CHAPTER 1
ISIS' CONCEPTION
Those that listen and follow any extreme ideas while blinding themselves with anger, hatred, and a lust for revenge for previous abuses that victimized them end up being the instruments, the useful fools, for the new and worse abusers. Before you know it, those tyrants gain power and control over your destiny by stripping you of all your rights.
Dr. Julio Antonio del Mármol
Kingston, Jamaica
2000
11:22 am
I had spent the previous two years running all over the continent of Africa tracking several terrorist subjects and studying their movements. I patiently sat in a small corner of the airport, flipping through a magazine. My eyes, though, were everywhere. I was in a small salon waiting for the plane I was about to board for Cuba.
I was disguised as a mulatto Caribbean islander. My hair was tinted black and permed and I wore a prosthetic nose. My lips were also larger and thicker than normal for me. I was dressed in a black sport coat, white pants, and white shoes. My sunglasses appeared to be Calobars, but special crystals in the corners allowed me to see every movement behind me.
I turned slightly and saw behind me an old black lady in a wheelchair coming in my direction. Over the loudspeakers a female voice announced, "Flight 112 from Kingston to Havana departs in twenty minutes. Please approach Gate 6 for boarding."
I closed the magazine and leaned forward slightly in my chair. I opened my bag and put the magazine inside it. As I leaned back in preparation to stand up, I saw that the old lady was closer to me. She came up next to me and tapped my left leg with another magazine. I smiled and looked at her. The face looked familiar. With a small smile, she held the magazine out to me. I didn't take it, because she had not identified herself to me. Her smile faded, and she looked at me over the rims of her sunglasses, holding the magazine out in a more demanding way.
"On page eighteen, you will find an interesting article which says the Cuban government will hold free elections very soon." As she said those last words, she smiled cynically at the irony of the statement. I realized at that moment that the old lady was my friend Chopin, in near-perfect disguise. I smiled again, this time in relief, and I took the magazine without any more concern.
"Thank you very much, lady, I said with only the slightest emphasis on the last word.
In his own voice, Chopin whispered, "Don't be cute, eh? Don't get on that plane for any reason at all on Earth. Cuban intelligence is waiting for you at the Havana airport. They have a picture of you in this disguise. This information comes compliments of our Amazon in Varadero Beach. She sends you lovely, cordial regards. I will wait for you outside. Take whatever time is necessary. Be sure you check your tail, but do not get on that plane. They already have two men from Cuban intelligence who will escort you as soon you hit international airspace."
I twisted my head a little bit, and saw behind us two men who were watching us with a little too much attention. They looked like Cuban agents all right, in spite of their disguises. They also weren't getting in line to board the plane, which showed me that they were waiting to make certain I boarded the flight. My discomfort increased. I said to Chopin, "OK, lady." I lowered my voice to a whisper. "You can give me more details outside, OK? I think we've caught the attention of the two guys already observing us."
Chopin nodded. He displayed a ten-dollar bill in his hand, and said loudly in his feminine voice, "Thank you, Massa. You are a good and generous man. God bless you for your great heart."
I waved dismissively to 'her' with the magazine 'she' had just given me. I adjusted my travel bag, stood, and walked to the end of the boarding line. I kept the corner of my eyes on the two men. As I got into the line, I saw them rush to get into line a few people behind me. I opened the magazine and turned to page eighteen. There was a note with a paperclip attaching it to the page. It read in large red letters, Great danger. Somebody has double-crossed us. Your cover has been exposed. Abort your mission. Tanya. At the bottom, another message in black ink read, Don't get on that plane in that disguise. We will wait for you outside. There was a smiley face before and a cartoonish ghostly figure. It was signed, Casper, the Friendly Ghost. I grinned as I got out of the line.
I went over to a vendor that was selling guarapo close to the boarding line. I ordered the largest glass possible so that it would take some time to prepare. I saw the men getting very nervous as they struggled to keep their eyes on me without losing their track. When I would rejoin the line, I would be behind them, and it would be difficult for them to make sure I got on the plane. As I waited and the line moved forward, the distance grew greater and their quandary increased.
After I obtained my beverage, I returned to the line. They looked at me and saw my appearance of casual inattention, sipping my juice through a straw. They calmed down at that sight. I kept my cover, remaining in line even after they had stepped through the door. I set my bag on the floor and fished around in it, waving people behind me on ahead. After doing this a second time, I was very glad I had used this stalling tactic. One of the men had conveniently 'forgotten' his carry-on bag, and was coming back from the plane to recover it. I could see his eyes looking all over for me.
