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Old Havana Ed Howard, Eringer, Lena Orlova, Salvador Perez, Rolando Salup |
Undercover with FBI Counterintelligence
Havana, Cuba March 1999
I awakened in my Havana hotel room as dawn cracked.
From my window
I witnessed a clear sunrise over the sea; to my right, Old Havana was enveloped in
a haze of smog.
I parked myself in the Nacional's cafeteria when it opened for complimentary breakfast at seven a.m.
Howard
joined me soon after.
The
coffee wasn't Starbucks, but it wasn't bad.
I stopped drinking, however, after it appeared to stain my fingers.
Suddenly,
a surprise: Lena Orlova appeared.
Turns out, she'd flown in with Howard and slept through the day before. This was her first time in Cuba, she said.
Howard acted sheepish about Orlova's presence; he mumbled something about paying her way himself, a bonus for her work as his assistant.
Howard
and I talked travel, always my favorite subject with him. Where had he been? Where would he go?
For
one thing, Howard had visited Santiago and "got Chile out of my
system." He had also visited Egypt,
a cruise down the Nile with his son.
I parked myself in the Nacional's cafeteria when it opened for complimentary breakfast at seven a.m.
The
buffet was abundant, if un-appetizing.
Howard gorged himself, making the most of the Nacional's
bedlam-and-breakfast deal.
Turns out, she'd flown in with Howard and slept through the day before. This was her first time in Cuba, she said.
Howard acted sheepish about Orlova's presence; he mumbled something about paying her way himself, a bonus for her work as his assistant.
He'd spent Christmas in Vienna with his ex-wife Mary and son; and he had
been to Germany, Luxembourg, and Paris, France.
"I go anywhere in Europe," Howard boasted. "Except the UK."
Next,
Howard's plan for the day:
At eleven a.m. we would meet his friend Rolando Salup, a DGI (Cuban intelligence) officer who had spent seven years in New York City under UN diplomatic cover and six years as intelligence chief in Moscow.
Howard knew Salup from Moscow; he had become personal friends with the Cuban and his wife, entertaining them at his dacha.
"I go anywhere in Europe," Howard boasted. "Except the UK."
At eleven a.m. we would meet his friend Rolando Salup, a DGI (Cuban intelligence) officer who had spent seven years in New York City under UN diplomatic cover and six years as intelligence chief in Moscow.
Howard knew Salup from Moscow; he had become personal friends with the Cuban and his wife, entertaining them at his dacha.
Howard
told me that Salup's father owned the famed Copacabana in its heyday, before it
got nationalized by the state.
"Rolando wants to get it back," added Howard.
It
was only nine o'clock, so I hired a taxi to take Howard, Orlova and me on a
tour of Havana's neighborhoods.
"Rolando wants to get it back," added Howard.
We drove
as far as the Marina Hemingway on Havana's outskirts, double-backed through
Miramar and stopped at an artisans open-air market.
"My
mother always gets mad when I tell her I've been to Cuba," said Howard,
for whom this was visit number six.
"She has a Cuban refugee friend, and she's convinced the Cubans
will sell me back to the Americans for a few dollars. The Cubans would never do that." Howard paused. "But some Russians might."
Howard's biggest fear these days: the FBI would make a deal with the Red Mafia for his safe delivery to the USA.
Salup
appeared in the Nacional at eleven sharp.
He seemed easy-going, with an edge.
I sensed he had a mission, probably as simple as making a buck: a yankee dollar percentage for brokering a deal.
I'd
expressed an interest in native art. So
that's where we headed, in a Russian Lada driven by Salup's daughter's
boyfriend, Eric.
Howard's biggest fear these days: the FBI would make a deal with the Red Mafia for his safe delivery to the USA.
He barreled along the
Malecon, engaging in accelerate-and-break, a game Cuban motorists play with the
many police officers who stand at street corners to wave down and ticket speeding
motorists.
Gallery
number one, in Old Havana, was a mish-mash of overpriced, low-quality
contemporary schlock-art and bric-a-brac masquerading as antiques.
We
cruised over to "gallery" number two, in a suburban Miramar
neighborhood.
This is a hub of middle-aged
men who broker Cuban family heirlooms to moneyed foreigners.
Up and down the squalid street, private
enterprise flourished: stalls outside residential houses hawking ice cream, pizza and, in the back alleys, young women.
