Managua, Nicaragua
April 2011
Following my unforgettable conversations with a shit-faced Daniel Ortega about revolution, surfing, and Mako Sloane, I decided to return to the United States as soon as possible. My stay in Nicaragua had been much more productive than I ever could have dreamed, and it was time to put what I had learned to pen. I had no intention of writing anything down in the lawless environment of Nicaragua where even a pair of overweight Americans agents was brazen enough to accost me in broad daylight. I was looking forward to reading the front page story in La Prensa about their misadventures in a San Jorge hotel room, but preferred to do it from the safety of my Capitol Hill condo where even the FBI and CIA operated under a few token restraints of the rule of law.
Besides, I had already overstayed my welcome and didn’t want to abuse the hospitality of my Sandinista friends. I knew they were still concealing something from me, and I knew I’d be back to hear the rest of the story in the not too distant future.
I checked out of my dilapidated hotel room in San Jorge, bid a tearful goodbye to the stained sheets, peeling paint, and mosquitoes, smiled at the exotically beautiful mulatto girl from Bluefields at the front desk, and caught a taxi to Managua where I decided to baby myself in the relative luxury and splendor of the Hotel Camino Real located just a two-minute ride from the airport. I was looking forward to a relaxing evening with room service and a hot shower before the 6:40 Continental flight to Houston the next morning. I had received an unexpected upgrade to first class and planned to spend the three-hour flight in contemplation.
As I sat in the bar of the Camino Real later that evening enjoying a Flor de Caña buzz from my third Cuba Libre and watching a Mexican soccer game between Chivas de Guadalajara and Toluca on the flat screen television, an unusually comely, dark complexioned woman in her 30s approached my table and asked in American English if she could sit down. She was dressed rather formally for Nicaragua, in a white pleated silk blouse and tight-fitting black skirt with vertical white stripes which accentuated her slim, muscular legs and shapely hips.
Now I never make the annual list of the year’s most eligible bachelors, but I’m not a bad looking guy, and I do have that scruffy war correspondent look that some women find appealing. The same kind of woman, though, also falls for convicted felons wearing jeans and t-shirts and sporting tattoos of dragons and tribal insignia on every visible body part, so I didn’t necessarily take the approach as a positive endorsement of my sex appeal. However, when you’re knocking on the door of middle age, your imagination sees what it wants to see, and it was flattering to have an attractive woman ask to join me in a hotel bar in Managua. I’ve been hit on by women on five continents in bars just like this one, and I sat back and cynically waited to see what her line would be. I cared little for the soccer duel between the two Mexican teams, and I welcomed the diversion from the torrent of confused thoughts and images running through my head.
The young woman introduced herself as Laura and got right to the point.
“Well, did you enjoy seeing those two jerks get tied up and abused?” she asked with an accusing smirk on her lovely face. Well, so much for that. I must have been delusionary to think of myself as some kind of sexy, cosmopolitan mystery man. I felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over my head, or as if I had perhaps missed the corporate sexual harassment class and was being chastised by the company’s morality control officer.
“Let me see some identification,” I replied brusquely. I’d been to this rodeo before and had absolutely no patience for the games these government bureaucrats played, although I was impressed that they knew where to look for me.
Her business card claimed she was Laura Fonseca, First Secretary from the Political Section of the U.S. Embassy in Managua. She had no wedding ring on her hand, and she wore her blouse with the top two buttons undone; just enough to show a hint of cleavage, as if to suggest she could play the role of either career diplomat or wanton seductress depending on her professional or biological requirements. Her olive skin spoke of Latin ancestry, as did her last name. Her voice was definitely American, though, and her slightly androgynous demeanor was a counterweight to her bewitching exterior. In other circumstances I might have enjoyed getting to know her and seeing where it went. Not tonight, though. At least, that was my initial take.
“So, Laura, what the hell do you want?” I asked without a trace of diplomacy or a hint of interest in Laura as a woman. Both, I was sure, she would find offensive, which was my intention. I surreptitiously glanced around the bar and reception area to see if Laura might have any surveillance support. I was pretty sure she was CIA, but I saw no one else who fit the stereotype.
