Mission Libertad (14 page)

When it was Abuela's turn she presented her ration book and was given her small bag of rice and beans and twenty slices of bread. This meant that there were some days she wouldn't eat bread or she would have to cut the slices in half to make it last longer.

She took a back way home to her apartment building. She looked back a few times, but she wasn't being followed.
She guessed that the government had given up on her.
They finally realize my life is too boring,
Abuela mused. The thought made her laugh.

Abuela took a siesta on the bed that used to be Elena's and Miguel's. She awoke to the laughter and singing of people walking in the streets. She missed her family. She decided to go to church and pray her rosary in the chapel. Maybe she would even see the priest and have a chance to chat.

She walked out of the building and down the road. A lovely November breeze swept her face. It gave her a chill. She put on the thin black sweater she was carrying.

La Iglesia de la Merced
was around the corner. This place was her oasis, her haven. She walked in, made the sign of the cross, and scanned the church. There was only one other elderly woman praying the rosary. The elderly who didn't work were the only ones who were somewhat free to go to church, because they couldn't be fired from work or ridiculed at school.

Abuela sat in one of the pews in front of the statue of our Lady of Lourdes, and she started to pray the rosary. After a while she saw the other lady leave. When she was praying the third joyful mystery she suddenly noticed a shadow in front of her. Then from behind her pew a hand reached over and grabbed onto her shoulder. She looked down at it before she turned around. It was heavy and big—definitely a man's hand.
Probably a beggar,
she thought.

“Maria Elena,” said a hoarse voice.

She turned around and stared directly into the face of the man who had been following her.

“Please take your hand off me,” she said sternly. The man promptly removed his hand. She could see his face clearly, and she was certain it was the man who had been watching her apartment.

“Do you know these people?” he said, taking out pictures of Luisito playing basketball in front of Rosie's house.

“Oh, Luisito!” Abuela said, taking the pictures.

“I just want you to know that we are keeping an eye on your family. You know us and what we are capable of doing. We are everywhere,” the man said, stressing the last few words.

Abuela was not one who was easily intimidated, and although she wanted to cry, she swallowed hard and faked a smile.

“Do you have more?” she asked. “I haven't seen him for months.”

The man stared hard at her for a moment and then threw the pictures on her lap and left.

Abuela took a deep breath. She sat in the pew fingering the pictures and finishing her rosary. She didn't have the strength to get up. Her legs were trembling. She always tried to remain strong in front of the communists, those intolerant dictators. She felt the heat rising to her cheeks. She went from feeling scared to angry to courageous.

She stared at the pictures of Luisito happily playing basketball with friends. He was dressed so well and looked so healthy. He even had brand-new American sneakers just like the ones he had always dreamed of. Abuela walked home slowly. No one was following her. When she got home she went straight to her bedroom, closed the door,
and started to weep, shaken by the experience. She prayed that they wouldn't hurt her family. She might be old, but she knew that she wasn't someone they wanted to reckon with.

The days seemed so long for FBI Agent John Stewart. He trailed Jorge and Antonio all day and sometimes long into the night until his replacement took over. These men had been seen with some others who were suspected of having ties with the Cuban government. After a few calls and some background checks, Agent Stewart discovered that the men did not have fulltime jobs. Yet they often visited nightclubs and expensive restaurants, and occasionally went on shopping sprees. Who—or what—was financing their lavish lifestyle? Was it drugs, counterfeit money, or burglary?

Or could they be Cuban spies? Agent Stewart was part of the Foreign Counterintelligence Squad of the FBI,
better known as the FCI. He had often followed Cubans as they spied on prominent Cuban exiles. He had an advantage in his Anglo looks—blond hair, fair complexion, slight freckles, and blue eyes—that belied his fluency in Spanish. He had been raised in the Spanish-speaking neighborhood of New Jersey's Union City and understood the language perfectly. Even in crowded elevators or on buses people spoke freely in Spanish in front of him, never suspecting that someone who looked like him would understand anything they were saying.

Sometimes spies infiltrated Cuban exile organizations in Florida pretending they were just regular citizens. Agent Stewart and his men watched them closely until they had hard facts that warranted an arrest. Other times these spies would participate in demonstrations and act disorderly just to give the exile community a bad name. But if these men were spies, why were they stalking this ordinary family in the suburbs of Maryland?

The information Agent Stewart had on the Galleti family raised no red flags. José Galleti was a Cuban architect who owned his own firm. His wife, Rosie, worked with him as office manager. They had two children, Sonia and Thomas, who attended Big Spring High School. They weren't involved in anything political and had no active records or police files. Rosie had family who had just arrived from Cuba, Miguel and Elena Ramirez and their son, Luis. They had also been regular citizens in Cuba. They had not even been active members of the Communist party. Day after day, Agent Stewart observed how the men drove by the Galleti home, Miguel's workplace, and the high school. They were definitely after this
particular family. The question was, why? There was really no logical reason—yet.

This case had to be handled very carefully. He could not arrest anyone just for driving by someone's house or for bumping into someone more than once in a public place. He and his men were following their trail everywhere now. Recently he had even pretended he was a reporter at Luisito's basketball games just to keep an eye on the spies and on the family.

