Hotel Florida
Obispo Street
Havana, Cuba
1:30 p.m., Wednesday
26 September 1888
I have several acquaintances around the world with whom I maintain a regular, friendly correspondence. I keep them abreast of various social and political developments in the United States, and they provide me information about their locales or their special interests, some of which are rather arcane. Usually we employ noms de ruse since they prefer not to have it known they are in contact with an American naval intelligence officer. That sort of thing could prove embarrassing to them. For some, it would be distinctly unhealthy.
In addition to this sensible precaution, we change our aliases every two months, so any compromise of the noms de ruse would be of limited duration. We also employ simple substitution codes that on first glance give the message a mercantile or religious appearance. These practices add time and effort but are a layer of protection that prevents our various foes from learning the true nature of our communications.
Instant memorization is a key talent in intelligence work. This includes everything from aliases to message codes to foreign military characteristics to maps. I have learned that simplicity is of similar importance with message codes. One can remember only so much, particularly when on the run in the heart of enemy territory. And mental acuity begins to degrade when you get older like me, approaching the fifth decade of life.
The letter Rork brought me is an illustrative case in point. It was addressed to Señor Juan Piedra, my pseudonym, due to expire in four weeks. It was from Señor Carlos Aponte, the alias of a Cuban revolutionary acquaintance in New York City who was becoming quite well known: José Julián Martí. In the previous two years of his association with me, my aliases for Martí had included Mondongo, Arena, Palma, Cadiz, and his personal favorite, Bordeaux, for he loved French wine. Martí and Carlos Mena were social acquaintances in New York, but, like the Aficionados, neither knew of the other’s relationship with me.
Martí was arrested and put in the Audiencia at the age of sixteen by the Spanish for the terrible crime of writing anti-government tracts and then the temerity to proclaim them aloud in public at the Hotel Inglaterra’s café. Sentenced to six years hard labor, he had that draconian penalty reduced to exile from Cuba to Spain. He didn’t stay there long, heading over the border to France, where he grew to love the cuisine.
My friend then made his way back to the New World, living in various Latin American countries before eventually ending up in New York City. An accomplished newspaper writer, philosopher, and linguist, he was slowly becoming the intellectual stimulus of a broad array of organizations fighting for Cuban independence. Ironically, he was not a devotee of his native island’s rum, the only Cuban I ever met who wasn’t, but favored gin and tonic water instead, gaining his nickname Ginebrito, or “little gin drinker.” Martí said the quinine in it kept the fevers away, which the British had been proving for years in their tropical colonies.
Back in ’86, when I’d first met him, he’d helped me with information and contacts in Cuba and Florida, and we had kept up our friendship with dinners whenever I was passing through New York. I found that we shared many hopes and fears for Cuba’s future.
Martí was totally in favor of an independent Cuba with a democratically elected government and complete individual freedoms for all citizens, all guaranteed in a constitution. He worried that the revolutionary generals would take over the government once the island won independence, as they had elsewhere in Latin America, and that Cuba would degenerate into the cyclical chaos seen throughout the region.
He was particularly apprehensive about any American domination of the new country, either political or economic, saying Cuba would be swallowed up and lose her cultural identity. Martí admired American ingenuity and energy and democracy, but he despised the corrupt politicians and industrial barons and the blatant racism of the United States. He was adamantly against that culture taking over in Cuba. I agreed with all of these views.
I am sure the questions arise in the reader’s mind—it certainly did in mine—of why such a purist Cuban philosopher would befriend a man like me, the servant of the yanqui government he despised? Well, the answer is simple: I was useful to Martí and his cause. He used me as a conduit for information he wanted to quietly send to Washington and as a reliable barometer of Washington’s attitudes and policies toward his island. It was, however, a symbiotic relationship, for he gave me nuances of revolutionary personalities and policies, as well as contacts inside Cuba. He got to understand Washington better. I understood Cuba better.
Before my hurried departure from Washington, I’d telegraphed Martí, alias Aponte, asking if he had any dependable contacts in Havana I could use should I find myself in trouble. I requested he reply by sending a coded letter to me in Havana by special priority mail on the soonest steamer.
