As Mao had done in China, Che Guevara would now do in Latin America.
This was the road that had brought him to the Ñancahuazú. A lifelong journey had taken him to this short halt, leaning against a boulder on a trail overlooking a forlorn valley in the desperate gut of South America. Guevara looked down at the river and imagined a metaphor for his own life winding through high places and low, meandering around obstacles but rolling on inexorably.
Guevara believed. And his men believed in him.
For a moment he considered that he had once had everything—fame and fine houses, a family. He had no regrets. Fame did not matter to him except as it opened doors for his plans and made things possible. He cared little where he slept. His children were precious to him, but they were not dear enough to put aside his quest. He’d had everything a man could dream for, and now he had the rifle in his hand and the clothing on his back. Revolution was his true love—revolution as ideal and achievement. Perhaps he was chasing a mirage. No, it was real. Guevara had seen revolution made true in Cuba, and he told himself that he would make it happen again.
Caesar had crossed the Rubicon, and Guevara’s river, the Ñancahuazú, shimmered below, a thin splinter of silver winding around precipitous jungle hillsides. Below in the valley, there was still a single speck of light—it came from the Zinc House, Tania was there—and in the morning she would guide Selizar Galán up this same path to Camp 2.
There was a clicking sound brought up on the wind, the noise of a canteen or a rifle magazine knocking against a belt buckle, and Guevara was instantly alert. He sat perfectly still against the boulder as a shadow moved up the trail below and to his right.
Slowly, from the gloom, Guevara could puzzle out the shape of a man carrying a rifle. At twenty yards, he could tell that the man was tall and of solid build—a soldier, to guess by the steadiness of his pace. The soldier carried a heavy pack, and under this burden, he bent slightly forward at the waist, eyes cast down on the trail before him. As the man found his way around a switchback, Guevara remained still against the boulder; he knew that as long as he did not move, he was part of the shadow, another component of a vast dark night, and the walking man would not see him until it was too late.
It had been an error to rest directly on the trail, a dipshit amateur’s mistake, and Guevara cursed himself. He could not shift his rifle off his lap without revealing his position. Several long seconds passed, and the man with the pack climbed steadily. Guevara’s hand moved slowly to his hip. Scarcely breathing, he opened the leather flap on his holster, and his fingers closed over the butt of his pistol. He drew the weapon gently and placed his thumb on the hammer. If the soldier was alone, Guevara would kill him. If the soldier was scouting for a larger unit, Guevara would try to slip behind him, leave the trail, and warn the others. As long as the moon stayed behind the clouds, Guevara would have an even chance to escape.
He stared over the man’s shoulder, looking behind him and downslope. From the path beyond, there was no other movement and no sound; the man had apparently come up from the valley alone.
This would be enough to seal his doom.
The soldier came on, his eyes still on the trail in front of him, and Guevara could hear the short chuffing of his breathing. When the man was close enough to touch, Guevara raised his pistol and stood. In that moment, the clouds opened, and a shaft of moonlight struck the trail, lighting Guevara like a specter.
The man’s face jerked up, and he staggered back, suddenly and perfectly amazed. Guevara had seemed to materialize out of solid rock.
In the darkness, Guevara could see the soldier’s face, his mouth open and eyes white in surprise. With a worried grunt, the man thrust his hand under the strap of his rifle, but there was no time for him to pull it from his shoulder. The soldier heard Guevara thumb-cock the pistol and saw him level it at his face.
“Goddammit,” the man said, more in embarrassment than fear.
In the moonlight Guevara smiled, and the man ruefully shook his head.
Guevara placed the pistol back in his holster, and his hand closed over the man’s shoulder.
“Come, Joaquin,” Guevara said, “we will walk up together.”
6
IT SURPRISED NO one that Tania had hurried along with Arturo and Tuma to be the first to arrive at Camp 2. From the barrens above the farmhouse, Marcos watched the three of them climb the ridge, emerging from cloud and disappearing into forest as the trail switched back and they ascended. At the observation post, Marcos nudged Pombo, who lounged against a stump, scraping his nails with the point of a bayonet.
