by Lee Jackson
At the other end of the room, a chair scraped the floor. A man scurried to the door and disappeared into a hall. Moments later, Atcho heard faint whispering, and the door swung open. Another man walked into the room and looked at him worriedly. Atcho closed his eyes.
“Atcho, are you awake?” The voice was soft, familiar. Atcho forced his eyes open. “Atcho, it’s me, Juan. Do you understand me?”
Atcho’s lips were cracked, and his cheeks double their normal size. A question formed, a pressing, burning question. “Isabel?” he asked, his voice scratchy, whispery. Juan looked grave.
He struggled to ask again, “Isabel?” Juan continued looking grave, but did not speak. Atcho lay motionless, then moved his lips once more. “Water.”
Juan reached for a pitcher on a nearby table, poured water into a glass, and pressed it gently to Atcho’s mouth. The cool liquid brought refreshing life and provided small respite from his agony. He closed his eyes again.
When Atcho regained consciousness, the room was brighter. He raised his head. The pounding had subsided. Movement was now tolerable. Through swollen eyelids, he saw misty sunlight streaming through the window. A slowly rotating ceiling fan cast its shadow across dingy white walls.
Juan stood at the end of the bed. “You’re looking better, my friend. You’ve slept another full day.”
“Where am I?” His raspy voice was barely audible.
“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 fingers around Atcho’s stomach. “Where is Isabel?”
Juan sighed and sat heavily in a chair beside the bed. “We haven’t found her, Atcho.”
“What about a second meeting?” he asked urgently. “You must have attempted to reopen talks.”
“Of course. But there has been no effort to return our inquiries. Not through our informants, not through your sister. There has not even been retaliatory action.”
Atcho struggled to grasp the significance of Juan’s words. “What about the firefight? Wasn’t there an investigation?”
Juan shook his head. “No, Atcho. You killed the lieutenant. The other three soldiers died from bullet wounds. When we carried you away, no one attempted to pursue. The remaining Jeep and bodies were removed by security forces.”
“Can you find out anything from our contacts in G-2?”
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’ve found no trace of him.” Juan recalled for 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. “Through the CIA, we’ve checked every Russian on the island, but so far our informants have located no Captain Govorov.”
Atcho closed his eyes and sank into the pillows. Suddenly, he struggled to a sitting position. Juan, who had silently watched his expressions, placed a supportive arm behind Atcho’s shoulders. “Juan, if what you are telling me is true … ”
“Sí Atcho,” Juan interrupted. “Isabelita, and the one man who knows where she is, have completely disappeared!”
3
Juan’s muffled voice came to Atcho as through a long tunnel. His words seemed to echo over and over again: Isabel has completely disappeared! … Completely disappeared! … Disappeared!
Steel pincers seemed to have seized his stomach, and his limbs trembled. He heard his own whispery, hopeless voice through the cavernous labyrinth of his fear. “Is she dead?” Tears streamed from his eyes, and he covered his face in the crook of his right elbow.
Juan’s gruff attempt at reassurance failed to comfort him. No one knew with certainty whether or not Isabel lived, he said. She was in the hands of someone unknown, and ruthless.
Atcho sank back in bed, powerless. I must keep a clear head. He struggled back to a sitting position, and then swung his feet awkwardly to the floor.
Juan moved to support him once more. “What do you want, Atcho?”
“I must find Isabel.” He was lightheaded, and his legs were shaky. The room swam before his eyes.
Juan pressed him firmly back into bed. “Of course, Atcho,” he said calmly. “We all want to find her. But you’re too weak. You won’t help her if you kill yourself.”
Suddenly angry, Atcho struggled against his friend. “Let me go!”
Juan held him firmly. “You need rest, Atcho!”
“I can’t rest, don’t you see! Not while my daughter … ” His voice broke.
“Even if you were strong enough, Atcho, where would you look?”
For several moments, Atcho sat on the edge of the bed, head drooping between sagging shoulders. Suddenly, he lunged to his feet and staggered across the floor. “I’ll find my daughter!” he roared. “And nobody will stop me!”
A moment later, he sank to the floor, conscious, but too feeble to move. He lay with hot, bitter tears streaming from his eyes, his cheeks and neck flushed with humiliation. Juan watched in silence, leaving his friend to his own thoughts.
Atcho saw clearly now that he had planned and executed Isabel’s rescue poorly. He had anticipated weakly trained Cuban G-2, and had encountered an officer of the Soviet forces. He opened his eyes and struggled to prop himself on his elbows.
“Please, Juan, help me!”
Juan crossed the room, and helped Atcho back to bed.
“What’s being done?”
“We’re in touch with your sister, Raissa. The CIA wants to find the Russian too, for their own reasons, and has every known Soviet on the island under surveillance. Our contacts will keep us informed. We have direct communication with the U.S. Embassy, but that will end tomorrow.”
