by Lee Jackson
“I’ll know.”
The lieutenant looked thoughtful, then walked to the captain’s Jeep. More conversation took place.
Captain Govorov’s tall, lean figure stepped out again. He carried a bundle. His face in shadows, he strode to Atcho and leaned over. When he straightened, a much smaller figure stood beside him—Atcho’s four-year-old daughter.
The lieutenant spoke. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
Eyes shielded from the light by one hand, Atcho rasped, “I can’t see her face.”
Govorov shoved the tiny girl forward. The lieutenant shined a flashlight in her face. “Is this what you came for?”
Atcho nodded weakly.
The child began to cry. “I want my Papá.”
The captain swept her over his shoulder and started toward the Jeep. The lieutenant leaned over Atcho. “Where is Atcho? Give us the message.”
Atcho made no move.
The lieutenant prodded with his boot.
Atcho still made no reply.
The lieutenant kicked him.
Atcho let loose a furious cry that burned through the night. He lunged from the ground and buried his knife deep in the lieutenant’s chest.
The night exploded with gunfire. The driver and guard of the first vehicle dropped to the pavement, lifeless. The driver of the second Jeep cranked the engine, and then slumped as the windshield shattered in his face.
Govorov held the little girl close. Turning, he stared at the lieutenant’s corpse. It lay in a pool of blood.
Atcho crouched next to the body, ready to strike again.
The captain produced a pistol from the folds of his coat. He held it next to Isabel’s temple. The firing stopped.
He regarded the ring of men forming around him and gestured with the pistol at Isabel’s head. “Atcho,” he crooned.
Hatred burned from Atcho’s eyes, his muscles tensed to pounce.
“It is you.” Govorov spoke fluent Spanish.
Atcho made no reply.
The captain mocked. “It is you.” He sighed. “I still don’t know what you look like. That was my mission. You’re a bloody mess. I should have instructed the lieutenant better.”
Atcho circled in a half crouch. His legs wobbled. He shook his head to clear it. If he attacked, Isabel would die. If he did not, he might never see her again. He loosened the grip on his knife.
The captain shrugged. “If I shoot you” he chuckled, “one of your men would put a bullet in my head, your little girl be damned.” He peered at Atcho. “You’re too valuable to discard. So, you live. And we’ll meet again—I have your daughter.”
He moved to the Jeep and yanked the dead driver into the dirt. Pulling Isabel onto his lap, he sat behind the wheel. With a grind of gears, he drove into the night.
Atcho watched the Jeep disappear. Then, he slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Four days earlier
Atcho hacked down sugarcane with a machete. His best memories came from racing on horseback with his father through these rows of sugarcane during harvest, while field hands swung their sharp tools.
Chaos had ruled since Fidel Castro’s coup. Weeks ago, the new dictator worried about losing the crop and ordered all citizens into the fields to bring it in.
Atcho looked along the row of laborers to his right, hoping none recognized him. Sweat streamed from his brow. Blisters swelled his hands.
A tall, lean man headed his way, one of his fighters in the counterrevolution. He would take his time making his way to Atcho.
Atcho returned to cutting. Minutes passed. Then the man moved next to him. They did not talk, but when they were close enough, the man handed Atcho an envelope and moved on, continuing to harvest.
Without drawing attention, Atcho went to an area in the scrub brush that laborers used as a latrine. In this pungent, stifling air, he had a little privacy.
The envelope contained two sheets of paper. One was a letter from his sister Raissa, who had been caring for his little daughter. Atcho read it and froze.
Dear Eduardo, Isabel has been taken. Milicianos came to the house. They know you’re alive. And, they know your code name. They said if you want to see her again, to turn yourself in. I didn’t tell them anything.
In a daze, Atcho reread the letter, noting smudge marks where Raissa’s tears had landed. He read the second note. The first line startled him.