Next
we journeyed to Eric's apartment, which doubled as a warehouse for his
inventory of merchandise.
There wasn't
anything I needed. And nothing I
wanted.
Howard admired a glass duck. He collected ducks, had a thing about ducks,
possessed over fifty ducks in his dacha, he confided. As a kid, whenever Howard doodled, he doodled
ducks. But he didn't buy this duck.
Onto
the home of a deceased Cuban artist, allegedly of some renown. An old woman sat fixated on an ancient
black-and-white TV set as her family tried to sell me their few remaining
possessions of value.
I liked a few
watercolor paintings, but begged off a decision, feeling sadness for this
family and disgust of Fidel Castro for the indignity he had forced upon his
people.
Salup calmed down because I was at least considering a purchase.
Time
for refreshment.
We
drove to the Copacabana, sat by the pool.
Cuban sandwiches all round (except Howard, who opted for tuna),
garnished with lukewarm fries.
I
asked Salup if he felt bitter about this.
"No,
no." He looked both ways. It was now valued at $35 million, he said.
Salup's
three stepbrothers had fled to Miami.
"Do
you stay in touch with them?" I asked.
"No,
no."
Salup calmed down because I was at least considering a purchase.
Salup
told me that he'd spent much of his childhood around the Copacabana, which, as
Howard mentioned, Salup's father owned.
After Castro took over, the state transformed it into housing for
medical students, and never paid his family a single peso.
So very sad, for Cuba, for Cubans.
Howard
telephoned Juan Hernandez, who confirmed a meeting with Elvira Castro at three
p.m.
"We
have to pose as reporters for the Washington
Times," said Howard.
"Why?"
I asked.
"It's
the only way Hernandez could organize a meeting for us at short notice."
(These
people were rusing each other for access.)
And
so, posing as a pair of Washington Times
reporters, Howard and I appeared at the Investments Promotion Center at the
appointed time for our "interview."
Castro was accompanied by an interpreter, who translated her overview of
foreign investment in Cuba.
In
a nutshell, they wanted foreigners to provide capital to Cuba to enable the state
to better suck greater numbers of foreign tourists to fuel their decayed
economy.
In
1998, 1.3 million tourists visited Cuba.
In
1999, 1.7 million were expected.
In
2000, over two million.
They
projected that seven million tourists would visit Cuba annually by 2010.
So
they needed hotel rooms, 80,000 hotel rooms, said Castro. And they wanted foreign investors to pay for
them.
"Bars,
nightclubs, and small hotels are not available to foreigners," said
Castro. "We can do those things
ourselves."
So
much for my bar.
We
returned to Hotel Nacional. I looked
around for Al Lewis of The Munsters. No luck.
Up in my room, the B.O. of communism had dissipated.
Up in my room, the B.O. of communism had dissipated.
No, it had not gone away; it
had seized me and now I was part of it.
Once you are within its grip, it takes a half-dozen hot showers and four
bars of Irish Spring to scrape away.
I
grabbed a bottle of Macallan scotch whiskey, one of three I'd brought along to
gift helpful Cubans. I gave one to
Hernandez.
"Why
you give me?" he asked.
"Because
you're such a nice guy."
Hernandez
laughed. He leaned forward. "I have something interesting. A friend of mine has written a biography of
Fidel Castro."
We
thrashed this around. Apparently, Castro
had cooperated with the project. The
manuscript, in Spanish, had not been published anywhere.
"When
can I see it?" I asked.
It
would be sent, said Hernandez, by diplomatic pouch to the Cuban Interests
Section in Washington.
"Get
it to Luis Fernandez," I said.
"You
know Luis?" Hernandez smiled.
I
returned his smile, like, do I know Luis.
As
we walked back to the Nacional, Howard told me that the scotch whiskey I'd
given to Hernandez represented a month's salary.
At
seven o'clock I planted myself at the Salon de la Histoirie bar and sipped a mojito while Cuban mariachis strolled
and strummed and sang, with a power and passion unique to this people.
You just knew that the 50-something band leader was a heart surgeon by day who moonlighted in tourism to put food on the table; and could only feed his family (if there was any food to buy) because, in the absence of their Russian Big Brother, Cuba now catered to tourists by commercializing Che Guevara on tee shirts and key chains made in Spain.
But the music, ah, the music. Aye, Cuba.