Now I had his answer, and it wasn’t what—or in the form—I expected. Usually Martí used a double-substitution code based on a vest-pocket Spanish-English dictionary, copies of which we both carried. Within the United States, we used the telegraph or mail as a mode of communication, but outside the country we used trusted couriers and dead-drop exchanges—small hiding places—for Martí fully understood the need for security. The Spanish counterintelligence apparatus had agents everywhere.
I examined the envelope Rork had pressed into my hand. It appeared secure, though there are various ways to make one look so after surreptitiously opening it. Next, I studied the note. In Martí’s typical business-like script was written a simple message:
Tio Juan,
Recibé su letra telegráfico hoy y pesar que no puedo ayudarle, sino que estoy seguro que usted tendrá éxito en la transacción del tobacco. La Habana tiene muchos companies el vender dela hoja más fina. Estoy en la montaña Ampersand en Nuevo York noreste para tress semanas próximas, despues iré a casa.
Con Afecion,
Carlos Aponte
This was not Martí’s usual code of late, using the pocket dictionaries. No, this was an earlier one, based on a sole double-entendre, the double-meaning of a single word in the entire text. My translation into English yielded this:
I received your telegraphic letter today and regret I cannot help you, but I am sure you will have success in the tobacco transaction. Havana has many companies selling the finest leaf. I am at Ampersand Mountain in northeastern New York for the next three weeks, and then I will go home.
With affection,
Carlos Aponte
Of that entire letter, there was only one operative word: Ampersand. Though the letter’s text appeared legitimate, it was meaningless. Yes, there is a mountain named Ampersand in the northeast portion of New York State, named after the creek of the same appellation, because the winding stream is shaped like an ampersand, a grammatical hieroglyph representing the conjunctive word “and.” But the mountain had nothing to do with the message.
Having shed his disguise, Rork was staring at me impatiently and finally couldn’t stand it any longer. Glancing at the hole in the wall, he let out his frustration with a muted, “Well, what’s the damned thing really say?”
“My dear old friend, I think your recent infusion of rotgut has dimmed your ancient brain. You’ve forgotten the code word ‘ampersand,’ now haven’t you?”
Hot and sweaty from his jaunt about the town, Rork wasn’t in the mood for humor. Rubbing his face where the moustache used to be, he became even more perturbed and muttered, “Amper-what? Oh, just get on with the bloody message . . . sir.”
Having to constantly deal with Rork’s Irish humor, I couldn’t refrain from subjecting him to a little wit of my own. “Very well, Rork. I realize that you’re much older than I and it’s only to be expected that these things will happen, but there’s no reason to be testy about it. We’ve a lot to remember and sometimes a word slips by. Ampersand is the only code word here. Martí last used it in eighty-six—December, I believe. Well, perhaps a little reeducation for you is in order, to jog your memory.”
He was exasperated, but I made him wait a bit longer while I explained, “An ampersand, as you may now distantly recall, is the ancient Latin symbol for ‘et,’ the source of the French ‘et,’ which in English means ‘and.’ An ampersand is written out this way.”
I removed a pencil from the desk and walked back to Rork in the corner, out of sight of our minders. On the letter’s envelope, I drew the ancient symbol for an ampersand, using the French style:
&
That elicited an, “Ah, o’ course me knows that one. Just couldn’t recall what the devil it was called.” Rork allowed an embarrassed smile. “An’, aye, yer right, sir. Me brain’s overheated somethin’ fierce, an’ damned if it can remember the code meanin’.”
“It’s the code word for two things. The first is: Read between the lines.”
He perked up. “Invisible ink!”
“Yes. Please fetch me that oil lamp and light it, if you would. The second meaning of this code word is that the hidden message is in original American Morse code, instead of European international telegraph code, for there is no ampersand in European-based international code.”