Eduardo Xiquez (alias Atcho)
It instructed him to surrender to the milicianos headquarters in Havana within a week. Failure meant never seeing his daughter again.
Approaching footsteps warned that someone else intended to use the area. Thrusting the papers into his pocket, he assumed the attitude of a peasant comrade and went back to his position in the field. As soon as he could, he left.
Atcho’s gut wrenched with fear for his daughter—he had seen little boys led away to face firing squads. How can they know I’m alive?
Turning himself in was not an option—that placed others’ lives in danger.
That evening, Atcho showed the letters to Juan Ortiz, his best friend. “I don’t know how they found out,” Juan said, “but you can’t be impulsive.”
Atcho whirled on him. “We have to get my daughter back.”
Juan had helped devise the plan that brought them and four of their best fighters to this empty plaza on this night.
The young guerrilla leader lay motionless in the dust. The cold face of the moon continued its impassive observation.
THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN: Chapter 2
For two weeks, Atcho lay in bed, inhabiting a space between coma and consciousness. In his clouded mind, he cried out for his daughter. She reached for him in his dreams, whimpering in a toddler’s voice, “I want my Papá.” Her dark, matted locks framed a terrified oval face.
In his nightmares, Atcho reached back, only to see a sinister hand snatch Isabel away while he agonized over the flaws in his failed plan. He had endangered her life by exposing her to gunfire. I should have turned myself in. Those who would suffer if information was tortured from him could fend for themselves. But Isabel is helpless. Faces of people he might betray passed before him, some accusing, some understanding. The ghostly image of his father in US combat gear drifted in and out.
As Atcho’s body healed, his mind reached toward consciousness and new questions. How did the milicianos connect Atcho to Eduardo? Who else knew he had survived the fire? Where did Govorov fit in? I never thought about the Soviets.
He felt sweat, suffocation, oppression. Pain. Pain in his left hand. He looked at it, blurry and wrapped in bandages. He brought it closer to his face, realizing dimly that he was awake.
Turning to one side, sharp pain surged through Atcho’s neck and spine. An anesthetic odor met his nostrils. Nausea welled in his throat. Through a narrow window, the moon, now only a sliver, continued its expressionless surveillance.
A chair scraped. A door opened. Men whispered. Someone walked into the room and looked down at Atcho.
“Are you awake?” The voice was soft, familiar.
Atcho forced his eyes open.
“It’s me. Juan. Do you understand me?”
Atcho had only one thought. “Isabel?” His voice was scratchy, whispery.
Juan looked grave.
Atcho struggled to ask again. “Isabel?”
Juan continued looking grave and did not speak.
Atcho lay motionless. A slowly rotating ceiling fan cast its shadow across dingy white walls. He moved his lips once more. “Water.”
Juan reached for a pitcher on a nearby table, poured water into a glass, and pressed it to Atcho’s mouth. The cool liquid brought refreshing life and a respite from his agony.
“You’re looking better, my friend.”
“Where am I?”
“On the outskirts of Havana. We’re safe.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Two weeks. We’ve been worried about you.”
Fear wrapped icy f
ingers around Atcho’s stomach. “Where is Isabel?”
Juan sighed and sat heavily in a chair beside the bed. “We haven’t found her.”
“What about a second meeting? You must have attempted to reopen talks.”
“Of course. But there’s been no effort to return our inquiries. Not through our informants, not through your sister. No one even retaliated against our attack.”
Atcho struggled to grasp the significance of Juan’s words. “What about the firefight? Wasn’t there an investigation?”
Juan shook his head. “No. You killed the lieutenant. The other three soldiers died from bullet wounds. When we carried you away, no one attempted to pursue. The other Jeep and the bodies were removed by security forces.”
“Can you find out anything from our contacts in the milicianos?
Juan shook his head again. “It’s not that no one will talk. No one knows anything. We’ve gone to every familiar source, and a few others besides.”
