Escape

NORMA ATTENDED THE FAREWELL PARTY FOR NILDO Alvarez and his wife, who were leaving for Havana that evening. Cubans love to make a big thing out of departures, and, traditionally, close relatives, distant relatives, friends, and even acquaintances will go to the airport to see the person off. The people at this farewell party were planning to do the same, and Norma was expected to come along. She demurred, explaining that she was to meet her French teacher and the teacher's wife, and she had no way of reaching them to cancel the engagement. Nildo expressed hurt; Norma acted as lighthearted as she could manage, trying hard to hide her uneasiness, and apparently succeeding, because no suspicions were aroused.

After the party and the emotional farewells, and the "We'll‑see-you‑in‑Cubas," Norma returned to our apartment. She prepared herself and the two boys for the long journey ahead, and late in the afternoon they set out. It was cold and raining, and the concierge commented on the weather, wondering why they chose to go out at this time.

Norma replied, "We're meeting my husband," and immediately realized the inadequacy of the answer, since the man might well ask why her husband didn't drive by and pick them up in a car. But the concierge smiled and said nothing further, and now they were outside in the cold drizzle.

They walked several blocks and came to a predesignated spot where the uncle and aunt waited. Norma had suffered further uneasiness ‑ what if the couple failed to keep the appointment? ‑ but they were there and greeted them and took them in hand. The boys were helped into a parked car, and Norma followed, but there was a momentary difficulty with one‑and‑a‑half‑year‑old Osvaldo's stroller. The stroller did not fit into the car, nor into the trunk compartment.

The uncle said: "Well, what for? They are leaving so much behind, they might as well leave this, too."

The stroller was left on the sidewalk. Only Orlando, Jr., three and a half years old, objected, complaining, "Mama, what are they doing with Osvaldito's coche ‑ why are they throwing it away?" His mother reassured him.

Norma and the children were driven to an apartment building and taken into an apartment which the uncle had rented for this purpose. Here the personal belongings they would take with them had been stored.

Now they would wait . . .

My guard duty at the Embassy was to begin at one in the afternoon, and I arrived promptly. The code official was waiting to leave, and he did so immediately upon my arrival. The code man was accompanied by several other members of the staff, all going out for a Sunday afternoon on the town. Still in the residence were the ambassador's wife, Doris, and her four daughters. Yraida, a servant who helped the cook and did miscellaneous tasks, was also there, as was a Cuban army captain known as El Frances, who had been visiting Paris.

I settled down to relax as best I could. I picked a comfortable chair in the small sitting room of the code official's apartment within the apartment. For reading I chose ‑ was this Freudian? ‑ case books prepared by G‑2 detailing their operations against spies and counterrevolutionaries.

There would be long, nervous hours ahead. I dared not make my move until I knew that my family had reached safety. I had arranged with Norma that as soon as she arrived at the secret apartment, she was to phone me at the Embassy and say: "We've arrived at the teacher's house. We'll wait for you to join us for dinner. We are all right."

The party for Nildo and his wife had been the big hitch. Norma could not avoid going to it without causing suspicion, and since she had to attend, I had to wait until it was over and my family were able to make their break.

I did decide to make a trial run. I waited until two‑thirty in order to be sure that all was tranquil at the Embassy, that no one was keeping a suspicious eye on me. Putting down my book, I strolled the thirty yards to the door of the Centro. The door had two locks, and I had keys to both of these. I unlocked the door and entered a small space, upon which two additional doors faced, one leading into the Centro's office, the other into a room containing the safe utilized by the Intelligence staff. One wall of the small space was made of cardboard, the nail heads clearly visible. Actually, one of these nails was part of an ingenious alarm system: unless the nail was removed‑and it was indistinguishable from the others‑an alarm would sound if the doors to either the office or the room with the safe were opened. Because the Intelligence officials individually had occasion to use these quarters on Sundays and in the evenings, when no one else might be about, all knew how to disconnect the alarm. The chief and the second in command alone knew, however, how the alarm worked or where it sounded.