“Here comes the chiquita,” Marcos said. “You’d better go tell the boss.”
Tania arrived at camp red-faced, her hair wet with perspiration, a good forty-five minutes ahead of Galán and his escort.
“Hello, Pombo,” she said as she came toward him. She’d known him in Europe and in Cuba, first as a member of Guevara’s security detail and then as an agent in Czechoslovakia and La Paz.
“Welcome to the war,” Pombo said.
“You look well,” Tania said. It was the most hollow of platitudes. Tania was aware, fully, of what Pombo and the others actually thought of her.
“I’ll take you to the comandante.” Pombo waved his hand, gesturing for her to go first, and she was led through camp to the place above the creek where Guevara had placed his hammock. As they walked, Pombo ran his eyes over her without longing. Tania was dressed in a khaki jacket and shirt, olive-drab slacks, and a pair of sturdy soldiers’ boots. She wore sunglasses, the lenses dark and the frames made of faux tortoiseshell; the effect was to make her outfit seem somewhat more chic than utilitarian.
Tania did her best not to appear eager or particularly happy, but her heart was hammering in her chest. “How is he?” she asked.
“Same as ever.”
A bit of schoolgirl had crept into her voice, and she regretted the question immediately. As they passed down the leafy trail, she took off her sunglasses and put them in a pocket.
At Guevara’s clearing, she caught sight of him lying in his hammock, writing in a notebook. He swung his legs to the ground and tossed the book into the hammock as she approached. Pombo walked her into the clearing and withdrew immediately.
Tania stood smiling, and Guevara came toward her. He hesitated, making sure they were alone, and then they embraced. As she held him, she smelled gunpowder, sweat, and tobacco. She noticed he was thinner than he had been, and that his hands were dirty. To Guevara, his lover seemed older and careworn.
“I’m glad to see you,” he said. Tania kissed his neck and cheek; her lips brushed his, but he averted his face. She again kissed his cheek.
She waited for him to say something, to say that he had missed her, that he was glad she’d come safely, she waited for him to tell her she was beautiful, but Guevara said nothing. They embraced for a moment more, Tania holding him tightly, and then he backed away. A look was exchanged, a glance more telling than a thousand words, and Tania felt a needle in her heart. She plainly understood his reserve, and she replied as he had thought she would, with a poignant, almost bewildered submission.
“Are you all right?” Guevara asked.
Tania swallowed and nodded. “Of course,” she said flatly. A tree would not have believed her.
Guevara’s concern was genuine, but there was much more to Tania’s behavior than he could fathom. She was taken with him, and had been since the first moment she saw him, but Tania’s real feelings were irrelevant. Perhaps they were indescribable. Perhaps she did not know what she felt; perhaps she had been in this game too long, pretended to be others too long, pretended emotions, and now she did not know who she was or what she felt.
Her throat burned, and she wanted very suddenly to bawl. She could not believe that he could not hear the thoughts swirling around in her head.
“Are you surprised to see me?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “When Havana said Galán would come, I expe
cted you to come also.”
She said nothing but continued to look at him, her eyes directly on his until he looked away. Guevara gestured to a log positioned next to a campfire, reduced to ashes but left to smolder to annoy the mosquitoes.
“Come on. Step into my office.”
Guevara could have no idea that the woman before him was more capable than he imagined, more practiced than he suspected, more dangerous and more deadly than the entire Bolivian army. She sat.
To Guevara, Tania looked frail, almost childlike.
“We have a job to do still.”
“I know that,” she said.
“You’ve done important work. I’m very proud of you.”
She thought to scold him but suppressed the urge. He could not help, she thought, but to patronize.
“What do you think of him?” Guevara asked.
Tania blinked, then asked, “Do you mean Galán?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated, gathering her breath and waiting for an indication that she might speak candidly.
“I talked to him in Havana last year,” Guevara said. “I already have an opinion.”
