The Double Life of Fidel Castro (22 page)

As for the omnipresent mikes that our secret services had talked about, I decided to get to the bottom of the matter. The day after we arrived, I was in the hotel elevator with a Cuban colleague when I declared to him disingenuously, “You know what? I would love to read the works of Kim Il-sung in Spanish. It’s probably really interesting. But we can’t get them in Cuba. It’s a shame, don’t you think?” After which we left for the gala dinner given in honor of the
Comandante
. When we got back that evening—surprise! All the members of the Cuban delegation found spread out on their bedspread the complete works of Kim il-sung in Spanish. Clearly, the mikes in the elevator were working well.

That evening, for the first and last time in my life, I saw Fidel drunk. The head of the escort had asked me to mount guard in front of Fidel’s presidential suite, telling me that Juanita was due to visit the
Comandante
at some point during the evening. As I have said, the Cuban intelligence service colonel, Juana Vera, was not just Fidel’s interpreter at that time but also his mistress. Sure enough, she eventually knocked on the door of the suite and stayed for two or three hours before returning home. Later on that night, the
Comandante
, who always went to bed late, opened his door slightly; I at once sprang up from my chair to ask what he wanted. Having poked his head through the crack, he immediately withdrew it in a gesture of alarm.

“Sánchez,” he asked, as if we were in a haunted castle, “who are these two people in front of my door?”

I immediately realized he had been drinking. It looked as though he had downed a large quantity of Chivas Regal whisky, judging from the empty bottles on the coffee table.

“Um, there’s nobody here,
Comandante
.”

“Yes, there is—there! Who are these people?”

I realized that Fidel was pointing to our reflections opposite, in the huge mirror that covered the whole of the corridor wall!

“Commander, it’s nothing—it’s just our reflections in the mirror.”

“Ah, okay, fine. . . . Listen, I can’t sleep, with this wretched hard mattress. . . .”

Usually Fidel took his own large, wooden bed when he traveled abroad; we brought it with us from Havana and reassembled it wherever he stayed the night, making sure we always put his slippers next to it, on the right side. On this occasion, however, for reasons I forget, his bed had stayed behind in Cuba.

“Don’t move,
Comandante
, I’ll try to find a softer mattress.”

“I’m coming with you,” he replied.

So Fidel and I duly set off on our nocturnal expedition, he drunk and wearing his sky blue pajamas, in search of another mattress. . . . The simplest solution was to give him my own, so we made for my room, where we loaded the desired object onto our backs. Once again in the corridor, I found myself giving orders to the Commander of the Revolution: “Be careful! Right! Ouch! No, left! Now, vertical, otherwise we won’t get through the door!” If the North Koreans film and record everything, there is a sequence of footage worthy of Charlie Chaplin lying dormant somewhere in the secret archives of Pyongyang.

Back in his room, Fidel made me stay with him for an hour to talk (with the proviso that in a “discussion” with him, he was the only one to say anything) and to confide his impressions of the trip to me. “The discipline of the Koreans is impressive,” he said admiringly, not realizing that the people were “trained” with the blows of a stick. Had he noticed the suffering of the Koreans? Probably not, since Fidel was eminently self-absorbed and not able to put himself in others’ shoes or understand their emotions. Instead, he talked about the giant statue of Kim Ilsung, who had made a strong impression on him, as he had on all the members of the Cuban delegation. Other than that aspect of things, I do not think Fidel Castro particularly admired the Korean system or Kim. For example, he made no reference to the economic model from which he had, in fact, nothing to learn. The
Comandante
certainly valued Kim Il-sung for his feats in battle and his resistance during the Japanese occupation in the 1930s. He respected the way in which he had come to power and, better than anyone, he knew that the North Korean Great Leader had taken solid root at the head of the country. Knowing my ex-boss, however, I am convinced that he thought the excessive cult of personality in North Korea was unreasonable. Of course—and contrary to what his admirers stupidly affirm— the cult of personality around Fidel exists in Cuba, but it is less widespread and takes more subtle, discreet forms: no statues or giant portraits in the streets but rather roadside signs with the “thoughts” of the
Líder Máximo.
Not to mention the photos of him in every house, allowing one to judge people’s commitment and adhesion to revolutionary ideas. When all was said and done, Fidel knew perfectly well that he had political and intellectual ascendancy over his Korean counterpart, for it was obvious that beyond his own borders, nobody followed the shady Kim Il-sung. On the other hand, Fidel had extraordinary influence, not just in Latin America but throughout the rest of the world.