Today was the perfect morning to check out the spies' rented apartment in Baltimore. What criminal activity were these men up to? He parked his car a block away. With a warrant in his pocket, he walked into the lobby, dressed casually to blend in with the other resisdents. The complex had several apartments, and because the renters changed often, the residents didn't know one another very well. So no one questioned him as he walked right to the apartment as if it were his own. He knocked several times on the door of apartment 212 but no one was home. He took out a master key and tried it.
Click.
The door opened. The apartment smelled of tobacco combined with some kind of perfumed incense.

He went toward the kitchen. There were dirty dishes stacked in the sink. In the living room, he placed a bugging device inside one of the chrome legs of the coffee table.

He looked around the bedroom. In one corner he saw a small transistor radio, the kind that could be used to communicate with Cuba. On the other side of the room two large duffle bags were piled one on top of the other. From the amount of luggage they had, it seemed the men
would not be in the country for very long. They probably packed light so that they could move quickly. A makeshift clothesline in the walk-in closet held several black and white photos as they dried. Some were of Luis and his friends at school, others were of Rosie and Elena at stores, of Miguel leaving his workplace, and of the front of the Galleti's house. The only other room in the apartment had a sign:
No
entre
—Do not enter. That must be where they developed their rolls of film. Agent Stewart did not enter the room. He didn't want to alert them by possibly exposing any film.

He saw little paperwork around, so he couldn't get any information that way. Then he saw a photo of the image of Our Lady of Charity in a Cuban church. He knew this was his first clue. These men wouldn't have this picture with them for prayer. There was something important about this image, and he needed to find out what.

The night before they left, Luisito's family loaded the car with all their suitcases. They were ready to leave for Miami. Miguel's boss had given him some time off. Luisito and Rosie had their plan all worked out. Once they arrived, Rosie would find an excuse to take Luisito to
La Ermita de la Caridad
in Miami. There he would quickly deliver his message. It's a good thing he had decided to tell Rosie—this was turning out to be easier than he'd expected.

Early the next morning, the whole family crammed into the car. José, Rosie, and Sonia took the spacious vinyl front seat. Miguel, Elena, Luisito, and Tommy sat in the back.

“I brought coffee and my favorite crackers!” Rosie said.

“Well, then we are all set,” José laughed.

Luisito rested his head back and slept as his parents and the Galletis spoke softly.

After several hours, they stopped at a rest area.

“Finally, we get to stretch our legs,” Tommy said.

“No importa,”
Luisito said. “Try a raft for about four days.”

“Well, now that you put it that way . . .” Tommy said, smiling.

They bought a quick breakfast and brought it back to the car to eat. Between the food and the moving vehicle, Luisito slowly drifted in and out of sleep. He would soon be in Miami. But instead of a sense of accomplishment, he felt uneasy about the whole thing.

It just couldn't be this easy. Something wasn't right.

Agent Stewart drank his cup of coffee as he drove on the highway en route to Miami. He picked up his portable radio.

“Yes?” Stewart said. “What do you have?”

“Agent Stewart, the wiretaps indicate that the two Cuban suspects are after an image of Our Lady of Charity, and they believe the boy has something to do with it. Apparently his family has connections with the Catholic Church in Cuba, and, as we know, the Cuban government is very afraid that the Catholic Church, always against injustice, will try to bring the government down,” his assistant said.

“But according to inside information the boy's parents didn't go to church. They weren't affiliated with the Church at all,” Stewart replied.

“Correct, but the boy also lived with his grandmother, and she went to church daily. That's all the information we have so far,” she said.

“The grandmother is still in Cuba, isn't she?” Stewart asked.

“Yes, she is seventy-two years old and lives in Havana.”

“There is nothing suspicious about an old lady going to church in Cuba. The older people have nothing to lose,” he said. “Keep digging and keep me posted.”

This whole thing didn't make sense to Stewart. Why would anyone be so concerned about a holy image? Were they afraid the teenage boy was going to smuggle this image to the United States? How could he if he came in a raft with no personal belongings? His parents had no involvement with anticommunist movements, the Church, or any communist groups, according to his information. Then there was the grandmother, but all she did was stand in line for food, visit old friends, and go to church. He had checked out the people she visited and they were just ordinary folks.

He heard Agent Loynaz on the radio again. He tried to set down his coffee. It spilled on his lap.

“Y-e-s?” he said, a little irritated.

“Just wanted to let you know that the family is forty miles ahead of you and still being closely followed,” said Carmen Loynaz, an agent assigned to FCI.

“Do you have someone on them?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Good,” Stewart reported. “I will soon be entering South Carolina. Where are they now?”

“Approaching Georgia,” Agent Loynaz said.

“Okay, I'd better pick up the pace,” Stewart said. “Thanks.”

Stewart turned up the radio and sped up a bit. This was a lonely job at times. Everything was top secret. He remembered how his father, who had also worked for the bureau, would leave for days on account of his work. Stewart's father was an FBI legend. He was known for his highly intuitive sharp mind, his amazing high-speed car chases, and his many successfully closed cases. His father was in more fragile health since his hip replacement surgery, but he had once been a very agile man.

“Wait a minute,” Stewart said to himself. His father might be fragile now, but he was really something in his day . . . “That's it!” He radioed Agent Loynaz again.

“The reports you have of Maria Elena Jemot, are they all recent?” he asked.

“From the last ten years,” she said.

“Check further back,” Stewart said, “during the years right after the revolution. Check her husband as well. I believe he was an attorney who was arrested and died in prison.”