Three days after Alberto Campos issued his challenge to Pilar, Chip Thompson picked her up at her apartment for dinner. It was their first formal date, as all their other social outings had been brief conversations at the base after runs. Always a natty dresser, Thompson had stepped it up for her. He was wearing a cream-colored linen suit over a dark blue shirt and brown suede lace-ups. Pilar did her simple equivalent of the same and wore heels with her sundress instead of her usual flats.
The two walked down one of the main streets in Guantánamo City in the balmy night air. The cafés and restaurants were packed, and there seemed to be little sense of political urgency. The police presence was surprisingly light, given that there were reports of the rebels marshaling forces in the hills nearby.
Thompson and Pilar arrived at Café Sansobol, one of the hot spots in town. A regular, he greeted the host with a back slap and the hostess with a kiss on the cheek. After conferring with them, he guided Pilar to the lively bar for drinks. They sat at a high-top table with a red “Reserved” sign on it. The waitress waved at Thompson from two tables away. He held up two fingers, and she soon returned with mojitos.
Pilar took in the atmosphere. “This is a real treat,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to come here, but I never had the right invitation.”
Thompson raised his glass. “A toast,” he declared. “To more invitations to come.”
Just as they clicked glasses, Thompson quickly stood up, having spotted an acquaintance across the room behind Pilar. He was clearly taken out of the romantic moment. Pilar glanced over her shoulder to see who had so completely distracted Thompson.
A man with a dark complexion sporting a two-day shadow and a bright green hat, was weaving his way through the crowd. Pilar recognized him immediately. It was Salazar.
Pilar froze. What the hell was he doing here? Had he come for her? Did Thompson know him? As fast as the questions swirled, she deflected them. Thinking fast, she dumped her mojito in her lap.
She jumped up from the table, keeping her back to the approaching Salazar, and acted shocked at her accident. “Oh, how could you be so clumsy, Alicia!” she chastised herself.
Thompson turned toward her. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and handed it to her. “Here, take this,” he said. “And don’t worry, there’s plenty more where that came from.”
Pilar held her dress away from her body. “I’m completely soaked,” she said. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“I don’t mind at all,” a smiling Thompson said.
“You’re so sweet,” Pilar replied. “But I need to change. I want to make it a nice night. It’ll just take a few minutes. Be right back.”
Before Thompson could raise any objection, Pilar headed for the door, being careful to keep her back toward the direction from which Salazar was approaching. Thompson watched her dart through the crowd, smiling at her girlish charm and her desire to look good on their date.
When Thompson turned back around, the waitress was wiping up the floor. A moment later, Salazar stood over the stool where Pilar had been sitting. “Mr. Thompson,” he said.
“Mr. Salazar . . .”
Salazar sat down and motioned for the waitress. “Who was that little beauty?” he asked. “Your girl? I didn’t get a good look at her. Knowing you, I bet she’s a real looker.”
“Girl who works at the base . . . Alicia,” Thompson replied.
Salazar nodded his approval. “I don’t need much of your time, but it’s important,” he said.
After Pilar changed her dress, she debated about not returning to the restaurant. She was not afraid of Salazar abducting her. She was sure that Thompson would protect her. She pondered the connection between the two men. Whatever it was, she reasoned that it had to do with the revolution and not with human trafficking.
Nevertheless, there was clearly some connection between Thompson and Salazar. If Campos was right about Thompson, could Salazar also be CIA? The chances were remote, given what he had tried to do to her. Still, the fact that Salazar was in Guantánamo, blocks from her apartment, made it imperative that she find out more about what that horrid excuse for a man was up to.
Pilar had spent many nights thinking long and hard about Salazar turning her over to Lucien and her terrifying act of killing a man. She had told nobody the details of her ordeal, and she and Maria never spoke of it. Pilar could never fully grasp that the guy who sugared her up with Dots as a little girl could sell her into sex slavery. She thought she had almost buried the memory of those frightening events. But seeing him again brought all those scary emotions back to the surface.
