CURSE THE MOON

by Lee Jackson

  Atcho looked around for some indication of what to expect. He found none. After a few minutes he sat in the chair facing the glass wall. A tray on the table contained fruit and a pitcher of water. Absently, he picked up an apple and began to nibble.

  Minutes turned into an hour, then two hours. He stood, walked around the room and tried the door, to no avail. Returning, he sat down and rested his head in his arms on the table.

  The purr of a small electric motor caught his ear. He looked up. The drapes were opening. Atcho’s whole attention focused on the formidable presence in the dark room on the other side of the glass. Someone breathed out his code name.

  “Atcho!”

  The voice, low, sonorous, and unmistakably familiar, echoed through Atcho’s brain. Fury gripped him. He leaped to his feet, and advanced menacingly.

  “Captain Govorov!” he snarled, his features twisted with twenty years of hatred and rage.

  “I’m glad you still remember me after all this time, Atcho. But now I am General Govorov.” He laughed, the same mirthless sound Atcho had heard all those years ago. “You are looking much better than the last time we met.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask how I am?” Govorov cooed. His Spanish was better than it had been that night in Havana so many years ago.

  “How did you find me?”

  The general laughed again with genuine amusement. “Why Atcho, we never lost you.”

  Atcho froze at the implication. “You knew where I was?” he asked in disbelief.

  “Well, Atcho,” Govorov’s voice acquired a matter-of-fact tone. “You weren’t exactly subtle. I tried to keep you from the battle so you wouldn’t be killed. That’s why I returned your daughter to Camaguey. But, you had to get back into action. You stole a truck in Cienfuegos, demolished a squad of soldiers, and stole a tank they had captured. Then, you entered a firefight from the flank, delivered your prize to the invasion force, and died! Meanwhile, a man, whom no one had ever heard of, appeared on the scene calling himself Manuel Lezcano.”

  Atcho reeled at the knowledge of how stupidly he had fooled himself.

  “We routinely took your picture with other prisoners. When we saw Manuel’s photo, voila!”

  Visions of lost friends and rumors of tortures seared Atcho’s memory. “Then why did you kill Juan, and torture others?” His voice was raspy.

  “Well, I wasn’t there. But I imagine my good friend Fidel felt he had a justifiable reason for shooting Juan. After all, your friend was a central figure in the resistance.” Govorov chuckled. “You have to admit, the episode lent reality to our pretense of searching for you. As for the others, well, we had to put on a good show.”

  Seized by fresh grief, Atcho lowered his head into his hands. “Why?” he murmured. He dropped his hands from his face and glared into the dark interior beyond the glass. “Why did you keep me all those years? Why not just kill me too?”

  “Atcho!” Govorov exclaimed in mock amazement. “I’m surprised you haven’t already figured that out. I told you the last time we met! You are much too valuable to discard! Your career has been most carefully managed.”

  Atcho’s muscles tightened. He pulled his head erect. “Career? Managed?”

  “Of course.” Govorov’s voice took on a paternal tone. “Let me tell you plainly. Your father graduated from West Point, and you did, too. Then you rose to leadership in a counter-revolution against a communist regime. Don’t you see? You are a member of one of the most powerful alumni in the world, whose members occupy sensitive posts. Your personal history makes you acceptable anywhere.”

  Atcho was speechless, struggling to comprehend. After moments of silence, he asked, “Why hold me all that time, and bring me out now?”

  “Ah, good question.” Govorov spoke as though to a briefing session. “Timing! Timing is everything. Your credibility was increased with your imprisonment. Keeping you in prison was a convenient way to warehouse you until, at a strategic juncture, we could bring you out. Also, there were other preparations to be made.”

  “Other preparations?”

  “Yes. We had to gamble a bit, but things worked out even better than we hoped.” He was obviously pleased with himself. “We wanted your entry into an assignment to come about naturally. So, we used Isabel to help us with that.”

  Atcho’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to speak, but found himself almost totally voiceless. “Isabel?” he managed at last. “Have you done something to Isabel?”

  “No. Relax.” The general’s voice was soothing. “Actually, you should be grateful. We have gone to great lengths to ensure that she was well cared for. And, you’ll be happy to know that she grew up in the western ethic. She is a fine girl. You’ll be pleased.”

  “Will I ever see her? She thinks I’m dead.”

  “Of course you’ll see her again. And she no longer thinks you’re dead. You took care of that yourself when you called her. But back to what I was saying.” Govorov seemed mildly impatient. “We arranged for Isabel and your sister to emigrate with your brother-in-law to Miami. We found good work for them, with good pay, and set up a trust fund for Isabel. We insisted that she attend the best schools, and when she reached an age to attend college, we set up a scholarship fund at one of the girls’ schools near West Point, through anonymous donors, of course. Then, we quietly politicked to make sure that Isabel received one of the scholarships.”

  Understanding edged across Atcho’s mind. He turned and ambled back to the center of the room. Sinking into the chair, he cupped his chin in his hands. “You wanted her to meet and marry a West Point graduate,” he said, remembering that this was the dream of parents of many girls he had dated.

  “Exactly! How astute!” Govorov seemed genuinely pleased. “Of course, we could not guarantee such an outcome. But, as you know, the odds are pretty good for any girl attending one of those schools.” He became enthusiastic. “I am happy to announce success.”

  Atcho raised his head sharply. “Isabel?” he asked incredulously. “Married?”

  “Yes. Isn’t that wonderful! And you’ll be so proud! Her husband was a sterling cadet, graduating near the top of his class. He was on the football team, and … ”

  This is incredible, Atcho thought. You’d think we were long lost friends catching up on old times! “When?”

  “Late spring,” Govorov interrupted. “Isabel graduated in May, and her husband in early June. They married the following week. His name is Robert Bernier.”

  Atcho sat in silence, trying to interpret the revelations of the past few minutes. Recall of all he had lost swept over him again, but he forced it aside. This was no time to mourn. He poured some water and sipped it, feeling the presence of Govorov studying him from beyond the window. He had a thought. “Did you have anything to do with the death of my sister Raissa and her husband?”

  “No, we really didn’t.”

  For a moment, Atcho thought he detected a note of regret in the general’s voice. Then he decided that he had either imagined it, or it had been affected for his benefit.

  “It was an auto accident,” Govorov went on. “They were hit straight on by a drunk driver. You know, the U.S. really should do something about that problem. But,” his tone became lighter, “I have to admit that the unfortunate incident helped us. You see, Isabel was left totally alone, with no living relative that she knew of. Her loneliness and vulnerability ultimately increased the probability that she would meet and marry a cadet.”

  Sadness overcame Atcho, picturing his grown daughter struggling with grief over the loss of her aunt and uncle. He knew the utter despair she must have experienced when she first realized that she faced the world alone. “Then it was you who claimed me,” Atcho said disconsolately.

  “Yes. That was to increase the credibility of your cover. The process was easy. The U.S. was loose in checking to see who was claiming whom, and our forgers are pretty good. We convinced your sister to do it, without Isabel�
��s knowledge, of course.”

  “What about the atrocity at the Peruvian Embassy. