The Double Life of Fidel Castro (10 page)

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Formed in Belgrade in 1961, the Non-Aligned Movement is an international organization that groups together countries that define themselves as being allied to neither the Eastern nor the Western blocs.

In conformity with the security procedure applied to all official vehicles repatriated to Cuba after a stay abroad, the Mercedes were sent to the garage of Unit 160 to be thoroughly checked out. They were systematically and completely taken apart, down to the last bolt, in order to make sure that no microphone or explosive device had been slipped behind a door lining, inside a seat, in the dashboard, under the chassis, or in the engine. After the explosive detection specialists gave the all-clear, the Mercedes could finally be reassembled, then put into service.

The escort’s weaponry was also not negligible. When Fidel Castro was driven in his armored limousine, he always had a 7.62 mm Soviet Kalashnikov assault rifle placed between his feet along with five cartridges, each loaded with thirty bullets. This weapon never left him. It stayed there even when Fidel invited a foreign guest to get into his car—never failing to greatly impress the latter.

Fidel always sat on the rear seat, to the right. Just behind him, level with his right shoulder, was a 9mm Browning pistol as well as three clips of thirteen bullets. There was also a second 5.45mm Kalashnikov and five clips of thirty cartridges placed at the feet of the head of the escort, Domingo Mainet, who sat in the front passenger seat. To this were added all the guards’ weapons: each carried a Browning pistol at his belt and, situation depending, a Kalashnikov slung across the shoulder.

In addition, at that period, the presidential trunk always held a black suitcase containing a 7.62mm Kalashnikov AKM with a wooden butt as well as five clips of forty cartridges. This assault rifle was Fidel’s personal weapon, the one he used during the shooting exercises he regularly imposed on himself; it was also the one he took home with him every night. Dalia, warned of our arrival by radio, would be waiting for him on the doorstep of the family home like a devoted wife. In an immutable ritual, Fidel would kiss her on the mouth and then give her his weapon, which she would religiously go and put away in their bedroom on the first floor. At Punto Cero or while traveling, the head of state always slept with his Kalashnikov right next to his bed, within reach.

The trunk of Fidel’s Mercedes also held a first aid kit (under the responsibility of his doctor or his nurse), a spare pair of boots, a civilian suit, two or three combat uniforms, ties, military caps, and three spare sets of underwear—not to mention a complete basketball outfit, at least until Fidel decided to stop playing the game because of the injury to his toe in 1982.

Finally, one of the vehicles carried a cooler containing sodas, beers, and bottles of water as well as two pints of goat’s milk and natural or lemon yogurts, Fidel’s favorite flavors.

To conclude this description of the escort’s vehicles, it needs to be pointed out that—despite what I have heard in Miami, from the mouths of so-called Castrist specialists—it is totally false that the presidential limousine carried grenades within arm’s reach of Fidel. Like so much of the nonsense one hears about him, this is a case of wild imaginings, tall stories, and fantasies.

I occupied a particular, privileged place in the security system of the Cuban head of state, principally because of my three black belts (judo, karate, and close combat), my skill as a marksman, and my total devotion to the Revolution. Very quickly I was assigned the duty of Fidel’s personal guard, the supreme honor. Of the thirty to forty escort members, I was called “first” guard, as though I played the first violin in an orchestra. As soon as we got out of the car, it was my duty to position myself right beside or just behind Fidel, to parry any unexpected eventuality and to be his ultimate shield. For seventeen years, I was in the forefront.

A zealous bodyguard, I soon realized that we could improve the personal protection of the “boss” still more. I talked about it with the head of the escort, Domingo Mainet, and we proceeded to make adjustments. For example, at the Ministry of the Interior training school, I had learned that one had to pay attention to people’s eyes—do they not reflect everyone’s soul and intentions? However, on the ground I discovered that danger came from hands, not eyes. Now, while a well-trained enemy agent could easily mask his facial expressions, it was more difficult for him to disguise the movements of his hands— indeed, he often didn’t even think about it. This factor was soon included in the general training of Cuban guards who have since been taught to pay attention to the hands of the people within a crowd.