After turning the memories over and over in her mind, she had concluded that he was the coldest of opportunists who was either desperate for money or under the thumb of someone horrible. Either way, she felt that perhaps she could trust Thompson with what she knew about Salazar and warn him about the character of the man. She tried to figure a way of telling Chip about Salazar without revealing the whole truth—that she and her mother were fugitives from the US government. She couldn’t risk that.
On the walk to the café, she hugged the storefronts and kept an eye out for the green hat. She was sure he hadn’t seen her long enough to recognize her, which gave her the advantage. The problem was that half the men walking down the street had the illshaven, hustler look of Salazar.
When she reached Café Sansobol, Pilar felt a rush through her body. She knew that she was onto something. If she could only ignore her own danger and play into the persona that she had crafted for herself at the urgent prompting of Alberto, she felt like there was a chance that she could get even with Salazar for his betrayal. She entered the bar area and scanned the room. The bar was crowded, but there was no sign of Salazar. Her eyes darting in every direction, she made her way back to the table where Thompson was sitting.
“Alicia . . .” Thompson paused to admire her dark blue linen dress. “You look even more lovely.”
Pilar smiled. “Thank you and sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said flirtatiously.
Thompson pulled out her stool, and she sat down. The mambo band had started playing, and the crowd was loosening up.
Pilar sipped her drink, tilted her head and smiled at Thompson. “Who was that guy?” she asked. “I saw your expression when you spotted him.”
Thompson smiled and held up two fingers to the passing waitress, signaling for two more mojitos. He turned his attention back to Pilar. “Just an acquaintance,” he said.
“Really?” She sipped her drink and leaned back, not knowing exactly where she was taking this. “Does he work in telecom, too?”
She looked up at him through heavy lids, as if challenging him to lie to her, a move she imagined a femme fatale from a spy novel might employ.
Thompson, oblivious, was too caught up in his own machismo to notice Pilar’s attempts at seductive manipulation. He had just received key information from one of his “bunnies,” the CIA’s code name for informants who come hopping to them with information in exchange for a carrot that they could bring back to those they were informing on. In Pilar, he only saw the most delicious woman he had seen since his Nebraska Cornhusker cheerleader girlfriend—only Pilar was lithe, fit, and half the size.
“No. Trust me, he’s boring,” he said.
“Want to know what I think?” Pilar asked flirtatiously. She couldn’t believe where she was taking this, but she said it anyway, “I think he’s CIA.”
Thompson took the bait, “That guy is not CIA.”
Pilar followed up, “How do you know? Are you CIA?” Her face flushed red because she was nervous, having bet that Campos was right, and if he was, this could be the end of the relationship, or worse.
Fortunately, Thompson interpreted her physical reaction as something else entirely, something that fit in with his plans. In his optimistic view, the young Cuban beauty was sexually turned on by the prospect of a liaison with a genuine secret agent, and what he said next was the result of too many mojitos and an ego that was hungry for recognition and validation.
He looked around, over both shoulders, more for her benefit, to make her feel that she was in on a big secret, than any real concern over being overheard. “I am CIA.”
Pilar feigned surprise. “Really?” Except for the unexpected appearance of Salazar, the scenario was playing out exactly as Campos would have wanted it to.
Chip drained his drink. “It’s not a good idea to talk here. Besides, I’ve got much better rum at my place,” he said, running his hands through his hair and smiling. He laid several bills on the table. “Would you care to join me for a night cap?”
Thompson’s apartment was tastefully and simply decorated in tone-on-tone shades of tan. Now that Pilar believed that he was CIA for certain, she took in all the details, or rather the absence of details. Thompson explained that like all CIA-owned housing, in the event of the operative being compromised, the place was designed to convey nothing about its occupant and to be able to be turned over to the next operative on a moment’s notice. To Pilar, everything was too perfectly in its place.
Thompson gestured to double doors off the living room. “Let’s sit on the terrace,” he said, as he plucked a bottle of aged rum and two glasses off a sideboard in the dining room.
