by Mitch Weiss
After a couple of rounds of whiskey, Rodríguez asked Zenteno a question.
“Mi Colonel, would you permit me to accompany you tomorrow morning to La Higuera to speak with the prisoner Ernesto Che Guevara?”
The other officers at the table all wanted to go as well. Zenteno took a few moments to consider the request. The helicopter could only accommodate two passengers and the pilot.
Finally, Zenteno rose. He stood straight and addressed the table. He told the officers that he knew they all wanted to go with him to La Higuera.
“But Félix has been tremendously helpful to us, and I want to thank him for all the cooperation he has shown us over these months,” Zenteno said. “I also know how important it is for him to come face-to-face with one of the very Communists who forced him out of his country. How much it will mean to him to see with his own eyes Che Guevara. And so, if you don’t oppose, I will take him with me tomorrow to La Higuera.”
The officers were silent. Then, one rose and agreed that Félix should go. The others shouted their agreement, too.
Zenteno lifted his glass.
“To Bolivia,” he said. “And to the return of peace for our country.”
CHAPTER 22
“The revolution is not an adventure.”
Prado watched his men celebrate. The camp in La Higuera was in a festive mood. Soldiers chatted and feasted and congratulated one another. It had cost the lives of three Rangers, but Che had been captured. In their minds, that meant the war was over. Without Che, there was no revolution in Bolivia.
Prado should have been celebrating, too. After all, it was his unit that captured Che. He should have been happy. Instead, Prado was uneasy. He decided to pay a visit to the schoolhouse.
The security guards in front of the building waved him through. First, Prado looked briefly in on Willy, who was fast asleep on a bench. Then he went to the room where Che was being held. A candle burned, illuminating the little space. Che was seated against the wall, his eyes closed. Totti was there, guarding the guerrilla leader. The bandage around Che’s calf was spotted with blood. Che opened his eyes and saw Prado.
The Bolivian officer pulled out his pack of Pacific cigarettes and offered them to Che. This time, Che did not refuse. He took two, unrolled them, and placed the tobacco in the bowl of an old pipe he’d carried throughout the Bolivian campaign.
Prado wanted to hate Che for everything he had done—he was responsible for killing three men today, men Prado knew personally. He was responsible for stirring a revolution in Bolivia, and God-knew-what horrors he’d overseen in Cuba. But even sitting there in rags, there was still something charismatic about the man.
“How are you feeling?” Prado asked.
Che said he was feeling some pain. “That’s inevitable, right?” Che said.
“I’m sorry we don’t have a doctor with us,” Prado said. “In any case, the helicopter will come first thing in the morning and you will be taken to Vallegrande. They will take better care of you there.”
Che thanked Prado. They made some small talk, but Prado was curious about one thing: Why did Che pick Bolivia? Why did he want to start a revolution in one of the poorest nations in South America?
“I’d like to know firsthand the reason for this exploit of yours, which is so foolish, so senseless,” Prado said.
“Maybe from your point of view,” the revolutionary cut in.
Prado sat on a bench and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Totti, who plopped down next to Prado. The room filled with tobacco smoke.
“I have the impression that you made a mistake from the start by choosing Bolivia for your adventure,” Prado said.
But Che stopped him.
“The revolution is not an adventure.”
And Che reminded Prado of Bolivia’s proud beginnings. Didn’t the war of South American Independence start in Bolivia? he said, referring to Simón Bolívar, who fought colonial armies in Bolivia, Venezuela, Colombia, and Ecuador in the 1800s. “Aren’t you Bolivians proud to have been the first?”
But maybe it was a mistake to have chosen Bolivia, Che conceded, but the choice was not all his to make. The revolution needed a South American launching point. When they floated the idea, the most enthusiastic response came from Bolivians.
“What happened?” Prado asked. As far as Prado could tell, there were not many Bolivians among the guerrillas. Che shrugged his shoulders.
“Do you think we are going to solve problems this way,” Prado went on, “with gunfire? As a result of this encounter, I have three dead and four wounded, whom I had learned to love and respect in the time we were together. I ask you: What am I going to say to their parents, when I talk about them and why they died?”
“For the fatherland . . . fulfilling their duty,” Che said sarcastically.
“That sounds poetic, and you know it,” Prado snarled. “That’s why you’re saying it in that tone. Give me a realistic answer.”
But then Che said something that incensed Prado. He said Prado’s background prevented him from truly understanding the campesinos and their troubles.
“It is you, sir, who does not understand. You don’t understand Bolivia,” the captain snapped. He reminded Che that Bolivia had a revolution in 1952. As a result, Indians were given rights. The military was temporarily disbanded. That revolution forced the ruling class to concede some of their power to the people. Prado ticked off a list of changes: land reform, universal suffrage—real changes you still can see, Prado said.
Che told Prado he understood. He was riding his motorcycle around Bolivia during that period, and he remembered the announcements and celebrations.
Prado shook his head. “But what you don’t know, for example, is that I was educated at the military college after the revolution, with another mentality, with more sense of the people and the fatherland. Our army is part of the people.”
“But it oppresses the people,” Che said.
