all was not well among
“I don’t think so.” Holliday shrugged.
“He was Fidel’s head of the Direccion General de Inteligencia, DGI. Cuban intelligence. Between Losada and Fidel they convinced Che that the next step in the socialization of the Americas lay in Bolivia, of all places. Bolivia is more than four thousand kilometers from Cuba—what did it have to do with us? But Fidel and Losada told him the Bolivian Communist Party would rise to his aid. It wasn’t true, just like it wasn’t true for the poor
“Interesting piece of history, but what does it have to do with right now?” Holliday asked, cracking an ice cube between his teeth.
“People stopped believing in the lies. How do you say, the people and the government became…isolated from each other. First the Russians came and brought their KGB, then the Chinese and then finally we had no one. Nothing worked. There was no food, no coffee, no parts to replace the aircraft and the tanks. There was only the black market and the generals smuggling drugs. We traded doctors and engineers to Venezuela for gasoline, but that was all. No one cared about Fidel or Raul. They only believed in the Secret Police in their big houses with swimming pools in Atabey. Like a famous writer said… ‘
“The Middle Ages,” said Holliday quietly. Eddie was telling him that Cuba had collapsed into fiefdoms, lords and vassals, masters and slaves; it was the ultimate expression of rich and poor;
“
“So, what do we do?”
“Just remember that anyone who walks behind you who looks like he is eating well is probably Secret Police, and bring a great many of those American dollars with you…. There will be lots of
“Bribes?”
“
5
They met the man at La Taberna de la Muralles, a cafe and bar on a small cobbled plaza in Old Havana, the following day at lunchtime. He was in his fifties, with a rugged, clean-shaven face that had seen a lot of sun. He wore a porkpie hat that made him look a little bit like Gene Hackman in the
“Who is he?” Holliday asked as they approached his table on the crowded outdoor patio.
“His name is Cesar Diaz. He is a policeman, a detective, in fact,” said Eddie.
“We’re buying information from a
“He is the brother of my sister’s husband,” explained Eddie.
“Still…,” worried Holliday.
“The police are as poor as the people they’re supposed to serve. Five pesos a month doesn’t buy anything on the black market. They have to make their way just like everyone else.”
They sat down and Eddie did the introductions. Diaz offered them pastries from his plate, but they declined. He ordered coffee for them all, wiped the sugar off his lips with his makeshift bib and sat back in his chair. He really was beginning to look like Popeye Doyle.
“Eddie Cabrera, it has been a very long time,” said Diaz, speaking slightly accented English.
“Africa,” said Eddie. “Other places more recently.”
“There are some people in the Direccion de Inteligencia who would be interested to know you are back in Cuba. You must know that, of course.”
“And if you so much as whispered my name, you must know what would happen to your brothers and your uncles and your aunts and your good friend Tomas who you play dominos with, even that dog of yours—what is his name?”
“Romeo.” Diaz smiled. “You have turned very hard, Eddie. I must say this.”
“Try fighting with Ochoa Sanchez in Angola—that would make you hard, too.”
“Ochoa was executed in the Tropas Especiales.”
“Everyone is executed eventually who disagrees with Fidel. Which is why I stayed in Africa.”
“Probably a wise move.”
“I thought so.”
“But now you are home again,” said Diaz. “And you want something.”
“That’s right.” Eddie nodded. The coffee arrived, the real thing in tiny cups—thick and strong and black.
“So tell me,” said Diaz, sipping. He took a red-and-white package of Populars from the pocket of his guayabera and lit one with what looked suspiciously like a gold Dunhill lighter, or at least a pretty good knockoff. Holliday noticed that the detective was wearing a stainless steel Omega Constellation on his left wrist. Whatever the detective was doing for money was clearly quite lucrative.
“My brother, Domingo, has disappeared,” Eddie said flatly.
“A lot of people are disappearing these days.” Diaz shrugged, smoking. “You have been away too long, Eddie; things have changed. Fidel gives lectures on the television about robots and Mars and how atomic bombs all over the world are leaking their radiation into the air, which is causing the hurricanes to get worse each year. He thinks American drones fly over his house all day looking for ways to poison his food. Raul dreams of his farm in Spain. The generals fight to see who will be the next
Holliday had heard of Lourdes; it was a giant signal intelligence operation built by the Russians and completed by the Chinese. Effectively it was the Cuban version of the NSA, a giant ear, listening to America. He’d never heard of Mantanzas, so he asked.
“You know the CIA operates a training camp for new agents called the Farm?”
“I think I’ve heard of it,” said Holliday evasively. In fact, he’d once been an instructor at the installation at Camp Peary in the Virginia countryside. He didn’t dare mention it.
“That is what Mantanzas is,” said Diaz, stubbing out his cigarette. “Carlos the Jackal trained there in 1962.”
“You have no idea where he is?” Holliday asked.
“No, senor,” said Diaz, shaking his head.
“Can you ask questions, perhaps?”
“Careful questions. For a price.”
“What price?”
“A thousand. U.S dollars, of course, to start.”
