Where had he been stationed?
Sagua la Grande.
Why was he here now, with all his knowledge, merely to superintend the assembly of planes, trucks, tanks, and antitank weapons?
Pushkin thought quickly. “This is to be kept between us, Leandro.” He recalled his conversation with Kirov in which brief mention was made of security boilerplate. “But the Kremlin is developing a new anti-aircraft weapon which is nuclear-powered. One of my jobs, after receiving instructions, will be to discuss with your military the feasibility of bringing the prototype here and making tests in this area.”
Leandro’s excitement was manifest and he asked Pushkin if he would like Leandro to bring him a bottle of rum—he knew where he could find a bottle, even at this hour. Pushkin said that would be wonderful. And, when the rum came, he was able to persuade Leandro to take a glass along with him, as a brother physicist.
Pushkin went to sleep an hour later, satisfied that this would be his only night in jail.
Two days later, Pushkin decided he would need to rethink his analysis. There was simply no way to explain his continued isolation given his failure to telecommunicate to Moscow last Wednesday at 1100. Moscow’s leverage was simply too great to permit Castro to hold an important Soviet emissary in detention for three days …
He lifted his head from the pillow he was lying on at midday, feeling the heat.
Of course. There was that possibility. What would flow from it?
The possibility that at 1100 a telecommunication had in fact gone to Moscow. Signed Pushkin. Using the code detailed in a sheet in his missing briefcase.
But who could do this, and what would the message say? The briefcase was in Cuban hands. And there are Cubans who speak Russian … But no Cuban would have access to the Soviet communications center guarded over by Colonel Bilensky. If that message went through, surely it could only have been put through by a Russian with access to his briefcase. Kirov was in detention. Could it be another Soviet officer, not formally a part of the ballistic team?
He reiterated—it had to be a native Soviet. No Cuban, never mind his training in Russian, could master the kind of vernacular the Kremlin would expect to receive in telexes from the field, the bureaucratic accretions, the idiomatic twists and turns. Besides, Moscow might ask a concrete question about the functioning of the new gadgetry. The kind of question no one but a trained missile specialist could hope plausibly to answer.
Why, he kept asking himself, were he and Kirov being detained? One thing was obvious to him. It could only mean that the Cubans had the story, had found out about the missile. Nothing of lesser consequence could justify their detaining someone of his, Pushkin’s, importance.
And so: they knew the secret. What were they going to do with it, except rub it into Khrushchev’s face that he had deceived them? But why was it necessary, in order to do that, to maintain Pushkin in detention? His brain pulsated with frustration. He counted the hours and the minutes until the dumb clod Roberto was relieved by the bright, engaging, informal Leandro.
Who arrived that night with no fewer than three books he wished to get Pushkin’s reaction to. The night before, they had spent most of their time on nuclear physics but also had had some personal, even intimate conversations. Pushkin told the young man that he had been spared service in the war because even at the age of fifteen he had stood out in his work in mathematics, physics, and chemistry. He had been sent to a special school. “I was forever in school,” he reminisced. “But I was only twenty-three when I got my doctorate. Surrounded by men as old as thirty-five, and older.” He had, he said, gone to work in developmental and experimental laboratories, and during the past year or so had been detailed to field duty, “to get a sense of nuclear front-line work.”
He had thought it prudent to animate even more the imagination of young Leandro by telling him that although he had not revealed the fact before, the prototype of the new anti-aircraft atom-powered weapon was already in San Cristóbal, but it could not be used except by Captain Pushkin, who alone knew the relevant firing technology as developed only in the past few months in Soviet laboratories.
In turn, Leandro spoke of his own past. He said that his father had been a “capitalist coffee baron.” He had been shot while trying to escape with Leandro—“I was just following my father. I was only sixteen. It never occurred to me to challenge my father’s judgment. Mother died when I was ten.” Young Leandro had been imprisoned, eventually released on probation, and sent back to complete his training, only in uniform. “I am a full-time soldier, and also a student. I go three days to Havana by bus and take my classes, and get back here in time to take care of you.”
“When do you sleep?”
“Oh, on the bus. Here and there.” Leandro smiled his engaging young smile.
On night three, Leandro spent the first hour pointing out what he thought were contradictions in a Spanish-language text that was represented as a direct translation from a Soviet text. Leandro said that in several places it seemed to him to make no sense, and he wondered whether the problem was in the translation.
He slipped the book through the bars to Pushkin, who spent time sorting out the problems and complimenting Leandro on spotting the anomalies.
Pushkin edged the conversation over into the nuclear architecture of the new, secret anti-aircraft atom-powered surface-to-air weapon. Did Leandro have access to the cave at San Cristóbal?
Leandro smiled and managed to say, “Leandro has access to pretty much whatever Leandro desires to have access to. I know my way around, and I am friends with everybody.”
“You mean, you could actually enter the cave and see the SA-8 anti-aircraft weapon, see whether the SA-8 is actually being assembled?”
“Yes. I could, probably. But why should I, Captain? I mean, there’s got to be some reason why you’re in here, and though I like you a whole lot and I appreciate your great mind, I don’t want to get my ass thrown into the same side of the bars as you’re on.”
