As one of the five clerks to the GTMO base administrator, Pilar was at the center of a lot of activity. The clerks, three men and two women, worked out of the same large room as their boss Lt. Robert “Buzz” Holton. Located on the third floor of the headquarters building, the room had a large picture window overlooking the base. Pilar’s work station was closest to Holton’s desk.
Working for Holton gave Pilar immediate credibility on the base. Holton was an exemplary naval officer, a genuine “officer and a gentleman.” He was highly regarded and well liked by those who worked for him.
Pilar marveled at the variety of uniforms he wore. His shirt and pants were always well pressed, his shoes gleaming. Most work days he wore khaki pants with a short-sleeved khaki shirt with the pair of silver bars on each collar. He had combat ribbons which somehow were always transferred from uniform to uniform. Ever present were his gleaming gold aviator’s wings.
On Friday mornings, Holton wore white. For some special occasions, instead of a white shirt with gold braided shoulder boards, he wore buttoned dress formals with the corresponding medals replacing his battle ribbons. Most striking of all was the occasionally worn ceremonial naval officer’s sword which hung so naturally around his slim waist. He explained to her that the gold tassel that was wrapped around the handle was a little soiled because the sword had been passed from his grandfather to his dad to him, as successive generations of Holtons had graduated from the United States Naval Academy. His emphasis on family instilled admiration in Pilar. She had a fleeting thought in which she pictured herself as a mother attending the graduation of her son from her boss’s precious Naval Academy.
In dealing with Pilar, he was patient and understanding. Pilar quickly picked up the peculiarities of the Naval jargon used around the office. Initially, she felt like she was back in grade school in Miami, trying to learn a foreign language. Because Holton was below the rank of commander, she was able to call him either Lieutenant Holton or Mr. Holton, though he preferred Mr. Holton. The floor was the “deck” and the “ceiling” the “overhead.” The walls were “bulkheads,” and to the men, the restroom was the “head.”
Holton also gave her the official Washington take on the revolution. “Many people in Washington see beards and berets and firebrand speeches but don’t think this will create any real change,” he said. “They are not convinced these guys will succeed. However, on the ground, things are rapidly changing, and we have to act in the interest of ensuring stability.”
Holton’s office was a clearing house of communiqués from the Pentagon, the CIA, and even the Eisenhower White House. All of them were written in code, and many were purposefully contradictory in case they were turned over to the rebels. Every operation had a different name, and only the higher-ups knew which were real and which were decoys.
Interesting people were always coming and going from Holton’s office. None of them caught Pilar’s attention more than Chip Thompson. The first time she saw him, Thompson was carrying a briefcase in one hand and a pair of running shoes in the other. Thompson strode into the office full of confidence—“full of himself,” as Pilar’s coworkers soon warned her.
Thompson was young, in his mid-twenties, and handsome to a fault. Tall, slender, and as fit as a professional athlete, he had, piercing blue eyes, a square jaw, and a military-style crew cut. Her office colleagues were suspicious of Thompson’s flirtations, but Pilar found him engaging and amusing. He worked as a private contractor on the base in communications, so he was often in the office. What exactly he did was unclear, but it was clear by the way Holton treated him that whatever this was, it was very important.
Chip Thompson, in fact, was one of the key CIA people stationed on the base. An All-American running back and class salutatorian at the University of Nebraska, he had been recruited out of college by the agency in 1955. Many of his teammates were joining the Army or the Navy straight out of college. To Thompson, spending time in boot camp to prepare for combat that you may never see seemed unexciting. He craved danger, which was exactly what the CIA was looking for when they recruited him.
Thompson quickly distinguished himself as a standout in training at Camp Peary, better known as “The Farm.” He had a photographic memory and a face that was very hard to read—excellent traits for a prospective agent. The teachers pegged him for counterintelligence in South America since he spoke fluent Spanish.
Thompson’s first posting was in Montevideo, Uruguay, where he worked under E. Howard Hunt, the powerful station chief. Hunt had served as station chief in Mexico and had run the operation to overthrow the elected president of Guatemala. He groomed Thompson and then personally repositioned him to Cuba in the spring of 1957, just months after Castro and his guerrillas returned from Mexico.
In Cuba, Thompson did what the best counterintelligence officers do: he played both sides against the middle. He had a line on the movements of the revolutionary forces through his relationship with Frank País, the leader of the Revolutionary National Action, a primary Castro support group. Only twenty-two years old, País was the main source of arms for Castro’s growing militia; he also carried out numerous attacks on Batista’s army and the Cuban national police force. Unfortunately for the rebels, he quickly became a priority target and was gunned down by a police officer in broad daylight on a busy street in Santiago in July 1957.
