'From now on you have no name.

You
are prisoner 217': life in a Cuban jail
A brutal high-security prison was the last place Stephen Purvis
expected to end up when he moved to Havana. Stephen Gibbs
tells his story
Our man in Havana: Stephen Purvis languishing behind bars.
Photograph: Pal Hansen for the Observer-- Before the fall: Stephen
Purvis with his family before his arrest

Day of reckoning: Stephen Purvis goes to court in 2013.

Photograph: Ramon Espinosa/AP--The prisoner: Stephen Purvis.
Photograph: Pal Hansen for the Observer

Stephen Gibbs-Sunday 19 March 2017

If you happened to go to a British embassy reception in Havana in
the early 2000s, you would likely have met Stephen Purvis. You
could not miss him. Six foot four, cropped grey hair, rum in hand,
a broad smile and no shortage of good stories.

Closed for business: the cordoned off offices of British Coral

Capital Group in Havana. Photograph: Alamy

Purvis loved Cuba. Escaping what he saw as the risk of a

pre-ordained suburban middle-class life in Wimbledon, the

architect and his wife seized the opportunity to move to the island
17 years ago. He had been offered a job as development director
with Coral Capital, an investment and trading company. It was one
of several small foreign firms almost all led by maverick,
adventurous individuals that were setting up in Cuba as the
country sought international partners following the collapse of the
Soviet Union. Purviss job was to look for joint venture
opportunities with the Cuban government. The planned projects
included the first golf course to be constructed there since the
1959 revolution, and the revamp of a formerly glamorous hotel,
the Saratoga.

Speaking to me from Myanmar (more about that later) Purvis

recalls his early Havana years. It felt like another era, he says.
No internet. No TV. No shopping. The family adapted well to
their new life. Home was a handsome 1950s villa, soon full with
their four children. Saturdays would be spent by the pool at the
beach club. The son of a theatrical designer, Purvis also dabbled
in theatre himself, producing the Cuban dance show Havana
Rakatan, which performed successfully for several years in
London. No one, of course, imagined that those halcyon days
would end so abruptly, with Purvis imprisoned in what he
describes as a zoo for enemies of the state. But that is how it
turned out. The title of his powerful memoir, Close but No Cigar, is
his own admission of just how badly life can go wrong.

I last saw Purvis in Havana in 2011, a few weeks before his arrest,
at a New Years Eve party (I had been the BBCs correspondent in
Cuba between 2002 and 2007). The arrival of the New Year is a
big deal in Cuba, partly because it coincides with the anniversary
of Fidel Castros revolution. Two of President Ral Castros
daughters were at the event.

By then, the mood among the expats doing business on the island
had notably soured. Many were whispering that this would likely
be their last fin de ao in Cuba. All knew someone who had been
caught up in a mysterious but ever-widening series of arrests. Two
prominent Canadians, Sarkis Yacoubian and Cy Tokmakjian, had
been detained since the summer. A well-known Chilean
entrepreneur, who used to boast he was a friend of Fidel Castro,
had been convicted in absentia to 20 years in jail. And Purviss
boss, Amado Fakhre, the British-Lebanese CEO of Coral Capital,
had been imprisoned in October.
The sense of an impending doom was growing day by day,
recalls Purvis. He says hed be the first to admit he was an idiot
not to leave the country when he still could. But he was convinced
he had done nothing wrong.

None of the imprisoned foreigners had at that stage been formally

charged with anything, but the assumption was they were caught
up in Ral Castros pledge to root out corruption. The younger
Castro had formally taken over from the ailing Fidel in 2008. In
2009, he established a comptrollers office, tasked with
investigating evidence of misdeeds among communist party
officials, managers and state company employees. It was turning
out to be a never-ending task. Cuban state salaries are all around
$20 a month. To varying degrees, everyone does something
technically illegal to survive. By 2010, hundreds of Cubans,
including ministers and senior executives, had been detained or
dismissed. The net was widening to the foreigners, who were also
breaking the law by paying their employees any bonus on the
side, or even buying them lunch.

Purvis, who admits paying a small pension to one ex-employee, is

convinced that the mass arrests were not in fact about corruption,
but instead the clumsy purge of Fidel Castros old guard, which
was being replaced with a new (mainly ex-military) clique, allied
to Ral.

On 8 March 2012 they came for him. Shortly after dawn, a fleet of
unmarked Ladas drew up outside his home. The Purvis children
were hastily packed off to school, told by their mother that the
commotion was because Dad needs to answer some questions
about work.

Purvis was taken away, handcuffed, his head forced between his
knees, to an anonymous art deco house close to the airport.
There, he was provisionally charged with being an enemy of the
state. He was advised not to hire a lawyer and to co-operate
immediately. Agreeing to that, he was then taken to the notorious
Cuban state security prison known as Villa Marista, for what was
described, euphemistically, as further instruction.