This was a test, she realized, so she spoke honestly: “He’s a jackass. A liar and an ass—which is rare.”
Her words seemed to have a tonic’s effect on him. Guevara leaned back and clapped his hands together. “I’m glad there’s someone here who can tell me the goddamn truth.”
Tania reached into the pocket sewn to the thigh of her trousers and removed a folded envelope. “These are messages from Leche,” she said.
Leche, milk, was Castro’s code name. Tania knew that fact, and other facts, but she perfectly feigned ignorance. She handed the envelope to Guevara and watched as he opened it and read. She already knew the contents of the messages; they’d been transmitted to her by shortwave, and she had decoded them three nights ago, before she and Galán left La Paz.
She watched Guevara closely as he read. He always tested her, she thought. And she tested him, and perhaps he knew that. Even when they made love, she’d tested him. These proofs had convinced her that he underestimated her, pitied her, even. That perception was exactly what her role in the drama required.
He believed her to be capable but moonstruck. He thought he understood her and, thinking he comprehended her motives, believed what he wished to see.
As Guevara turned the pages, she thought of their nights in Prague and the small safe house. Pombo had told her that not even the Czechs or the Russians knew where Guevara was. She did not tell Pombo that she knew differently. She knew because the Czechs knew, and the Russians knew as well—her case officer had told her that Guevara was in hiding. She knew that he had been living for almost six weeks with a single bodyguard.
When Guevara had contacted Tania in La Paz, summoning her to Czechoslovakia, she had obeyed. She was happy then, happy to be with Guevara and happy to again share his bed. Guevara knew, Tania thought—he knew she had been with other men.
When he sent her away to the training base in Camagüey, she had taken comfort as it was offered. Still, for one glorious month in Prague, a month of rain, Guevara had wanted her, and their affection had been genuine and mutual. She had listened to him talk of his plans, and he had listened to her talk of her childhood and her dreams. She knew Che Guevara as thoroughly as any woman could know a man as self-contained and isolated.
But he did not know her at all. She was quite possibly the only other human being on earth more isolated, more disconnected, and more self-reliant than Guevara. His inability to see her for what she really was was the failing of an honest man. Perhaps it was only the mistake of any man who thinks he knows a woman.
Guevara could see in Tania nothing more than he wanted to see. Seven thousand miles from the place they had first made love, Tania lowered her head and surrendered to tears. He heard her sob, and he stood and lifted her face. He wiped the tears from her eyes and kissed her.
“Shhhhhh, querida. Shhhhh,” he said.
Guevara could not know that Tania was not crying for herself, but for him.
IN HONOR OF the general secretary’s visit a pig was killed and roasted, and Loro arrived from the Zinc House with the chicha, late as he usually was for everything, but the comrades were well fed and happy, then happier still as cups of the sour, milky liquor were poured out and a saludo was offered to their new endeavor. As the toast was being proposed, the Bolivians were sure to sprinkle a few drops of chicha on the ground. This was the traditional portion reserved for the earth goddess, Pachamama. They were just as sure to do this as slyly as possible, so as not to attract the hoots and mockery of the Cubans, for whom religion was a long-running joke. Eusebio and Chingolo exchanged glances as they tipped back their cups. No real Boliviano would think of drinking chicha without offering a cha’lla to guarantee long life and a rich harvest. Fuck the Cubans, Eusebio thought, what they don’t know is probably going to save their asses.
Marcos entered camp and said he could smell roast pig halfway up the mountain. He had been sent ahead to report that Comrade Galán was still on the trail, and was delighted to find that roast pork and chicha had been put aside for the men of the escort. The party was expected to arrive not long after full dark. This message he delivered to Guevara, Joaquin, and Tania as they sat by the fire. Guevara nodded, and as Marcos disappeared, Joaquin spat into the coals. “Goddamn. Galán is a slow, lazy fucker.”
Tania registered this and said nothing. Guevara stood and stretched. “I just want to get this over with,” he said.