I will digress here to provide my reader with some recent history of our modern system of worldwide telegraph cable communications. The Europeans started their own code system for telegraphy in the 1840s. In 1865, they adopted it as the standard for their empires throughout the globe. Only American railroads still use original Morse code anymore. If Spanish counterintelligence agents had read the letter and managed to discover the hidden ink message, they would be trying to decipher it with the wrong telegraph code system.
Martí was rather good at this sort of crypto-communication. In this case, the ampersand code word would get me to the hidden message, which would get me to the original Morse code, which would probably translate into a riddle—three layers of protection for the message.
I wrapped the notepaper around the heated glass bell of the oil lamp Rork was holding by its handle, and we waited. It took almost a minute, much longer than an oven would have taken, but one must do with what one has at the time.
“Fruit juice?” Rork asked as I held the letter up to the light to scrutinize it. There were many rows of small brown marks beginning to appear between the lines of words. It was a lengthy message. The brown marks extended down the page, well past Martí’s farewell and signature as Aponte.
“Very good, Rork. Yes, it appears to be citric juice rather than apple. Came out darker than lemon or orange usually does, so it must be from a lime. Limes must cost dearly in New York this time of year.” I sighed at seeing the number of brown marks. “It looks like a long one—this is going to take a while.”
It did. I must admit, it was the longest Morse decoding I’d ever done, and it taxed my brain and patience severely. Meanwhile, Rork occupied the attention of anyone at the peephole by standing there, combing his hair and singing Gaelic ballads off-key while admiring himself in the mirror. I think he did it just to aggravate me.
At last I finished, and, sure enough, it was one of Martí’s damned riddles. He loved riddles—it was the poet in him. The third layer of security. I motioned for Rork to come over and have a look at it.
No puedo ayudar en la transacción, mi amigo. Pero recuerde por favor, tengo hermanos por todas partes en el mundo y hay siempre ayuda de una paloma francesa por debajo la cruz de ocho.
He shook his head. “Nay, me Spanish ain’t near good enough for the likes o’ that, sir. You have any idea o’ the meanin’ o’ the riddle?”
“Not yet, but I’ll put it in English and we’ll look at it again.”
I cannot help on the transaction, my friend. But please remember, I have brothers everywhere in the world and there is always help from a French dove underneath the cross of eight.
I looked at Rork again, but he shrugged. “Dunno fer sure, sir. But me’s thinkin’ the ‘brothers’ bit is referrin’ to Cuban rebels.”
“No, I think not, Rork. They’re in New York and Florida and some other American cities, but certainly not ‘everywhere in the world.’ Got to be a bigger organization, but who? Damn . . . now what the hell does that mean?”
“A brotherhood o’ some sort, eh? What brotherhood is everywhere? The Jesuits? We’ve friends there.”
“Good idea, but the Cuban revolutionaries aren’t that close at all to the Jesuits.”
Rork exhaled loudly in irritation, then quieted his words. “Ye know, Martí gets a wee bit too full o’ himself on these messages sometimes. What’s this malarkey mean?”
“Well, my friend, I’ll own up that he’s certainly made it a secure communiqué—even we can’t figure it out. I suppose that just shows that it must be important somehow. All right, any ideas on the French dove and cross of eight bit?”
“Nary a damned one, ’cept that the Spanish word for dove is paloma, an’ that’s the name o’ our informant that got nabbed by the Spaniardos. Connection?”
I shook my head. “Don’t think so. Context is completely different, so I think that’s a coincidence. Besides, Martí doesn’t know exactly why we’re here, much less our informant’s name. He never knew about that operation.”
“Cross o’ eight . . . Eight arms on the cross? O’ maybe eight points stickin’ out?”
“Depends on which way you look at it, I think. A cross can have two arms or four, depending on how you describe it. Or some of them have a small bar athwart the main upright, below the main crosspiece, so that’d be two more arms. No, it must be points of the cross, not arms.”
“Brotherhood is connected to the cross, maybe? Me’s still thinkin’ o the Jesuits.”
