Undercover with FBI Counterintelligence
September-October 1999
So far as the Edward Lee Howard case was concerned, things looked bad.
Not for Howard, but for the United States of America:
FBI Special Agent John H opted
for early retirement, effective the first week of September 1999.
He would not have folded ahead of schedule had he not been signaled by Headquarters that the "related conflict" holding up a Howard rendition would never be lifted by the Justice Department; it had been John H’s intention to remain at his desk until the Howard case was resolved.
(A
couple years earlier, John H’s boss, Jim S, who had provided enthusiastic
support for capturing Howard, left Albuquerque for a U.S. embassy legat position in Athens, Greece. Not long after that, Jim S retired from the
Bureau. Bob G, the gung-ho assistant
U.S. Attorney, had also left public service and gone into private practice.)
Once
retired, John H would be out of the loop, exempt from learning anything more
about the Howard case, which would be absorbed by another Albuquerque-based
special agent for whom Howard would be a nuisance, not a priority.
Although
I did not realize it yet, I had become the de
facto advocate for keeping the Big Cheese Family aware that a) the Howard
case still existed and b) the Howard case was important.
The
day I could no longer phone John H with new developments evolving from the
Howard case was terribly sad for me.
He would not have folded ahead of schedule had he not been signaled by Headquarters that the "related conflict" holding up a Howard rendition would never be lifted by the Justice Department; it had been John H’s intention to remain at his desk until the Howard case was resolved.
We
had been a good team; he, an extraordinary special agent. I did not appreciate till I started working
with others just how skilled John H was with what he called Bu biz.
In his low-key manner, John H knew how to work the system with finesse; how to walk the labyrinth of Headquarters, take the knocks, and get back up for a return bout with never a sour word about anyone.
He was one of very few who knew how to operate within a bureaucracy that had become ridiculously disconnected. Everyone I worked with thereafter paled in comparison to the soft-spoken but very savvy John H.
But
life goes on, and so did my Cuban operation, still administrated by FBI
Albuquerque, if managed by Washington Field Office.
At
the request of Luis Fernandez, I organized a dinner party on October 1st to
introduce him to new media people:
In his low-key manner, John H knew how to work the system with finesse; how to walk the labyrinth of Headquarters, take the knocks, and get back up for a return bout with never a sour word about anyone.
He was one of very few who knew how to operate within a bureaucracy that had become ridiculously disconnected. Everyone I worked with thereafter paled in comparison to the soft-spoken but very savvy John H.
A
British journalist of Indian descent and a producer from NBC News (both unwitting
to my FBI role), and Rick K, whom I'd taken to Moscow and now signed on as an
asset in my Cuban coversion.
Luis
Abierno had left Washington and returned to Havana.
I
asked Fernandez if my package from Juan Hernandez had arrived. (Earlier, Hernandez confirmed by e-mail from
Havana that he had finally sent material by diplomatic pouch, as promised seven
months earlier.)
Yes,
he had phoned Hernandez, said Fernandez.
The material, he was told, had been sent to someone in the United States
named Pedro.
"Who's
Pedro?" I said.
Fernandez
shook his head. He did not know. It remained unclear whether Pedro was supposed to contact me or
what.
When
the bill came, Fernandez did not remember that this dinner party had been his
idea. Nor that it was his turn. So the FBI took another hit.
I next met Fernandez, whom I codenamed Flakester, four weeks later, on October 30th, in the Pavilion, Chevy Chase, a coffee morning at Starbucks.
Luis trudged in bleary-eyed, wearing a Nike windbreaker, black polo shirt and freshly trimmed crew-cut.
The
venue, as usual, Saigon Gourmet, as stipulated by Fernandez, very much a creature
of habit.
So in his place Fernandez brought along the oddly-named Reuben de Wong Corchou, who had arrived one week earlier from Cuba.
Couchou
was better dressed than Fernandez, who wore a paisley tie with striped shirt
and (to quote the NBC producer) "looked like he just got off a boat from
Bangladesh."
A
black tweed sportcoat made Couchou look more like a mortician than a
diplomat. His pockmarked, funereal face
glistened with grease and came adorned with thick, Soviet-era spectacles. He wore his dark hair slick-backed (with
natural perspiration).
