The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  “That’s right. Most high-security apparatus and personnel have left. I remained to close out and transfer routine channels to our Interests Section at the Swiss Embassy.”

  Atcho mulled over the lieutenant’s words. “Have you heard of a Russian officer, a Captain Govorov, in Havana?”

  Clary looked sheepish. Atcho and Juan watched him closely.

  “The answer is yes and no,” Clary said at last. “Keeping track of Soviets in Cuba is part of my job. We’ve had several reports about him, but we’ve never seen him. He’s not on any of our official lists.”

  Atcho sat deep in thought. Finally, he asked, “Why did Major Richards think it so urgent that I get this?”

  The officer shrugged. “Apparently the daughter of someone in your organization was kidnapped. When that photo showed up at the site of the firefight, Major Richards thought there might be a connection.”

  “Have you seen the photo?”

  Clary responded slowly. ‘Not until now. Only the major and soldiers inspecting the site saw what was found there, but everyone heard about the picture of a small girl.”

  Atcho looked up sharply. “You said you were not informed of the contents.”

  “I wasn’t officially informed.”

  “Why should we care about it?”

  Exasperation showed in Clary’s face. His obsequious manner disappeared, replaced by cunning. “You’ll have to ask Major Richards.”

  Atcho studied him. “Good idea. Meanwhile, you’ll stay with us until your story checks out.”

  “You can’t do that,” Clary protested. “My flight leaves tomorrow. My superiors will be looking for me.”

  “You left us no choice. You learned too much about our organization.”

  “What do I know?” Clary stormed. “That you’re Tomas and he’s Juan? And you’re both paranoid over a picture of a little girl?”

  “You knew enough to contact us,” Atcho replied flatly. “And you know this photo caused a strong reaction. If our roles were reversed, you’d do the same thing.” He turned to Juan. “See that he’s guarded and comfortable. And contact Major Richards.”

  Juan nodded and motioned the lieutenant to the door. Clary glared at Atcho.

  “If everything is as you say, we’ll release you into safe hands,” Atcho said. “Of course, if it doesn’t …”

  Juan ushered the lieutenant out of the room. Pain forgotten, Atcho watched the door close.

  Moments later, Juan re-entered. “Clary’s under guard, and we’ve sent a message to the embassy that he’s here. We didn’t tell them we were keeping him against his will. The wire to Richards is on its way to Washington.”

  Atcho pondered a thought. “Did you notice the change in Clary’s demeanor?”

  “It seemed abrupt.,” Juan agreed. “I’d be careful with him.”

  “A Russian captain somehow connected Atcho to Eduardo Xiquez Rodriguez de Arciniega, and the US Embassy connected him to Tomas,” Atcho ruminated. “Only you, Raissa, and her husband know that they are the same person. Now an American lieutenant makes a deliberate point of bringing a photograph to me—personally. It could have been delivered through other channels with less risk.”

  They sat quietly. Juan interrupted the stillness. “If the major instructed Clary to bring the envelope to Tomas, we can’t blame him for following orders. That was dangerous for him. Maybe his anger was natural.”

  “His outburst began before I gave that order. It was such a radical change from the personality we first saw. He’s faking something. You met both Clary and Richards before. Can we trust them?”

  Juan shrugged. “I don’t know Richards well, but I don’t have any reason to mistrust him. As for Clary, he can’t hurt us, but we’ll pay attention to how the CIA and other friendly intelligence agencies react to our holding him.”

  “I thought of that. He’s the last and only link we have to Isabel. If there’s the slightest chance he knows more than he’s saying, I want him close by.”

  Juan placed a hand on Atcho’s shoulder. “I doubt Clary knows anything. We can’t be seeing enemies where they don’t exist. We’d better be careful not to alienate our friends. Paranoia could get in the way of finding Isabel and US willingness to help liberate Cuba.”

  “I don’t understand why both the US and the Soviets give me so much attention,” Atcho said slowly. “Our group isn’t that big.” He returned to his current dilemma. “I want confirmation that Clary did Richards’ bidding. If his story checks out, we’ll let him go.”