I'd
barely washed my hands when Howard called.
"We're going back to see Hernandez," he said. "He's got news."
"Luis and I worked together in
Venezuela," said Hernandez.
You just knew that the 50-something band leader was a heart surgeon by day who moonlighted in tourism to put food on the table; and could only feed his family (if there was any food to buy) because, in the absence of their Russian Big Brother, Cuba now catered to tourists by commercializing Che Guevara on tee shirts and key chains made in Spain.
But the music, ah, the music. Aye, Cuba.
Yeah, right.
It's all they had
left.
Howard,
Orlova and I taxied to La Bodeguita del Medio, Hemingway's haunt in Old Havana.
A 15-minute ride for $4.40 (You pay in
dollars of course because nobody in their right mind wanted Cuban pesos, except dumb
tourists who bought Cuban banknotes with Che's likeness.)
I handed him a fiveski. "Keep it."
"Sixty
cents is a whole day's salary to a Cuban doctor," admonished Howard, who
did not want the natives spoiled.
A
crowd of people gathered in front of La Bodeguita.
"Damn,
a line," I said.
But
the maitre d', recognizing Americanos, hauled us into the bar.
"What
about them?" I said, motioning at the throng behind me.
"Them's
Cuban," he replied.
"So
what?"
"These
tables are reserved for foreigners,"
he said. "We have only few tables
for Cubans."
If Mr. Cuban Restaurateur thought this state of affairs ironic, he did not let on. Hell, at least he was making a little brazhort.
In
Bodeguita's small, graffiti-bedecked bar, I asked Howard what his DGI buddies
had to say about who would succeed The Bearded One.
I handed him a fiveski. "Keep it."
If Mr. Cuban Restaurateur thought this state of affairs ironic, he did not let on. Hell, at least he was making a little brazhort.
Would it be his brother Raul?
Howard
whispered that Raul got caught in a drug-trafficking scheme a few years
earlier. A few generals took the rap;
Raul's role was hushed up. But his
chances to succeed Fidel had been trashed.
Howard
and Orlova were not getting along. She
wanted a gin-and-tonic and he made a face and snidely said they don't do that
kind of thing in Cuba (i.e. it was too expensive for this tightwad).
Orlova stormed out; Howard went after her. I sipped a mojito and studied photographs of Hemingway, this dive's claim to fame.
Howard
and Orlova returned and, behind them, Rolando Salup and his "former"
DGI pal Salvador Perez.
A maitre’d escorted us to a corner table upstairs, handed us menus, all priced in U.S. dollars.
"For
someone who hates the United States," I commented, "Fidel sure likes
their monetary system."
I
deferred to Salup's judgment on this. He
ordered pork, rice, black beans, fried bananas, and a cucumber salad.
I'd
heard the official line on foreign investment from Elvira Castro.
Now the 33 year-old Perez would tell me the unofficial truth: Don't waste your time or money investing in Poland-on-the-Caribbean. You want to make money?
Orlova stormed out; Howard went after her. I sipped a mojito and studied photographs of Hemingway, this dive's claim to fame.
A maitre’d escorted us to a corner table upstairs, handed us menus, all priced in U.S. dollars.
"He
not dislike United States people," explained Salup. "He dislike U.S. government. You like nice traditional Cuban meal?"
Now the 33 year-old Perez would tell me the unofficial truth: Don't waste your time or money investing in Poland-on-the-Caribbean. You want to make money?
Trade.
As in
embargo-busting. With private
entrepreneurs (read: DGI) like Perez.
"We
need things all the time," said Perez in good English. "One day it might be rice, the next day, paint, the day after something else. If
we're there to meet the market, to fill the gap, we make money. I call you, tell you what's needed, you find
it, and we make the deal."
Perez
told me that one reason foreign investment stinks is because foreign investors
are not allowed to hire their own labor force; labor is provided by the state
and paid state-controlled wages.
A Cuban labor force is a waste of time, said Perez, because it has no incentive to be productive.
Salup,
of all people, nodded in agreement.
"No,
no, no!" Both men shook their
heads, mortified, eyes popping from their heads.
"So
how do we commence doing business?" I asked.
The
embargo-buster laid it out thus:
First
step, establish a business entity, a trading company, in Panama or Mexico. Cost? A
few hundred dollars.
Third
step, open a bank account in Cuba.
