Red Snapper

By Samuel J Parker

CIA agent, Carlton Davies, witnesses the violent revolution in Grenada and is the last foreigner to leave before Maurice Bishop and his Cuban backed revolutionaries take over the country.
The CIA agent starts gathering evidence that Michael Manley, Prime Minister of Jamaica, is planning to take Jamaica down a similar route to Grenada. Manley is a strong supporter of Fidel Castro but when Castro is appointed Chairman of the Non Aligned Movement, the CIA decides it is time to stop further Cuban inspired change in the region. Jamaica is the chosen battleground.
So worried are the CIA about the march of communism in their ‘backyard’ they appoint CIA Head of Station, Wynton McKenna, as the man to put a stop to Cuban influence. An election is approaching and there is mounting evidence the Cubans are destabilising the country – using proven tactics to frighten the electorate into voting for Manley’s pro-Cuban Peoples National Party.
McKenna, hands tied by President Jimmy Carter’s conciliatory mentality towards Cuba, engages the anti-Castro brigade operating out of Miami - men who fled the country after the revolution in Cuba, veterans of the Bay of Pigs fiasco and dedicated to overthrowing Castro.
Both the CIA and the anti-Castro brigade have links to the Mafia. All have designs on Jamaica, all need each other, all have different agendas and Red Snapper is the story of how these different relationships play out.
The situation is further complicated by a love affair between the CIA agent Carlton Davies and the married daughter of the leader of the anti-Castro brigade Roberto Santos. An affair designed to test personal loyalties to the limit.
The story builds to a climax when, on 30th October 1980, the Jamaicans go to the polls to vote in their next government. An election that resulted in over 900 murders – many at the hands of Cuban and CIA backed activists.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samuel J Parker
• Release date: Nov 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9780957262140

Samuel J Parker

My writing before RED SNAPPER was of a technical nature. Hundreds, if not thousands, of reports designed to influence business and government decision makers. The one exciting aspect of these writings was they were all based on interviews with real people – consumers of hundreds of different consumer products and services, powerful decision makers in multi-national corporations, people caring for disabled loved ones, people close to giving up on life, addicts and many others. Each interview providing a rich insight into the values, insights and experiences that guides us through our lives.Teaching in England, Jamaica and Thailand to students from across the world has provided a priceless backdrop and understanding of the cultural and political forces at work.These experiences seem a reasonable justification for embarking on a new career as a writer. It is an opportunity to let the imagination run wild to entertain the reader as opposed to informing them.

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RED SNAPPER

By

Samuel J Parker

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Published by Mercom Associates Ltd

Copyright © 2012 by Samuel J Parker

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

ISBN 978-0-9572621-4-0

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book, we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions or any inconsistency herein. Any slights of people, places or organisations are unintentional.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Terry Murray for all his technical expertise and patience in helping me get this book to market. Also many thanks to my daughter Andrea for her invaluable help in editing the original manuscript. And finally, a big thanks to my wife Jean for her unquestioning support and courage during our time in Jamaica in 1978/80.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Prologue

A three inch mortar shell exploded ripping open the fragile wooden sentry box guarding the army headquarters in a quiet tree-lined suburb of St George. The young sentry, who seconds before was mentally reliving his last night’s drug fuelled revelries, was now a grotesque and bloodied corpse. A revolution had just kicked off.

The CIA agent witnessed the carnage from across the road in the mahogany walled Cabinet Office in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. There was nothing he or the mighty US could do about it. He had the meagre satisfaction of knowing he had predicted its coming but his forecasting skills had not told him it would start today. Two days before the Ides of March, 1979.

Grenada was a small but symbolically important island to the US - an island of barely 100,000 inhabitants. It was a plantation economy earning its foreign exchange from the export of nutmeg and mace.

The island was of no military significance but it was still important to the US that their view of the world was correctly aligned. That is why they were keen to keep Sir Eric Matthew Gairy’s corrupt and dysfunctional United Labour Party government in power.

But here was another country straining to break free of the suffocating legacy of imperialism and the international corporations exploiting the country’s resources under the banner of free market capitalism. Here was a country ready for the march towards socialism and Moscow.