  “What if details get garbled in transmission?” Juan looked anxious. “There is a better way. Let’s keep him overnight. We can’t hold Clary for days while we wait for Richard’s reply.

  “We can let Richards and the CIA know if there’s something wrong with his story. Tomorrow, before he’s scheduled to fly out, we’ll escort Clary to the embassy and keep him under surveillance until flight time. He won’t be able to relay information to anyone about us. We’ll close this place and move to a new hideout. He’ll have no information to pass along.”

  Atcho mulled the options. He did not trust Clary, but he agreed with Juan’s assessment.

  Juan looked at him seriously. “You know you tend to be impulsive.”

  Atcho jerked as if stung. Then, quietly, he acquiesced. “You’re right. Do it your way. Let Clary know.”

  THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN: Chapter 4

  Atcho settled into the back of an old bread truck bumping its way over a narrow country road in the central province of Matanzas. He felt desolate. More than two months had passed since the firefight, and there had been no word of Isabel. He and Juan had paid a surreptitious visit to the plaza but found nothing to suggest the attack even took place.

  Through the CIA, Atcho had received confirmation of Lieutenant Clary’s story from Major Richards. “He might be overzealous,” the note read. “But he’s harmless.” Atcho remained dubious.

  Now, he and Juan were on their way to a meeting of underground leaders in a country house outside Jaguey Grande, a village near the southern coast. They were to help coordinate resistance groups supporting the coming US invasion, led by Miami-based exiles. The CIA had air-dropped armaments that had been stockpiled by the resistance, although coordination was poor, and tons were lost in dense swamp.

  Castro already expected the assault.

  Atcho had not wanted to attend the meeting. Juan prodded him. “No one else on the island has military education and training like yours. We need you.”

  Juan was right. Atcho’s education at West Point was unequaled in Cuba, and so was his Ranger training. He glanced at Juan’s deeply tanned face, lined from strain. He tried to think of the meeting, but his mind traced back to Isabel’s plight. All other matters paled to insignificance.

  Juan read Atcho’s concern. “Other people at the meeting might help find her,” he said, and closed his eyes to sleep while the van continued its bumpy ride.

  Atcho regarded Juan affectionately. He was twenty years older than Atcho. As a boy, Atcho had revered Juan, the only man whose advice his father had taken without question. After the fire that destroyed Atcho’s ancestral home, Juan had become his closest friend. “I owe you my life twice now,” he muttered softly.

  Juan did not stir. Atcho drifted off to sleep, where memories became nightmares.

  A few months earlier

  Smoke billowed, ceilings collapsed, and timbers fell as flames leaped higher, consuming the majestic structure that had been Atcho’s family mansion. A serpent of flame streaked across the floor toward his father’s and mother’s lifeless bodies. He gagged at the smell of their burning flesh.

  He tugged desperately against the large cabinet pinning his right leg to the floor. The deadly smoke that had overcome his parents now engulfed him. As flames reached for him, he cried out for Isabel.

  Fire streaked closer, lashing within inches of his imprisoned leg. The floor radiated infernal heat. As smoke overcame him, only time stood between him and excruci
ating death.

  A dark figure lumbered over him. Strong arms wrestled with the heavy cabinet until at last, his leg was free. Then the figure seized Atcho under his arms and dragged him through a long hallway, past the kitchen. He felt himself hefted onto broad shoulders and carried down a flight of stairs into the cellar.

  A door in one corner stood ajar. The great lock that had secured it lay in its hasp on the floor. Panting with exertion, his rescuer struggled through the door and downward through an earthen tunnel until gradually the air became cooler.

  Atcho felt himself lowered to the ground. The light of a lantern shone on him. A steadying hand settled on his shoulder and a thermos of cold water pressed against his parched lips. He drank deeply.

  “You’re safe for the moment.” The light shifted, and Atcho looked into the strong face of the plantation manager, Juan Ortiz.

  When he woke up several hours later, Atcho gasped. “How is Isabel? And my sister?”

