The Girl from Guantanamo

By Donald Lloyd Roth

The Girl from Guantanamo is a captivating work of the historical fiction genre that electrifies readers with the harrowing tale of Pilar Ruiz, who as an eighteen- year- old in 1958 Cuba, improbably secured the course of the Castro Revolution. In 1958 the author was a Lieutenant(jg) in the U.S. Navy stationed aboard an iconic Destroyer Escort the USS Raymond. The Raymond made several visits to the base at Guantanamo Bay (GTMO) and an overnight foray into the harbor of Santiago de Cuba at a pivotal juncture of the Revolution. His unique perspective adds verisimilitude to his tale.

Pilar was born and spent her early years on a sugar farm, both Santiago and GTMO. Her father Miguel and her uncle Jorge had built separate houses. Each raised a daughter, born within the same week. The cousins Pilar and Alicia were more like twin sisters as Pilar’s mother Maria, mothered both girls because Alicia’s mother died when the girls were one- year old.

For the two families it could be said that “sugar was their life.”

When Pilar was nine, Miguel, to give his family a better life, moved them to Miami when he became a sparring partner to international boxing legend Kid Gavilan. Miguel tried, but failed, to persuade Jorge to join them. Life in glamorous Miami was sweet for a growing girl whose father had a good job: not so back on the sugar farm in Cuba where Alicia would succumb to small pox.

The 1950s progressed. A growing unrest with the Batista regime in Cuba was mirrored in Miami. Miguel had instilled in his daughter a love of running and martial arts. Now he was also exposing her to the politics of the rebel cause. When his views caused him to be detained as an illegal alien, Maria and Pilar, at his instruction, fled to Cuba.

Imbued with her father’s deep love of her homeland, Pilar the scrappy girl from Guantanamo meets her destiny with courage. At the request of the rebels she infiltrates the CIA. Using sex as a weapon, Pilar becomes a revolutionary heroine when she uncovers a plot to wipe out the leaders of the Revolution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SelectBooks
• Release date: May 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781590794340

Book preview

CIA OPERATION CLEAN SWEEP REVISITED

Chip Thompson didn’t look his eighty-plus years.

Despite the brutal heat and humidity, the tall, muscular man with the thick white crew cut, blue striped Lacoste golf shirt, and pressed khakis barely broke a sweat as he exited his golf cart at the exclusive golf course in West Palm Beach, Florida. His bearing, resembling that of a retired military man, was a striking contrast to the spastic convolutions of Héctor Salazar, the bedraggled soul he hadn’t seen in almost six decades who awaited him inside as Thompson entered the clubhouse.

Although they were approximately the same age, Salazar looked ancient, shivering in a soiled white linen shirt, with the haunted expression of one who had missed his last several meals. Salazar’s deep-set eyes followed Thompson as the distinguished looking man walked in and seemed to look right past him. Thompson stopped, stood frozen for a moment, and then turned to get a better look at the bearded Cuban staring back at him.

Salazar? asked Thompson.

It’s me, replied Salazar, carefully reading the other man’s expression before offering a cautious smile. Still alive, but freezing to death in this place.

They keep the air conditioning set pretty low. You’ll get used to it.

Thompson judged Salazar’s attire to be marginal but acceptable for the clubhouse. Are you hungry? He gestured to the dining room, which was filled with well-dressed senior citizens, mostly golfers, eating lunch at 11:45 in the morning. I never use up my annual food minimum, so we can gorge ourselves.

Salazar took in the buffet, which occupied a large alcove of the main dining room named the Atrium. Along one wall, three areas overladen with food were attended by men dressed in white. A help-yourself soup table was flanked on its left by fascinating small appetizers in miniature pans. Today’s were salmon with mango salsa and frogs’ legs with herb garlic butter, and a choice of three soups, one of which Chip proclaimed to Salazar was always chicken noodle, the tastiest chicken soup you’ll ever have in your life! Next was a chipotle beef vegetable with garlic croutons and a gazpacho with delicately cut cucumbers and tomatoes and a delicious sour cream sitting in appropriately placed bowls. Near the soups sat a variety of breads, rolls, and all kinds of bagels.

The second area, the omelet station, began with a take-all-you-want tray of long shimmering bacon strips, savory sausages, and browned potatoes mixed with grilled onions. Standing behind a white mountain of eggs a white-hatted attendant was ready to produce just about any egg dish imaginable.

Here’s the meat, said Chip, at the completion of the wall of plenty. The carving station was manned by knife-wielding, smiling chefs in white hats standing at the ready to serve roasted turkey breast, roast beef, and succulent corned beef.

Across the room was a salad bar, which overwhelmed newcomers with its vast variety of choices, and against the last wall of the room was displayed an all-too-tempting desert area. Thompson pointed out a wonderful pastry. Key lime pie . . . used to be my favorite but I have to be careful with the sugar these days. So take a look at my new favorite, the no-sugar-added blueberry pie, which you can top off with sugar free, fat-free frozen yogurt. This is what clinched the deal on the day I decided to buy into this club.