The CIA agent also forecast who would be behind the revolution – a young English trained lawyer by the name of Maurice Bishop, leader of the Marxist New JEWEL Movement [NJM] and his People’s Revolutionary Army. He had closely followed and monitored the progress of the Marxist since his election to the Grenadian House of Representatives and noted with alarm his growing popularity with the working classes.

He had been in Grenada just two days, one of his quarterly visits to gather intelligence and ‘oil the wheels’ of the corrupt regime. Uncertain about his own physical security, should he be captured by the revolutionary army, he struggled to find the words to reassure the young Grenadian – the man who provided much of the intelligence that formed the backbone of his reports for the CIA. ‘Just what have you to fear? They want Gairy and his gang of crooked ministers. What can they pin on you? Our dealings have been all about helping your country with our money. Just look at the potential new markets you are building. Just look at the good things we have done together.’

The CIA agent was used to lying – had been trained in it – but sensed his words had a hollow ring to them.

Uriah Jagan trembled, eyes wide with fear, sweat rolling down his furrowed forehead, his broad strong hands gripping his chair as if trying to find refuge by anchoring himself to it. ‘You don’t understand – how can you? Gairy and my father were friends from the early days and I owe everything to Gairy – everything I have ever done with my life. He gave me this job. He even paid for my mother to have a tumour removed from her jaw in England.’ It was as if Uriah, by unburdening himself of his privileges, was seeking redemption.

The CIA agent had reassured men before but what could he say to someone who had ruthlessly exploited his connections, benefited hugely from the granting of favours and undoubtedly had blood on his hands? Uriah had good reason to fear Maurice Bishop.

The signs had been visible for months; the rampant corruption, the cronyism and the growing social and economic disparities. Sensing he was losing his grip on power Gairy had also unleashed his private army, the brutal Mongoose Gang, to try to frighten off his political opponents.

There was a simple and unchallengeable morality behind Bishop’s new JEWEL movement. A morality that sought fairness and a movement strengthened by the support from the charismatic leaders of the region and beyond. They were all anti-imperialists and in the game of creating a new model government. They were all using the poor, the plantation and agricultural workers, the unions, the unemployed and the elderly to legitimise their movements.

The CIA agent had monitored and reported on the situation and Washington had responded with its well organised propaganda machine designed to strengthen Gairy and discredit Bishop. Money had flowed to the corrupt regime from US controlled international financial institutions.

The CIA had also provided the Mongoose Gang with its firepower and trained some of the gang members in urban warfare. But it had now spectacularly backfired on them. Grenada was now slipping away to forge a new future for its people and a collision course with the established order.

‘You must get out now – while there is still time. You can hear the gunshots at the barracks at True Blue – they will come here next. Gairy left the country two days ago to address the United Nations. I drove him to the airport myself. They will be looking for his associates Bogo DeSouze and Cosmos Raymond to stop them from organising any resistance. They are the ones primed to take charge in Gairy’s absence.’ Uriah Jagan, a 42 year old civil servant in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and recipient of generous US funding to help promote the export of nutmeg to the US and beyond, was now pleading with his friend.

This generous funding propelled Uriah across the globe seeking new markets and a playboy lifestyle many of his countrymen resented and questioned. He also had a luxury house overlooking St George’s picture postcard harbour that could not be justified on his modest civil service salary. Uriah feared the questioning would start soon and the presence of an American businessman would add greatly to their suspicions.

‘I have a seat on a flight booked for later this morning. Hopefully I can get there before Bishop’s men. When things have settled down I will be back – you never know we may still be working together.’ These were meaningless and disingenuous words but they were the only ones that came to mind.

This was not a new experience for the CIA agent – his back fully protected under the guise of foreign aid – he was used to abandoning people to their fate. He had made the decision Uriah was not worth protecting - he was now an embarrassing liability and one easily replaced.

‘Go, please go. I need time to clear my desk – destroy some files.’ Uriah had composed himself to some degree. His sweating and shaking had subsided. He returned to his expensive leather inlaid mahogany desk, the kind designed to make visitors feel uncomfortable, and turned on the radio just in time to hear the voice of Maurice Bishop broadcasting to the people. His sweating and shaking returned but with much greater severity than before. The voice of the triumphant Bishop here in the office with him was the final straw.