“Why?” Atcho was startled.
“While you were unconscious, Castro seized American oil refineries. The U.S. countered by boycotting sugar. In retaliation, Castro nationalized all American businesses. So, the U.S. cut diplomatic ties.” He shook his head. “It was inevitable.”
“This is too much, too fast, Juan! And my daughter is kidnapped! With the country in chaos, we might never find her!”
“It’s a tough situation, Atcho, but right now, you have to build up your strength.” He paused. “You need to eat.”
Reluctantly, Atcho assented. Juan walked to the door and issued instructions to someone in the hall, then returned and sat wearily on the chair. “Atcho, a Lieutenant Paul Clary wants to see you. He’s an Air Force liaison officer in the U.S Embassy.”
“What does he want?”
“He won’t tell anyone but you. We checked him out. He’s on special intelligence assignment. My guess is he’s planning air support for the invasion – they’re calling it Operation Mongoose. I met Clary twice. He seems muy simpatico. But if you’re going to see him, you’ll have to do it today. The embassy closes tomorrow, and everyone ships out except those needed to maintain the U.S. Interests Section at the Swiss Embassy.”
“Does he know where we are?”
“No. We’ll use normal security measures to bring him here, 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. Then, after one circle, dizziness and nausea overcame him and he had to lie down again.
He dozed fitfully for a while, his mind working constantly on the whereabouts of Isabel. Then he lapsed back into dreams, his subconscious mind returning to the sugar plantation of an earlier time.
He was standing under a giant oak tree in front of his sister Raissa’s house. A gentle breeze carried the wuush of rustling leaves in early autumn
sunlight. She sat in a chair on the front porch, cooing into soft blankets held tenderly in her arms. Raissa was petite, and her face refined, a gentler version of Atcho’s, and framed by soft, dark locks of hair. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed, as they did now as she glanced up at Atcho. Seeing his expression, they quickly clouded over. She moved as if to bring him the baby, but Atcho turned away.
He saw his father walking from the family mansion. The patriarch had aged dramatically in recent weeks. He approached quietly, and then 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, Atcho.”
A lump formed in Atcho’s throat as moisture gathered around his eyes. He said nothing.
“Hijo,” his father said. “I have always been proud of you. You can’t blame yourself for this. No one else does, not even Isabel’s parents. Many women die in childbirth … ” Atcho turned away, filled with remorse. “You can’t blame your little girl, either,” his father continued urgently. Atcho still made no response. Grasping his arm, the old patriarch’s voice rose. “Atcho, your daughter is beautiful, a treasure. With her mother gone, you have to do everything in your power to make her life a happy one!”
Atcho stared at the ground. He already felt the guilt that could grow and grow, and add to his despair. The motto that seemed always to invade compromising thoughts came to mind: Duty, Honor, Country. He turned and embraced his father, then strode to the porch and gazed into the bundle in Raissa’s.
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 and joy, he slipped his hand over the baby’s. She squeezed her father’s thumb.
A thrill seized Atcho. He reached down with both arms, and lifted the infant. Cradling her, he buried his face in the blankets. “My Isabel,” he whispered.
Lying on the bed watching the whirring of the overhead fan, Atcho tried to block the memories, and then he dozed. In mid-afternoon, Juan shook him gently. “Lieutenant Clary is here.”
Atcho’s eyes blinked open. With Juan’s help, he sat up and composed himself. Then Juan opened the door to a blue-uniformed lieutenant. The man came to the end of the bed and stood, waiting, toying with his service cap.
Atcho regarded him dispassionately. “What can I do for you?”
“Señor. I have something that might be of value to you.” He spoke in broken Spanish, with a distinctly American accent.
“Well, what is it?”
The lieutenant reached inside his jacket. Pulling out a long envelope embossed with the seal of the U.S. Embassy, he handed it to Atcho. “My boss said to give this to no one but you.”
Atcho opened the envelope and a small photograph fell into his hand. Isabel! Her wide, blue eyes were fearful, and her dark hair falling about her shoulders was dirty and unkempt. A newspaper, dated the same day as the firefight, sat prominently on a table in front of her.
Forgetting pain, Atcho struggled to his feet. “Where did you get this?” he demanded.
The young officer, mouth agape, backed up to the wall. “My boss, Major Richards, tried to bring it to you last week, but was told 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.
“Why couldn’t you have given this to me?” Juan looked at the lieutenant.
“I don’t know. Major Richards told me to give it to no one but Señor Tomas. I was not informed of its contents.”
“How did Major Richards get it?”