Later that year, in September 1986, my path—that is to say, Fidel’s—crossed that of another dictator: Muammar al-Gaddafi. It was in Harare, the capital of Zimbabwe, on the occasion of the eighth summit of the Non-Aligned Movement. The atmosphere was electric, primarily because of the divisions within that organization, but also because of the highly explosive regional context: several hundreds of miles from Zimbabwe—which had won independence not long before, in 1980—civil war was raging in Angola, where the Marxist government, supported by thirty thousand Cuban soldiers, was holding out against the attacks of pro-Western rebels supported by the racist regime of South Africa.

I had arrived in Harare three weeks before Fidel, in the company of the whole team of forerunners, the scouts responsible for preparing for the arrival of the
Comandante
. Led by the Minister of the Interior José Abrantes, this
avanzada
(advance team) also included three other guards, a doctor from Fidel’s personal medical team, a logistics coordinator (in charge of transport), a
Técnica
specialist, and a member of the protocol team. It was my job to take care of all the issues related to security, to find safe accommodations, to check the itineraries taken by Fidel, and to uncover any flaws in the organization of the Zimbabwean authorities.

Now, I had barely set foot in the capital when I heard a worrying rumor: a South African commando was en route for Zimbabwe to kill Fidel Castro.

Our team was immediately placed on red alert, which meant, for example, that the Cuban MiGs stationed in Angola were mobilized, ready to take off throughout the duration of the summit. Another immediate consequence was that Havana decided to reinforce the escort to exceptional numbers during Fidel’s visit: along with almost all his usual close guard, thirty or so men, the “special troops”—elite marksmen and explosives experts—were also sent, another hundred or so soldiers. The trip to Harare has remained in the annals of the escort; never before had so many soldiers been mobilized for a mission abroad.

In Harare, that neat and tidy capital that was one of the jewels of British colonial empire in Africa, my first decision consisted of going over our diplomatic representation in great detail. And there, in the ambassador’s office, bingo! Hidden between two beams in the false ceiling, I discovered a microphone—which I immediately opened, before sending it to Havana for analysis (I later realized that the equipment had been placed there by our own services, either to listen to the ambassador or to check my own competence). As a result, the idea that Fidel should sleep in our embassy was immediately dismissed: it was much too risky.

With the briefcase of cash I had been given, containing $250,000, I went off in search of a secure place for the
Comandante
to stay. I found a bungalow that fitted the bill—today it serves as the residence of the Cuban ambassador to Zimbabwe. I bought it and had it entirely renovated by workers sent specially from Cuba; they repaired the roof, repainted all the walls, strengthened the perimeter fencing, and dug an air raid shelter ten yards underground, in case the South Africans had the bad idea of bombing the house of the
Líder Máximo
. Following the instructions of the head of the
Técnica
, they also carried out sound insulation work so that nobody would be able to spy on Fidel’s conversations from the exterior with the help of those “shotgun microphones” that can go through walls.

I also bought two other houses—later resold—in the vicinity in which to house the minister of the interior and the diplomat Carlos Rafael Rodríguez. In addition, our workers built in the garden of one of these houses two prefabricated buildings in which soldiers could be accommodated in bunks. Finally, the logistical coordinator left on a mission to Zambia to buy the vehicles we lacked: a Mercedes for Fidel and four Toyota Cressidas for the escort. Total budget of the operation for the five days’ stay of the Cuban leader: over two million dollars.

Eventually all the preparations were finished and we were ready for the start of the eighth conference of the Non-Aligned Movement, in the presence of Robert Mugabe, Ali Khamenei, Rajiv Gandhi, Daniel Ortega, Gaddafi, and dozens of other leaders of African, Arab, and Asian delegations.

