Alberto Campos arrived in the small town of Niceto Pérez six miles west of Guantánamo City. He grabbed his backpack and got off the bus with a few other passengers and walked another mile or so to a tiny cinderblock building just off the main highway. It was painted blue, with a red tin roof, and had a few tables set up under a palapa constructed of bamboo and palm fronds. A painted wooden sign announced that it was called Emilio’s. A dozen or so patrons were eating and drinking in the warm night air. A small transistor radio on the counter was tuned to the Navy base radio station. Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me” was coming through the tinny speaker.
Alberto made a beeline to the rear of the building where he was warmly greeted by his father, Emilio, a man with a healthy appetite who was wearing a cook’s apron.
“What did you bring today, Hijo?” asked the cook.
Campos sat at a lone table near the kitchen door and opened his pack, revealing a couple dozen bricks of bacon which he had “requisitioned” from the base supply.
The older man nodded, impressed. “Not bad. Were you followed?”
“Yes, by every dog between here and the bus stop,” he said.
Suddenly Clara, a hefty woman in her forties, burst from the kitchen carrying a plate heaped with food and a bottle of Cristal beer.
“Alberto!” She placed the items on the table in front of her son and proceeded to smother him with hugs and kisses. He squirmed a bit, offering a token resistance, a habit he had formed as a little boy.
“Is that boliche I smell?” he asked, using his technique of distracting her by mentioning her food to secure a reprieve from the onslaught of affection.
“Yes, my darling. Your favorite,” she said, placing her hand on his head very gently, as one might rest their hand on the head of a beloved dog.
Alberto put some of it into his mouth. His eyes closed in ecstasy. Boliche Cubano was indeed his favorite dish. The eye-round beef roast marinated in Mojo Criollo and stuffed with chorizo was slow cooked in a wine broth until the meat was so tender that it melted in his mouth. It was unique to Cuba, and nobody made it better than his mother.
“Are you showing them what real Cuban food is, Alberto?” asked Emilio.
“I do what I can, papa, but they still like their beans from a can.”
“You’re a good boy, Alberto,” his mother said. She took her husband by the hand, and the couple went back into the kitchen to tend to business, leaving their son to enjoy his supper.
As he took a long pull from the cold beer, Alberto heard a rustling sound in the brush behind him and moments later was joined by a lanky, bearded man with a cowboy hat wearing a .45-caliber Colt automatic sidearm. This was Camilo Cienfuegos.
Along with Fidel and Raúl Castro and Che Guevara, Cienfuegos had been commanding a column of the rebel forces in the nearby Sierra Maestra mountains. The rebels had been fighting and adding more columns, and now that 1958 had arrived they were gaining ground as more men dissatisfied with the government began taking up arms.
Despite the constant danger he was in, Cienfuegos was in a particularly good mood that evening. In the actual fighting, the Cuban army had been getting the worst of it, succumbing to guerrilla tactics that were not only effective but extremely frustrating as well. But more importantly, the people were behind the rebels, donating food, cash, and other supplies to further the cause. Alberto and his family were among many who did what they could to help.
Alberto called into the kitchen for another plate and a beer for his dining companion.
When it arrived, Cienfuegos raised his bottle to the revolution, then began shoveling the food into his mouth with gusto. “Damn, this is good!” he said. “I’m recommending this place to all my friends!”
Cienfuegos was loquacious, always quick to tell a joke and quick to laugh at himself. Not that he wasn’t a serious person—he was remarkably earnest—but as a leader he thought it helpful to keep things light, reasoning that with such high stakes and so many people sacrificing so much for the cause, the last thing needed was for him to take himself too seriously. The revolution, yes; himself personally, never.
“How are things going up there?” asked Campos.
“Not too bad, man,” Cienfuegos replied. “We know where they are, and they don’t know where we are. It’s just a matter of time before we run out of guys to shoot.”
Alberto leaned in. “I want to join you in the mountains, Camilo. If you had more fighters, this thing would be over much more quickly. I’ve earned the right.”
Camilo laughed. “We have too many cooks but not enough food. You’re more valuable where you are now. Besides, your parents would blacklist me from this place if you got killed, and I can’t risk that.”
“I can do more for the cause than steal food, you know,” Alberto said. “A person can hear things on the base.”
Cienfuegos let loose with a deep belly laugh. “What do you hear in the kitchen besides complaints?”
“Not me, but others. I have friends that work in more sensitive areas.”
Alberto told Camilo about Alicia. “There’s a girl working in the administrator’s office, for example. She’s a friend of mine.”
Cienfuegos raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes, I think she could be helpful.” Alberto’s expression was very grave.
Camilo shook his head and laughed, “Yeah, I’m sure she could be very helpful.”