Pilar went out on the terrace and sat down in one of the two comfortable oversized chairs. The terrace had a view of a winding cobblestone street. Lights from the main street twinkled in the distance. The Cuban night air smelled fresh and sweet. A wave of patriotic feeling swept over her. She thought about how proud her Papa would be if she played a part in helping the rebels succeed in defeating the corrupt Batista regime.
Pilar pulled a rubber band out her pocket and tied her hair into a ponytail. Flirtatiously, she threw her legs over the arm of the chair and faced Thompson. “If that guy back at the bar wasn’t CIA, then who is he?”
Thompson sipped his rum and contemplated possibilities that he had hoped for since the first day he saw Pilar running. Telling her that he was CIA was definitely a rookie mistake, but it had gotten her to his apartment, so he went with the best gimmick he seemed to have going for him.
“If I told you that, I might have to kill you.” He cocked an eyebrow playfully. She laughed. He moved a little closer to her, a predatory look in his eye as he drained his glass, chewing on an ice cube.
“Now I really want to know. Tell me, who is he?”
“How bad do you want to know?” He asked as he refilled both of their glasses.
The alcohol was making him bolder. She needed to assert some authority before things got out of control.
“Not that bad. I’m just curious about the stuff you’re involved in, that’s all. My job is so boring. I want to hear about something interesting. Something dangerous.”
“You like danger, huh? I’ll make you a deal,” he said matter-offactly. “You want me to reveal my secrets to you, I want a quid pro quo arrangement. I want your secrets.”
Perhaps he knew more about her background than she thought. Suddenly she was nervous.
“What secrets?”
The way he was looking at her changed her anxiety to terror. Maybe he does know who I really am, she thought. Oh no, maybe he even knows I killed the man Salazar delivered me to! Maybe that’s what his business with Salazar is! Maybe it’s all about me!
She felt as if the walls were closing in on her and the color drained from her face. She took a large gulp of rum to calm herself.
She found her voice again, “I don’t have any secrets.”
“Oh, but you do. You are one big mystery wrapped in a beautiful dress.” He paused for effect, watching her reaction closely. “Why don’t you take your shoes off, Alicia. Reveal your feet to me and then you can ask me to reveal something to you. Anything you like.”
Pilar kicked off one of her stilettos, trying hard to maintain a sense of playfulness, as if Chip Thompson’s relationship with Salazar didn’t really matter to her, as if this was only a game. “OK, who was that man at the bar? And what is your business with him?”
He wagged his finger at her. “That’s two questions for only one shoe. Both shoes and I’ll tell you.”
Pilar blithely kicked off the other shoe, “OK, give.”
That’s when she noticed that Chip had an erection. It would have been very difficult not to notice, and he certainly wasn’t hiding it. In fact, he seemed quite proud of it, sitting directly across from her, his legs open in that relaxed, masculine way. She averted her eyes.
“You’re turn, Chip. We had a deal.”
“You’re right, a deal’s a deal. His name is Salazar and he provided some information that may prove helpful. Or not. There. Question answered. I’m a man of my word.”
“But it’s missing the exciting, dangerous parts. What information did he provide?”
“What you’re asking for is quite sensitive, my dear.” A Cheshire grin spread across Thompson’s mug. “But I think you have something to trade for it. The dress.”
Pilar hoped he wasn’t serious, so she laughed. “That isn’t fair.”
“You’re right. Instead, I’ll take something off.” Thompson unbuttoned his shirt, removed it and held it out on one finger. “Here, take it and hang it on the chair, please.”
Pilar rose slowly and approached him. She took his shirt and, turning her back on him, hung it over the back of a chair.
Thompson leaned forward and grabbed Pilar, pulling her into his lap. She could feel his manhood, like a railroad spike beneath her.
She struggled to stand up, but his thick, muscular arms were wrapped around her, holding her tight. She was powerless. She stopped struggling, surrendering, still pretending that she was playing a game with him.
“OK, now you have to answer my question.”
Chip picked her up as if she weighed nothing and carried her to the bed, “You know what? I’m tired of talking, let’s continue this conversation another time.”