The villa, as it is known by Cuban dissidents, is a former

Catholic seminary on the outskirts of Havana. Since 1963 it has
been an interrogation centre, using techniques perfected by the
KGB. Eventually, they say, everyone sings at the villa. Purvis
believes he and his boss (who had been transferred to a military
hospital by the time his co-director arrived) are the only
Englishmen ever to have been held there. For months, he became
Prisoner 217. His life was entirely controlled by a man known as
the instructor. He spent almost every hour of the day in a cell
the size of a double mattress, with three other inmates (one of
whom he believes was a government informant). The four shared
an open latrine.

The appalling conditions were only alleviated by the

psychological games of interrogation that took place day and
night. Purvis says he was questioned for hours, often about the
details of the lives of other foreigners on the island. The intent
was to get him to inform on anyone who might have done
something illegal, however minor. Purvis says he refused to do so,
probably sparing other expats (some of whom still live and work
in Cuba) a similar fate to his own. He does not deny the
temptation was there. You can see why in the end people just go,
Oh give a dog a bone. Throw them some names just to get out of
there, he says.

After months in Villa Marista, he says he felt himself drifting

away. Sleeping only fitfully, he had constant tinnitus and was
losing his vision. About once a month he says he would hear a
suicide attempt nearby. The strain on his family, allowed to see
him for less than half an hour every week, was enormous. His wife
had a breakdown and had to be hospitalised. Purviss elderly
mother came to Cuba to look after the children before finally the
decision was taken that the family should leave.

In his book, Purvis is scathing about the lack of help the UK

foreign office offered him and his family for much of the ordeal.
While one British ambassador, Dianna Melrose, comes across as
exceptionally kind in the early weeks of his imprisonment, the
new embassy team appears to have shown scant interest in the
case. No consular escort was offered to Purviss wife and children
the day they left Cuba.

As a British passport holder, he tells me, you have this sort of

warm, fuzzy feeling that HM Government will look after your back.
And then you find it doesnt. He suspects that someone within
the FCO had made a decision not to rock the boat with the
Cuban authorities, focusing instead on what was seen as the
bigger prize of a potential rapprochement between all EU
governments and Ral Castro.

Finally, after the authorities gave up trying to tease information

from him, the enemy of the state charges were dropped and
Purvis was moved to La Condesa, a maximum security prison for
foreigners. He describes his fellow inmates there as a mixed
bunch of the innocent, as well as murderers, rapists, drug
smugglers and hit men. He overlapped with multimillionaire
Canadian businessman Cy Tokmakjian, who was earning respect
for his obstreperous approach towards his jailers.

La Condesa may have been less psychologically traumatic than

the villa, but it was brutal. The depravity Purvis vividly describes
was in part aided by a network of corrupt prison guards, bullying
prisoners while profiting from a prostitute ring, supplied from the
local village. Purvis eventually formed his own gang, one made up
of complete losers, with the sole intent of preventing
unpleasantness.

In June 2013 a trial date was arranged, a process which would

ultimately lead to Purviss freedom, while convincing him of the
farcical nature of Cuban justice. As the trial was secret he was not
shown any evidence ahead of it, so never had any chance to
know what he was being accused of, or prepare a defence.
Instead, in the hours before his closed court appearance, he was
asked by the prosecutor to run through what he might say to the
judge, as a form of dress rehearsal. Purvis was found guilty of
illegal foreign currency transactions. He says all were entirely
routine and had been authorised by the countrys central bank.
His sentence was a two-and-a-half-year non-custodial term. He
was set free.

The experience, he says, has had a catastrophic spin-off to

every aspect of his life. All his assets in Cuba have been lost. The
golf course project he worked on has been taken over by a
Chinese company; construction has not begun. The Saratoga is
now considered the best hotel in Cuba. Madonna celebrated her
58th birthday there last year. Coral Capital investors are still
trying to recover their outlay on the property. Purvis has no desire
to see it again.

After he returned to London he says he became aggressive and

volatile. Prison habits were hard to shake. He would often ring
the Condesa jail to speak to his friends there. I needed to wean
myself off the brutality, he says. That, and the lack of alternative
options, is one reason he has chosen to work abroad once more,
away from his family but visiting them in London regularly. A
friend helped arrange a new job for him in Myanmar, where he is
overseeing a city redevelopment project.