It was also I who was responsible for changing our shooting postures. Originally we drew our pistols, legs bent, because that gave greater stability. During training, I commented to Fidel that by bending down like that, we lost several precious inches that would have enabled us to screen him better. Fidel agreed. From then on, his bodyguards have been trained to stand up straight on both legs during shooting practice.

It is worth pointing out that it was always Fidel who had the final say in matters concerning his guard, from choosing its members to the weapons it used. Nobody, not the Minister of the Interior, the head of personal security, or the head of the escort, could take an initiative without his approval. In many cases, the head of the escort was no more than the driving belt for the will of the
Comandante
. Dalia made several attempts to get involved in the internal business of the escort, but Fidel did not allow her to do so, and it was much better like that.

Having become the “first” guard, it was logical that I should also become head of the car. As the name indicates, the
jefe de carro
occupied the highest position in the hierarchy of the car in which he found himself. In particular, it was he who liaised with the other heads of the car to coordinate the movement of the motorized cavalcade.

I had also been given another responsibility: the escort’s physical training. In short, I was the one who devised the sports training program: a minimum of four hours spent jogging, weight training, and close combat, from eight a.m. to noon. I also naturally carved out a position for myself as a shooting instructor. Every morning we would go to the firing range to practice shooting at fixed or mobile targets while standing, crouching, lying down, or even running, with all sorts of weapons: pistols, rifles, machine guns.

Some training took place at the
Ciudadela
(the Citadel), a ghost town near Mariel, between the Pan-American route and the sea, around twelve miles away from Havana. Still used by the soldiers of the
tropas de choque
, the Cuban shock troops, the Citadel resembled a cinema set with its empty buildings, some of which were topped with the three letters CDR (Committees for the Defense of the Revolution); its fake clinic; and its railway. It was the ideal place to simulate urban combat with moving cars and marksmen in ambush on the roofs.

So as to make it more realistic, a life-size model of a car was placed on the railway tracks as a moving target. The
Cuidadela
contained several practice ranges for shooting with rifles, submachine guns, machine guns, grenade launchers, and rocket launchers, to a distance of about 550 yards. The coastal roads that ran through the site also allowed shooting from moving cars. One of the exercises I developed consisted of drawing a weapon, loading it, shooting (and hitting the target), and then putting it away in the holster, all within less than three seconds.

Personally, I rapidly exceeded the obligatory four hours of daily training, imposing on myself a program of running and shooting on my days off so as to hone my skills to the maximum, to set an example, and to maintain my position at the head of the team. I willingly gave up most of my half days of rest and my holidays to work six days out of seven or even more.

As the person responsible for the escort’s physical training, it was also my job to select which soldiers of the group would have the honor and privilege of accompanying Fidel Castro on his official trips abroad while the rest, whose performance was less impressive in my eyes, would stay behind in Cuba. Without doubt, this provoked jealousy and led to some guards harboring resentment against me.

In the mid-1980s, I added another string to my bow: I was chosen to do the job of forerunner, the person who went ahead as scout to carry out all the preparations needed to ensure the security of President Castro before he arrived in a given country. For example, the forerunner had to conduct reconnaissance in the capital to be visited, decide on the securest routes, and check that the Cuban delegation had everything they needed and were not exposed to any risk.

It was therefore also up to me to rent houses or make hotel reservations while ensuring that the entrances and exits of these buildings were secure. Suitcase of cash in hand, I sometimes even bought houses, particularly in Africa, when I judged that to be the best way of guaranteeing Fidel’s security during the night. I was not alone in this mission.
La avanzada
(the advance party) generally included six officers: a head of the medical team, someone responsible for food, a
Técnica
specialist (from the technical department of the secret police, responsible for placing or detecting microphones), myself, and the head of personal security (at that time Maj.-Gen. Humberto Francis Pardo, who had several thousand men under his command).