Thompson, of course, knew the officer who had killed País. The man was the second highest ranking police official in Santiago, with close ties to Batista. The officer had actually told Thompson that País was being targeted. Certain that this was a test directly from Havana, Thompson did not warn País, even though he had ample opportunity to do so.
In fact, Thompson’s ties to Batista went all the way to the Presidential Palace. Though not even the other CIA officers were aware of it, he served as a liaison of sorts between the US government officials who cautiously supported Batista and the CIA officials who carried out their wishes.
One of Thompson’s strengths as a secret operative was that he had no close friends, no real girlfriends, and no family attachments. He carried himself around the base with a casual apparent indifference, but that was all part of the “telecommunications contractor” role that he was playing. In private, whether dealing with the Batista regime or the revolutionaries, he was all business.
After President Eisenhower had experienced a series of heart attacks, military officers were encouraged to take time off to do physical exercise as part of their work week. The joke at GTMO was that the restriction on vehicular traffic, which had come in the face of rebel activity nearby, was really a government-mandated exercise program.
Pilar, who had loved track so much in high school, was quick to get into the routine, running pretty much every day in her blue running shorts and a gold singlet she purchased at the base’s Navy Exchange. She became known for her discipline and the sight of her lithe body in motion was appreciated by the guards, who would smile and wave at her as she passed them on her long daily circuit.
One afternoon when she was circling the numerous baseball diamonds, Chip Thompson jogged up beside her. Startled at first, she nodded but said nothing. The two ran side by side silently except for the sound of their feet striking the ground in unison until Thompson finally said, “Pretty impressive pace . . .”
Pilar, her ponytail swinging back and forth, said, “I just run the way it feels good. I have no idea of how fast it might be.”
“Well, you’re sub seven.”
With her eyes looking straight ahead, she asked, “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re running under seven–minute miles, and even better, you aren’t sounding short of breath,” he said.
She smiled. “Would you like me to slow down?”
“How much further did you plan to go at this pace?”
Glancing at him briefly, she saw his eyes fixed straight ahead and replied, “I can go another thirty minutes and still make my bus home.”
With that, Pilar accelerated, leaving Thompson in her wake.
Although she maintained appropriate coworker boundaries with the reputed ladies man, Pilar bonded with Thompson through running. They started a routine of running together three times a week, often discussing the happenings on the base and the progress of the revolutionaries. Thompson was fairly open in his political conversations with Pilar, but he was careful with his information. Likewise, Pilar was careful to play the role of a good Cuban citizen, always loyal to her government. She hadn’t forgotten how she ended up here in the first place.
For his part, Thompson seldom talked about his work, deflecting all questions by telling her that telecommunications business was “just a bunch of wires.” Although to many on the base, it was obvious that he was more than just a telecom man, he did not want her to know that he was in the CIA, not so much for security purposes, but because he wanted to develop a relationship based on something other than work. She was his pleasant distraction from the tangled web he was caught up in.
It was good for Thompson’s ego to have one person in his life who liked him just for him, and he tried to take it to the next level by asking Pilar on an actual date. She liked him, but was inclined to keep the friendship professional. Her mother had taught her the importance of maintaining a good reputation, and common sense told her to listen to her mother in this case. She politely declined his invitation.
For three weeks Alberto Campos had been watching Pilar from a distance. He would wave to her in the cafeteria when he saw her waiting in line, or say hello to her if he saw her on the bus, but he was giving her some time to settle in before approaching her with his proposal.
He had seen her running on the base with Chip Thompson more than once, apparently becoming quite chummy with him, and felt he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. So when he saw her at the bus stop, as he had the day they met, he decided to strike up a conversation.
It was raining and she was taking shelter under a green wooden structure with a tin roof next to the bus stop. This gave him an excuse to sidle up next to her as he got away from the downpour.
“Hello, Alicia,” he said, wringing out his shirt tails.
She remembered his face and his politeness, but it was obvious she had forgotten his name, having met so many new people recently. He reminded her of his name, and they struck up a conversation while the heavy raindrops reverberated on the metal cover above their heads. It was so loud they were practically shouting, which wasn’t helpful given the confidential nature of what he had hoped to discuss with her. When the bus came, it wasn’t much better. Between the relentless downpour and the diesel engine, Alberto found himself mostly smiling awkwardly as he waited for better conditions to communicate.
The bus arrived at Pilar’s usual stop, but instead of waving goodbye to her as he had done before, he got off with her. Both of them became instantly drenched in the torrential deluge. Pointing across the street, he grabbed her hand and they ran to the shelter of a small café. The place was quiet at this hour—too early for dinner, too late for lunch.
