Off Obrapia Street
Havana, Cuba
6:35 a.m., Thursday
27 September 1888
We waited over an hour. The city had come alive with sound and motion. In the Latin tropical summer, manual labor work begins before the day gets too hot, ending by ten in the morning and not resuming until the afternoon rain has finished. Those workers were now plying their trades—delivering, building, loading, gardening, hauling, etc.—each intent upon his own problems and little noting a rather nervous man waiting in a byway between buildings.
The sky was developing a yellowish cast to it, diffusing the sun’s early light through a thin gauze of haze, but still bright enough to begin its daily task of dissipating shadows and illuminating details. The gloomy color reflected the disruption I felt in the pit of my stomach: trepidation that my suspicions of Rogelio would prove correct and anxiety over what then to do. Options were limited to two, neither of them positive.
Rogelio, unusually clad in faded cotton attire more suited to a working man than to one in his station in life, approached Rork’s hidden position on Obrapia Street at a brisk pace. The Cuban’s head was down, absorbed in some mental process and oblivious to his surroundings.
Somewhat liberally interpreting my orders regarding no use of coercion if possible, Rork waited until the man passed by, then clasped him by the back of the neck and yanked him into a side alcove, belatedly saying, “Buenos dias, mi amigo. Ven conmigo.”
Caught completely unaware, Rogelio responded with none of his normal bluster, instead whimpering, “Rork, what has happened?”
“Nary a thing,” said Rork flatly. “Why d’ye ask, me boyo? Was something supposed to happen? Ach, now shut yer trap an’ come with me.”
Without waiting for a reply, he took Rogelio by the hand, as one would do with a recalcitrant child, and pulled him along behind the buildings toward our mutual destination behind the taverna. He then emitted his birdcall of the West Indian goatsucker. I think he just likes that name. I heard the multiple, high-pitched screeches clearly over the morning city sounds, for goatsuckers—also known as nightjars or nighthawks—do not as a rule live in cities.
When I subsequently arrived, they were squatting side by side behind a rubbish crate, backs against a wall, silently regarding each other, with my friend casting a humorless face toward his companion. The marlinespike was in full display. The Cuban’s thin face showed abject terror, while Rork’s transformed into innocence itself as he turned and greeted me.
“Lookee what I found, sir. An’ dressed out like us common folk too.”
Slovenly attired or not, Rogelio the successful businessman wasted no time in filling his words with indignation. “Commander, what is this about? Why am I dragged here like a common criminal? Why are we not meeting at the number five place?”
It was time for him to take the test I had brewed while waiting. It would have a bitter taste, and his reaction would be the indicator of guilt or blamelessness.
“Because you are a bigamist, Rogelio, and therefore can no longer be trusted.”
Rogelio narrowed his eyes. “A what? I do not know that word in English.”
“Un bígamo.”
“Bígamo? There is a mistake, Commander. I have no wife at all, much less two wives. And what does that have to do with our work together, you and I?”
“No mistake, Rogelio. It is a word used in our line of work for a man who goes to bed with two different people, or organizations, at the same time. You are a bigamist.”
Tellingly, Rogelio wasn’t surprised or angered by my accusation. His eyes flickered wider briefly, then blinked several times before settling into their usual dark mode. Seeing his mind assessing my accusation, I knew he’d use cunning words to handle this little problem, this bump in the road.
“My dear friend, there has been some misunderstanding here. You think I am working for the Spanish? Nothing could be further from the truth. Why do you think that?”
It was neatly done. My accusation turned around into his question, to ascertain the extent of my knowledge of his infidelity. Rogelio was nothing if not a smooth operator. It was time for me to use some guile of my own, to sow seeds of doubt in both Rogelio and his masters. Disinformation can be an effective method for disrupting imminent enemy operations.