  “Safe,” Juan replied. “They were at Raissa’s house when the fire started.”

  “My parents?” Atcho already knew the answer. He had tried to get to them, but the heavy cabinet had crashed down on him. He had seen them fall into the flames.

  In the weeks that followed, Atcho struggled with fresh grief. He recovered from the effects of smoke inhalation. Although his leg was sore, there were no broken bones.

  During Atcho’s convalescence, Juan said he believed the fire had been started by peasants caught up in enthusiasm for Castro’s plan to redistribute private lands.

  Juan had joined the growing resistance to Castro. “Groups are forming all over the country. We started one here, in Camaguey, but we’re leaderless. You could help.”

  Atcho at first showed no interest. “All I want is to get Isabel back, and maybe go to the US. I’ll take Raissa and her husband, if they want to go. You could come too.”

  Juan reacted angrily. “You owe it to Cuba and our people to fight for freedom. Castro isn’t the first dictator here.” He paused, and then continued more fervently. “Do you think your father would desert his country?”

  Stung, Atcho stood shamefaced.

  “If you try to leave, you’ll be forced into Castro’s army, or you’ll go to prison. In this country, you’re a rare commodity.”

  After more heated discussion, Atcho acquiesced.

  “Good,” Juan said. “Let people keep thinking you’re dead. We need to keep your identity secret. You can operate more freely. Your daughter and sister would be better protected. They won’t even have to move. We’ll use that nickname your father called you, the one you used at West Point.”

  “You mean ‘Atcho’?”

  “It’s a perfect code name. Only a few people have heard it in Cuba. How did your father get it?”

  Atcho thought a moment. “When he went into the US Army for WWII, some of his friends had trouble pronouncing Arturo, his first name. They shortened it to ‘Atcho.’”

  “It works.”

  The little bread truck Atcho and Juan rode in groaned over a rise at dawn. It veered onto a field and halted. They sat up stiffly. Atcho swung the rear door open and stepped into the morning. His spirits buoyed with the sight that greeted him.

  The vista dropped gently across lush green fields into wide, thick marshland. Atcho moved away from the van to better see his surroundings.

  Thick stands of jungle vegetation ringed the area on three sides. It grew more sparsely to the west. A cacophony of songbirds, screeching parrots, and loud crickets filled the air. Through the mist, a lone dog sounded his morning warning, and was answered by other dogs nearby. The land sparkled with dew, and a breeze carried the rich scent of wildflowers mixed with the dank smell of swamp.

  A guide waited for them where a stand of trees led into thicker growth. The sound of the van driving away nearly drowned his greeting. Without ceremony, he led them down a path through dense brush. Minutes later, they arrived at a large bungalow in the center of a clearing.

  Inside, a group of twenty men clustered about the single room. Some, known to Atcho and Juan, greeted them. At one end, several guerrillas grouped respectfully around a burly man in swamp fatigues. The man answered their questions in fluent Spanish with an American accent.

  “He’s the CIA man,” Juan whispered.

  After several minutes, “Burly” called the meeting to order. He opened his remarks with normal pleasantries and assured the counterrevolutionaries of US government support, recalling the close histories of their two countries. “We helped win your independence from Spain. What happens to you affects the US.”

  The atmosphere carried a festive air. Atcho’s skepticism grew. He reminded himself that Burly’s life was at risk for being on the island, and he listened attentively.

  For the next two hours, Burly outlined the concept, which called for a force of Cuban exiles to execute amphibious landings. They would be supported by US naval gunfire and air forces. After a beachhead had been established, a government in exile would arrive on shore, declare itself to the citizens of Cuba, and call for popular support to depose Castro. Then, the new government would request military assistance from the United States, which would deploy Marines to reinforce the invasion. From that point, it would be a cakewalk to Havana.

  By the time Burly reached this juncture, the gathering had taken on a carnival air, with shouts of “Cuba Libre” punctuating his proclamations. Atcho looked around with growing amazement, particularly on seeing Juan swept up in the atmosphere.