It was dark, and the fire had been rekindled by the time Camba stepped into the firelight. With him was a short, shifty-looking man in a waist-length jacket and flannel slacks. Because he was not entirely trusted, Galán had been taken by a deliberately roundabout path to the camp. Guevara noticed that Galán’s street shoes were scuffed and down at the counters. The walk from the farmhouse had obviously been an adventure.
Guevara did not rise as the two men advanced into the firelight. Camba spoke. “Comandante, I present Comrade Galán, the general secretary of the Bolivian Party.”
Neither man extended a hand. Guevara nodded at the tree trunk facing the fire. “Comrade, I’m glad we have a chance to talk. Have you eaten?”
The pleasantries, if they could be called that, evaporated quickly.
“I’m not hungry.” Galán’s voice was shrill, almost female in its timbre. “I’d like to speak to you in private, Dr. Guevara.”
Guevara nodded, and Camba stepped back into the darkness. Galán peered around the fire. He made out a shadow standing next to Guevara—Joaquin—and then Tania, sitting with her arms folded and her legs crossed.
“Tania is a friend, and Joaquin is my second in command. Whatever you say to me, you may say to them,” Guevara said. He also wanted to make sure that others could report on the conversation.
“What are you doing here?” Galán asked.
Guevara ran his hand through his beard. “You were in Havana last month. What did they tell you we would be doing here?”
“No one authorized you to ambush that patrol.”
“Authorized?” Joaquin sputtered.
Guevara flicked his eyes, and Joaquin found a seat and was quiet. Galán continued, his words falling quickly against one another.
“Ñancahuazú was to serve as a staging base only, for operations into Argentina.”
“The time’s not right for an Argentinean operation.”
“What makes you think the time’s right for Bolivia?” Galán asked hotly. He noticed, rather distastefully, that Tania was jotting down notes of the conversation.
“Well, there are a couple of reasons,” Guevara began. “Besides Haiti, this is the poorest nation in the hemisphere. Bolivia has the highest rates of illiteracy, infant mortality, and the lowest life expectancy—”
Galán cut him off. “What about the army?”
“We just kicked their asses. They’re clowns.”
“You were lucky.
Even if you win a hundred times out here, it won’t matter. The people, the campesinos, the miners—they aren’t ready for revolution. They’re not prepared politically or militarily. I said to Fidel—”
Again Joaquin rose to his feet. “Six months ago you told Fidel you’d support our operations. You promised weapons and men. That’s why we’re here.” He stepped close to Galán; Guevara was surprised to see Galán remain seated. The smaller man’s eyes glinted in the firelight.
“For an Argentinean operation,” Galán said.
“This was never about Argentina,” Guevara said, pinning him.
Galán had in fact told many stories. He had told Castro he would support an operation in Bolivia, then told Moscow and the members of his own Party that he would not. He was a facile liar, perhaps a man incapable of telling the truth.
“The Party’s reconsidered,” Galán said. “The time’s not right for armed struggle.”
“When will it be right, Comrade?” Joaquin sputtered. “When no babies live? When the North Americans control your streetlights? What’s it going to take to get you off your ass?”
Guevara lifted his hand. Joaquin sat once more, shaking his head. Tania looked at Galán in the firelight. He was leaning forward, and his hands were clenched.
“You participated in the last elections, Comrade Galán. The Bolivian Party ran candidates?” Guevara asked.
“We did,” Galán answered.
“Did you come here to tell us that you’ve become a democrat?”
“I’m a realist. You can’t make a revolution by bringing in thirty Cuban adventurers.”
“Bolivians serve with us,” Guevara said.
“They’re Maoists, renegades.”
“Inti and Coco are Bolivian Party members.”
“Not anymore. They’ve been expelled. I’ve come to inform you that if you continue this struggle, it must be brought under the control of the Bolivian Party.”
“Under your control?” Guevara asked quietly.
“As general secretary of the Bolivian Communist Party.”
Killing Che Page 6