“Because I have a well-placed spy in the captain-general’s office. He told me about you last night at a soiree there. And just a few minutes ago, it was proven to me at house number five when I spotted Marrón’s people watching it, which is why you are here in this alley. Poor Colonel Marrón has no proof of any wrongdoing on my part while in Havana, mainly because I haven’t done anything wrong while here. Therefore, he cannot arrest me. But what I do have now is proof of your duplicity.”
He feigned ignorance of that word also, so I said it in Spanish: “Duplicidad, por Usted . . .”
“No, no! You are wrong, my friend. After these years of our amity, how could you take the word of some Spanish lackey at the palace about me? Have I not given you important information about the leaders of the Spanish army and navy? Have I not demonstrated by my actions, my patriotism for this island and my people, for the revolutionary cause?”
I gazed into those eyes of his, those usually haughty eyes that now were beginning to change, dilating in fear as he realized his situation had become life-threatening.
“Do not call me your ‘friend,’ Rogelio. For that you are not and never were. And no, you have never given me important information. The information you provided over the last two years was gossip of minor importance, and none of it was new to me. I kept you as an Aficionado because of your potential for more detailed intelligence in the future, should the need arise. And no, you have never demonstrated your patriotism for the Cuban people, only your disdain for the classes you perceive as below you.”
His eyes began to fill as his face reddened. “I cannot believe this is happening to me. I swear to God above that I have been loyal. Please tell me what I can do to show you my sincerity to the cause of Cuba.”
It was good acting but devoid of the spontaneous passion a Cuban patriot would display if falsely accused. His words were affected, calculated. That was when I knew for certain that Rogelio was guilty.
Rork sensed it also and moved a bit closer to the man, that spiked hand resting on a ledge beside Rogelio.
The Cuban knew he’d failed the test, but he played out his losing hand. Looking at the ground, he mumbled, “Please, tell me what you want me to do, Commander.”
What was my next step? Kill the man? Or allow him to live and use him? Eliminating him would be the most expedient option. But if I chose the latter, how best to use him? I’d no time left for prolonged contemplation. When I did not immediately reply, Rogelio locked his eyes on mine, as if he could peer into my mind. There was no arrogance left in his gaze, no semblance of strength at all. He was the condemned looking into the eyes of the judge, about to hand down the sentence.
“First, tell me how Marrón got to you initially. This is your final test. Do not lie, Rogelio, or they will be your last words on this earth.”
His shoulders collapsed, the final sign of total submission.
“My gambling. Bolita, roulette, whist, horses, dogs, cocks . . . I thought myself good at all sorts of gambling. But actually I was not that good at all.”
“Go on.”
“The debts were very large and widespread to various men. The colonel heard about them. He knew I was about to lose everything—my business export-import license with the government, my home, my reputation, even my family when they found out about it. My father is a very proud man.”
“So the colonel made the debts go away. When was that?”
“Eighty-five.”
The year before I signed him up. I’d never known of his wagering. A fundamental mistake on my part.
“And since then, what has Marrón had you do in regard to the Aficionados?”
“I never told him about you or the Aficionados! And never the patriots! I only gave him things I heard around the city regarding the anarchists and unionists.”
That made some sense. To my uncertain knowledge, our ONI operations in Cuba had shown no signs of compromise until the present situation. And, until a few hours earlier, none of the Aficionados knew the identities of the others. Rogelio still didn’t.
“Why not? You could rid yourself of the gringo pressure to perform and at the same time gain favor with Marrón, the man who held your life in his hands.”
He shook his head, sniffling now. “No, no . . . I support the cause of independent liberty, as do you. I could not forsake that.”
That part about me was true. I’d told each of the Aficionados that though my government was officially neutral in the struggle for Cuban independence—especially the Cleveland administration—I was personally in favor of it. That sweetener had added to my credibility with the Cubans. However, I doubted Rogelio’s motives were as altruistic as he proclaimed.
“No. You needed steady money from both sides, Rogelio. The Spanish and the Americans have been funding you for years now. You doubled your income on the side, with more money for wagering. And thus became a bigamist.”
That hit the target. The eyes wavered and filled, blinking constantly. His chest no longer moved as he held his breath for fear of my next words.
