Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (8 page)

Abuelo once told him it was easier to remember a dream if you returned to the same position you were in when you awoke. Frank turned on his side and slipped his hands beneath his head, trying to recapture fragments of a dream that was quickly dissolving.

He closed his eyes and Magda appeared in a dotted Swiss dress, her hair arranged in beribboned braids. She was holding the hand of a blue-eyed boy, a familiar boy, one Frank had seen before. They were smiling and saying something he couldn’t hear.

The dream was slipping away. Frank clung to it like a man holding onto a lifeboat. He felt the roll of the ocean and heard the
shriek of seagulls. The air was cool and redolent of salt and fish. The boy was calling Frank’s name, faintly at first, then louder. He was beating a drum. A word rang out across the open sea, sounding as sharp and as clear as a foghorn.

Frank sat straight up. He glanced at a fellow refugee snoring in the next bed. He knew this word, this call, this command. It was the same word this boy had used when Frank was trying to decide whether to board the Guatemalan freighter.

He relaxed as the tightness in his chest dissolved like Jell-O in hot water. He smiled, knowing exactly what to do.

The next couple of days Frank spent with various army personnel who peppered him with questions regarding military operations in Cuba. They asked him about the distance and velocity of rockets, their depth of penetration into steel, the kinds of vehicles used to transport them, and the location of fuel.

Frank identified items of interest in films they had of Cuban military parades and thought he recognized himself in one of them. The army personnel were respectful and grateful for Frank’s time and input. They concluded their discussions with mutual respect.

That night Frank had trouble sleeping, thinking about his upcoming meeting with Carlos. He was not looking forward to informing him about his decision. During their short time together, Frank had developed a genuine respect and fondness for the man. Carlos was smart and compassionate, a combination Frank valued.

Frank was in full agreement with the agency’s goals, and he knew he could help. But the idea of reentering the vortex that was Cuba cramped his throat. The next morning, as they drove to Carlos’s office, Frank approached the subject. “I know you want an answer regarding our discussion the other day.”

Carlos raised a hand to stop him.

“Let’s wait until we get to the office to talk about it,” he said. Frank could tell from the disappointment in his eyes that he knew what he was going to say.

“All right.”

When they arrived at the office, Frank settled himself in a chair and turned toward Carlos. “I’m sorry. The thought of telling you
my decision has been weighing on my mind. I hate to disappoint you, but I cannot accept your offer. I—”

Carlos gestured his acceptance. “No need to explain. Your priorities are your priorities. You have every right to your decision. You must do what’s best for you. This is America, you know.”

Frank smiled. “Thank you for that. I appreciate your consideration. But there are more important things I want to do right now—like getting married.”

“I understand,” said Carlos. He looked out the window and said in a tone that surprised Frank, “It’s hard to argue with love.”

Frank nodded, not wanting to pursue the subject.

Carlos closed the manila folder on his desk and turned to retrieve another one sitting on his credenza. He smiled at Frank. “If you aren’t going to join the agency, can you help us in another way?”

“I’ll do whatever I can.”

“I’m sure you are aware of Alpha Sixty-six, the organization of Cubans in America who are dedicated to overthrowing Fidel.”

“I’ve heard of them.”

“They are a very disciplined group, and they number in the thousands. They are involved in clandestine operations. They keep a low profile. Most Americans have never heard of them. They are better known in the Cuban community, but they keep a tight lid on disclosing their activities. They are well armed and well trained, and they will stop at nothing to undermine Fidel’s regime.”

“Most of them are refugees, I understand,” said Frank.

“Yes. Some of their members participated in the Bay of Pigs operation. The CIA works with them on a variety of security issues, including getting people in and out of Cuba.”

“I see.”

Carlos cleared his throat. “It would be a great help if you could supply us with information on anyone in Cuba who might be willing to cooperate with us.”

“Cooperate with the CIA?”

“With the CIA and with Alpha Sixty-six, if necessary.”

“I’d have to think about it.”

Carlos exhaled. “Why don’t you start by telling me about who helped in your escape.”

Frank took a deep breath. “I made three escape attempts, and a lot of people helped. But in terms of army personnel, it was my friends Manny and Lazo. They covered for me at the base so my absences weren’t noticed.”