“Listen, I’m sure those characters yesterday were out of line. I don’t know what they did to you, but I can’t imagine they deserved that kind of punishment.” Laura tried to adopt a conciliatory tone of voice as she smiled and tried to break through the barrier that I had obviously erected around me.
“I’m listening,” I said as the waiter approached and took Laura’s order, a Stolichnaya vodka on the rocks with a twist of lemon.
“I don’t recall offering you a drink,” I said abruptly. I usually like my women to be a little more demure and was offended at the liberty she was taking. Many women like to imagine that every man they encounter desires them and will do anything necessary to get laid. I didn’t like that attitude, and it looked like Laura might be one of those women. Besides, it’s an offensive generalization that’s only partly true.
“Relax, Max, I’m picking up the check.” She looked at me and smiled, and I must admit; at that moment I might have bent my personal standards for a chance to see what she had under that blouse. Then, I shrugged off the thought and wondered if the specter of Mako Sloane was beginning to haunt me and affect my judgment and moral values. I know my libido had perked up.
“Actually, I’ve come to do you a favor. I think our goals might overlap, and we may have something in common.”
“I’m still listening.” Laura was good, but I believed the government had only one objective with me. They wanted to learn what I had found out about Sloane, and they wanted me to stop my research. Maybe there was a second goal. Was it possible they wanted to co-opt me and use me to find out what they didn’t know? Maybe that’s why Laura was here.
“You need to understand a few things before the conflict between you and the USG escalates any further. You made those two agents as well as the embassy look a little foolish yesterday. Nobody appreciates that. I think certain individuals on our side have made wrong decisions and have played this thing very poorly. I want to make amends and explain what the government’s real interest in your research is.”
I wasn’t about to accept any responsibility for the hooker incident in the hotel, and once again my response was sadly lacking in diplomacy. “Those two lard asses were apprehended by Nicaraguan state security. They had roughed me up, tied me to a chair, and were threatening me with guns. They flaunted their diplomatic immunity in front of one of the most dangerous individuals in the country who hated their guts on principle and couldn’t have given a shit about their embassy affiliation. However, I had nothing to do with either the arrival of the Nicaraguans on the scene or the form of justice they chose to administer. Let’s get that straight before we go any further.”
Laura looked at me questioningly and then seemed to drop her official demeanor. “I guess you didn’t see the photos or the article in La Prensa? Just one question, though: weren’t the prostitutes enough? Why did they use that disgusting transvestite as well?” She smiled with just a suggestion of approval.
“Well, if your question is serious, I’d say it was because they weren’t sure the hookers were infected with HIV. Better chance with the tranny.”
Laura shook her head in silent laughter. I was starting to like this representative of the U.S. intelligence community. She had some spunk. The waiter brought her vodka, and she raised her glass in a silent toast. I raised mine as well and the ‘clink’ of the two glasses was just audible over the television sports announcer screaming, “Gooooooaaaaaallllll!” as Omar Bravo scored to give Chivas a 2:1 lead.
“You know, Max, not everybody needs to know everything.”
There are some truths in life that are so self-evident they can’t be argued. This was one of them, and I decided to refrain from comment and instead kept listening. I was sure there was more to come.
“I’m not talking about information that could prove ‘embarrassing’ for the government,” continued Laura. “Embarrassment is more the rule than the exception when it comes to governments. That’s of no real, lasting importance. I’m talking about things that could put lives at risk and even raise the possibility of armed conflict on a large scale. Sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Am I given to understand you don’t have much faith in journalistic responsibility?” I asked only partially in jest.
“Is there such a thing?” Laura parried my thrust and scored a point. “What I’m talking about, as you well know, is sensitive information about Mako Sloane that could go far beyond merely embarrassing the government if it were ever released. I don’t need to tell you that controversy surrounded Sloane wherever he went, and whatever he did. There are things about his work that the U.S. government still doesn’t understand and other things it understands only too well.”
“Laura,” I replied, trying not to look down her blouse, “what does that have to do with me exactly?”
“Listen, Max, I’m trying to be candid with you, and I’d appreciate some reciprocation. There’s a saying in Russian, ‘Ruka ruku moyet.’ One hand washes the other. You probably have learned some things that we don’t know. I’m sure we know some things that you don’t. Why don’t we help each other?”