“What about the Russian? He shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“We couldn’t him.” Juan reminded Atcho that last year, for the first time in three decades, the Cuban government had opened diplomatic relations with the Soviets. The Russians wanted to increase their influence, he said, and had sent in a few advisors. “We checked every Russian on the island through the CIA. So far our informants have located no Captain Govorov.”
Atcho closed his eyes and sank into the pillows. Then, he struggled to a sitting position.
Juan had watched his expressions. He placed a supportive arm behind Atcho’s shoulders.
“Juan, you’re telling me that my daughter and the one man who knows where she is, have completely disappeared.”
THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN: Chapter 3
Atcho’s own words seemed to echo over and over again: my daughter has completely disappeared. … Completely disappeared. … Disappeared.
Steel pincers seemed to bite into his stomach. His limbs trembled. He heard his own hopeless voice through the labyrinth of fear. “Is she dead?” Tears streamed from his eyes. He covered his face in the crook of his right elbow.
Juan’s gruff attempt at reassurance failed to comfort. No one knew with certainty whether or not she lived, he said. Someone unknown and ruthless held her.
Atcho sank back in bed, powerless. Keep a clear head. He struggled back to a sitting position and swung his feet toward the floor.
Juan moved to support him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to find Isabel.” He legs shook. The room swam before his eyes.
Juan pressed him back into bed. “We all want to find her,” he said calmly. “But you’re too weak. You won’t help her if you kill yourself.”
Anger rising, Atcho struggled against his friend. “Let me go.”
Juan held him firmly. “You need rest.”
“I can’t rest. Not while Isabel …” His voice broke.
“Even if you were strong enough, where would you look?”
Atcho sat on the edge of the bed, head drooping between sagging shoulders. Then, he lunged to his feet and staggered across the floor. “I’ll find my daughter,” he roared. “Nobody will stop me.”
A moment later, he sank to the floor, too feeble to move. He lay with hot, bitter tears streaming from his eyes, his cheeks and neck flushed with humiliation, He saw now that he had planned and executed Isabel’s rescue poorly. He had anticipated badly trained Cuban milicianos and had encountered an officer of the Soviet Union. He struggled to his feet.
“Please, Juan, help me.”
Juan assisted Atcho back to bed.
“What’s being done?”
“We’re in touch with Raissa. The CIA wants to find the Russian too, for their own reasons. They watched every known Soviet on the island. Our contacts will keep us informed. We have direct communication with the US Embassy, but,” he shook his head, “that will end tomorrow.”
Startled, Atcho asked, “Why?”
“While you were unconscious, Castro seized American oil refineries. The US countered by boycotting sugar. In retaliation, Castro nationalized American businesses. So, the US cut diplomatic ties.” He shook his head. “It was inevitable.”
“This is too much, too fast. We might never find Isabel.”
“It’s a tough situation, but you have to build strength.” He paused. “You need to eat.”
Reluctantly, Atcho assented. Juan issued instructions to someone in the hall, then returned and sat wearily on the chair. “Lieutenant Paul Clary wants to see you. He’s an Air Force liaison officer in the US Embassy.”
“What does he want?”
“He won’t say. We checked him out. He’s on special assignment. My guess is he’s planning air support for the invasion—they’re calling it Operation Mongoose. I met Clary twice. He seems nice, but if you’re going to meet him, you’ll have to do it today. The embassy closes tomorrow, and everyone ships out except those needed to maintain the US Interests Section at the Swiss Embassy.”
“Does he know where we are?”
“No. We’ll use security measures to bring him in and move as soon as he leaves.”
A young woman brought in Atcho’s meal. As he ate, some of his strength returned. Later that afternoon, he goaded Juan into walking him around the room. A wall mirror revealed his cut and bruised face; he recoiled from his own reflection, appalled at the scars and bruises. After one more circle, dizziness and nausea overcame him. He had to lie down again.
He dozed fitfully, his mind working constantly on the whereabouts of Isabel. Then he lapsed into dreams, his subconscious mind returning to the sugar plantation of an earlier time.