“They took a big risk.”

“They did,” said Frank, feeling guilty that he had made it to the States and they had not. “They were fellow ATGM operators. If it weren’t for them, I’d be rotting in jail. Or worse. In any event, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking with you.”

Carlos touched the end of his pencil to his lips. “Describe Lazo for me.”

“He’s a light-skinned mulatto. Five foot ten. Well-built. Neat dresser.”

“Smart?”

“Very. He’s also well spoken, charming, and sophisticated.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I’ve already trusted him—with my life.”

“That says it all.”

“I guess it does.”

“Where does he live?”

“In Guanabacoa with his family. I’ve been to his house many times.”

“Describe his house for me.”

Frank wrote down the address and color of the house and handed it to Carlos, who added it to his file.

“Can you tell me a story Lazo would recognize?”

Frank thought for a moment and smiled.

“What?”

“At one point Lazo was in charge of a basketball team for the force. One night we left the game early and went to a nightclub in Havana. I forget the name. If it comes to me, I’ll let you know.
Anyway, Manny, Lazo and I spent a couple of hours drinking and dancing with the girls.

“Lazo met a girl named Regina—a real looker. He flirted with her shamelessly. She had a few too many drinks and ended up dancing on the bar. Lazo decided to join her, but he was so tipsy he fell off and landed flat on his face. We all laughed ourselves silly. Except Lazo. He was mortified. None of us will ever forget that night.”

“Perfect! That’s just what I needed.” Carlos penned some notes in a slanted script before looking up again.

“And Manny. Could you describe him?”

“Sure. Manny’s about five-foot-eight, slight build. Not very strong. Again, very smart. Well read. His math and analytical abilities made up for his physical shortcomings.”

“How so?”

“He could figure out equations needed to determine a rocket’s trajectory in a blink of an eye, which made him one of the force’s best operators. Lieutenant Brown was willing to overlook his physical limitations because of it.”

“Sounds like a smart cookie.”

“He is.”

Carlos made another note. “Where does he live?”

“In Regla, not far from the oil refinery.” Again Frank wrote down the address for Carlos.

“Can you give me a list of other men in the Special Forces who hated the communists?”

Frank took pen to paper, wrote down several names, and handed his notes to Carlos.

“Is there anything else you’d like to say before we conclude our discussions?”

Frank thought for a moment. “Keep in mind that new recruits are inducted into the army twice a year, in June and December.”

“Meaning?”

“Lazo and Manny will get out of the army in December. The
timing may be an important consideration, should you decide to contact them.”

“I appreciate that,” said Carlos. He stood up and smiled. “Well, I think that’s about it for you.”

“I’m free to go?”

Carlos extended his hand. “It was a pleasure getting to know you, Frank. I hope our paths cross again someday.”

“Likewise.”

“Perhaps we will have a drink together when Fidel is overthrown.”

Frank nodded. “Perhaps.”

Carlos hesitated. “One more thing: I was wondering why you decided not to join the agency.”

The truth halted in Frank’s throat like a heel of stale bread. He looked at Carlos, wondering whether the agent would understand. The last thing he wanted was to appear foolish. He faltered for a moment and then reclaimed his courage.

“There’s a boy,” he said. “I have no idea who or what he is. But he guides me when I need him.”

Carlos knitted his brows. “A guardian angel?” His tone of voice did not betray his views.

“Call him what you will. But I trust him. I dreamed of him standing beside Magda. I was trying to decide whether to go to her or to join the agency. The boy looked at me and said: ‘Come.’”

Carlos did not respond. He shot Frank a look so penetrating it felt like it scraped the back of his skull. “Interesting,” he said. The men walked down the hallway without further comment.

When they reached the door, Carlos took Frank’s hand in both of his. “I wish you the very best in America.”

“It seems daunting.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“Thanks.”

“Good luck with Magda and good luck finding a job.”

“Thanks again.”

Frank smiled and walked into the bright glare of freedom.