I pressed on. “But you must’ve truly dreaded the day when one of us, the Spanish or the Americans or the Cubans, would find out. Especially the Cubans. You’ve lived in terror about their finding out for years, haven’t you?”
Sniffling turned into open sobbing. “Yes.”
“When did Marrón find out about you and the United States?”
“Two days ago.”
Interesting. That was the day I arrived. “How?”
“Telegram from New York. The colonel said they are checking all communications from New York, since so many Cuban revolutionaries are there.”
He shook his head again and moaned. The words then came out in a torrent. “The Spanish intercepted one from a Cuban friend of mine, Franco Garmendia, to me. It was nothing really. Only a response to a question from me asking if he knew when the patriot general Antonio Maceo would come back to Cuba. The people here say that once Maceo returns, the final fight will really begin. I was merely curious, and Franco said he had no idea of when Maceo was planning to return.”
Rogelio took a breath. “Of course, you do not put that in plain language, but in other words that sound more innocent. But our code words were stupidly simple enough for the Spanish to decipher. Then I was summoned . . .” More tears.
“Talk,” I ordered.
“I was summoned to Colonel Marrón this last Tuesday. He accused Franco and me of working for the U.S. government and threatened me with the firing squad. I never told him about the Aficionados though—never! And I do not think he knows, for he never spoke of us or used the word Aficionados.
“He did say that a U.S. naval officer was here in the city and assigned me to find out what the officer and any other norteamericanos are doing in Havana. I have the impression he has given a similar assignment to other people in the city. Marrón gave me two days to do that, to prove my loyalty to the crown, or . . . or . . . I will be shot at sunrise on Friday at Cabañas Fortress.”
“So what did you tell him?” I demanded.
“Only that a message was left for me to meet a gringo at one of two places early this morning. I gave him the locations for house number three and house number five and said I chose the second one. I told him I was chosen because of my rum export business with the United States. That was all I said. No details, no names.”
“So you wrote a fake message to support your story?”
“Yes. I had to give him something.”
“With my name signed?”
“No! There was no name signed at all, only a short message in English to meet at one of those locations.”
This time I believed him, for his manner said more than his words. Oh, he was desperate, all right, reporting to his Spanish overlords an anonymous tip for an initial meeting, which might yield the big prize of a yanqui naval officer, much as in ’86, before I’d escaped. But it was a razor’s edge he’d been walking.
Rogelio wouldn’t want to tell them anything else, for it would prove how involved he had been with us for years. Now it was time to turn this fragile double agent into a triple one with a carrot and a stick.
“Their trap to catch me didn’t work, though. Now they will find and kill you. But you don’t have the skills or the true friendships to be able to flee Cuba, do you, Rogelio?”
It came out barely audible. “No.”
“Were they following you from your apartment to house number five?”
“No. They said they did not want the foreigner to see them on the street, that I would have to go alone, but they would have men around the apartment building when I got there.”
That was a slight positive note in an otherwise depressing litany. “Then they don’t know where you are now, here with us, do they?”
“No.”
I checked my pocket watch. “Hmm. So it appears to them that you are now on the run, and by now Marrón’s men have started searching for you. If they succeed, you’ll have only twenty-four more hours to live. You’ve never been in that dungeon, have you?”
He trembled at the thought, unable to speak.
“Have you?”
“No,” he whimpered.
“I have. I’ve seen what they do. Seen the instruments they use. Yes, it will be an excruciatingly long twenty-four hours, and you will be begging for the bullet by the time they are done.”
He made a sound like an animal whining.
“And I would imagine your execution won’t be at Cabañas. No, it will probably be at La Punta, by the Audiencia. Marrón will want to make a public spectacle out of your death to discourage anyone else from similar behavior. He will probably force your mother and father to watch, won’t he?”
“Yes. Colonel Marrón is horrible. That . . . is . . . the kind of thing he would do.”
It was time. “If you want to live, Rogelio, I have a way.”