He motioned for his guest to follow him back to the seating area, where the mismatched duo chose a table next to a large picture window with a view of the 18th hole of the Legend golf course.

A waiter arrived to take their drink orders. Salazar studied Thompson’s tanned face and manicured hands as he ordered a mango, banana, and strawberry smoothie.

How about you? asked Thompson.

Can they do that with rum?

A strawberry daiquiri for my friend, please.

It’s been a long time since I’ve even had a sniff of this kind of splendor, Salazar said, gesturing to the polished mahogany table and fine silver and crystal. So Chip, you’re sitting here in your golf duds, in this overcooled air conditioned room, feeding me exotic food I can’t even afford to look at, let alone eat, lest my taste buds leave here craving more. This sure as hell makes it easier to say what I came here to tell you.

Salazar then leaned closer to his former colleague, almost whispering. What I’m here for is a matter of sixty years back pay for the work I did for Operation Clean Sweep. Who would I talk to about that?

Thompson laughed. Did you try sending an invoice to Langley?

The bearded man wasn’t laughing. I thought I’d talk to you since you’re the most important contact I ever had and the one with a large stake in the cover-up.

The drinks arrived. Thompson took a sip of his smoothie. Like I said on the phone, I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ve worked for a telephone company since 1963. For real, no excitement like we had together in the old days, but nice pension plan.

You have no idea what I’ve been through, Salazar deadpanned.

My hands were tied, Héctor, Thompson said. A lot of people would’ve been happy to trade places with you."

Salazar’s temper flared. I seriously doubt that. Like who?

They are no longer around to ask, so maybe you should count your blessings. At least you are alive and it looks to me like you have your health.

I’ve been a man without a country, Thompson, he answered sternly. Like I said, you have no idea!

Perhaps your memory’s playing tricks on you, Héctor. It happens at our age. Let’s just enjoy our lunch and talk about the good times, all right?

The old man was quite agitated. There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I’m owed a debt and I intend to collect.

Thompson spoke quietly. when he said What do you want, Héctor?

What do I want? I want money. I need money.

Thompson reached into his pocket, removed his wallet, peeled off a few large denomination bills, and slid them across the table. Buy yourself a good meal and few more nice shirts. I can’t afford more.

Salazar took a deep breath, trying to calm his temper. You know there are people who would pay for what I know about how you screwed up the operation.

What you know or what you think you know? Thompson asked, raising his eyebrows. What you know hasn’t been relevant in decades. Face it, we’re both old men. Forgotten men.

Salazar shivered, still not used to the air conditioning. He barked at a passing bus boy in Spanish about it being too cold in the room. And then, to Thompson, he snapped, You could freeze fish in this place!"

Salazar took a large gulp of his daiquiri, nearly draining it as Thompson scanned the room, hoping nobody he knew was judging him by his scrappy companion.

Suddenly, the angry man dropped his head, pressing his temples with his leathery fingers, apparently in great pain.

Thompson was startled, and still conscious of the eyes watching the spectacle Salazar might create. What’s wrong? Should I call the paramedics? Salazar managed to shake his head. Brain freeze. he uttered. He spoke slowly, in measured words. I think they have an obligation to me. I want you to remind them, is all—or the Miami Herald will."

He made a sweeping gesture with his bony hands—a headline hanging in mid-air. CIA’s Top Cuban Informant Abandoned in Haitian Prison for 60 Years, Salazar said, hitting each word hard. How do you think that will go over?

Thompson rolled his eyes, almost amused. I think you’re embellishing a little, don’t you? Besides, Nelson Mandela you certainly are not.

Who?

It doesn’t matter, Thompson said. Look, I’d like to help you, but like I said, I’m out. I was booted out of the Company pretty much immediately, you know, for what happened.

Fine. I’m going to the newspaper. Salazar dug into his plate with the gusto of a much younger man, as if trying to fill his belly before his imminent ejection from the establishment.

Good idea, Héctor. You go to the paper with your story—they’re going to assume you’ve got dementia.

Salazar spoke with his mouth full. I remember it all. Then he took a swig of water so his words would be clear. I remember every fucking thing.

THE TABLOID REPORTER

Doug Evans was feeling like a real journalist for the first time in months as he drove into the headquarters of South Florida World. The low-slung, rectangular office building was flanked by two oval, manmade ponds that were carved out of the swampland by the developer.

Evans was wearing his standard uniform, a long-sleeve, white button-down shirt, khakis, and white oxfords. He believed the benign clothes allowed him to blend in when pursuing stories. In reality, they failed to conceal the Bronx transplant that he was.

He had moved to Fort Lauderdale after his father died. He found an apartment near his mother who lived in a Century Village senior living community. With his master’s degree in journalism from Columbia University after majoring at NYU in Latin American history, he’d been optimistic about landing a job at a mainstream South Florida paper. Since this was harder than he though it would be, he took a tabloid gig at South Florida World to build his clip file, though that had also proven to be a challenge.

