Olga had been dreading this moment. The driver was about to take her and her sister to the airport. In just a few hours, she would be back in Havana.
She knew she had to leave the United States, but she didn’t want to go. She had found peace in her brief time in Florida. She didn’t have to worry about Castro. She didn’t have to fret over Che. She didn’t wake up every morning with strange people sleeping on her floors, the phone calls, the cars pulling into the driveway at night.
“I will see you in Havana,” Morgan said, his arms around her.
He was about to take on as dangerous a battle as he had faced in the revolution, including the ambushes he executed in the final days. Olga felt crushed by forces working against them. The worst part was that she recognized the land mines as much as he did. Once again, she had to wait for him to come back, alive or dead. She had grown tired of that same sinking feeling.
“After this, no more,” she said.
A week or more might pass before she would see him again, and she knew that she probably wouldn’t hear from him during that time. The waiting was worse in this case because at least there were messengers in the mountains. Here, she had nothing.
Morgan was going to check out of the Montmartre and rent a room at the Eden Roc for a couple of days. The move to the luxurious hotel just down the street would provide a bit more cover. When Olga arrived back at the house, Morgan’s men would watch out for her. At that point, all she could do was wait.
When Stafford arrived at the office, a message was waiting on his desk. Morgan had called to say he would be boarding a Pan Am flight for Havana in just twenty-four hours, on August 5. Don’t worry. He’d phone the FBI before he left.
Stafford had no plans to talk to Morgan over the phone. He was going to make sure he was in the terminal building well before the 5:00 p.m. flight.
Stafford had just gotten off the phone with a confidential informant who had been divulging details of what Morgan had been up to in Miami—and it was anything but a vacation. Morgan’s entire trip was about a secret plot to overthrow Castro with the help of Trujillo and his people. He had met with Bartone, and he had met with Ferrando. From what Stafford had gathered, thousands were waiting in the Escambray for Morgan to give them the cue to rise up against Castro.
At this point, Stafford had heard enough. He had been duped. For all intents and purposes, Morgan had obstructed justice. Between now and tomorrow, the FBI agent was going to make sure that everyone’s story checked out. Then he would confront Morgan at the gate. This time, he had enough to tighten the noose.
One agent went to the Pan Am gate. Another stood sentinel outside the terminal. A third was scoping the people from inside the doors.
Stafford had doubled-checked everyone’s story. Cuba was on the brink, and Morgan was ready to thrust it over the edge. There was no way Stafford was going to let him leave Miami.
The terminal was bustling, but even as the passengers were getting ready to board, there was no sign of Morgan. Stafford angled over to the ticket counter to make sure Morgan was coming. But when he asked the agent to see the manifest, Morgan’s name wasn’t on the list. By the time the passengers were lining up to board the 5:00 p.m. flight, Morgan wasn’t in the terminal.
Stafford waited until the flight gate was shut. He had lost Morgan again.
He immediately rounded up the agents and ordered them to head to the Eden Roc. Stafford was steaming. As he sped through the traffic, he realized that Morgan was much smarter than anyone in the FBI had figured. That’s something Stafford didn’t glean from the field reports or the background investigation. Every agent had underestimated him. If they didn’t find him, they all would have a lot of explaining to do.
The car pulled up to the hotel, and Stafford rushed to the front desk. Just as he thought: Morgan was gone. Stafford had to put out an alert and let headquarters know that Morgan had slipped away.
The teletypes were coming in from Washington. The embassy in Havana was preparing for the worst. US Ambassador Philip Bonsal leaned over his desk and read the messages. It wasn’t just that a plot was unfolding to assassinate Castro and overthrow his government. An American was leading it. If the plan succeeded even partially, every US citizen in Cuba—thousands—could be in danger.
The fifty-six-year-old career diplomat—a Yale graduate whose father had covered the Spanish-American War for the New York Herald—had spent weeks struggling to restore relations with Cuba.
Bonsal picked up the phone. He needed Cuban Foreign Secretary Raúl Roa to get an urgent message to Castro. The FBI had uncovered critical information about a coup under way to topple the government and kill Castro. No one knew when it would happen, but it was supposed to take place in just days. The man leading the plot: William Morgan.