  “Wait,” Burly shouted over the growing buzz of voices. “There’s a lot of work to do. We can’t succeed without coordinated effort.”

  He outlined assignments for setting up clandestine radio transmitters, seizing existing communications facilities, and clearing brush from potential landing sites.

  “Tons more weapons and ammunition will be air-dropped,” he said, “and teams are needed to guide pilots into drop zones using ground signals.” Other groups would retrieve, transport, and distribute equipment. Medical squads would organize, train, and assemble to care for casualties in the field. “And everyone should help mobilize the population to join the battle. If we fight hard, Cuba will again be a free country.”

  Inside the bungalow, the mood reached fever pitch. Men of all ages shouted. Arms pierced the air in wild anticipation of heroic deeds soon to be accomplished.

  “Before we close,” Burly beamed, “are there any questions?”

  Atcho looked around. A few others looked concerned, but they seemed unsure or too nervous to ask. Most already celebrated victory.

  Atcho stood. “I have a few questions.” He surprised himself at the challenge in his voice. Juan looked up sharply. A hush settled over the room.

  Startled, Burly regarded the person behind the voice. He saw a tall young man with broad shoulders, and rippling muscles barely disguised under loose clothing. His face and bearing were proud, eyes serious and street-smart.

  Burly composed himself. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where and when will the invasion take place?” Atcho asked.

  Burly coughed. “For security reasons, we can’t yet divulge specifics.”

  “Then try this,” Atcho pursued, his tone rising. “When will the weapons drops take place? Where? What are the signals, and how will you make sure they won’t be lost in the swamp one more time?”

  Burly coughed again. “That information is only for those who need to know. I’m sure you understand?” Several men in the room voiced nervous agreement.

  Juan tugged at Atcho’s sleeve. “What are you doing? He’s a friend. The Americans want to help.”

  Ignoring Juan, Atcho pulled away. “Let’s see if I understand. The people who will do the fighting don’t have a need to know?” He let the question hang. “Let’s try another angle. Who makes up this government in exile?”

  “You want to know that?” Burly stared at him blankly. “I don’t know that I could tell you, even if I knew.” He paced the room. He ha
d not expected such an interrogation. Then he relaxed, and a smile returned to his face. “Young man,” he began, “we’re here to help, but surely you understand that we have to be conscious of security at all times.”

  “You’re here,” Atcho cut in, “because America is afraid that Khrushchev will establish a military base in your backyard.” Atcho warmed to his argument. “As for security, where is it around here?”

  Men exchanged worried glances and whispered comments. Atcho continued. “I wasn’t challenged when I arrived. I saw no more than four guards, armed with light weapons, and no one checked my identification. If we’re raided while plotting strategy, what is the escape plan?”

  Burly peered at him. “What’s your name?”

  “I am Tomas.”

  Burly looked closer at him. “I have heard of you, Señor Tomas. You must believe in our sincere effort to help your country.”

  “You’re at risk. I get that, but let’s don’t fool ourselves about US motives.”

  Burly frowned. “What else bothers you?”

  Atcho studied Burly a moment. He was tall, nearing forty, with cropped steel-gray hair wrapped around a balding head. “Mr. … uh, Burly. Do you mind if I call you Burly?” He grinned. “It fits. You won’t tell me your real name anyway.”

  Burly glared at him.

  There was no sound in the room. Then Burly relaxed, laughing. “All right, Tomas, but I’m going to stop calling you ‘Señor.’ A snot-nosed kid like you doesn’t deserve respect.” Tension broke. Men breathed easier and even laughed for a moment, but then the room fell silent again.

  Atcho drew himself erect. “The way I see things, your government asks us to risk our lives supporting an invasion by people we don’t know, for leaders we didn’t choose. We’re going to do this crazy thing at undesignated places, on a schedule that hasn’t been established. We’ll accomplish this with weapons still to be delivered by unknown procedures at sites not yet chosen.” Noting Burly’s respectful attention and thoughtful expression, he paused for breath. “And I have other major concerns.”