Instant retreat. “Of course. But you will know, when you are more advanced in your studies, and when you have perhaps contributed to the development of a new weapon—or a new anything—something of the excitement one feels at the prospect of seeing it actually assembled, in anticipation of testing it. Pretty much like the kind of excitement you experience on finding some of the answers to the questions in these books. Only, you know, more so.”
Intentionally, he changed the subject and, in hushed tones, began describing to Leandro some of the great secrets of Soviet nuclear technology. Yes, he was running a risk. But, if it came to that, he could see to it that Leandro was, when the right moment came, so to speak, laundered—he could, after all, be taken to the Soviet Union for advanced training. And there were other possibilities. By now, it was safe to rule out the possibility that the KGB were alert to his situation. Whoever got hold of the radio had succeeded also in intercepting and perhaps doctoring any communication to Lieutenant Vassilov.
Meanwhile he must give Leandro information that would genuinely excite and inspire him. And create a sense of obligation to Pushkin. The need for requital.
On the fifth evening, Leandro himself brought the subject up. “About the cave …”
“Yes, Leandro?”
“I made a couple of inquiries. Of a friend on guard duty. We go to Havana in the bus together. He is studying music. We play soccer together. I am on his team. We are very close friends.”
“And?”
“And he said yes.”
Pushkin kept his voice steady. “Said yes to what?”
“Said yes, he knew I was passionate about physics, so if I wanted to sneak a look at the new anti-aircraft weapon, I could.”
Pushkin had to work hard to contain his voice.
“Will you?”
“I did. My friend just gave me one of those guards’ identifications, and a submachine gun. I went in behind the curtain, as though I were looking for something. I crossed the cave, and took a sma
ll tool chest from a steel cabinet. Made it seem as if I had been sent in by the chief mechanic to bring out his tool chest. I wheeled around to walk back out and I got a good look at it. It is lying on the floor. A big hole at the far end, where it must have been lifted from. About eight Russian technicians running every which way. Major Kirov giving orders from a desk with a light on it—”
Major Kirov! The clouds parted …
“—and you know something, Captain? That’s no anti-aircraft weapon. That’s an SS-4.”
35
Blackford woke when he heard voices. He dressed quickly and used the sponge and piece of soap lying by the pail of water.
He and Pano were introduced to Nena, a middle-aged woman without makeup, her gray hair braided and twined about her head. She worked in the clerk’s office of the warehouse at San Cristóbal, charged with ordering supplies for the military installation, and selected for that position in part because she spoke Russian, her mother’s native language. Thus Nena could translate the demands of the Soviet commissary into Spanish and attempt to locate, and get delivered, the foods and miscellaneous provisions necessary to maintain a detachment of four hundred Russians and two thousand Cubans.
She was a devoted enemy of the regime with an effective cover: Her husband was a colonel in the Cuban Army, traveling around Latin America as a military attaché to Esteban Alemán, an ambassador-at-large whose job it was to improve Castro’s relations with Latin American governments. Alemán was specifically in charge of meeting with the Latin American military to emphasize the threat posed by U.S. imperialism. Her husband had been away from Cuba for over three months. Neither he nor Nena regretted their separation. They were estranged, and had been for years, though as with many Latin Americans who had grown apart, they did not press on to divorce.
Nena brought two messages.
The first concerned activity within the cave. She had reports from guards who, the big black curtain notwithstanding, had had glimpses of the principal object of attention of the Soviet technicians working long days on a large new Soviet anti-aircraft weapon. She had got only unverified rumors about it, but it was said to be the very last word in Soviet technology. The reason for the secrecy, she had been satisfied, was that the anti-aircraft weapon would have the capability of knocking the elusive U.S. U-2 spy planes from over the skies of Cuba, and—again, this was the word that had got around—the Soviet Union did not wish the United States to know that the SA-8, as they called it, was being deployed in Cuba until the Kremlin was ready to deal, mano a mano, with the U-2’s.
Blackford listened carefully and interrupted her before she went on to her second piece of intelligence. Did she know, he asked, the dimensions of the anti-aircraft weapon?
No, she said. I hear it is very big, but not gigantic, I think.
Did she know its diameter?
No. Was she correct in assuming it would be slim, since the pictures of all the anti-aircraft weapons she had ever seen seemed to her to be quite sleek?
Blackford nodded.
Miguel looked up at Blackford: Okay to continue?
Blackford nodded. Nena went on:
“Jesús wishes to meet with—with you, Señor Ohkks. He must know whether you agree to talk with him.”
Blackford said Yes. “Where?”
“He believes right here is best. It is secluded, we have friends nearby who would report any movement of Cuban military or police searching the area. And we have here our powerful radio. It can summon an escape boat to the beach, if necessary.”
“How often is the radio used?” Blackford wanted to know.
The large, hunky Miguel, it turned out, was by profession a radio technician. He answered the question in detail. The radio was used constantly to receive coded messages from resistance leaders in Miami. It was also used to transmit. Its antenna was especially configured to emit a directional beam that lessened the chances of its being targeted by radio direction finders manned by Cuban intelligence.