“There was a firefight a couple of weeks ago. U.S. personnel scoured the site, which was already picked over by G-2. Major Richards said the contents of the envelope were found among broken glass and shells from a Russian pistol.”
Atcho relaxed. Señor Tomas was his alias when communicating directly with the U.S. Embassy or the CIA. No one in either organization knew of Tomas’s relationship to Atcho; at least, no one was supposed to.
Atcho scrutinized the man. “Why are you in Cuba, Lieutenant?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why are you here? The United States is leaving.”
“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, Captain Govorov, in Havana?” The lieutenant looked sheepish. Atcho and Juan watched him closely.
“The answer is yes and no,” Lieutenant Clary said at last. “Keeping track of Soviets in Cuba is part of my job. We’ve had reports from several places about such a person, 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 receive 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?”
“No, sir,” Clary responded slowly. “Only the major and soldiers inspecting the site saw the items found there, but it was fairly common knowledge that it was a picture of a small girl.”
Atcho looked sharply at him. “You said you were not informed of the envelope’s contents.”
“I was not officially informed.”
“Why should the photograph be important to us?”
Exasperation showed in Clary’s face. His obsequious manner had disappeared, replaced by cunning. “You’ll have to ask Major Richards.”
Atcho silently studied him. “Good idea,” he replied evenly. “Meanwhile, we’ll hold you here until your story checks out.”
“You can’t do that!” Clary protested vehemently. “My flight leaves tomorrow. My superiors will be looking for me.”
“Lieutenant, I don’t see that we have a choice. You’ve learned too much about our organization. We can’t turn you loose without checking.”
“What do I know?” the lieutenant stormed. “That you’re Tomas and he’s Juan? And you’re both paranoid over a picture of a little girl? I don’t even know why your organization exists!”
“You knew enough to contact us,” Atcho replied flatly. “And you know that this photo evokes a strong reaction. This isn’t personal. If our roles were reversed, you’d take similar precautions.” He turned to Juan. “See that he’s guarded and comfortable. And contact Major Richards immediately for verification.”
Juan nodded and motioned the lieutenant to the door. Lieutenant Clary glared at Atcho. “Don’t worry,” Atcho said. “If everything checks out, we’ll see you delivered into safe hands.” He paused. “Of course, if it doesn’t … ”
Juan ushered Clary out of the room. His suffering forgotten, Atcho watched the door close.
Moments later, Juan re-entered the room. “Clary’s under guard, and we’ve sent a message to the Embassy that he’s here. Of course we didn’t tell them we were keeping him against his will. The wire to Richards is on its way to Washington.” They discussed the lieutenant’s change of expression. “I noticed the personality change too,” Juan said. “It seemed abrupt. I’d be careful with him.”
“Juan, a Russian captain somehow connected Eduardo Xiques Rodriguez de Arciniega to Atcho. 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, and then Juan interrupted the stillness. “Atcho, we should also consider that Clary said the Major
instructed him to bring the envelope to Señor Tomas. If true, he can’t be blamed for following orders, and at personal risk. Maybe he’s entitled to anger at being detained.”
“Good point Juan, but his outburst began before I gave that order. It was such a radical departure from the personality we first saw. I’m telling you, Juan, he’s faking something. You met both Clary and Richards before. Do you think we can trust them?”
Juan shrugged. “I don’t know Major Richards well, but I don’t have any reason to mistrust him. As for Clary, I don’t think he can hurt us. But keep in mind, we’ll have to pay attention to how the CIA and other friendly intelligence agencies react to our holding him.”
“I thought of that. Juan, he is the last and only link we have to Isabel. If there’s the slightest chance he knows more than he is saying, I want him close by.”
Juan placed a hand on Atcho’s shoulder. “Atcho, I doubt Clary knows anything. And we can’t be paranoid, seeing enemies where they don’t exist. I think the danger of alienating our friends is much greater. Paranoia might affect not only our ability to find Isabel, but also U.S. willingness to help us liberate Cuba.”
“For that matter,” Atcho said slowly, “I don’t understand why both the U.S. and the Soviets show such interest in me. Our group isn’t big enough to draw this much attention.” He returned to his current dilemma. “Look, Juan, all I want is confirmation that Lieutenant Clary followed Major Richards’ instructions. If the story checks out, he’ll be returned safely.”
“What if details are garbled in transmission?” Juan looked anxious. “Atcho, there is a better way. We’ll hold him overnight as planned. Several days might pass before we receive a reply from Major Richards. We can’t hold Clary that long. But we can let Richards and the CIA know if there is something wrong with his story. Tomorrow, shortly before he’s scheduled to fly out, we’ll escort Clary to the Embassy, and keep him under surveillance until flight time. That way, he won’t be able to relay information to anyone about us. We’ll close this place and move to a new hideout, so he’ll have no information to pass along.”
