100 AMERICAN SPY
be—I’d know it, and I’d be able to describe their modus operandi in great
detail to my CIA superiors.
Unfortunately, Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich shut down the
government over a personal slight just prior to my scheduled TDY, and so
I never did make it to Havana. In 2014, two years before Castro’s death,
I traveled to Guantánamo Bay Naval Station on private business, but that
trip doesn’t really count since on Gitmo I was safely out of reach of his
DGI goons. (In case you’re wondering, no, I was not wearing an orange
jumpsuit, and I was not shackled to the drink cart.)
Sure, I could explore Havana today as a private citizen on a tourist
passport, but I have to assume my name and past CIA affiliation may be
on the DGI’s watch list. The truth is I don’t want to risk spending my
remaining years in one of Fidel Castro’s notorious political prisons for the
sake of an authentic puro Cubano. Interrogation by a Cuban during SERE
was enough for me, thank you. As much as I’d love to sample an authentic
daiquiri or two at El Floridita, one of Hemingway’s favorite hangouts, I’ll
just have to make do with Miami.
Over the years I was involved in a number of operations against the Cuban
regime, none of which was particularly successful. My most memorable
took place during my tour in Latin America. Attending another official
reception, standard issue Cuba Libre in hand, I spotted the local Prensa
Latina rep standing by himself, also nursing a cocktail. (I don’t remember
what it was, but it was definitely not a mojito. Palmera produced some of
the best rum on earth, but most of my contacts there inexplicably preferred
Johnny Walker.) Akin to the Soviet TASS, Prensa Latina was Cuba’s official
state press agency, and it was widely speculated that the agency was used to
provide cover for Cuban intelligence agents. A Prensa Latina official was
ipso facto considered a priority target.
I worked my way through the buzzing crowd of networking journalists
and spies, approached the Cuban agent, and introduced myself. “Carlos”
was a stout, swarthy guerrilla turned journalist in a well-worn suit (and
loosened tie) of dubious origin. He sported a convincing Fidel Castro
beard and barely opened his mouth when he spoke. We exchanged busi-