I removed the nail and placed it on the floor in a corner. The code official kept a ring of keys, but on his days off he turned these over to the guard officer, and I now had them. Two of these keys opened two locks on the door to the room with the safe. I entered the room and went to the safe. On the face of the safe door was a metal cover, which I swung to one side, revealing five combination locks in a circle. A large, special key, which was also kept on the code official's key ring, had to be inserted in each of these locks and turned in accordance with the lock's combination. The combinations were different for each lock, and each official had had to memorize all five of the combinations. If the combinations were properly worked, when the same key was inserted and turned in a central keyhole, the door could be opened. I worked the combinations, heard the resulting clicks, and then put the key into the keyhole. There was another click, louder than the others, and I was able to swing the door open.

Within the large safe were metal boxes in which each of the Intelligence officials kept his papers. In a separate, locked compartment inside the safe were the boxes used by Lopez, the chief, and Diaz, the second in command. In a lapse in security, the key to this inner compartment was included among those on the master key ring. I tried several keys, found the proper one, and opened the compartment. There stood two boxes, one red, one gray.

Testing a key which had been fashioned for this purpose by a locksmith who had used my own key as a model, I unlocked the gray box, which belonged to the second in command. This was but a trial run; I did not take any documents, nor did I touch the red box of the chief. This box was different than the others, and I had no key for it.

Removing a mass of documents from the Embassy would be a problem, I had foreseen. The previous day, therefore, I had placed a red valise near the safe. Because this room was used as an occasional storeroom, nobody had taken note of the bag.

I put everything back as it had been. The plan might work well when the time came, but I knew that the danger would be great. To open the door to the room, open the safe, open the inner compartment, load the documents in the valise, close everything again ‑ this would take three to five minutes, and if someone should enter at any moment after I had opened the inner compartment, I would be caught with no possible explanation that anyone would accept.

One other security lapse worked slightly in my favor. Lopez, the chief, had to ring the outside doorbell like anyone else before he could enter the Embassy. He had no key of his own. The sound of the bell ringing would give me a few moments warning, although this might not be sufficient.

Uneasy though I was, I was determined to proceed with my plan. I had one bit of "insurance." When I had dressed to come to work, I had placed my pistol, fully loaded, under my shirt. If I had to use the weapon in order to escape, I was prepared to do so.

As I was shutting the safe, I thought I heard the doorbell. Was this the first ring? Or had the bell been ringing ‑ perhaps the servant was already opening the door.

I hurried out of the room, closed the door, closed the outer door, and returned to the chair where I had been reading.

Yraida opened the door to the Embassy, and Lopez entered, accompanied by Pedro Machado (code name "Said"), an Intelligence officer who doubled as the local head of Prensa Latina, the Cuban news wire service. I forced myself to appear relaxed, hoping that my throbbing heart was not as apparent outwardly as it was inwardly.

The two men greeted me casually, and Lopez asked for the key ring. With this in hand, they headed toward the Centro's quarters. Both were dressed in laborers' clothing. The African country of Guinea had broken diplomatic relations with France, and having withdrawn its Embassy, it had given to the Cuban government the building which had formerly been occupied by the Guinean Embassy. To this edifice the Cuban chancellery was to be transferred, but before the move could be accomplished, extensive alterations and fixing‑up were required. In order to carry this out, all members of the Cuban staff were expected to give up one of their days off each week and do "voluntary" work at the building. On this Sunday Lopez and Machado had been doing their stint.

The two men remained in the Centro's quarters. I strained to hear what they were saying, but was unable to do so. Was their visit purely coincidental ‑ or were they checking on me? Through my mind raced recent events as I tried to remember whether I had done or said anything which might have aroused suspicions. Would they find anything amiss? I had heard ‑ the officials were sometimes told ‑ that little traps had been set about the office, that objects in the safe were placed in certain ways, and if anything was disturbed, this would be apparent to the chiefs.

To keep my weapon well concealed, I had not removed my coat all the time I was in the Embassy, despite the warmth generated by a heating system. Now I sat tensely, one hand under my jacket and near the butt of the gun. I continued reading ‑ or more accurately, made a pretense of reading ‑ my book.

Fifteen minutes later the, men emerged from the Centro. I did not look up. The floor was wooden, and I could tell by their footsteps that they were heading toward me. I braced myself, ready to leap up and level my weapon.