I was mightily tired of ruses de guerre right about then. “Rork, I’m thinking we should just forget Martí’s message and stay on our plan. I don’t have a clue about an eight-pointed cross, or a French dove, or any brotherhood . . .”
That was when one of those serendipitous things happened that defies later explanation. Annoyed by my inability to comprehend the significance of Martí’s words, I was on the verge of burning all three forms of the message in the flame of the lamp, when I glanced away toward our unseen observer behind that hole. Below his viewpoint in the wall was the room’s writing desk, and on that was the Havana newspaper.
It suddenly struck me like a hammer—one of the articles I’d perused the night before had the word “brotherhood” in it, but I’d been searching for something else and hadn’t read it in detail. I dashed over and flung open the paper, flipping through the pages until I found it on the bottom of page five. The Spanish colonial government was concerned about a brotherhood thought to be involved with the insurrectionists. As a consequence, assorted restrictions were being placed on the activities of the brotherhood, and anyone with knowledge of violations of these regulations was ordered to contact the authorities. It was so simple, so obvious, that I was almost too embarrassed to tell Rork, who stood, warily watching my odd behavior. I returned to the corner and whispered my revelation in his ear.
“It’s the Freemasons, Rork! The ‘brotherhood’ in the message is the Brotherhood of Free and Accepted Masons. They’re everywhere in the world. Maceo, Céspedes, Goméz, and many of the revolutionary leadership, including our very own Martí, have been brother Masons for years. Many of the rank and file rebels are too. The paper had an article about how Spanish colonial authorities are cracking down on them. I can’t believe I missed that. Should have deduced it right away. My mind must be addled by all that’s happened.”
“Freemasons? Ye talkin’ o’ that secret cult o’ heretics?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, they’re not heretics, Rork. Freemasonry’s a fraternal organization that has some confidential rites, that’s all. And the Cuban rebels aren’t alone in being Masons, not by a long shot. Many of the revolutionary leaders in the North American colonies were Freemasons, George Washington being the most famous. Most of the independence fighters in South America, like Bernardo O’Higgins and Bolivar, were Freemasons.”
Rork, bless his soul, is used to my lectures by now, so he stood there patiently waiting while I warmed up to the subject. “In Latin America, and especially in Cuba and Puerto Rico—still under Spanish domination seventy years after everybody else got freedom—they follow the Portuguese model for Freemasonry, which means that in addition to the general precepts of their order, they engage in patriotic political and social activism for the promotion of individual liberty. This is something significant, Rork, and through Martí we’ve been given an entrée into it.”
I could tell he wasn’t impressed, even before he said, “Hmm. Not sure about all that, me friend. The Church says the whole lot o’ ’em ’re heretics . . . o’ worse.”
“Yes, it does say that. The Vatican issued another papal proclamation against them just a few years ago. And since the Church and the Spanish colonial government are one and the same here in Cuba, they have considerable power to use against the Masonic brotherhood. In the sixties and seventies, being a Freemason could get you executed by the government. Even now they get arrested. That stance by the Church is why many of the rebels who are Freemasons have also become Protestants. It’s all connected in Cuba, Rork—the Protestants, the Freemasons, and the rebel patriots.”
He held up a hand in surrender. “Well, since me own blighted soul’s probably already under Saint Peter’s suspicion for associatin’ with the likes o’ you, methinks associatin’ with a few more heretics won’t matter none in the long run. Lookee here now, though, this French dove bit, an’ the cross—have ye reasoned them out o’ the riddle yet?”
“Not yet. But I’d wager they’re somehow tied to the Freemasons of Havana. And I’d further bet that Martí has contacted his Cuban Masonic brothers and told them to expect us.”
“So’s they’re to be friends an’ not foes, eh?”
I wasn’t sure, for I knew some of the Spanish elite in Cuba were also Freemasons as well. Had they infiltrated the rebel movement through the Masonic lodges? My knowledge of the secret world of Masonry was limited to general information. I’d known a few men in Washington who were publicly known to be members but had never spoken to them about their establishment or its principles. I now wished I had done so.
“Time will tell,” I said, mostly to myself.