Wedged between two farmers, Pino sat on the backseat of an old, dilapidated bus, fumes belching out of its tailpipe, its rusted fenders covered with a thick coat of grime. Someone had etched the ubiquitous
“¡Cuba, sí, Yanqui, no! ¡Venceremos!”
“Cuba, Yes, Yankees, No! We will win!” with their finger on the filthy back window. As the bus lurched along the rutted dirt road running through Matanzas province, Pino closed his eyes, his muscles moving in rhythm with the sway of the vehicle.

It had been a long couple of weeks, full of loss and humiliation. Mederos’s escape and his own trial and conviction had left Pino shaken to the core. The tribunal had not only robbed him of his rank, it had stripped him of his dignity. The thought pained him like a blow to the head.

If he were lucky, Pino might be able to rebuild his career from the bottom up. Who knew what the future might bring? Even so, that would take years, maybe decades to accomplish. The very idea drained blood from his face.

Pino shook his head, trying to come to terms with the fact that he was packed into this wretched bus loaded with lowlifes. He worked to distract himself by silently repeating slogans of the revolution:
“Viva el socialismo! Viva Fidel! Socialismo o Muerte!”
He scowled as a mosquito buzzed his ear. He waved it away, attempting to recall better days.

Pino was settling into his seat, lost in his thoughts, when the man sitting to his right sneezed, a sloppy, wet eruption that spread a nasty mist that landed squarely on Pino’s cheeks. He was a beefy
man with bushy eyebrows, known as Emmanuel. He grunted and lifted a filthy hand to wipe his nose. The former lieutenant eyed him with disgust, retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed his face. He exhaled loudly, and leaned away.
These people behave like pigs. And to think I’m going to have to live with them.

Emmanuel didn’t take kindly to Pino’s condescension. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he said, revealing a mouth devoid of adjoining teeth. “Ain’t you ever seen a man sneeze before?” Pino grunted, lowered his chin, and cast Emmanuel a venomous glare.

There was something about Emmanuel that reminded Pino of his father. A memory flashed through his mind, an image of his father sitting at the kitchen table, his calloused hands caressing a bottle of rum, his teeth fuzzy with lack of brushing.

Hygiene was never his father’s long suit.

At the time, Pino had just finished reading a book on the history of Spain. He was smart and he knew it. But his father put no value on intellect or education. Being a tough guy was all he cared about. He pointed an accusing finger in his son’s direction.

“Knowing that shit ain’t worth a bag of beans,” he said. “Ya just wastin’ your fuckin’ time. Ya ain’t no better than me. Cut from the same cloth, we are. I ain’t made nothin’ of myself and ya ain’t gonna either.”

At that moment, Pino vowed to get out, to prove his father wrong. He began to spend his free time studying instead of playing, repeating his multiplication tables in his head while doing chores, sitting in the front seat at school, rising to the top of his class. He was well on his way to success when the revolution came. He sensed opportunities and took advantage of them. By his mid-thirties, he was well respected, a member of the Communist Party. And now this.

Pino rearranged his body and looked out the window. Fields of sugarcane drifted past his eyes like clouds in a storm. The former lieutenant was of Spanish descent. He had light skin and gray-green eyes—a color with no real name—and the sun had never been easy on him.

This will be tough. Hard labor is supposed to be. But at least the tribunal took my loyalty and service to the Party into consideration when it came to sentencing. At least I wasn’t executed or sent to jail. It could be worse. A lot worse.

When the bus groaned to a halt, Pino grabbed his small suitcase and descended two stairs to greet the torrid heat. A foreman, a burly, no-nonsense man named Castillo, shouted, “This way, men.” The contingent followed a narrow dirt path to a rough wooden bunker with a corrugated tin roof. Pino scrutinized it. It was beaten and bent, and Pino figured it probably leaked. He was right.

As the door opened, a pack of rats scurried into a nest of shadows. The air was a fog of mildew, rodent droppings, and eye-watering cigarette smoke. Two heavy beams ran the length of the building, providing a place for hammocks to be strung. Upward of one hundred men slept there, barely two feet apart.

Pino looked at the other men, hoping to find someone who seemed to have had military experience, someone to whom he could relate. For a fleeting moment, he wished he had someone to talk to, a woman perhaps, someone sympathetic to his plight. One man was busy picking his nose. Another was scratching his ass. His prospects didn’t look promising.