"How come the alarm is disconnected? " Lopez asked. I silently exclaimed ‑ damn! In my hurry to get out of the room with the safe I had forgotten to put the alarm nail back in place. But I saw that Lopez did not appear to be suspicious, merely curious.

"I took this book out," I replied, indicating the volume I was holding, "and since I was going to return it in a few minutes, I didn't bother to set it again." Lopez was satisfied. He returned the key ring and told me that he and Machado were off to attend the Alvarez's farewell party, and would afterward go to the airport to say goodbye.

I tried to relax into my chair. I attempted to read; the words meant nothing to me.

A bell rang again, startling me, sending a new flood of cold fears coursing through me. It was the bell to the rear door, a door which opened from the kitchen onto Pergolais Street. Ordinarily this door was used only by servants and deliverymen on weekdays. This added to my uncertainty: Who would be at the door on a Sunday?

The bell kept ringing, and no one seemed about to answer it, and so I walked to the kitchen and opened it myself, my hand halfway toward my gun. I found Jorge Solis (code name "Roberto") waiting outside. Sobs was a fellow official at the Center. We greeted, and Solis explained, "I have to make a contact, and I left the address in the office." I gave him the key ring, and Solis went to the Centro. He was there a few minutes, then returned the keys and left.

Nevertheless, I was wary. Sobs had seemed to be somewhat agitated ‑ was he late for his appointment? Or had Lopez spotted an indication of something amiss and sent Solis to check on me? I recalled my discussions with Lopez over Norma's refusal to participate in the study circle. I thought back over my work ‑ or lack of work ‑ the past weeks. I had, in truth, not been doing a good job with my contacts and agents: I had deliberately missed meetings, later reporting that my contacts had not shown up, or that there had been suspicious movements at the rendezvous points. I had had no interest in my work; I had been gradually withdrawing from my responsibilities. Nor had I wanted to draw any more people into the Cuban Intelligence network.

Had Lopez become aware of all this, and did he now suspect, perhaps, what I was preparing to do? I forced myself not to panic, fought down a compelling urge to flee. On no account could I do that‑even if I dropped the plan to seize the documents, I dared not leave until I knew that my family were in safety.

A bell rang again ‑ the front doorbell. I thought grimly, "Something is going to blow up here." This time it was a new official, one who had recently arrived in Paris. Being new to the city, he had no friends to spend Sunday with and so had decided to utilize the time studying the Centro's files. He explained to me that he intended to learn more about the situacion operativa in Paris, as well as about his own contacts and the cases in which he was involved. He planned to remain in the Centro throughout the afternoon, and I knew this would prevent me from removing the documents, unless I used force, which would be so risky I did not want to do it except as a last resort.

"Look," I suggested, "why don't you use today to study the Paris metros? The metros will be important in your work, and at the same time you can also learn more about the city. You must know Paris and you must know how to get around. Better you do that than to study files at this point." I chatted with the new official for fifteen minutes and convinced him that he ought to go out and look at Paris. "Here, take these tickets to the metro" ‑ I had several in my pocket ‑ "and use them to travel around." I indicated interesting areas for "study," and the official happily set out on his trip of exploration.

Shortly before five o'clock, Doris Castellanos, the ambassador's wife, came and asked if I would like a lemonade, for she was preparing some. "Yes," I replied, "thank you." She returned with the drink, and we talked for a while about our respective children.

Doris sensed my unease. "What's the matter? Don't you feel well?"

I grinned, striving for casualness. I told her: "Perhaps this isn't my day. I'm a bit under the weather, been thinking about my problems."

"So young and always gay, and you have problems? " She laughed, and a little later returned to the ambassadorial quarters.

Still no word from Norma. I mentally braced myself: control, self‑discipline, everything depended on my self‑discipline, nothing is wrong, be patient. Word will come. And yet, if . . . I had to kill time, and so set out for a stroll through the Embassy. I chatted with one of the ambassador's daughters, then had a few words with the visiting captain.

A new problem loomed: I had planned to leave the Embassy through the kitchen door at the rear. I had parked my Volkswagen on the street near the door so that I could get away rapidly. But Yraida, the servant, had been napping and now she had awakened and begun working in the kitchen. To make my exit, I would have to walk by her, and I would be carrying my valise. She might very well become suspicious, knowing that I was supposed to be on guard duty.