“The campesinos that looked at you so indifferently today? They show affection for my soldiers. Do they seem oppressed to you? Right now, they are out there cooking dinner for us.”
The campesinos didn’t understand what was going on in South America because of their poor education and lack of opportunity, the revolutionary said. “Their ignorance, the backwardness they are kept in, doesn’t allow them to understand what is happening on this continent. Their liberation is on the way,” Che told Prado.
Now Prado was angry.
“I was brought up in these valleys, these mountains. I had to walk two leagues from Guadalupe to Vallegrande to go to school together with the children of the campesinos. I have come across schoolmates here, friends of mine from childhood, and they are all willing to help us, to help the army. Those bonds are stronger than these ideas you bring in from the outside.”
But Che was relentless. He told Prado that all Latin Americans were in a struggle against imperialism that “can no longer be stopped.” He warned that there would be many deaths in that revolution and that eventually Prado and the soldiers in many Latin American countries would have to decide “whether you are on the side of your people or in the service of imperialism.”
They continued to debate until a soldier barged into the room and told Prado that Major Ayoroa and Lieutenant Colonel Selich needed to talk to him.
“I’ll be back later to continue our talk.”
“I’ll be here, Captain, I’ll be here,” Che said.
Prado walked to the command post, in the telegraph operator’s house. Ayoroa and Selich were anxious. They wanted to go through Che’s things, they said, but they needed to have Prado present in order to get started. They thumbed through his diaries. Che was a disciplined writer. He never missed a day. Entries were never longer than a page or two; sometimes it was just a few sentences. He simply summed up what had happened that day. Prado, Ayoroa, and Selich checked th
e diaries for dates that had been important during the guerrilla campaign. They read Che’s comments on ambushes and skirmishes. They quickly realized the diaries’ significance. In his last few entries, Che wrote about being trapped in the valleys. His last entry was dated October 7:
Today marks eleven months since our guerrilla inauguration. The day went by without complications, bucolically, until 12:30 p.m., when an old woman tending her goats entered the canyon where we were camped and had to be taken prisoner. The woman gave us no reliable information about the soldiers, simply repeating that she knew nothing, and that it had been quite a while since she had last gone there. All she gave us was information about the roads. From what the old woman told us, we gather that we are now about one league from Higueras, one from Jaguey and about two leagues from Pucara. At 5:30 p.m., Inti, Aniceto and Pablito went to the old woman’s house. One of her daughters is bedridden and another is a half dwarf. They gave her 50 pesos and asked her to keep quiet, but held out little hope she would do so, despite her promises.
The 17 of us set out under a waning moon. The march was very tiring and we left many traces in the canyon where we had been. There were no houses nearby, just a few potato patches irrigated by ditches leading from the stream. At 2 a.m. we stopped to rest, since it was useless to continue. Chino is becoming a real burden when it is necessary to walk at night.
The army made a strange announcement about the presence of 250 men in Serrano, who are there to cut off the escape of those who are surrounded, 37 in number. They gave the area of our refuge as between Acero and Oro rivers. The item appears to be diversionary.
Altitude = 2,000 meters.
That was it. The next day Che was captured. When they were finished examining the materials, Prado, Ayoroa, and Selich returned to Che’s room.
“How are you feeling?” Ayoroa asked.
“Fine,” Che replied.
Ayoroa told Che that he would be taken to Vallegrande in the morning. Unlike the other two, Selich showed his disdain for Che.
“You’ll have to look your best,” Selich said. “There are a lot of people who will want to take your picture. How about if we shave you first?”
He leaned down to pull Che’s beard.
Che stared straight into the officer’s eyes. He calmly raised his right hand and pushed Selich’s hand away. Selich moved back and laughed.
“Your parade is over,” Selich said. “Now we’re playing the tune. Don’t forget it.”
With that, Selich left the room.
There was an uneasy silence. Prado didn’t like the way Che had been treated. He was a prisoner, helpless. Taunting him was wrong.
Ayoroa felt the same way. He continued questioning Che.
“How many men are still available for combat?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Che replied.
“Where were you going to meet? What was the rallying point?” Ayoroa said.
Che said they didn’t have one. They were lost, surrounded by soldiers. “We had no place to go.”
“So why did you come to La Higuera in the daylight?” Ayoroa was referring to the day they entered the village.
Che just shook his head.
“Who cares why? Have any more of my men fallen?”
“There are probably some inside the canyon that we haven’t been able to find. We’ll just look for them tomorrow. Why do you ask?”
Che took a deep breath.
“They were good people. I’m concerned about them, that’s all.”
“We’ll keep you posted,” Ayoroa said. “You should rest now. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
It was midnight. Prado and Ayoroa walked back through the narrow streets. The town was quiet now, with occasional merry outbursts from the military camp. In one area a group of soldiers were singing around a campfire. Battle cries and rival cheers between A and B companies were heard every so often. On the way, they met Second Lieutenant Huerta. He couldn’t sleep. The three decided to check the security perimeters. It was about midnight, cold, with stars shining high over the mountains. Prado wondered what Rosario was doing tonight. He wished she was here, to hear him describe every detail of the day, to help him make sense of it. But he had to stay focused on the here and now.
