Havana File

U.S. Naval Base Guantanamo Bay

U.S. Naval Base Guantanamo BayH

e’d been waiting too long for the hard-eyed men who shadowed him everywhere to relax their vigil. The pair of them—Tweedledee and Tweedledum—stuck to him like leeches at first, sitting outside his bedroom door at night, hanging around every other place he went on the base, and cruising along behind in a golf-cart when he went on his morning runs. After the first week, they got over-confident as he’d hoped they would. His mundane schedule—and the fact that the authorities at Camp Delta where he conducted classified interrogations wouldn’t allow his personal security detail inside the compound—led them to split shifts and disappear completely every once in a while for short periods. The security men were especially bored on the evenings when Carlos Ruiz-Romero went to an on-base recreation center to play dominoes and gossip in Spanish with the ancient Cubanos who lived on the base.

It was there that Carolos made first contact with Ramon Munoz, the man he’d come to Guantanamo to see, the man his mother said might help him fulfill her deathbed wish. The old man was pushing 80, one of a dwindling number of Cuban refugees that escaped Castro’s revolutionary pogroms to gain asylum at the U.S. Navy Base. All of them expected to immigrate to the States but for one bureaucratic reason or another, they wound up in permanent residence on the base, living in military family housing and working at menial jobs, essentially wards of the U.S. government for the past 50 years. Neither Munoz nor any of his compadres ever ventured outside the wire—that would mean instant arrest as Castro’s state security minions knew precisely who they were and where they were—but most of them maintained some contacts outside the wire.

And Ramon Munoz had a contact southeast of Havana that was very important to Carlos. The old man was a distant relative of the Ruiz-Romero clan. His cousin in Colon was Senora Carmen Martinez, née Carmen Ruiz-Romero, older sister of Carlos and the teenager who remained in Cuba when their mother fled with her brother. Carlos had never told anyone about his sibling living in Cuba and he’d begged his mother to keep that information secret. A man who worked with highly sensitive information in the U.S. Intelligence establishment was subject to serious background scrutiny, and a living relative in communist Cuba was not conducive to career enhancement.

His mother kept the faith through FBI background checks plus a number of other increasingly intense and intrusive investigations as Carlos advanced within the DIA but before she died, she extracted a solemn promise that he would do everything in his power to contact that long-lost sister. His mother knew how the game was played in Cuba and didn’t really expect that Carlos could get a married woman with children to flee for the U.S., but she had some things that she wanted delivered to her daughter.

During a break in the boisterous domino game, while his security guard stood outside the recreation center whacking croquet balls around the lawn, Carlos cornered Ramon Munoz and told the old man his story. Munoz was saddened by news that Carlos’ mother had died. He remembered her well from Colon. In fact, he remembered the entire Ruiz-Romero family with great affection. He’d worked in a cigar factory with Carlos’ father before the revolution. When Carlos told the old man he wanted to try and see his sister, Munoz just shook his head. “Impossible, my friend,” he said. “You would be arrested immediately.” Castro’s goons were everywhere and knew everything, Munoz said. “Better to wait a few months. We hear they are planning to lift the restrictions.”

Carlos decided not to press the matter at this first meeting and they went back to the dominoes table. As they played, Munoz was subdued, an unusual state of affairs among the regular players who shouted and laughed their way through the game. When they broke up late in the evening the old man caught Carlos at the door and hauled him into a corner. “You must keep this to yourself, amigo, but there may be a way I can help you make contact with your sister.”

Carlos met Munoz at his home the next evening for dinner. The security guard on duty that night was not invited inside but seemed happy with a plate of spicy arroz con pollo that an old Cuban lady set before him on a little patio table. Inside the house, they sat down to a delicious Cuban meal prepared by that same woman. She was introduced as Senora Catalina Constanza, a widow and another of the resident refugees who worked part-time at the Base Exchange. The woman served them, made small talk about friends in Miami, and then left promising to return and clean up the mess in a few hours.