At the World, he was relegated to covering sordid local stories. His last one was an exclusive interview with the naughty granny, sixty-eight-year-old Sadie Kaplan, a resident of an upscale gated retirement community. Sadie was arrested for drunken public sex in the community pool with the 25-year-old water aerobics instructor. He was so ashamed of his current position in the publishing food chain that he didn’t even keep in touch with his journalism school buddies.

Although he felt like he was presently stuck in a tacky Florida vortex, Doug saw himself more as a Philip Roth than a Carl Hiaasen. He was currently—as was often the case—anxiously awaiting a call from his New York agent on the sale of one of any number of book proposals he had in circulation to put him in the mainstream. The ideas all had two things in common: there wasn’t a scent of tabloid in them, and there was little likelihood of a publisher biting.

His most recent pitch was a sure thing in his mind, a biography of Addison Mizner, the visionary architect behind the development of Boca Raton, as well as La Guerida, the Palm Beach estate owned by Joseph Kennedy that served as JFK’s Winter White House. He was convinced every carpetbagger developer from New York would buy a copy to read during the winter in South Florida—if he could just land a publisher. No takers—as of yet, his third-rate agent kept telling him.

But that morning, as he rode the elevator to the second-floor conference room, Doug was turning over in his mind what could be the most amazing story he had heard in years—or which might’ve been the delusions of a demented old man. If it turned out to be the former, he might have found the break he had been waiting for, his one shot that would be respected by the literati. A story that would move him into the big leagues.

Let’s see how this one lands, he said to himself as he entered the conference room.

The World editors and senior writers were already seated around a conference table littered with Starbuck’s cups. Sally Hughes, dubbed the editrix-in-chief by her staff, sat at the head of the table wearing a loose fitting, lime green sundress that emphasized her large green eyes and thick strawberry-blond hair. She tapped her dainty black boots as she sipped a Diet Coke in a plastic Big Gulp cup. Sally was generally affable and a good sport, and even though she ran a tabloid, Doug had found her to be somewhat interested in actual news from time to time.

Sitting next to Sally was Xander Lavin, the deputy editor angling for her job. Xander, with his sarcastic demeanor, represented everything that Doug despised about tabloid journalism. He sat twirling a pencil with one hand while scrolling his iPad with the other.

Sally called the meeting to order. As she ran down the stories in progress, Doug sat patiently until it was his turn to pitch.

Okay, kid, Sally said. Whadda ya got?

A hot Cuba story, set during the revolution.

She gave him a blank look. We can’t do a 60-year-old political story on Cuba, she said. Not unless there’s more—like you got a Kennedy angle?

Doug maintained his focus on the sell. It’s about how an eighteen-year-old Cuban girl at great personal sacrifice came to possess and then reveal a critical piece of intelligence that affected the outcome of the revolution. The headline: She may still be alive, may be living in Miami, and may be ready to tell her story.

Xander let out a laugh. Evans, if you’re looking for a Pulitzer, you’re in the wrong place.

Chuckles rose from the others in the room. They’d heard Doug try to climb above them before.

Doug upped the ante. There’s a cover-up of the whole thing by the CIA.

Xander spoke up. You mean like the Bay of Pigs?

You don’t even know what the Bay of Pigs was, Doug shot back.

Do so, Xander says. Sally was shaking her head, seemingly lost in thought, but then she snapped back: Who’s your source, Evans?

Cuban old-timer named Salazar, says he was there, then exiled in Haiti for the last fifty-nine years Doug said. He’s a little rough around the edges but seems credible. He knows lots of people. May even have been a spook himself.

Sally was skeptical but intrigued. "Really? Then why doesn’t he take it to The Herald?"

I asked him that, Doug replied sheepishly. "He said he wanted someone who knows the history of US involvement in Cuba to tell this story. He liked the piece I wrote about how Obama has opened a new chapter in our relationship with Cuba. I told him I’d read a lot about Cuba and many of Che Guevara’s works and my master’s thesis was about the key members of Castro’s Movement. Then he told me that an eighteen-year-old young woman from Guantánamo who saved the revolution, knew all of them.

"So, The Herald passed? Is that it?"

Doug spun it another way. With the push-pull between the Neuvo Herald and the old guard at the main paper, I don’t think they can agree on anything to do with Cuba now. Besides, you can’t be certain what the next president to reside in the White House will do. Sally sucked on her straw and took in a mouthful of Diet Coke. OK, you can check it out . . ."

Doug had pushed away from the table and was halfway to the door before she managed to finish her sentence.

But only locally. I’m not sending you to Cuba to whore your way around!

Already at the elevator, Doug missed the last part.

CASA HERNANDEZ

It was shortly before noon on Saturday and Evans was about an octave above his ideal range as he drove onto the Rickenbacker Causeway toward Key Biscayne. The radio was mercifully loud enough that Billy Joel drowned out his efforts as he attempted another chorus of Piano Man. His exuberant mood reflected the ridiculously beautiful Miami day as the palm trees of Wainwright Park gave way to steel and concrete and the causeway rose above Biscayne Bay. The steep angle of the ramp pointed the car skyward, nothing but blue sky and sunshine up ahead.

Driving down Crandon Boulevard, Evans checked the address on his