“Even so, we never let the radio remain in any one place for more than three days. Tomorrow, during the evening, we will move it to another location.”
“How reliable is the transmitting?”
Miguel looked with pride at the machine in the corner, a heavy old RCA which, from its appearance, had clearly had tender—and inventive—loving care. “Pancho,” Miguel said, caressing the nickname of his machine, “is wonderfully reliable. The signal is seven megahertz and can be made to go to other high frequency bands. I can regulate its power. Usually it speaks only to Miami, but I can transmit to New York and to Rio if I give it maximum power. But if I did that I would proceed to move it to the next site within an hour. Those heavy, big signals are not easy to beam out of earshot of Cuban radio.”
Blackford and Pano accepted the coffee, pineapple, and bread placed in front of them. They sat around the rough wooden dining-room table.
“On the matter of Jesús Ferrer, when can I expect him?”
“He is not far now. Two hours after I leave, he will have your message. Two hours after that you can expect him.”
“I do not know what he looks like, Nena.”
“That is a very great advantage. There is in circulation only the picture of him at Oxford, and he wasn’t wearing a beard. You cannot tell men apart easily when they wear beards.”
“Have you seen him?”
“I have seen him,” Nena said, her voice reverent.
“All right,” Blackford said. “Now here is what we need to know. Do the Soviets plan to test the anti-aircraft weapon? That is one question. The second: Can any of your friends give you exact measurements—not to the centimeter, obviously, but as exact as possible—on the weapon’s length? Also, word on its width? And any details about the manner in which the launching platform is designed would be useful. Is the weapon sitting at an angle?” Blackford knew that it was, because the U-2 picture had established this. He didn’t wish to pass that information on at the moment. “Are there liquid oxygen facilities within reach of it? We very much need this information.”
Nena nodded, putting down her coffee mug. “I will do what I can. I must be getting back. They will expect me not later than ten back at the warehouse, and before that I must get word to Jesús.”
They shook hands. “I have heard much about you, Mr. Ohkks.”
Blackford nodded. It was never easy to reply to such a gesture. He had become sensible to the problem of acknowledging the gratitude of the proud and warm Cubans he had worked with. “I hope and pray for Cuba,” was all he said.
Pano crossed himself.
Sometime in the early afternoon a man wearing a straw hat and leading a mule, which in turn dragged an open wagon filled with sugarcane, stopped by the little cottage. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and let the reins fall to the dusty ground. He walked slowly to the farmhouse door and knocked.
Miguel opened the door. Blackford, now dressed in peasant garb, the black of the night before gone from his face and replaced with a light brown pigment, sat at the table reading a newspaper, a pistol on his lap. Mico was in the bedroom, its door open only an inch or two. He had a shotgun at the ready. Pano, on the approach of the wagon, slipped out the back door and entered the privy, leaving its door ajar, permitting him to scan the horizon to detect the movement of auxiliaries.
“What can I do for you, compañero?” Miguel said.
The man at the door could be heard through the main room to answer. He said, in a deep, resonant voice, “Do you believe in Jesús?”
Miguel paused. “Which Jesús?”
“Both of them.”
No formal identification signals had been arranged. But Miguel needed nothing else. He said gravely:
“Yes. I believe in both of them. Enter, Señor Ferrer.”
Miguel swung open the door and Blackford looked at a man of about his own size and trim, the hair black and straight, the face heavy with sweat and grime. Beneath his campesino trousers he wore sandals caked with mud and dust. The shou
lders were square, the teeth a yellow-white, the nose thin and straight, his expression that of a man accustomed to taking charge, though there was also fear in his eyes, the fear of the hunted.
He let Miguel come to him and embrace him, as also Mico, who came in from the bedroom, shotgun still in his hand. Pano came in from the privy, and was introduced. Miguel turned toward the table. “And, Señor Ferrer, may I present—”
“El señor Ohkks.” Jesús Ferrer now broke into the English he had learned and mastered at Oxford. “I am happy to meet you, Mr. Ohkks. I have some knowledge of what you attempted to do for my country a year ago, and the high price you paid.”
“Not so high as others paid,” Blackford said, taking his hand.
Jesús Ferrer sat down and asked for a glass of water, which was instantly brought to him, followed by a cup of coffee, a plate of fruit, and a chunk from the freshly baked bread Nena had brought with her earlier: cover for her, sustenance for her friends.
Jesús, speaking in Spanish, told Miguel and Mico that he would now be speaking in English with their “guest.” It would be wise if they kept their eyes open. Miguel nodded, and beckoned to Mico to follow him out of the cabin. Pano, at an eye signal from Blackford, left with them.
Blackford thought it wise at once to express his enthusiasm for Ferrer’s cause but to communicate the limitations the President had placed on U.S. involvement in anti-Castro activity.
“You must know, Señor Ferrer—”
“Jesús.” He spoke in English.
“All right. But I cannot bring myself to pronounce it other than as in Spanish,” Blackford smiled. “I am a sinful man with much to atone for, but I do not use that word except prayerfully.”
Mongoose, R.I.P. Page 29