When they finished eating, the old man lit a cigar and led Carlos to his living room where he walked around in a cloud of aromatic smoke, peeking through the blinds to be sure there was no one else in the immediate area. Then he led Carlos to a credenza in the corner of his living room. It was littered with framed photos of what looked like the Munoz family in earlier, happier days. He pointed at one of the photos that depicted a pretty woman in a colorful Cuban frock. “Your sister,” he said. “She still lives in Colon. Sometimes we talk.” Carlos picked up the picture and stared it for a long moment. The only other pictures he’d seen of his sister were baby photos or one that his mother particularly treasured from her first communion. As an adult, Carmen looked very much like their mother and very much like her brother, the same eyes and facial structure he saw every morning when he shaved.

Munoz took an old fashioned brass key from his pocket, unlocked a drawer in the face of the credenza, and pulled out an old Motorola flip-phone. “This is a Cuban phone. We’re not supposed to have these things, but there is really no other way to talk to friends or family outside the base. Catalina got it for me. Her brother works for telecommunications here on base and he can get civilian phones. We keep it quiet or everyone would pester us to make calls.”

Munoz donned a pair of thick reading glasses, toyed with the keypad and then mashed the speed-dial button. When the call was answered he smiled and told the person on the other end there was someone she might want to meet—even if it was just by phone. “It’s best not to talk too long,” he said handing Carlos the phone. “It sometimes fades after a few minutes.” The connection was fraught with line noise, odd clicks and pops, but the female voice Carlos heard when Munoz handed him the phone sounded strong if a little puzzled as they exchanged pleasantries. Her scream of delight came through clear and vibrant when Carlos finally identified himself. They talked in long strings of disjointed gabble until Munoz caught Carlos’ eye and tapped his watch. Then they hung up with plans to speak again as soon as possible.

Carlos was thrilled with the contact and effusive in his thanks for the opportunity. He offered to pay Munoz for the cost of the call, but the old man just shrugged and carried the phone to a charging station. “There is no charge. Catalina’s brother covers it for me,” the old man said as Carlos headed for the door. “Come back anytime, but please don’t tell anyone about the phone.”

In his spare time over the next two days, Carlos scoured the news sources he could find for reports on the proposed normalization of relations between Cuba and the United States. It was a frustrating exercise. Internet service on the base was antiquated and slow. His smart phone was little help, but from what he could gather the dispute in Congress continued to rage. The administration seemed to consider it a done deal while opposition on Capitol Hill threatened to block their normalization efforts any way possible. Adding to his frustration was the approaching end of his time at Gitmo. He’d been given three weeks to conduct the interrogations and that was rapidly coming to an end with no extension of his time in Cuba likely. That evening after dinner, he found Ramon Munoz and made arrangements for another visit.

His bodyguard remained in the car parked in Munoz’ driveway when Carlos arrived at the house the next night. They made small talk for a while, mostly about the proposed lifting of the American embargo. Munoz thought it was a bad idea but supposed it wouldn’t make much difference to him at his age. He thought Raul Castro was running a scam that would backfire on the Americans. Carlos listened in nervous silence until Munoz finished his cigar and went to the credenza to retrieve the phone.

Trying to keep the call short as directed, he got to the point and told his sister that he had a package of things that their mother wanted her to have—an old collection of photos, some letters, and a few pieces of family heirloom jewelry. How could he deliver it? Was the mail reliable? Carmen didn’t trust the mail, especially with something sent from the American base, but she had an in-law living in Santiago de Cuba, a town west of Guantanamo Bay that she was due to visit. Was there a way her brother might meet her there? She would bring his two nephews and they could have a family reunion. Carlos said he’d look into it and get back to her after he copied the cousin’s address.

All that led to days of rapid planning and several more calls on the illicit cell phone. Carmen’s husband had a friend in Santiago de Cuba, a man that owned a taxicab and owed him a few big favors. If Carlos could provide payment in U.S. dollars, this friend could meet him at a designated place outside the base and drive Carlos to the rendezvous and back the same night. It was quite safe, Carmen’s husband promised, the kind of thing that happened all the time in Cuba.