The CIA agent decided now was the time to escape and he ran to the waiting car. An immaculately maintained black 1965 P5 Rover Coupé – originally imported for the use by British diplomats but now generously donated to the Government of Grenada for the personal use of senior ministers. The smartly liveried George Canter had remained steadfastly at his post awaiting his passenger.

George, the chauffer, came with the 1965 Rover. It was his pride and joy. He was attached to it in the same way as the Grenada pennant had been attached to the chromium plated radiator. George was in his late 40’s but looked much older. He had been a plantation worker since he was 12 years old – a life of toil and drudgery had taken its toll. He progressed to chauffeuring when the British Embassy was looking to recruit a local driver. George talked his way into the job using his exaggerated tractor driving skills as the basis of his claim of relevant experience. He was perfect for the job and was popular from the Prime Minister down. A deeply lined face shrouded with white curly hair and gold rimmed spectacles suggested more a distinguished professor of social anthropology than a lowly government employee. Whatever the task and whatever the circumstances he had never let anyone down in his life. He opened the passenger door for the American businessman, saluted and set off at leisurely speed to Pearls Airport.

The crack of automatic gunfire and loud explosions could be heard coming from the army barracks. Black smoke from burning accommodation huts was billowing across the eastern part of St George. An early dawn attack was clearly designed to catch the local garrison off guard. They drove past police stations having already hoisted the white flag.

Outside the army barracks there appeared to be no organised opposition to the revolution. Local residents appeared to be going about their daily routine as usual – no sign of panic. Smartly dressed children in their starched blue uniforms, books tucked under their arms sauntering to school without a care in the world. Ramshackle windowless green single floored buses shuddering to a halt picking up the elderly for their daily shopping errands.

‘Any chance you could pick up speed George?’ enquired the passenger.

‘Me goin’ at 45 mph – this is as fas’ as i-man kyan go.’ A lifetime of subservient obedience had robbed George of the power to change the rules and he didn’t recognise his passenger as someone with the appropriate authority to change them either.

At that moment a burst of machine gun fire raked the back of the Rover. The rear window shattered showering the passenger and driver with tiny glass fragments. These were familiar and unmistakable sounds to the passenger. George was about to stop to investigate the damage, and no doubt remonstrate with the culprit, when the passenger jabbed a pistol into the back of his head and shouted, ‘Drive’. The passenger had much to hide. George had nothing to fear from the Revolution.

‘I’m sorry George but I need to get to the airport in a hurry. I have a plane to catch. Tell them I forced you to drive on.’ And on they drove still at the leisurely 45 mph but even at that pace it quickly put distance between them and the foot soldiers of the Revolution. The car was a symbol of the hated regime and their attackers had obviously associated the Rover with an escape – George would not be driving his car in this direction without a passenger.

Pearls Airport was 23 miles from St George and accessed by a narrow winding road over the mountains. At any time of day the road was normally busy but, with the exception of the odd horse and cart and grazing goat crossing in search of new pasture, there were no delaying road workings or slow agricultural traffic today. It took 53 minutes to travel the distance and the passenger was mightily relieved to see the faded white control tower overlooking the single narrow runway.

On the runway was a Leeward Islands Air Transport plane, a Rolls Royce Avro Turbo Prop, with room for 12 passengers. The LIAT initials were translated locally into ‘Leaves Island Any Time’ and the CIA agent was about to test the truthfulness of the strap line.

George was instructed to bypass the now deserted police security check point and wooden hut serving both arriving and departing passengers and drive directly to the one and only plane on the runway.

‘I am sorry I had to do that George – here is $50 dollars.’ The passenger got out the car and turned only to see George fling the money after him.

‘Keep your filthy coil – I will no be bought. If dis be de Revolution me don’t need your money.’ George’s friendly face was now transformed into one of hatred and anger – no longer the amiable looking academic of one hour earlier. Years of bottled-up resentment had just been freed.

On board the plane, the crew was struggling to understand what had happened – no one was manning the control tower – no one was giving out flight instructions – no engineering or immigration staff. No one had bothered to tell the flight crew about the revolution.