Four years beforehand
Atcho stood under a giant oak tree in front of his sister Raissa’s house. A gentle breeze carried the woosh of rustling leaves in early autumn sunlight.
Raissa sat in a chair on the front porch, cooing into soft blankets held in her arms. She was petite, her face refined, a gentler version of Atcho’s, and framed by soft, dark locks of hair. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed and glanced up at Atcho, and they clouded over on seeing his expression. She shifted as if to bring him the baby, but Atcho turned away.
His father walked from the family mansion. The patriarch had aged dramatically in recent weeks. He approached quietly and stood next to Atcho as they observed the peaceful scene.
“Have you held the baby yet?”
Atcho shook his head.
“It’s been three months.”
A lump formed in Atcho’s throat as moisture gathered around his eyes. He said nothing.
“I’ve always been proud of you,” his father said. “Not even Isabel’s parents blame you. Many women die in childbirth.”
Atcho turned away, filled with remorse.
“You can’t blame the baby, either,” the old man continued urgently.
Atcho still made no response.
Grasping his arm, the old man’s voice rose. “Atcho, your daughter is beautiful, a treasure. You have to do everything in your power to make her life happy.”
Atcho stared at the ground. He already felt the guilt that would add to his despair. A motto that seemed always to invade compromising thoughts came to mind: Duty, Honor, Country. He embraced his father. Then he climbed the steps to the porch and gazed into the bundle in Raissa’s lap.
A delicate pink face with wide blue eyes stared back at him. The baby yawned, then smiled fleetingly. Thrusting a tiny hand into the air, she waved it about.
Atcho’s heart melted. Through tears of sorrow, he slipped his hand over the baby’s. She squeezed her father’s thumb. Thrill seized him. He reached down with both arms and lifted the infant. Cradling her, he buried his face in the blankets. “My Isabel,” he whispered.
Lying in bed, watching the fan whir overhead, Atcho tried to block sad memories. He dozed.
In midafternoon, Juan shook him gently. “Lieutenant Clary is here.”
Atcho’s eyes blinked open. With Juan’s help, he sa
t up and composed himself. Then Juan opened the door to a blue-uniformed officer. The man came to the end of the bed and stood, waiting. He toyed with his service cap.
Atcho regarded him dispassionately. “What can I do for you?”
“I have something for you.” He spoke in broken Spanish, with a distinctly American accent.
“What is it?”
The lieutenant reached inside his jacket. Pulling out a long envelope embossed with the seal of the US Embassy, he handed it to Atcho. “My boss said to give this directly to you.”
Atcho opened it. A photograph fell into his hand. Isabel. Her wide blue eyes were full of fear under dirty and unkempt hair. A newspaper, dated the day of the firefight, had been set prominently on a table in front of her.
Forgetting pain, Atcho struggled to his feet. “Where did you get this?”
The young officer took a step backward. “From Major Richards. He tried to bring it to you last week but you were too sick. He left for Washington today and told me to bring it.”
“Is that true?” Atcho looked at Juan.
Juan nodded. “Major Richards did ask to see you last week.” He took the photograph. Wearily, Atcho bent his head. The lieutenant watched in silence.
Juan faced the lieutenant. “Why couldn’t you have given this to me?”
“I don’t know. The major told me to give it to no one but Señor Tomas. He didn’t tell me its contents.”
“How did he get it?”
“There was a firefight a couple of weeks ago. US personnel scoured the site, which was already picked over by the milicianos. Major Richards said the contents of the envelope were found among broken glass and shells from a Russian pistol.”
Atcho relaxed. “Tomas” was his alias when communicating directly with the US Embassy or the CIA. No one in either organization knew of Tomas’ relationship to Atcho; at least, no one was supposed to.
Atcho scrutinized the man. “Why are you in Cuba?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why are you here? The United States is leaving.”