I smiled and breathed a small sigh of satisfaction. I waited until the last passenger had boarded the plane. As soon as I saw they were about to close the gate doors, I headed towards the bathrooms. I went inside and cut up all the documents that tied me to that guise and flushed them into different toilets: passport, boarding passes, everything for that identity. After that, I put my carry-on bag on the long sink. I pulled out new clothing and accessories to change my disguise at once.
My hand still in the bag, I heard a voice behind me say, "Turn around very slowly with your hands up. Don't try any tricks. We've been studying you very carefully. If you want to continue breathing, do as I say. There are two ways we can do this."
Even though I was in front of the bathroom mirror, I kept my head down as if searching in the bag, my eyes locked on the corner of my glasses. My hand very carefully continued searching in the bag, but I kept my shoulders and elbows absolutely still, giving the impression that I'd frozen. I didn't want to prompt any overreaction or retaliation towards me. The men were behind me, silencers on their pistols, both covering me. I could see the determination in the eyes of both men. They would kill me without hesitation.
My hands discovered the two objects I was seeking: a cigarette lighter and a metal cigarette case. Cupping them carefully, I very slowly started to raise my hands as directed. To distract them, I raised my head and spoke to them with a smile, looking at them in the mirror before me. "My friends, I think you've got the wrong man. I'm a businessman. I'm on a trip to Cuba looking to increase my fortune. The only reason I'm here in the bathroom is that I'm looking for my cigarettes. I would rather miss the plane and catch the next one than leave here without my cigarettes."
The taller, more muscular one had the look of one from the lower classes. He yelled at the top of his lungs, "Fuck you! We know very well who you are and what you do! Cut out the bullshit — that's not going to get you out of this one!! Your luck runs out today. Slowly turn around if you want to continue in the world of the living. Let me make this clear: my orders are to take you alive, if possible." He smiled cruelly. "They want to interrogate you. But if I can't because you resist or make it too difficult, they instructed me to cut off all your fingers for identification."
The other man was covering me, his gun in his right hand. His left reached into his pocket and pulled out the guillotine scissors used to trim the nails of very large dogs, and he clicked them suggestively. He smiled, showing his tobacco-stained teeth, and said, "If that's the way we have to do it, we'll do it with pleasure. I'll cut off your fingers and then we'll leave your body in the nearest trash bin in town. Our pleasure in doing this comes from the damage you've done to the Revolution and the Cuban people, motherfucker."
Still facing the mirror, I shivered exaggeratedly. "Oooh, that sounds violent and depressing," I said without any fear. I wanted to let them know they didn't intimidate me in the slightest. I grimaced as my jaw tightened, and I could not prevent my ears from reddening as I felt the blood rush to my face. Very slowly, taking great care not to let my emotions control my actions, I started to turn around, still smiling at them. I said to both of them, "Gentlemen, an intelligent man is the one who knows and recognizes when he's lost the game and is able to accept it. He prepares better then to win the next game. You got me. We should be brief and quick, or we'll miss our plane to Havana."
They both grinned ear to ear. The larger of the two said arrogantly in a satisfied tone, "My friend, I believe you've played your last game." With his free hand, he tapped the other man. "Cheo, come on — go and frisk him quickly. He's right about one thing: we'll miss the plane."
Cheo looked at him in astonishment. It was clear he didn't want to be the one to frisk me. He hesitated. His partner, noticing this, lost his concentration and looked at Cheo incredulously. Both guns were still trained on me, but neither man had his eyes on me. Cheo finally, reluctantly started to move towards me. This was my opportunity, and I pressed my finger down on the cigarette case. A poisoned dart shot noiselessly out and embedded itself in the right side of taller man's muscular neck. Instinctively, his gun hand raised up to touch the dart in his neck, but he was dead before he could do so. His last reflexive jerk caused the pistol to fire two shots into the ceiling.
Cheo had reached me and started to frisk me. He put the muzzle of his pistol on my chest when he heard his partner collapse. He yelled, "Don't move! What did you do to him?" He turned to look at him.
"Nothing," I said. "I don't know, maybe he had a heart attack. What do you mean?"
I dropped both the lighter and the cigarette case simultaneously. Both hit the tile floor with a loud, metallic crash, and Cheo snapped his gaze down and looked to both sides. That moment of distraction was all I needed to quickly snatch the gun out of his hand. He was about to say something, but I didn't let him finish. I shoved him back, and as he fell I shot him once in the chest and once in the head. I dragged both bodies and put them in the last stall in the line. I rapidly changed my disguise and left the airport in search of Chopin.