I almost asked if
I could hire him out for Halloween to scare the kids.
Even
worse than his countenance, Couchou possessed a grim and dour personality,
totally devoid of humor. He did not
smile, could not laugh.
Within two
minutes it became clear this guy was the
dinner guest from hell. Getting him
to talk was harder than pulling teeth. More like root canal.
Under
pressure from me to loosen his tongue, Couchou divulged that he had studied
English and Cuban History at Havana University then taught these subjects for
ten years before joining the foreign ministry through the 1990s.
As for
foreign travel, Couchou had taken a grand tour of the Soviet Union in 1981, and
spent much of 1998 in Tokyo, during which he visited China.
This tour in Washington was his first time in
the United States.
Although
he professed himself to be a staunch Marxist ideologue, Couchou wore a Rolex
Submariner wristwatch, though I reckoned this extravagance was a counterfeit
bought on the cheap in Asia.
Both
men seemed at a loss to respond.
The
British journalist asked Fernandez what he thought of Castro.
("Does
this mean we should add Luis's name to the list of Fidel's illegitimate
children?" I posed in my written report to the FBI.)
I
sensed that Fernandez was showing off for Couchou, as if he thought the new guy
was in town to audit his behavior and spy on him.
The
British journalist, a loquacious chap, asked both Cubans, "So what's your
problem with the USA?"
Fernandez
straightened himself and said, "Two words."
Fernandez
did not understand the question.
The
Brit re-phrased it.
Fernandez
still didn't get it.
I
re-jigged the question myself.
"Ah,"
said Fernandez. "We have no money
for this. We are effective in our own
way."
Couchou,
the historian, fielded this question by reciting Che's birthday: “June 14th, 1928.”
(Could this get any more comical? For a moment, I thought Couchou might stand and sing Commandante Che Guevara. Mercifully, this did not happen.)
I
asked Couchou, and Fernandez, to speculate what Cuba would be like five years
from now.
Fernandez
choked up, composed himself, and said, "He is my father."
This
should be good, I thought, as Fernandez poised himself.
What two words could possibly sum it all up?
But,
alackaday, Fernandez had mistaken this expression for meaning something else because what actually spewed from his mouth was a two-thousand word diatribe on how Cuban people are deprived of food and
medicine because of U.S. policies.
"Why
don't you do what China does and hire Henry Kissinger to lobby in
Washington?" asked the British journalist.
The
British journalist asked about Che Guevara's standing in contemporary Cuba.
(Could this get any more comical? For a moment, I thought Couchou might stand and sing Commandante Che Guevara. Mercifully, this did not happen.)
I next met Fernandez, whom I codenamed Flakester, four weeks later, on October 30th, in the Pavilion, Chevy Chase, a coffee morning at Starbucks.
Luis trudged in bleary-eyed, wearing a Nike windbreaker, black polo shirt and freshly trimmed crew-cut.
He launched into another harangue about how a small minority of
anti-Castro Cubans in Miami and three Congressmen can manipulate U.S. policy
toward Cuba.
Again, he implied that they were funded by a mysterious source.
My earlier request for leads, said Fernandez, had been sent to Havana.
Their reply: Instruct Eringer to get started, show us results, we'll help fill the holes.
"You go to Cuba," he said. "We give you facilities."
Fernandez
added that he had to be careful because the Cuban Interests Section was not
supposed to assist writers.
As
we parted, I said, "Happy Halloween.
Go spook a few people." (And
take Reuben de Wong Corchou with you.)
Almost
six weeks later, I still hadn't heard from Pedro.
Again, he implied that they were funded by a mysterious source.
My earlier request for leads, said Fernandez, had been sent to Havana.
Their reply: Instruct Eringer to get started, show us results, we'll help fill the holes.
"You go to Cuba," he said. "We give you facilities."
I phoned Fernandez, who was sick with flu.
"Who's
Pedro?" he asked, preempting me.
"Exactly,"
I said. "What have you heard?"
"Nothing,
man. Who was that guy who was supposed
to do this?" Fernandez was flakier
than a dandruff attack in a blizzard.
"Juan
Hernandez."
"Right,
Hernandez," said Ferndandez.
"I will phone Hernandez."
"Excellent,"
I said. "Phone Hernandez. Find out who the hell Pedro is."