Cost? Nothing.
Then
start trading.
I
asked why Che Guevara's likeness is everywhere (statues, murals, t-shirts, key
chains ) but The Bearded One’s face is nowhere to be seen?
"Ah,"
said Salup. "Fidel is against cult
of personality. That is why no
statues. For Che it is okay. He's dead."
I
gave Salup a bottle of Macallan, and Perez a Morgan silver dollar for "good
luck." They gave me their
calling cards.
Next
morning, Howard and I strolled Old Havana for a final chat. Occasionally, we passed a dog in the street,
and I was struck by how awful and peculiar the canines looked in this town: diseased, or sick with worry.
"What
should I do if that happens?" I asked.
"Just
tell them you can't afford to talk because it would cause complications with
the Cubans on future trips. They can't
do anything to you. They fooled Mary
that way."
I
bought a red star revolutionary beret from a market stall. "I'll wear this when the G-men come
a-knocking," I said.
Howard
laughed. Then he unveiled his new book
idea: "How not to do business in Russia."
All the kinds of swindles the Russians pull and are good at. Howard had learned the hard way. "My KGB friends won't like it," he
added. "But I don't give a
damn."
I
encouraged Howard to get cracking, screw the Russians.
Back
at the Nacional, I settled my account with Howard. He was on my payroll, an FBI asset, if unwitting. The irony.
I
handed him my last bottle of Macallan.
"Give it to your concierge at Veradado," I said. Howard and Orlova had planned a week’s
vacation on Cuba's best beach.
"No,
I'll give it to Edouard Prensa," he said.
"The Cuban DGI chief in Moscow."
"Perfect."
Howard
gifted me with jar of caviar he'd brought from Russia. After he departed, I opened it for lunch, as
I sure as hell wasn't eating another Cuban
Sandwich.
A Cuban labor force is a waste of time, said Perez, because it has no incentive to be productive.
"Are
you saying..." I cupped my hand over my mouth and leaned forward conspiratorially (a habit I'd picked up from Clair George) "...that socialism doesn't work?"
Second
step, register the entity in Cuba. Perez
could handle that. Cost? A few hundred dollars.
I
had another theory, but kept it to myself:
Castro long ago decided that the best way to instill fear among
Cubans, and to stay alive, was to remain mysterious and elusive, address
unknown.
"The
FBI will know you were here," warned Howard. "You may get a knock at your door
wanting to know what you were doing in Cuba."
Howard's caviar was
over-salted and too tightly compressed.
I ate some for nourishment and dumped the rest. Knowing Howard, it was the cheapest
black-market jar he could find.
After
settling my tab with Hotel Nacional, I killed an hour on a wicker chair in
their garden, sipping one last mojito.
A lone peacock strutted the grounds, occasionally piercing the serene setting with a terrifying shriek.
"Yeah,
I feel the same way," I muttered under my breath, one eye peeled for Al
Lewis.
Leaving
Cuba was as easy as arriving, if a greater pleasure.
No
traffic leaving the city (few cars), no line at first-class check-in.
A lone peacock strutted the grounds, occasionally piercing the serene setting with a terrifying shriek.
The only hurdle, a rip-off "exit Cuba
fee" of $20 (worth a thousand times that to Cubans who risk their
lives to flee, sometimes in a rubber tire).
And finally some decent shops.
I
bought a bottle of Havana Club rum, a Che Guevara Swatch watch for Clair George to show off at his next dinner party.
And finally I found something with Fidel Castro's image on it:
And finally I found something with Fidel Castro's image on it:
Not any old something, but a half-ounce
commemorative gold coin.
It was
overpriced at $375 (worth far more now) but I sprang for it, a gold medal self-rewarded to myself for a job
well done.
Waiting for my jet to board, I plucked the proof coin from its protective case and mixed it with the other coins in my pocket.
Waiting for my jet to board, I plucked the proof coin from its protective case and mixed it with the other coins in my pocket.
I wanted Fidel to
get knocked around by Jefferson, Lincoln, and Washington.
I wanted to tell people, tongue-in-cheek,
that I had The Bearded One in my
pocket.
Wright
Valentine, bartender, was right where I'd left him in the first-class lounge of
Sangster International Airport in Montego Bay.
He poured me another belt of Appleton's V/X rum and ginger.
He poured me another belt of Appleton's V/X rum and ginger.