The passenger walked to the front of the plane, lied to the pilot that all Americans and Europeans were being shot on sight and it would be in all their interests to leave post haste. The now frightened ex US Air Force pilot took no more persuading – he had his plane and crew to consider. It was now time to leave.

The CIA agent breathed a sigh of relief as he looked down on the small picturesque island. He traced the spreading cloud of black smoke back to the army base, the scene of serious violence. He had no way of knowing the outcome of the battle but he sensed the ordinary people of Grenada would not be resisting the Revolution.

‘When we hear the news of the Revolution this morning, it was a joy, come out in the morning! Joy come out in the morning! As if I lifted up that morning! I lifted up above the sky that morning! The Revolution make me young again. I young now as if I just in me teens! Me energy come through that happiness of the Revolution. Long live the Revolution! Long live Maurice Bishop and his party. And we praying for them day and night, because they not seeking for one and not the other, they seeking for all people, from baby to the old.’

Chapter 1

He was normally a calm individual. Today he was not his normal self – a shade agitated, and calm had given way to irritability. The casually dressed courtesy driver provided by his contact at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs shouted his oft repeated instruction, ‘Windows up and doors locked.’ They were on their way to Norman Manley Airport.

Urban folklore had it that unsuspecting white tourists who dangled their arms out of open windows had had their hands chopped off just above the wrist – apparently the quickest and most risk free way of acquiring a Rolex. There was no actual proof of any incident but no one took the chance when driving through Franklyn Town. This advice was faithfully relayed to every expat and tourist who ventured to Kingston in these troubled times. Fear was reinforced by the sight of a machete resting handily between the front seats of all Jamaican taxis.

Beyond this urban slum of brightly painted wooden shacks with their rusting corrugated iron roofs and barefoot inhabitants, the pot-holed Palisadoes Road would surely qualify as the most beautiful airport approach road anywhere in the world – providing you were looking seaward! Looking landward and your eyes would be affronted by the sight of rusting beached freighters and broken-backed ferries.

His demeanour was not helped by the timing of his Air Jamaica flight from Kingston, Jamaica. As he had come to expect it was delayed by another brilliantly inventive excuse which in essence boiled down to an admission of management incompetence. This time it was a lack of toiletries. He thought to himself, at times like this wasn’t there some justification in lying – something much more imaginative than a lack of paper to wipe your ass. Sitting on plastic chairs positioned randomly on a grimy tiled floor in a crowded and hot departure lounge for two hours longer than necessary could have been made that tiny bit more tolerable.

The reason for the mood swing was a series of agents’ reports he had collected and intercepted on his travels around the Caribbean islands and Central America. Some reports were part of routine intelligence gathering from trusted agents, others obtained by threats of intimidation and blackmail and some from the innocent association with unsuspecting colleagues.

Based on similar intelligence, he had predicted the violent revolution in Grenada and had monitored the role of the so called Cuban ‘engineers’ in supporting Bishop’s New JEWEL Movement. He almost overplayed his cover and was fortunate to escape the island in the confusion at Pearls Airport before the revolutionaries took control.

Carlton Davies was now seriously pre-occupied with organising and prioritising his newly acquired information in such a way that might persuade a seemingly reluctant Washington to act. If his latest prediction was close to being correct then the region could expect to witness destabilisation on a much greater scale than occurred in tiny Grenada.

The plane was fully booked with a mixture of brightly and scantily dressed locals, red faced tourists, smartly dressed businessmen and the inevitable ‘bo-jangle’, the medallion wearing Rastafarian drug dealer. A non-alcoholic fruit punch served by glamorous hostesses in orange figure hugging dresses, a short stop-over in Montego Bay to exchange a dozen passengers and a quick read of The Gleaner and Star helped fill the ninety minute flight time.

Any pick up in his mood was quickly dashed on his arrival in Miami. He failed in his attempt to bluff his way through the ‘fast lane’. His credentials did not satisfy the sharp eyed and equally sharp tongued black immigration officer who was dangerously close to exploding out of her smartly pressed white uniform. She took her job seriously and Carlton meekly accepted the rejection and joined the queue of US nationals trying to re-enter their country.