Roa needed to know that the American government had nothing to do with this, Bonsal said. From the ambassador’s perspective, it was better for the United States to disclose subversive behavior from one of its own citizens. His biggest fear was that the coup would be blamed on the United States. That, in turn, could jeopardize the lives of American citizens in Havana.
The ambassador also had to draw up an emergency plan, including the possibility of bringing in ships to evacuate Americans. The intelligence community was on high alert. The only way to stop the plan was to find Morgan.
But no one had a clue where he was.
A cool breeze blew off the dark waters and across the fishing boat. Ahead lay the port of Miami, just beyond the last barrier islands. If they could pass Virginia Key without the Coast Guard spotting their craft, they’d be on their way to Cuba.
Morgan had slept only a few hours the night before, chain-smoking and downing cups of coffee. But he had to keep pushing himself. He needed to get out far enough to avoid the Coast Guard.
Just a few feet away was Francisco Betancourt, a former captain in Batista’s army brought in to help Morgan make the journey. Their plan was to meet the other vessel, a fifty-four-foot yacht moored a dozen miles away that was loaded with an arsenal for a small army.
Despite running around to avoid the FBI, everything was going as planned. Trujillo’s people were waiting for the signal when Morgan arrived in Cuba. So were Menoyo and Castro. The plan was to get the boatload of arms to the southern coast of Cuba near Trinidad and drop them off to Menoyo and the others.
The ocean was kicking up as the boat pulled farther out, the lights of Miami growing dimmer in the distance. As he looked ahead, Morgan could see the flickering movements of another vessel on the horizon. No signs of any Coast Guard cutters, just the dark open ocean in front of them. They had made it.
It would be twenty-four hours before they cut through the Straits of Florida and circled around the belly of Cuba. But time was of the essence. Trujillo was listening to the radio constantly, waiting for the next update from his people in Miami. Castro was pacing, making sure his men remained in touch with Morgan’s at the house in Miramar.
Now it was all up to Morgan.
As the smaller boat pulled alongside the yacht, he climbed aboard, motioning for Betancourt to follow. The man stood on the deck, hunched over. With every mile, Betancourt had grown more nauseated until finally he couldn’t go on any longer. There was no way he could make the ninety-mile trip to Cuba.
“I’m sick,” he told Morgan.
Morgan didn’t have time to wait. It was better for Betancourt to head back on the fishing boat. Two of Trujillo’s people were waiting on the yacht, ready to push off. Morgan motioned for them to throw the rope back into the fishing boat, and Betancourt climbed down. As the yacht’s engines revved, Morgan braced himself for the last leg of his trip. Surrounded by the numbing drone of the engines, Morgan needed to stay alert. He didn’t know the crew. He didn’t know the waters. Anything could happen between here and landfall.
As he stared into the night, one of the crew approached him. The look on his face said trouble. “We’re not going to make it,” the man said.
The captain had been watching the fuel gauge. It was showing far less gasoline than they thought they would need. There was no way the boat was going to have enough fuel to snake around the tip of Pinar del Río and the Isle of Pines before landing near Trinidad.
Morgan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How did this happen? Legions of men were waiting for him in Cuba, and there was the matter of the crazed Dominican dictator who wouldn’t rest until there was a bullet in Castro’s head.
Morgan was about to get stuck on a boat full of weapons with a fuel tank coughing up fumes. Perhaps they hadn’t estimated the extra weight of the weapons or planned on the rough waters in the Great Bahama Bank. But ultimately it didn’t matter. They needed to find the closest port. The map provided their answer: Havana.
They could make the capital, but the port was crawling with customs agents who would board the yacht, search the cabin, and undoubtedly turn up the arsenal below. Without any knowledge of Morgan’s role in the plot, the bust would blow up everything they were trying to do.
He had planned to unveil his true role when they arrived in Trinidad. But like everything else, he had to change plans. As the two crew members stepped onto the deck, he grabbed his handgun and waited for them to reach the rails. Then, raising the barrel, he pointed the gun at them. The men looked up, startled. He was taking them prisoner.