The Man from Havana
Chapter 8
Major Roberto Ruiz walked down the alley to the back of Mama Mambo’s voodoo shop called the Green Serpent. He was the taskmaster who directed The Family’s psychological warfare campaign against the Americans. He was also the senior resident at the Cuban embassy in Port-au-Prince and principle architect of G-2’s program to destabilize U.S. embassy operations in Haiti and beyond. And the operation was going exceedingly well in his professional opinion. And in this operation, his opinion was the only one that counted.
As a very junior officer, he witnessed the Cuban army’s debacle in Angola in the early 1990s. His government’s military had intervened in the civil war on the side of the Soviet-backed, communist Peoples’ Army for Liberation. But its support had failed to turn the tide of the war in its ally’s favor. Cuba withdrew its forces in disgrace and the war raged on for another 10 years. That was to be Cuba’s last misadventure in Africa. And Roberto vowed the same scenario wouldn’t happen on his watch.
Roberto lit up a Gauloises and took a deep drag from the unfiltered, French cigarette. He was an oddity in his own country since he didn’t like cigars, Cuban or others. He preferred the taste of a strong cigarette. Turkish brands were his favorites, but were difficult to find in the capital. So the Gauloises had to suffice for now. The middle finger and thumb of his right hand were badly stained with nicotine because he held the cigarettes like the Americans and not the Europeans. Pinching them between the forefinger and thumb seemed too effeminate. That didn’t comport well with his macho image as a dashing, military officer and spy; a Che Guevara figure and true patriot of the revolution.
“Hello Marie Claire, I hope you are good health. I’ve brought you another gift for your excellent work on our behalf.”
He then handed her a large manila envelope stuffed with American currency.
“I am well, thank you Roberto for your generosity,” as she took the money and smiled broadly. Her one gold, front tooth shone in the light.
They were sitting in the storage area at the rear of the shop and surrounded by many strange items of her voodoo trade. Roberto really didn’t want to know what they were or used for. While he had a healthy respect for the religion, he wasn’t a believer, although many of his fellow Cubans were active participants. To each his own, he thought. He was a confirmed atheist and ardent adherent to Marist-Leninist theology.
“Roberto, please sit down and share a cup of strong, hot coffee. It’s just finished brewing so your timing is perfect.”
He did so at the small table in the middle of the room. Marie Claire fetched the coffee and sat across from him in what could best describe as an ornate throne. It was large enough to accommodate her massive girth and weight. After all, it was fitting for the self proclaimed Voodoo Queen of Port-au-Prince, he mused.
“Marie Claire, The Family has done well and you are to be congratulated. But we need to keep up the pressure. Soon the Americans will have little credibility with the Haitian government. Relations will continue to strain and, of course, that is our plan. Weaken them, keep them on the defensive. We intend to reduce Americas influence in this hemisphere. It will take us many years, but that’s our overall objective and you’re helping achieve that goal. As we speak, my compatriots in other parts of the Caribbean are doing the same.”
“Yes, I think we’ve done our part, but we had a bit of a problem with a recalcitrant employee named Jean-Claude. So we gave him a lesson that he’ll remember for the rest of his life. Maybe you read about the incident in the papers. We couldn’t have asked for a better outcome. Rather than make him disappear like the others, we decided to make him a walking example of our powers. Our message was clear, unambiguous and frightening. Either stay away from work or suffer the same fate or worse.”
She then lit a votive candle and mumbled something he didn’t understand. No matter. Roberto had been only playing with his coffee, occasionally putting the cup to his lips, but not sipping any. He knew full well about her deranged son, the Poison Dwarf, and his nasty penchant for random poisonings. He believed Marie Claire would never sanction such a thing, but Desmond was mentally unstable and erratic; one who couldn’t be trusted in the slightest, Roberto thought. No, it was better to play it safe. He begged off the coffee saying his stomach was already upset and didn’t want to worsen his condition. Marie Claire kindly offered one of her homeopathic remedies, but Roberto politely declined.
“Okay, continue on with your work, but don’t bring the attention of the authorities down on The Family,” Roberto spoke as he got up to leave.
“Things are going well and we want that to continue.”
“You know what to do next Marie Claire, so go do it!”