This time, I was the one who threw him off. He did not recognize me at once, since I was now dressed as an Arabian man in his mid-sixties and wearing a turban. I asked him, "Have you any spare change for cigarettes?"
He recognized my voice, and asked, "Did you get rid of your tail?"
"They are both out of circulation."
"Damn, so quickly? I wanted to be there to help you."
A few hours later, we left in a small Cessna piloted by Chopin, flying out of a small dirt field used by the planes that crop-dusted local farms. A little while later, we entered Cuban airspace on the occidental side of the island. During the trip, Chopin debriefed me on all the most recent developments that had nearly cost me my life and how he and the rest of the team had managed to intercept me in time to prevent it.
We continued our earlier plan, but now using an alternative method. I had the documents and IDs to support my new identity as an elderly Arabian man. We were going to obtain our enemy's latest secrets regarding international conspiracies inside the Cuban government with their ally al-Qaeda, led by their old associate, Osama bin Laden. Our information was that they intended to bring the U.S. government to its knees while at the same time striking panic into the free world through the most wide-ranging terrorist act in the history of humanity. Our objective was to obtain the information to not only destroy their criminal plans but also to know what kind of role the Cuban government was playing in it all. That was my specific mission.
Chopin flew in low to stay under radar. Even though it was the middle of a very dark night and we knew the current location of mobile anti-aircraft emplacements, thanks to our contacts inside government headquarters, our enemies also had small units with surface-to-air missiles which could spot us.
Everything went very well until we crossed an area in which anti-aircraft weapons appeared to have been more recently placed. They heard our engine, and powerful searchlights clicked on as they opened fire, spraying the air with flak. It was entirely due to Chopin's skill as a pilot that we were able to fly sideways through the barrage, bringing us through without any damage. It was only a few minutes, but the tension was such that it seemed to last much longer. We both crossed ourselves after we got out of that unexpected predicament.
I smiled as Chopin said sarcastically, "Thank you for that wonderful welcome, you sons of bitches."
I said, "You're good, man — you kept us alive."
A little while later, he alerted me to prepare myself, as we were approaching the area according to the map where I was supposed to jump: my family's old tobacco farm in Portales de Guane. I put my parachute on, made sure all the buckles were tightened, and picked up my bag with all the things I would need to survive. We exchanged a few final words before I jumped.
"Good luck, my friend," Chopin said. "Remember, I know you already have an exit secured, but if you need any help or need me in an emergency, page me. I'll be willing to land even in the Havana Malecón to get you safely back."
I laughed and gave him a thumbs up. He saw we were nearly there and gave me a countdown. When he reached zero, he gave me a thumbs up. I returned a military salute to him and jumped.
A few minutes later, I soared over the tobacco bushes and landed on the farm. The peculiar smell of those raw tobacco leaves transported me back to years earlier, when I would play in between the plants with my cousins, ignoring the protests of my uncles and grandfather that we not destroy the field.
I noticed how many plants I had broken in my landing, and I felt incredibly guilty as I remembered how mad they had gotten when we had caused such damage. As I rolled up my parachute, I tried to right the plants, but many of them were already broken by my descent and simply flopped onto the other side.
As I finished wrapping up my parachute, I heard several dogs barking. The noise was getting closer, and as it had been many years since I had last been there, I took precautions. I left the parachute strategically concealed, and began to move away from the commotion at a jog. I used my compass to keep my orientation as I moved between the tall rows of plants. I needed to find the house where my uncle was to pick me up.
The dogs were getting closer, so I sped up. I used my small flashlight to light the way ahead of me. I finally reached the boundary of the plantation. I could see the outline of the tall cashew apple trees. That silhouette brought many beautiful memories of my early childhood. I pointed my flashlight behind me. A few dogs were close — too close. Clearly, some had outrun the rest of the pack. I could see three brown and black Rottweilers. They looked like the dominant animals of the whole group and were about 100 to 150 feet behind me.
I pulled a pistol and silencer out of a concealment holster on my leg. I continued running as I screwed the silencer onto the muzzle of my gun. As I sprinted towards the trees, I asked God to give me the power and speed to get there before the dogs reached me. The last thing I wanted to do was shoot them, no matter who their owner might be. They were only protecting the property against intruders — which in this case was me.