Alberto’s facade was cracking under Camilo’s gaze. “OK, OK, she’s a pretty girl. I admit that, but I’m not stupid,” Alberto said.
“No, it’s all right,” Cienfuegos said. “It’s the job of pretty girls to make us stupid—part of nature’s plan. Remember, God gave men two brains but only enough blood to operate one at a time. Make sure you use this one.” He tapped Alberto’s forehead.
Camilo checked the time. “Listen, I’m meeting a guy here in a bit . . .” he said. “He’s a little paranoid, so . . .”
Campos understood. He gave Cienfuegos the purloined bacon from his pack. “A little something for breakfast. My father has more food for you inside.”
Cienfuegos extended his grateful hand. “Thank you, Alberto. I’ll see you next time, my friend.”
Camilo Cienfuegos sat alone, enjoying his dinner. He had planned to have a good meal, a shower, and hopefully a woman that evening—in that order. He had never had difficulty finding women willing to satisfy his needs. In the morning he would journey back into the mountains, bringing much needed supplies with him and carefully avoid the military checkpoints. Normally he wouldn’t risk the trip himself for such a mundane task as collecting supplies, but tonight, after an important bit of business that required his presence, he saw no reason to return empty-handed.
He had been communicating through intermediaries with a Cuban man from Miami, a patriot who had been supplying guns to the rebels by bringing them over by boat and unloading them under cover of darkness west of Santiago. The man obviously had access to US military weapons and now claimed to be able to procure mortars and bazookas for the revolutionaries. As he had reliably delivered shipments of small arms—the only weapons the rebels had for fighting against the well-equipped Cuban army—the man had established his credibility, but was now taking things up a notch. Cienfuegos had reason—and motivation—to believe that he could do as he claimed. The condition for delivering the heavy weaponry was simple. The guy wanted to meet Fidel personally, and it was Camilo’s task to meet with him first and determine if it was prudent to arrange such a meeting.
At precisely nine o’clock, the man arrived at Emilio’s restaurant and made his way, as instructed, to the private table in the back where Cienfuegos was waiting.
“You must be General Cienfuegos,” said the man, stepping out of the shadows.
Camilo stood to take the man’s extended hand. “Actually if rank is important to you, I am a major. But Commandante Cienfuegos is more alliterative, so as long as it’s just the two of us I don’t mind your calling me that,” he said with a smile. “You must be Salazar.”
“That’s me,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you maj—uh, Commandante.”
“The honor is mine, sir,” Camilo said, removing his cowboy hat and holding it over his heart. “The revolution owes you a tremendous debt of gratitude, Mr. Salazar.”
Salazar seemed to Camilo to feign humility. “Nonsense, I consider it my duty as a patriot to do what I can to help.”
Cienfuegos studied the man across from him in silence for a moment, then leaned in, his elbows on the table. “I need to ask you an indelicate question,” he said. “It’s my job, so promise me you won’t take offense.”
“I promise not to; ask me anything.”
“I need to know what it is that you truly want, because I don’t buy the patriot story. In fact, I’m quite sure that it’s bullshit,” Cienfuegos said.
Salazar bristled defensively, obviously put off by the blunt accusation.
Camilo cautioned him. “Remember, you promised not to take offense. Salazar regained his composure. “Why do you have doubt, my friend? Have I not delivered in the past?”
“Yes, but you’ve never demanded a face-to-face meeting with the commander before,” Cienfuegos said. “You must realize that such a thing is extremely inconvenient and very likely perilous to all involved, yourself included. What is your reason to ask for this? Tell me why if you want me to consider your request.”
Salazar sat quietly for a moment, as if calculating whether to trust Cienfuegos. “You’re absolutely right,” Salazar said. “I need a good reason, and that is exactly what I have. You’re a good and trustworthy man, fighting for a just cause, and the time has come for me to put my cards on the table.”
Salazar hesitated another beat, then appeared to do exactly that. “I’m asking you to put your trust in me, so I’m going to put my faith in you. I’m working with the US government. The CIA, to be precise. There it is.”
“Can you prove this?” Cienfuegos asked.
“These orders come directly from President Eisenhower,” Salazar said. “He has lost confidence in Batista. He’s switching sides.”
“You mean he wants to switch puppets? Because we will never agree to that kind of arrangement. Cuba’s days of being a colony are over, whether the US helps us or not. This is nonnegotiable.”
“Hey, I’m just the messenger, OK? My job is simply to open a channel of communication between Fidel and the president of the United States who—and this is a key point by the way—happens to want him to win. And I will deliver a goodwill gesture of heavy weaponry that will virtually guarantee a swift and decisive victory for your men. If you’re not interested, it’s no big deal, and we’ll go our separate ways.”
Cienfuegos sat silently, digesting his dinner and the information he was just given. “I’ll talk to Fidel and get back to you. Thank you for coming.”