Unaware of much of the bloodshed, William Morgan could still feel the tension when he stepped into José Marti Airport. Cop cars were lined up along the terminal building, and men roamed the sidewalk with billy clubs and submachine guns.
With a white suit, white shirt, and dress shoes, Morgan looked like a tourist from Kansas on his way to the Nacional for a round of roulette and a daiquiri. His companions, however, had more to worry about.
They were young, Cuban, just the kind of travelers who were attracting the attention of Batista’s guards. The government had been keeping lists of revolutionary activists in Miami, and anyone in the entourage could have been stopped.
Batista had assured the public the revolution was a joke and that he would stamp out the rebels like cockroaches, but the truth was that he had been quietly fretting about the impact they were having on his country.
He ordered police to patrol the Havana neighborhoods where activists had been holding demonstrations, and he had his dreaded secret police infiltrate the student groups at the University of Havana. He tried publicly to downplay the attack in March on the presidential palace, but the brazen daytime assault had come within a floor of the dictator’s office before it was finally repelled. Some forty-five rebels died in the bloody mess, leaving Batista shaken and angry over the embarrassing near miss.
A month later, he got his revenge when his secret police raided an apartment in Havana and killed four of the conspirators.
Shortly after Chao and Morgan and the others passed through customs, they waived down a driver at the curb. With no more checkpoints, they just needed to get to the safe house.
Havana looked more or less the same, except for the new hotels piercing the skyline. The Riviera loomed high above them, an architectural wonder that had just opened with a gaudy party and Hollywood celebrities. Just beyond the Riviera, the Hilton, another monstrous symbol of opulence and prosperity, stood just two months from opening.
But beneath the glitz was a city on the edge, one that had become a magnet for raging young men looking to topple it all.
Amado had cleared the way for them with the other rebels, but Morgan didn’t have to speak Spanish to know, as soon as they stepped into the safe house, that they were in trouble. The place was under surveillance, and no one knew when the secret police would knock on the door. Amado’s contacts were supposed to show up days ago, but something had happened. No one was coming.
This wasn’t good. Morgan and Chao now had to scramble to find someone in Castro’s underground network to help them. The problem was that not only had Batista killed some of the urban organizers helping Castro, but the SIM had infiltrated key rebel groups. Make one wrong move—one bad contact—and they were walking into a trap. Morgan’s mind churned as he looked out the window.
He had an idea, which he floated to the group through Chao. The Cuban students were the most likely suspects, so why not let an American make some of the contacts? By reaching out to some of the rebel groups, Morgan might be able to hit the right cell without drawing attention. They had to do something.
A pay phone stood just beyond the stores outside their window. Morgan could take the names and numbers and start calling. Many spoke some English, and if not, they would know someone in the group who did.
After the sun slid into the harbor, Morgan quietly slipped out and made his way to the phone booth. Despite the recent shootouts between the guerrillas and soldiers, the streets still thronged with tourists streaming into Havana. For all of Batista’s blunders, he still controlled the mainstream media and effectively suppressed news of revolutionary successes.
Not far from the phone booth, Morgan saw a figure emerge from the darkness. At first, he didn’t know what to expect, but as the man came closer, Morgan began to make out his face.
They both froze.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
In front of Morgan stood Roger Rodriguez, the former medical student who was steeped in the underground movement in Miami and had frequented the Bowery, the club where Morgan had worked.
“William,” he said, walking over to hug Morgan. Many a night at the bar, Rodriguez had talked to Morgan about the problems in his country, and now their paths had crossed again.
Morgan remembered the young, idealistic student who always pledged to someday return. None of the young people liked Batista, especially Rodriguez. Maybe Morgan could get the help he needed. He knew he was taking a chance, but he opened up. Morgan needed to make contacts. He and his friends wanted to go to the Sierra Maestra.
“You want to go?” Rodriguez asked, puzzled. Morgan wasn’t Cuban. He had no ties to the island.
But Morgan didn’t have time to explain. He reached into his pocket and took out a list.
Rodriguez looked at the piece of paper under the streetlight. “My friend,” he said, holding up the paper, “you’ve been deceived. These guys are with the forces of Batista.”
Rodriguez, now a doctor, had been entrenched in the revolution for more than a year. He knew which groups had been infiltrated. The police would show up at the nightly underground meetings to break up the gatherings and threaten everyone. Then they would make arrests. Morgan needed to get out.
“You’ve got to go back,” Rodriguez said. “You are going to return to the United States.” It was too dangerous for an Americano. Morgan didn’t speak Spanish. He didn’t understand the politics of Havana, where so many people were turning on one another.
“I only got twenty dollars in my pocket,” Morgan said. “I am going to the Sierra Maestra.”
Rodriguez could tell that Morgan wasn’t going to relent. If Rodriguez left him on the streets, he could easily be set up. It was a difficult position. He thought for a moment and offered an alternative: If Morgan could wait, Rodriguez would put him in touch with another rebel group. It wouldn’t be easy, but he could direct Morgan to an entirely different stretch of the country. Castro’s militia already had hundreds of guerrillas. But this group needed help. They were young, inexperienced, desperate for reinforcements, and holed up in a dangerous area. Batista’s soldiers were moving in, and the rebels needed weapons, ammunition, and other critical supplies.
When Morgan returned to the safe house, he and Chao said good-bye. They had grown close, but Chao had come to Cuba to head to the Sierra Maestra, not the other mountain chain. It was better that they separate for now. Someday, if they survived the fighting, they’d see each other again.
Now, all Morgan had to do was wait for Rodriguez. The tension had mounted in Havana as more rebels were rounded up. Protesters hauled in for questioning grimly went missing.
Esteban Ventura Novo, the dreaded police captain who dressed in all white, had been arresting the very people who were supposed to be helping Morgan and the others. It was no wonder that no one had showed up to escort them to the mountains.
By the time Rodriguez finally arrived with another rebel to drive, he had found out that Ventura’s men were watching the very house they were occupying. There was little time to spare. Rodriguez served as guide, and Morgan sat tight and held his passport in case they were stopped.
Rodriguez knew the routes to take to avoid the checkpoints, but still, he couldn’t take any chances. The police were getting wise to the movements.
As they sped along a back road out of the city, the driver pointed to the police stopping cars along La Rampa, the main drag. It had become so dangerous that they would soon be forced to find new routes out of the city. If they could make it to Las Villas Province, they stood a better chance of making it to their destination—in one hundred more miles.
If they kept moving, they could stay alive.