He sat her on the foot of the bed, pinning her there with his knees against hers. “I’ve got something better for you to do with your mouth than talking.”
He unbuckled his pants and removed his erect member, the first one Pilar had ever seen in that condition. Her eyes couldn’t hide her shock. She was dumbfounded at the size and power of it as he held it in his hand in front of her face.
She was silent, wide-eyed with fear. His tone had changed; he wasn’t playing anymore. It was like a switch had flipped, and his personality had gone from a sweet Midwestern gentleman to a depraved animal. He was a lion moving in slowly on a gazelle that was hypnotized by the grave danger it was in.
His voice was a baritone whisper. “You want that?”
He answered for her, now his silent victim. “Sure you do.”
He grabbed her ponytail and, using it as a handle brought her face into contact with his throbbing cock, slapping it against her cheek as if he were knocking on a door.
“Hello? Anybody home?”
She refused it, panic in her eyes. She pushed back against his pelvis with her hands, but he was too strong.
He admonished her, “If you don’t keep your hands to yourself, I’m going to tie them to the bed post. Is that what you want me to do?”
She shook her head silently.
“Answer me. Is that what you want? To be tied up? Hmmm?”
“No,” she croaked.
“Open your mouth then. Do it now!” His words exploded. Her heart nearly did as well as he tightened his grip on her hair and slowly, inexorably, forced her to take him inside of her mouth. She began choking as he forced himself deeper into her throat. Then he suddenly stopped and pulled out.
“Tell you what. I’m going to be a gentleman and let you do it the way you like. And if that doesn’t please me, we’ll try it my way again. How’s that sound, Alicia?”
He didn’t really expect an answer, and without waiting for one, he stood her up so that she was facing him. “But first, let’s get you out of this pretty dress.”
He removed his pants now and sat down on the bed where she had been a moment ago. “Go ahead, take it off. I want to watch.”
Pilar, near tears, felt she had no choice but to comply. She unzipped and stepped out of the garment, letting it fall to the floor, standing before him in nothing but her bra and panties.
“Those too.” He was enjoying her powerlessness and humiliation, savoring every moment of what he read in her expression, watching her cross the full spectrum of her fears until she accepted that there was no possibility of escape.
She reached behind herself, head bowed in submission, and unsnapped her bra, revealing young breasts with puffy brown nipples pointing slightly, impossibly, upward. She paused.
“Now the panties.” He cajoled her in an “almost done” kind of tone, the way a dentist might reassure a nervous patient that the drilling was almost over.
Of course, it wasn’t. It hadn’t even begun.
The sun came through the curtains which were blowing softly from the trade winds coming in off the Caribbean as Thompson slept. The sex had gone well into the morning hours until his lust was overtaken by exhaustion. Pilar had paid a steep price, but for what? She was making coffee, naked. In for a dime, in for a dollar, she figured. There was no way she was going to let him off the hook now, not after what he put her through. She would proceed “as if.”
As if . . . she had enjoyed herself. As if . . . he had shown her an unforgettable evening of carnal delights. As if . . . she wanted more.
But first, the coffee. Then some pillow talk, playful but informative. He stirred when the smell hit him and she served him in bed, affectionate, with a warm smile, as if . . .
They spent the morning together and she played her role well. It was clear he was angling for an encore, but with a hangover now replacing last evening’s head full of rum, the advantage had shifted. Pilar was able to learn a great deal about Salazar and what information he had for the CIA.
She learned about a secret meeting of all the revolutionary commanders at a farmhouse later that week. Cienfuegos, Guevara, the Castro brothers, all of them. It was supposedly a meeting with the CIA to discuss receiving major armaments support for their revolution from a US government that all the way up to, and including President Eisenhower, had become disillusioned with “that corrupt mulatto,” Batista.
Weapons would be delivered at the meeting as a show of good faith just for showing up, making it an irresistible win–win situation for the rebels. She learned where and when—and most importantly, she learned that it was a trap. The farmhouse would be blown up, effectively ending the revolution in one fell swoop with the capture, or much more likely, the death of the rebel commanders.