Purvis says he is recovered now, and the process of writing this

powerful book, which has been nominated for a Gold Dagger
award, has helped that process. Gone, however, is much of his
cheerful optimism. He is certain the Cuban authorities realise they
made a mistake by imprisoning him. But he expects no apology.
And the damage is done.
An extract from Close but No Cigar by Stephen Purvis
I am now in a dimly lit room. The ceiling is made of tiles with a
great section missing, collapsed and never replaced. There are
some random fluorescent strip lights. The capacitor of one is on
the blink, so it clicks on and off. The walls are covered in a dark
timber-effect panelling that is coming off in places. A few derelict
brown vinyl sofas are pushed against one wall and a timber bench
screwed to the other. The air seems to be full of plaster or cement
dust. It looks like a ransacked government building in post-
invasion Baghdad. I am sitting on the bench and the guards
slouch on the sofas.

There is a high desk, also in dark timber. Behind it is a big dirty

glass window into some kind of control room. Banks of CCTV
screens flicker in the gloom. A fat old uniform with a row of
decorations waddles out from the back, chewing a cigar. He looks
at me briefly and waves me over. Then he sticks his one hand out
in the direction of the guys that brought me here. No love lost
between them, they heave themselves upright and slap the
transfer documents into his hand. He signs various papers, gives
them a receipt and they unlock me. They leave saying nothing.
Fatty coughs, picks his nose and then asks me to empty my
pockets and hand over my watch and shoelaces. I sign a chit for
them but he keeps both copies so maybe its the last Ill see of my
watch.

Then two very young guards in olive fatigues take me off to a side
room. Another boy, earnest yet nervous, is waiting at a desk.
Stumbling over the words he explains that I have to fill in a form. I
can feel his fear of me. They must tell them we are dangerous
monsters. Another man enters and what little confidence the boy
has now evaporates.

About my age, he is a handsome man who introduces himself in

perfect American English. He is a major.
He asks me about my family. How do you think they are coping
with the situation? Is this a genuine question or some kind of
threat? His face gives nothing away. Then he explains the rules.
They are pretty simple. From now on you have no name. You are
prisoner 217.

My lucky number.

When you are out of the cell you walk on the left-hand side with
your head facing down and hands behind your back. You never
look at anyone. At each door or staircase you face the wall until
told to proceed. You will obey the officials. If you do not, you will
be punished. If you are ill, then call for the nurse. You will be fed
in your cell three times a day. Any questions?
Can I call my wife?

No, we will arrange for her to visit.

When will the embassy visit?

These things take time.

I feel a lump forming in my throat. I concentrate hard not to tear

up. Can I have something to read?
That depends on your instructor. Your instructor decides on your
conditions and safety. This depends on your conduct.

Do I have a lawyer?
He laughs. This also takes a long time. Take my advice, dont
wait.

I am then led off to a succession of dingy rooms where I am

fingerprinted, photographed and have blood taken to test for
hepatitis, Aids and TB. Then I am pushed into a musty laundry
and told to strip while they issue me with a second-hand uniform.
Its a washed-out slate-blue number in scratchy nylon. Very me. I
get shorts, long trousers and two shirts with a stinky towel thrown
in, plus two sheets and a pillow case. In a bit of a daze, all sounds
scrambled and muffled, I am prodded along a tiny corridor that
feels subterranean.

This place was originally meant to have been a seminary but

there is no sign of any heavenly inspiration now. God has
deserted the place and it is in the hands of the dark side.

This is where captured suspected CIA guys are brought, where

purged officials repent and where all Cubans fear to tread. This is
where American pensioner Alan Gross was interrogated for
months on end to try to prove that he was a spy and not some
deluded Jewish activist. This is their Lubyanka, their Gestapo
headquarters. These crude, hulking green blocks are designed to
extract confessions, real or fantasy, and then mentally cripple the
enemies of state. It has a fearsome reputation for psychological
torture.

We pop out into a broad corridor. Its the cell block. No time to
look as the rules now kick in, so head down I shuffle along as
instructed. I am pushed into a side room and told to put all my
things on top of a disgustingly filthy, shit-stained, one-inch foam
mattress. A pillow mottled with bloodstains is chucked on the top.
I stare at the blood in disbelief, a wave of despair building inside
me. They cannot be serious. I am told to pick up the entire load
and walk down through the gates.

I shuffle along, now almost catatonic. The guard in front has a

long chain looping around him and a huge wobbly rubber baton
that bangs against the wall as he marches. All is silent except for
the dripping of water, the squeaking of the guards boots and a
man sobbing in a cell.
I count 32 doors. I am told to stop

and face the wall while Mr Rubber Baton fumbles with his key
chain.

My nose is six inches from the

wall. I read the guards obscene graffiti, scrawled in childish

pencil. And then the true significance of what has happened hits
me. It isnt going to go away and it isnt going to get better for a
long time. The gate and then the door clang open with a foul rush
of stale air, revealing a tiny cave with three pale faces blinking
like moles in the light. I step into my new life. My dungeon.

Close but No Cigar by Stephen Purvis is out on 23 March, priced

18.99. To order a copy for 16.14, go
to bookshop.theguardian.com
Posted by Thavam