“Can I buy you a coffee while we wait for it to stop?” he asked, his unusually green eyes lighting up under the florescent lights.
“Good idea,” she replied, removing her light jacket that was soaked all the way through.
They made themselves comfortable in a booth, and each ordered a café con leche, to which she added way too much sugar just the way her father had always done. As they sipped their drinks, they traded gossip about the base brass and rumors about the revolution until the conversation turned to politics.
Unlike her talks with Chip, she felt at ease to speak freely with a fellow Cuban and coworker, and before long they were openly sharing their disdain for the Batista government and their support for the revolution.
Alberto expressed his opinion about how unfair he felt the Americans had treated Cuba, inviting Pilar to weigh in and take a few shots at the Yanquis herself, but she was torn. She became quiet as memories of Miami flooded in. Alberto couldn’t help asking her what was wrong. As the rain ran down the window outside, Pilar tearfully confessed, telling Alberto the entire story about moving to Miami when she was eight, about her father being arrested, about fleeing Miami with her mother. She then told him about their finding their house in Cuba burnt to the ground and her decision to assume her cousin’s identity so she could work at the base.
“So, your name isn’t Alicia? What is it?” he asked.
“Pilar. My name is Pilar!”
It felt so good to unburden herself of this secret that when she said her real name out loud for the first time in many months, her tears turned to laughter.
“Nice to meet you, Pilar.”
They both laughed and celebrated by ordering another round. The rain wasn’t letting up anyway, so they continued talking until Alberto felt the time was right to get to the point he had wanted to discuss with her.
“You know, there is something you can do to help the revolution,” Alberto said. “You’re in a unique position with your job.”
There, he had said it. Alberto sat quietly as she sipped her coffee and processed his statement.
Finally, she asked, “Are you one of them? Are you a rebel?”
“Damn right I am. And from what I’ve heard so far, so are you. Will you help, Pilar?”
“What can I do?”
Alberto explained that there were many sensitive documents coming through the office where she worked, and also many people who could say things that might be overheard. Things that could be very helpful.
He leveled his gaze at her, hypnotizing her with those beautiful eyes. She felt weak in the knees.
“Chip Thompson, for example,” he said, gauging her reaction.
“What about him?” she asked.
“He’s CIA,” replied Alberto. “And he seems to have taken an interest in you.”
“CIA? Really? We’re more or less friends, yes. We run together, nothing more.”
Pilar felt put on the defensive, owing perhaps to the fact that she liked the young man sitting across from her. She might even be falling in love with him, she thought.
“But he’d like to be more than just friends, wouldn’t he?” Alberto was making a statement, not asking a question.
“He has asked me to dinner, but I’m not interested. He’s got a reputation with the ladies.”
Alberto didn’t mean to be rude, but he found himself interrupting her. “And that’s sort of the point, his weakness, if you catch my meaning.”
Pilar was taken aback. “What are you suggesting? I told you I wasn’t interested in him.”
“I’m suggesting that if you wanted to be helpful, you should get interested, Pilar,” he said. “For the Revolution.”
Pilar silently considered what Alberto was suggesting, trying to keep control of her emotions.
Alberto continued, “He has his hands in a lot of pies; he knows things. Things that he might not share with a coworker, but that he might share with a lover.”
Pilar was heartbroken. She was being asked to spy on Chip, the nice guy she went running with, and she was being asked to pretend to love him by somebody she was maybe developing feelings for, someone with whom she might feel real chemistry. She was terribly confused, and Alberto could read it on her face.
“Just think about it—that’s all I ask.”
The rain finally let up, and Pilar walked home in a reflective mood, wondering if she should tell her mother what had been asked of her. Alberto had strongly urged her to keep their conversation confidential, but she was torn since she had never kept anything from her mother before. At least not something this big. And it was big indeed, because she was leaning towards doing exactly as Alberto had asked.
By the time she arrived at the apartment, she had concluded that whatever she decided, she wouldn’t tell her mother anything about what had transpired. She didn’t want to worry her, and she certainly didn’t want to betray Alberto’s confidence. Besides, if she did decide to move forward and accept his challenge, the less Maria knew about it, the better it would be for both of them if something went wrong.
As she entered the apartment, the first thing she noticed was the absence of the usual aroma of her mother’s cooking. She called out, wondering if Maria was shopping.
Maria answered, an excited tone in her voice. “In the bedroom, baby. Come quickly, I have wonderful news!”
Pilar rushed into the room to find her mother packing. “It’s your papa, he’s getting out! Pablo got them to drop the charges. The nightmare is over, Pilar! Our family will soon be together!”
Pilar, shocked, sat down on the bed. “Mama, I can’t go. Not yet.”