Even for US citizens’ immigration clearance was always a frustratingly slow process. Whether it was because of his emotional state, today’s delays seemed longer than normal. He even started to feel sorry for those visitors to the US – why, he thought, did they appear to entrust immigration control to singularly unpleasant, intrusive and obnoxious officials? He then remembered where he had just come from – one of the major illegal drug exporting countries in the region and couriers with ever more inventive ideas by which to disguise their cargo.

It was always a relief to see the back of Miami International, by his standards one of the most crowded and chaotic airports in the whole of the US. This was your main port of entry and ‘mixing pot’ for all those legal and otherwise travellers from South and Central America and the Caribbean. One minute you would be walking behind a square Bolivian bowler hatted flat-faced Indian carrying a boxed microwave, the next a bemused and gormless Brit just wondering where the hell in the world he was, and then by a stroke of good fortune bumping into what appeared to be Brazil’s latest entrant to Miss World.

Miami Airport could also be your first introduction to biculturalism where Latinos clashed with Anglos and where all airport announcements were bilingual – English and rapido Cuban Spanish. The one and only advantage biculturalism appears to have bestowed on Miami Airport is the Cuban café, dressed up as beach bar, selling the best tasting coffee in the world.

Carlton was a regular to Miami International and quickly left the Arrivals Hall, fought his way through a 90 degree wall of oppressive humidity and located his car on the fifth floor of the characterless, grey multi-storey public parking lot. He paid his seven day parking fee to an attendant who was clearly occupied with more important issues – the baseball game showing on his antiquated TV monitor.

His white, 3 litre Ford Thunderbird with the black wheel arches trimmed with chrome, twin exhausts and black leather upholstery was one of his few luxuries in life. Purchased with the proceeds of some minor money laundering deals in Kingston, exaggerated expense claims and unspent per diems, it helped him escape the tensions and fears accumulated from his regular field trips. Here he was in a total control. Here he felt relatively safe – a world away from some of the double-dealing and murderous individuals he was working with. Here was a rare opportunity to make sense of what was going on and to forecast how future events might unfold for him.

He checked into a Holiday Inn motel and noted the armed guard on each floor. He was aware Dade County had become the murder centre of the US but things must have got pretty bad - a shotgun holding security guard was posted on each floor of what looked to all appearances a family friendly hotel.

He recalled the daily updated murder scoreboard located on the highway as he entered Dade County and recoiled in disgust at what America was becoming. Just too easy to blame the waves of Cuban immigrants – there was something more fundamental happening to the social fabric of the country. But no one was denying Cubans had taken control of downtown Miami. The Columbians, Jamaicans and Italian Mafia were starting to feel marginalised that control of the lucrative drugs trade, protection rackets and prostitution were being taken from them. Increasingly bitter and violent gang wars, with a rapidly escalating body count, were erupting throughout Dade County and sometimes beyond.

‘It’s too late for the restaurant but I can arrange room service should you want a snack?’ enquired the enthusiastic young desk clerk.

Obviously new to the job thought Carlton who responded positively. ‘Can you arrange to deliver a Quattro Staggionni and mixed salad in about twenty minutes?’

He threw his battered leather studded briefcase and equally travelled leather holdall onto one of the twin beds. The room was predictably reliable Holiday Inn with en-suite – just what he needed. He unzipped the side pocket of his holdall and extracted a bottle of Appleton’s Golden Jamaican Rum and a bottle of Ting (sparkling grapefruit). One third rum and two thirds Ting cooled down by ice was his favourite night time, in fact anytime, relaxant. After two of these his world took on an altogether more appealing and less threatening dimension. He was starting to appreciate this new and enticing world more and more.

He also unpacked his Berretta 92S semi-automatic CIA optional issue handgun and taped it discreetly to the side of his bedside cabinet. He had once made the mistake of leaving his gun out of reach whilst in a hotel bedroom and nearly paid the price. A room delivery of pizza and another rum and Ting was enough to close down Carlton’s mind for the night. Door locked and chair lodged under the handle were a primitive but necessary final safeguard in his line of business.

Chapter 2

At seven o’clock sharp next morning Carlton’s military training had him on his feet, shaved and showered within six minutes precisely. Dressed in a pair of Brook’s Brothers sports