At every checkpoint, the soldiers were alert and aware of their responsibilities. Satisfied, Prado told the men he was headed back to the command post to get a few hours of sleep.
* * *
There was too much on his mind. Prado replayed the day over and over—the firefight, the dead soldiers, and, of course, Che. At about 3 A.M. Prado rose to make the rounds one more time. He walked by the security checkpoints. Everything was in order. No matter where he ambled in this village, the road always seemed to lead back to the schoolhouse.
Finally, he just gave up and went inside. Perez was standing guard. Che was sleeping, but he opened his eyes when he heard Prado come into the room.
“Can’t sleep, Captain?” Che asked.
“It’s not easy after all that has happened. What about you? You’re not sleeping either.”
“No. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to sleep soundly,” Che said.
“Now you have an advantage. You don’t have to think about your safety or the danger of being overtaken by the troops,” Prado said.
“I don’t know which is worse. There’s also the uncertainty.” He paused for a moment. “What do you think they’ll do with me? They said over the radio that if the Eighth Division captured me they would try me in Santa Cruz, and if it were the Fourth, in Camiri.”
“I don’t know. I guess it will be in Santa Cruz,” Prado said.
Che asked Prado about Zenteno, the division commander. Prado assured him he was a gentleman. Che paused for a moment and looked into Prado’s eyes.
“You’re unique, Captain. Your officers mentioned some things to me,” he said, his voice trailing off. “Don’t take it wrong, we had some time to talk. They appreciate you. That’s obvious.”
Prado was stunned. Che was praising him. He didn’t know how to respond.
“Thanks. Can I do anything else for you, Commander?”
“Maybe a little coffee. That would be a big help.”
“Try to rest,” said Prado, before leaving the room. “Tomorrow begins another phase.”
CHAPTER 23
Operation 500 and 600
Rodríguez arrived at the airfield early the next morning and checked his equipment.
He had a powerful RS-48 field radio with an antenna and battery. He carried two cameras—a Pentax 35mm and a tiny Minox. With his Bolivian uniform and cap, he looked like the other officers gathered at the airfield.
It was the morning of October 9, 1967. Rodríguez couldn’t wait to reach La Higuera. He had been tracking the revolutionary for so long that it didn’t seem real. Now Che was within his grasp, and if things went according to plan, he would soon be face-to-face with the most feared revolutionary in the world.
At dawn, Rodríguez wrote a long message to his CIA contact in La Paz. In it, he updated his superiors on the capture of Che and urged them to act quickly to protect Che’s life. He encouraged the CIA station chief to work his channels immediately. But Rodríguez didn’t have a lot of hope. The Bolivians had been killing prisoners. A few months earlier, Ambassador Henderson had stepped in and pressed the Bolivian high command to spare Debray’s life. It worked, but Rodríguez doubted the same would happen for Che.
When Zenteno showed up, Rodríguez climbed into the back of the helicopter. The colonel sat in the front next to the pilot—Major Jaime Nino de Guzman. A minute later, Guzman gripped the throttle and the helicopter shot into the sky. Banking to the north, Guzman set a course for La Higuera.
No one spoke as the helicopter flew over the mountains and jungles. Rodríguez was lost in his own thoughts. He checked his watch as the helicopter started its approa
ch. It was 7:30 A.M. Several Bolivian soldiers stood waiting for their arrival. As the whine of the engine faded, Rodríguez heard mortar and gunfire nearby. He knew the Bolivian soldiers were still pursuing members of Che’s guerrilla band. Maybe they were having some luck.
Prado was among the officers in the landing zone. When the bird landed, Zenteno and Rodríguez jumped out, and Lieutenant Colonel Selich and two wounded soldiers boarded the helicopter. Moments later, they were whisked away to Vallegrande. Shuttle flights between the two points would continue all day.
Prado told Zenteno and Rodríguez that Che was resting inside the village schoolhouse. Che’s belongings were inside the command post at the telegraph office.
Prado wasted no time. He led Zenteno and his entourage to the command post in the center of La Higuera. Rodríguez followed a few steps behind. There wasn’t much room for a village up here on the hilltop, he thought, but the views were spectacular. The stone houses were small, and a single dirt road ran from the town square all the way to Vallegrande.
As they walked, Prado asked what would happen to Che. The colonel said he’d received no instructions. That decision would come from Barrientos himself.
Once at the command post, Prado showed Zenteno and Rodríguez a haversack filled with documents. Zenteno took a cursory look. He knew there would be time to examine the documents later. As for Che? No one really knew. So Zenteno said he wanted to head to the schoolhouse and confront Che in person. But as Rodríguez thumbed through the notebooks, he realized he had hit the mother lode. There were photographs, microfilm, and a list of “accommodation addresses” in Paris, Mexico, and Uruguay. Guerrillas sent messages to the addresses. Essentially, Che could send a letter to Castro and the recipient at the address would forward it on.
Rodríguez also found two codebooks. The numerical codes were printed on tissue paper and used one time and thrown away. One set was in black ink, for transmitting, and the second was in red ink, for receiving.