The key was getting outside the base and Carlos thought he might be able to pull that off safely. He did a lot of running along the 17 miles of base perimeter, early in the morning and at dusk after he’d finished with his interrogation sessions. He ran slower than his usual pace, searching for a place not too far from the main access road where he could slither under or climb over the chain-link fence. While he was on the road, he timed the security patrols that drove the length of the perimeter in armed Humvees. At mid-week—with only five days left on his mission at Guantanamo—he found what he wanted: a stretch of fence that was being repaired by civilian contractors. Work vehicles were parked at odd angles where the crews left them for the night and the ground beneath the stretch under repair was freshly turned where a drainage ditch was being dug. There was a stand of wormwood trees close on the other side of the fence at that point, and his pacing told Carlos that once in those trees he had just over a half-mile to go after a right turn to reach the base main access road. He made another call from Ramon Munoz’ phone and set up the meeting for the next night, an evening when he’d overheard his security detail making plans to pig-out on a special at the on-base Taco Bell.

When he finished at Camp Delta and filed his daily summary of the results he returned to the Visiting Officer’s Quarters, he told the security guard on duty that he was exhausted by the day’s interrogations and would be turning in early. The guard smiled at that news and wished him a pleasant evening. Carlos saw him heading for the Base Exchange area through his window and sat down to wait. When the guard had not returned by nine p.m., Carlos quickly dressed in the dark athletic outfit and sneakers he’d prepared, bundled the little package of keepsakes into a backpack, slipped out of BOQ, and started an easy lope toward the perimeter road.

He reached the selected stretch of fence, jogging easily and never drawing more than a glance and a wave from the two patrols that passed him traveling in opposite directions on the perimeter road. They were used to seeing him by now. Behind a parked Bobcat earth-mover he began to dig a trough in the loose dirt beneath the fence. A Marine he’d met at the detention center told him there used to be landmines planted on the other side of that fence, but they’d all been removed and replaced with motion sensors. He’d likely trip one or more of those, but the patrol that responded would be looking for someone trying to get in not out. If all went well, he’d be back in the BOQ before dawn.

He’d long since decided the risk was worth the reward. Talking to the only other living member of his immediate family—being so close to her after so many years of separation—set some long-suppressed Latino emotions raging. What was most important to him right now was seeing his sister, meeting his nephews, and carrying out his mother’s last wish. And he couldn’t deny there was a certain seductive thrill to it all.

If there were sensors on the other side of the fence, Carlos didn’t see them, not that he’d recognize one anyway. He simply headed for the stand of trees, got his bearings, turned right and started to walk. Nothing happened. No sirens, no alarms, no problem. He hit the perimeter road after about 20 minutes and looked right toward the base gate. He saw nothing in that direction, and there were no vehicles in sight coming or going. Carlos turned left and started to walk away from the base through the shrubbery that lined the paved road.

After about 15 minutes, he saw what looked like a road-weary, 60s-era Chevy Bel Air parked in the dark facing toward the base. He could see the glow of the driver’s cigarette and what looked like a taxi sign set at an odd angle on the car’s roof. He stepped cautiously out onto the road and waved. The driver flashed his lights in the prearranged signal, then opened his door and waved for Carlos to approach.

When he was seated in the taxi with his backpack in his lap, he introduced himself. The driver shook his hand and assured him all was well. He knew a route that would take them around the Cuban military checkpoints surrounding the base, but he made no move to start the engine. They sat nervously eyeing each other until the driver finally held out his hand. Carlos got the message, dug in his backpack for five twenties, and handed them over. The driver tucked the wad into his shirt pocket, lit another smoke, and cranked the engine. He turned the car with a great grinding of gears and differential complaint and finally got them moving. They’d be on the road a little over an hour, the driver told Carlos, as he had to duck and dodge on the way to Santiago de Cuba, and he’d have to stop for gas about mid-way.

The fuel stop turned out to be a little shack with a corrugated tin roof where the driver negotiated for foul-smelling gas in one-liter glass bottles. Carlos was outside the car in the dark, stretching his back and legs when the men with guns showed up and bundled him like a trussed hog into the back of a black van. Fumes from a vial they broke beneath his nose made him groggy, but he was still aware enough to feel the prick of a needle at his right elbow. For some reason they were drawing his blood.