Cabello Denies Secret US Talks as Regime Fractures After Maduro's Capture

Paul Riverbank, 1/23/2026Caracas, poised between fear and hope, watches power shift after Maduro’s capture. El Helicoide—once a beacon of progress, now a symbol of sorrow—embodies Venezuela’s struggle, as families and leaders confront uncertainty and the weight of unresolved promises.

Take a slow circuit around El Helicoide, and it’s impossible to ignore how the building’s hulking presence swallows both time and memory. Today, as lines of weary families snake towards its battered entrance, the structure—once described in architecture journals as a “futurist beacon”—has become something else entirely. The glass is gone. Prison guards now watch the exterior instead of shopkeepers. The smell inside, say those who’ve been held there, is of old concrete, sweat, and anxiety. Salvador Dalí, once rumored to have fancied painting its spirals, is a ghostly footnote to its grim reality.

The days following Maduro’s downfall haven’t been quiet. Diosdado Cabello, Venezuela’s Interior Minister—a man with the bruised charisma of a seasoned survivor—has been right at the center. His television program is less a variety show now and more a pulpit. Last Thursday, the cameras caught his glare as he dismissed accusations linking him to the U.S. before Maduro’s fall. “If Reuters or Leopoldo Castillo can show evidence, let them,” he barked. “I do not have a price.” His laughter, though, was brittle; he has turned defensiveness into an art form, deriding detractors as “traitors” and “story-spinners.” The regime’s official social channels have lobbed the same charge, calling international reports fabrications meant to weaken their bloc—a rehearsed performance, but purposeful in its repetition.

Yet, despite all denials, rumors creep in at street level. Reuters, citing sources with apparent proximity to power, insists Cabello’s contacts with the Trump administration were no invention. The government’s response? “They lie. We govern.” The words are painted across banners and felt at bus stops—a country learning to live on rumors as much as ration cards.

Amid this, Cabello’s show, once filmed before raucous crowds, now airs to an empty studio. On set, he stands alone by his “cartelera,” crossing out headlines, calling out enemies, and spotlighting those who cheer the revolution. He claims unity is ironclad. Observers, however, note the missing audience and the subtle shift in his cadence: he is isolated, but far from irrelevant.

Outside El Helicoide, hope and dread meet in the faces of waiting relatives. Rosmit Mantilla, interviewed after his release, recalled children who once used the tilted ramps for makeshift gym classes, even as cells below housed political prisoners. “It’s a strange picture—families hanging laundry over railings, guards pacing, and school kids trying to pretend this is just a normal place,” he mused. That dissonance, between mundane survival and daily threat, still hums through the building. Stories from inside recall bruises that heal slowly and threats that linger even after doors open. Marile Rodriguez Alvarado, who stands vigil with a photo of her missing son, wonders if she will ever know the truth: “They took him from our home in September. Since then—no word.”

Change, at least on the surface, has arrived in a rush. Delcy Rodríguez, now acting president, was quick to promise a “new political moment.” Within days, some political prisoners did step blinking onto the street, ushered out by silent guards. Hundreds more remain within; their families mill outside, clutching posters and cell phones and memories. The collective sense is one of holding breath—a limbo where promise dangles, just out of arm’s reach.

Rodríguez herself cuts a curious figure. In the same week that rumors about Cabello’s backstage diplomacy broke, she received a visit from the CIA director on her own turf. A phone call with Donald Trump, which the White House called “constructive,” swiftly followed. Rodríguez’s response had the rhythm of lived defiance: “If I have to go to Washington, I’ll go on my feet—never crawling.” Her words ricocheted across state TV, amplified by the persistent refrain: the revolution endures.

Official clarion calls aside, the street’s verdict remains unwritten. Some freed prisoners have returned to find their neighborhoods changed. Others disappear into bureaucracy. Around the slums that back up to El Helicoide’s brutal walls, families measure progress in centimeters—has the line moved? Has the list of names changed?

Caracas, for now, drifts along on a river of speculation, waiting to see which current will pull harder—fear or hope. El Helicoide juts above the sprawl, not as an emblem of progress, but of a chapter Venezuela finds itself unable, and perhaps unwilling, to finish.