My first observation was that those responsible for protocol in the host country had organized things badly. While the heads of state were initially allowed to go as far as the entrance to the Sheraton Hotel with their personal guards, the latter were later stopped fifty yards away, creating incredible chaos: a fight broke out between the Zimbabwean security men and the notorious “amazons of Gaddafi,” the exclusively female guard of the Libyan leader, who had also had his green (the color of Islam) armored limousine brought there by special plane, as well as his tent and two camels. Thus ensued a surreal, grotesque spectacle, for the Libyan “amazons” have a combat technique unique to them in which they whirl around 360 degrees and then end their spin by delivering slaps to the face of their adversaries with the help of centrifugal force.

In another surprise, the parking area assigned to our vehicle cortege was between those of the delegations from Iran and Iraq—countries that had been at war for six years! As a result, when the guards and the chauffeurs of the two countries spotted each other, they exchanged copious insults and spat in each other’s faces. We had to use oceans of tact to sweet-talk the Iranians and the Arabs, dividing our contingent into two groups so we could create friendly relations with the two camps at the same time, making sure we swapped positions after each half day.

One of the flaws in the organization suited us: from the beginning, we had noticed that the Sheraton Hotel, where the conference was taking place, was not equipped with metal detectors. We took advantage of that to bring in—in flagrant violation of the rules—a Browning 9mm pistol hidden in a briefcase carried by Fidel’s head of escort, the only one authorized to accompany the
Comandante
to the inside of the plenary session hall. Nobody ever knew that Fidel Castro had a firearm within reach. I still think it was a good idea: had not Indira Gandhi, to whom Fidel paid homage during his speech, been assassinated at pointblank range two years earlier?

Colonel Gaddafi (he and Fidel were the stars of the summit) gave a virulent speech full of saber-rattling against the entire planet, including the Non-Aligned Movement, which he accused of hypocrisy because of its lukewarm positions against the United States. The uncontrollable Bedouin demanded that everyone follow him in his crusade against Washington, whose air force had bombed Libya five months earlier in April 1986. He demanded a vote with a show of hands, but no diplomat was prepared to follow the injunctions of such a loose cannon. The incensed Gaddafi, who along the way had also criticized the USSR, left in high dudgeon, swearing he would never return and taking refuge in his Bedouin tent, which had been erected in a beautiful, sunny garden.

Fidel, whose political experience was beyond question, had always viewed the Non-Aligned Movement with the greatest seriousness, for it was, in fact, one of the main platforms from which he could address the world. For him, it was crucial to maintain both its unity and its credibility.

The
Comandante
therefore decided to go and see Gaddafi at home to try to get him into line and to urge him to go back on his decision and return to the plenary sessions. The Libyan colonel ushered us into his garden and then, after greeting Fidel, planted himself in front of me just a foot from my face, staring at me with his defiant gaze for fifteen long seconds as though he wanted to chase me away. To show him what Cuban men are made of, I did not let myself be stared down and looked back without blinking, gritting my teeth. Staring straight into someone’s eyes without blinking for fifteen seconds is already difficult enough, in normal circumstances—but faced with such a lunatic, it was virtually interminable. I had the impression it went on two hours! Finally, just as I was about to unlock my gaze from his, he stopped his pantomime.

After that, Fidel went into the tent with his Arabic interpreter; at that moment, I saw a guy passing who looked like a spitting image of Gaddafi. A veritable double! I couldn’t believe it. . . . True, we also used a double for Fidel Castro, but he had to be made up to give the illusion of being Fidel—and even then you needed to be far away. This, on the other hand, was an authentic double!

Fidel talked for forty minutes, explaining to the Guide of the Jamahiriya
*
just how necessary his presence was to the good outcome of the summit. At the end of it, the Libyan agreed to return to the Sheraton, but only to listen to the speech of his Cuban counterpart. Once again, Fidel had got what he wanted. . . . That same afternoon, the desert colonel reappeared to hear the Cuban declare, “As long as apartheid continues in South Africa, Cuba will keep its troops in Angola.” Then Gaddafi left again in his Lincoln with his Amazons to go back to his camels and his tent. As I watched him moving away, I said to myself he was the greatest basket case I had ever encountered in my life.