At six‑thirty the telephone rang. I answered, and it was Norma. Speaking in a low voice, she said: "We just arrived at the teacher's house. We are going to eat here, but we'll wait for you." She added reassuringly: "We are fine, perfect. The children are fine." There was a sharp note of excitement in her voice, carefully controlled.

"Very good," I said. "I'll see you soon."

I immediately hung up the phone. In a not‑running run I went to the window of the large ballroom, and from here I scanned Foch Avenue below. For at that moment I had severe doubts, felt almost sure that the others suspected something was wrong. I looked out to see if there were any Embassy vehicles about, perhaps someone waiting below or entering the building. There was no sign of anything - even so, I felt little reassurance.

I now virtually repeated my previous operation. One difference was the matter of my own key. Each official kept his box in the safe, and there was a separate key for each box. The official did not retain his key on his person, however, but instead left it with the code official, who kept all the keys in a small drawer under the Teletype machine. During my trial run, I had not bothered with my own box and key, but now I retrieved my key from the drawer and headed toward the Centro.

I reopened the doors ‑ no need to disconnect the alarm this time: it had not yet been reconnected. In the safe room, I used the special key, worked the combinations, and unlocked the safe. I took the red valise and placed it, open, on the floor in front of the safe. A moment's hesitation, and then I quickly opened the little door to the inner compartment.

I was now committed. This was the real thing and there was no turning back ‑ the moment of truth, and all I could do now was to continue with the operation, and do this with all possible dispatch. I was nervous; my hands shook; I was clumsy; and visually, frighteningly real in my mind were the terrible consequences should I be caught. I considered dropping everything and fleeing, running, escaping, but somehow I continued at my task, functioning almost mechanically despite my deadening fear.

The chief's red box was heavy, made of an alloy, rectangular, about a foot and a half long and six inches wide. I made no attempt to open this. I dumped the whole box into the valise. I opened the gray, metal box belonging to the second in command. Watching the segundo taking papers from, or placing them in, a red, plastic briefcase, I had gathered that these were Diaz's more important documents. The briefcase now lay on top of a batch of papers inside the box. I grabbed it and dropped in into the valise. I took a fistful of papers, too nervous to spend any time being selective, and these also went into the valise. I opened my own box; everything in it went into the valise.

There were the boxes of the other officials, but time was fleeting. Every second increased the danger, and with the papers of the chief and the segundo, I knew that I had secured the most important documents in the Centro.

I closed the safe, locked it, and pocketed the key after removing it from the ring. I twirled the combination a number of times. With the key missing, it would be a while before anyone could get the safe open.

I picked up my valise and started out, not stopping to set the alarm. In the hallway I paused to see if I could hear anything. All was quiet. I took my overcoat but did not put it on. I wanted to be able to reach my gun rapidly, if I had to.

I carried the valise in my left hand, my overcoat draped over it, not quite concealing it. I would now have to traverse a goodly portion of the Embassy to get to the kitchen and the exit. My senses acutely alert to any sign of danger, I walked rapidly, and as silently as I could, almost on my toes.

Yraida was in the kitchen and immediately noticed the valise and overcoat. "Where . . . ," she began, "say, are you going to Cuba? " If she wondered about my guard duty, she said nothing.

"Yes," I said, "I'm going. Would you like me to deliver any messages? "

"Well, say hello to my family there, will you?”

"Sure. Hasta luego."

"Que le vaya bien. "

Out the door. To the car. Cold rain; cold fear. A curse ‑ where were the keys to the car? Fumbling, fumbling in the wet and chill and fright, until the keys were located in a pocket of the overcoat.

I drove toward the house where my family waited. I drove swiftly, disregarding safety, hardly conscious of what I was doing. The first cautious relief was creeping in.

My wife greeted me with tears, and we embraced, the harrowing wait, the long and fearful days now over.

Then, the final lap ‑ the family bundled into a car, a fast drive through the night to neighboring Luxembourg. Here I asked the American Embassy for political asylum in the United States, and this was granted.

The nightmare had ended.