Caracas, once a city fueled by the promise of glass towers and broad boulevards, now exists beneath a sky that seems heavier than concrete. Not long ago, its people clung to whispers of progress—visions of modernity that, for a time, animated everyday conversation. But in recent days, it is the arrested silence that matters most. The capture of Nicolás Maduro by U.S. forces, an event still reverberating, has left the capital’s streets echoing with equal parts relief and uncertainty.Take a slow circuit around El Helicoide, and it’s impossible to ignore how the building’s hulking presence swallows both time and memory. Today, as lines of weary families snake towards its battered entrance, the structure—once described in architecture journals as a “futurist beacon”—has become something else entirely. The glass is gone. Prison guards now watch the exterior instead of shopkeepers. The smell inside, say those who’ve been held there, is of old concrete, sweat, and anxiety. Salvador Dalí, once rumored to have fancied painting its spirals, is a ghostly footnote to its grim reality.The days following Maduro’s downfall haven’t been quiet. Diosdado Cabello, Venezuela’s Interior Minister—a man with the bruised charisma of a seasoned survivor—has been right at the center. His television program is less a variety show now and more a pulpit. Last Thursday, the cameras caught his glare as he dismissed accusations linking him to the U.S. before Maduro’s fall. “If Reuters or Leopoldo Castillo can show evidence, let them,” he barked. “I do not have a price.” His laughter, though, was brittle; he has turned defensiveness into an art form, deriding detractors as “traitors” and “story-spinners.” The regime’s official social channels have lobbed the same charge, calling international reports fabrications meant to weaken their bloc—a rehearsed performance, but purposeful in its repetition.Yet, despite all denials, rumors creep in at street level. Reuters, citing sources with apparent proximity to power, insists Cabello’s contacts with the Trump administration were no invention. The government’s response? “They lie. We govern.” The words are painted across banners and felt at bus stops—a country learning to live on rumors as much as ration cards.Amid this, Cabello’s show, once filmed before raucous crowds, now airs to an empty studio. On set, he stands alone by his “cartelera,” crossing out headlines, calling out enemies, and spotlighting those who cheer the revolution. He claims unity is ironclad. Observers, however, note the missing audience and the subtle shift in his cadence: he is isolated, but far from irrelevant.Outside El Helicoide, hope and dread meet in the faces of waiting relatives. Rosmit Mantilla, interviewed after his release, recalled children who once used the tilted ramps for makeshift gym classes, even as cells below housed political prisoners. “It’s a strange picture—families hanging laundry over railings, guards pacing, and school kids trying to pretend this is just a normal place,” he mused. That dissonance, between mundane survival and daily threat, still hums through the building. Stories from inside recall bruises that heal slowly and threats that linger even after doors open. Marile Rodriguez Alvarado, who stands vigil with a photo of her missing son, wonders if she will ever know the truth: “They took him from our home in September. Since then—no word.”Change, at least on the surface, has arrived in a rush. Delcy Rodríguez, now acting president, was quick to promise a “new political moment.” Within days, some political prisoners did step blinking onto the street, ushered out by silent guards. Hundreds more remain within; their families mill outside, clutching posters and cell phones and memories. The collective sense is one of holding breath—a limbo where promise dangles, just out of arm’s reach.Rodríguez herself cuts a curious figure. In the same week that rumors about Cabello’s backstage diplomacy broke, she received a visit from the CIA director on her own turf. A phone call with Donald Trump, which the White House called “constructive,” swiftly followed. Rodríguez’s response had the rhythm of lived defiance: “If I have to go to Washington, I’ll go on my feet—never crawling.” Her words ricocheted across state TV, amplified by the persistent refrain: the revolution endures.Official clarion calls aside, the street’s verdict remains unwritten. Some freed prisoners have returned to find their neighborhoods changed. Others disappear into bureaucracy. Around the slums that back up to El Helicoide’s brutal walls, families measure progress in centimeters—has the line moved? Has the list of names changed?Caracas, for now, drifts along on a river of speculation, waiting to see which current will pull harder—fear or hope. El Helicoide juts above the sprawl, not as an emblem of progress, but of a chapter Venezuela finds itself unable, and perhaps unwilling, to finish.