Well, there it was. If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em, as the saying goes. It appeared that the USG had indeed taken a different tack with me. I would love to know what they knew, even a small fraction of it, but I would never have any way of knowing what was true, what was disinformation, or how much was still being concealed. Also, there was the issue of legality. If they didn’t know what I knew, they couldn’t forbid me from publishing it, could they? There was no way I could accept this proposal, but I didn’t want to give Laura my answer quite yet.
“Give me a show of good faith,” I replied. “Tell me something I don’t know.” I knew I was being a journalistic slut, but curiosity had got the better of me.
“Max, we know you talked at length with Sean O’Keefe. That was pretty clever on your part to track that lead down. You’re a hell of a journalist, but I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. The Bureau of Prisons, on the other hand, can’t tell their ass from a hole in the wall. We should have known better. That was an unintentional leak, but, alright, it’s water under the bridge. So you know Sloane was in federal custody for a while. What you don’t know is why he was there, where is he today, or even whether he’s still alive.”
“And you do?” I asked, wondering where this conversation was going.
“Only part of the equation. We know why he was in custody. Hell, we put him there. We know he’s still alive, but we don’t know where he is.”
“What would you do if you found him?”
“Talk with him, nothing more.”
“You know, Laura, I’ve seen how conversations with your people go, and I wouldn’t recommend that kind of social intercourse to my worst enemy. But, say theoretically that I knew the answer to that question. What would I get in return?” I asked smiling. I was knowingly overstepping my own boundaries since I did not know where Sloane was and wouldn’t tell the feds if I did.
“Max, you’re fishing.”
I couldn’t deny it, and I just laughed. Laura was smart. Too smart to be a government messenger. I knew Laura had specific limitations on what she could tell me, and it might be that she didn’t even know the answers to the questions that she herself had posed. She might have been briefed just for this meeting.
“Look, Laura, I’d love to know what you guys know, but I could never trust you. The government burned all its bridges with me long ago. So all I want now from you and your people is to leave me alone and let me work. But listen, I’ll make a deal with you. If I ever come on anything with the kind of implications you talked about: information that could get people hurt or start a war, I’ll look you up personally and let you know. Is this your cell number?” I indicated the second phone number listed on her business card.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Laura looked at me as if she was about to make a difficult decision. “Let me have that card for a second.”
I handed the business card back to her, staring at her long, graceful fingers as she jotted a name and number on the back of the card.
“I probably shouldn’t do this, but I have the feeling that you’re in over your head, and there’s nothing I can tell you that would make you understand. Believe it or not, I’m worried about you. Call this number when you’re back in D.C. It’s the cell number of Drake Herrin, a retired operations officer who knew Sloane well, probably better than anybody else. He’s also my uncle.”
Laura handed me back her business card, and I stared at her in disbelief. This almost certainly had not been part of her official brief, and it convinced me that she was at the hotel alone, without a counter surveillance team to support her. I was more than a little taken aback and embarrassingly touched at her gesture and expression of concern. It had the ring of authenticity. I took the card from her but did not release her hand right away. She smiled almost shyly and squeezed my hand in return. I tossed a $20 bill on the table to cover the drinks and stood up. I still hadn’t released her hand, and I kissed her lightly on the cheek. I walked her out to the taxi stand in front of the hotel. Neither of us said a word.
“I’m not sure it’s safe for a woman to take a taxi in Managua,” I said worriedly. This woman seemed out of the ordinary, and suddenly I wanted to get to know her and regretted I was leaving Nicaragua the next day. A few drinks late at night in a foreign country always tended to bring out the latent romantic in me, and I had been known to make a fool out of myself with a woman under those circumstances. I reminded myself who she worked for, and the dose of reality brought me to my senses.
“You’re right. It’s not safe,” she replied, looking up at me and smiling. A pair of headlights turned on in the parking lot, and a black embassy Chevy Suburban pulled up in front of the hotel. “That’s why sometimes we use drivers who are trained as bodyguards.”
We looked at each other for what seemed a long time before she opened the door to the car.
“I’m returning to D.C. next week for consultations,” she said. “Will you call me?”
“What do you think?” I smiled at her as she got into the Suburban. The driver glanced over at me with curiosity and drove off quickly, tires squealing as he passed the huge parrot enclosure on the right.