the missile sites from the air?”

“I doubt it. They’ve gone to great lengths to disguise the operation. It would look just like a chicken farm from the ground or from the air.”

“Could you locate it on a map for me?”

“Of course.”

Carlos reached behind him and unrolled a map of Cuba. He handed him a felt marker, and Frank circled the area in question. Carlos stared at it for a moment and then excused himself. Frank heard him speaking in hushed tones to someone in the hallway. When Santo returned, he looked more relaxed.

“This is important information,” said Carlos. A hint of a smile danced on his lips. “I appreciate you being so forthcoming.”

Frank nodded.

Carlos glanced at his watch. “That’s about all for now. I have other men I must interview. I’ll pick you up in the morning. We’ll talk more then.”

As they shook hands, Frank thought about what Lieutenant Pino might do if he ever got wind of what he had just disclosed to the CIA.

The next morning Carlos arrived at Freedom House around ten o’clock to pick up Frank. He was dressed in crisp chino pants and a madras shirt. They stopped for a light breakfast of coffee and bagels and chatted about baseball on the way to the office. Carlos was a Yankees fan and had an impressive knowledge of the sport, regaling Frank with stories about Yogi Berra.

Once they arrived, Carlos escorted Frank to the conference room and then stepped away to discuss a matter with someone in the hallway. It only took a few minutes. Frank could hear snippets of a hushed conversation, but he couldn’t understand more than a few words.

Frank settled back in his chair, beginning to feel more rested. He stretched his legs and gazed outside. The sun poured into the room through the open windows and created golden squares that waltzed across the floor.

His mind drifted to his days with Magda. He pictured her dancing in her poodle skirt to the steady beat of “Secret Agent Man,” and he smiled at the irony that he was about to talk to the same.

He recalled Magda standing in her blue bathing suit looking out to a sea that stretched to the unfathomable shores of America as curls of foam nibbled her toes. He imagined her standing next to a hibiscus bush, its ruby flowers opening to greet her. He knew he was romanticizing, but he didn’t care.

It had been a long six months since he’d seen her, and more than a lifetime of events had transpired. He wondered whether she wore her hair the same way, whether she liked her new school,
whether she dressed in American-style clothes. It was inevitable that she had changed. But how?

Carlos entered the room, interrupting Frank’s thoughts. He took a seat at the end of the table, perpendicular to him. He seemed relaxed but distracted.

“I forgot to ask,” he said amiably. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like the dead.”

“Are they taking good care of you? Do you need anything?”

Frank smiled, rearranging his body in his chair. “Everything’s great.”

“Good.”

Carlos righted the folder before him, opened it, and glanced at it briefly. He scrutinized Frank as if assessing him for some unknown reason. Feeling uncomfortable under his gaze, Frank shifted in his chair.

“There are a couple of things I’d like to talk about today,” said Carlos.

“Fine. Whatever you want.”

Carlos placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “First, I’d like to hear your take on Fidel.”

“Personally or politically?”

“Both.”

Frank thought for a moment, considering how to express his feelings. He had strong views on the subject. But thinking about what Fidel had done to Cuba invariably made his head pound and his insides clench. He didn’t want to get into a full-blown discussion on the matter. It would be emotionally draining. It was time to look toward the future, and he was determined to make short shrift of the topic.

Frank closed his eyes for a moment before he spoke. “Castro’s an enigma.”

Carlos rested his chin on his fisted hand and waved his fingers in a gesture for Frank to continue. “Go on.”

Frank hesitated. “For one thing, he studied under the Jesuits, yet he’s determined to do everything possible to dismantle the Church.”

“Are you Catholic, Frank?”

“Born and raised.”

“Religion is important to you?”

“Of course.”

Carlos folded his hands in front of him. “Any other thoughts?”

“Fidel was trained as a lawyer, yet he’s totally disregarded the rule of law.” Frank waited a moment, editing his thoughts. Anger fortified his voice. “He claims to be a man of the people, but he runs Cuba like a police state. Anyone who disagrees with his policies is labeled a worm. People have no rights—you can land in jail for the slightest transgression. Not to mention being shot on sight.”

“Do you know people who’ve gone to jail, Frank?”

“I do.”

“Friends of yours?”

“Friends of mine.”

“And people who have died?”

Frank’s mind formed an image of Joey López, his sparkling brown eyes, his mischievous grin. The boy had been shot and killed during an aborted escape attempt. Frank had saved him from drowning a few weeks earlier when they tried to leave Cuba together. He was only thirteen. Tears filmed Frank’s eyes, and it took him a minute to regain his composure. “Yes,” he said. He did not want to elaborate.