Apart from Major-General Francis, the most vital link in the chain was naturally the one that directly represented Fidel’s escort—at the time, yours truly. Nothing was more important than the Commander in Chief ’s security. With my colleague from the
Técnica
, I devoted particular care to uncovering any hidden microphones. In the course of my career, I found two: one hidden in the window frame of Fidel’s hotel room in Madrid, the other in the false ceiling of the residence of the Cuban ambassador in Harare, Zimbabwe. In the countries we visited,
la avanzada
obviously received the support of the intelligence officers attached to the Cuban embassy.

Fidel always seemed satisfied with my work. More than once, when I stood on the ground to greet him as he walked down from an airplane, I heard him exclaim, “Ah, Sánchez! Are you here?
Muy bien
, all is in order. Tell me, Sánchez, what do you suggest?”

I would then set out for him all the issues relating to logistics, security, and his movements. I would sometimes advise him, for example, not to go toward the crowd at a certain moment of a particular official visit because our intelligence agents had learned that false partisans hoped to draw him toward them with cries of
¡Viva Fidel!
(acclamations to which Fidel was particularly susceptible), so they could insult him as soon as he was near them. As a general rule, I would also set out the accommodations possibilities I envisaged as he walked down from the plane—but he trusted me to make the final choice.

My career within the “family” of the escort progressed steadily. Lieutenant in 1979, I was promoted to captain in 1983, major in 1987, and lieutenant colonel in 1991. I was sure of one thing: I always did good work. In 1986, Major-General Francis, who as commander of the general personal security department was one of the most important figures in Cuba, had me draw up a report on my vision of the escort of a head of state. He liked my comments so much that after reading them he asked me to give a conference to the whole of the personal security staff, in other words to all the heads of escort of all the Cuban leaders.

On certain occasions, Fidel would also reward my services with a medal. On our return from Brazil in January 1990, where Fidel had attended the inauguration of President Fernando Collor de Mello,
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for example, I was decorated for the excellence of my work in Brasília. In November 1992, I won the national contest for the best service pistol marksman from twenty-five meters (about twenty-seven yards), setting an absolute record of 183 points out of 200 and earning the distinction of being the first Cuban soldier to be designated an expert gunman.

As I have said, my role as “first” guard also extended to the sea during the underwater fishing expeditions at Cayo Piedra, where it was my responsibility to protect Fidel from the moray, sharks, and barracudas. However, in a less athletic arena, my most important function was without doubt the keeping of the
libreta
. I would jot down everything Fidel did over the course of each day in this gray pocket-size notebook: what time he got up, what he had for breakfast (and for every other meal), the time he left for the
Palacio de la Revolución
, the time he arrived, the route taken by the presidential cortege through Havana, the names of the people received in audience, the time and duration of each meeting, as well as the subjects addressed.

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He would be deposed just two years later, in 1992.

Whether he was telephoning the leader of the Kremlin Mikhail Gorbachev, meeting the Minister of the Interior José Abrantes, or visiting his friend Gabo (Gabriel García Márquez) in his house in Havana, the subjects discussed had to be jotted down succinctly. This work of scribe was a special vocation. Sometimes it involved the most trivial details; at Cayo Piedra, for example, I had to make an exact list of the number of fish caught by the lord of the manor: ten lobster, four red snapper, three grouper fish, and so on. I had to also write the name, the origin, and the vintage of the wine each time Fidel uncorked a bottle.

When I had a day off, my replacement in
grupo 2
, my partner, noted everything down on loose paper; the following day, I had to put together the information he had collected and copy it down into the
libreta
. From 1977 to 1994, I kept that notorious gray notebook, giving me a detailed, hour-by-hour knowledge of Fidel Castro’s life.

When all the pages of the
libreta
were filled, the notebook was wrapped up with string like a birthday present, sealed with wax, and then sent to the documentation service of the
Palacio de la Revolución
, where it was stored away for posterity, next to hundreds of other identical notebooks. The whole of the Commander’s life therefore occupies several yards of shelving somewhere within the presidential palace in Havana. There, too, are all the audio recordings made on Fidel’s orders (but unknown to his interlocutors); whenever possible, he recorded all his important conversations, either with the hi-fi installed in his office or the minicassettes that we members of the escort always carried in our luggage. Cautious Fidel also ordered that if ever Cuban communism were toppled, these archives must be urgently destroyed.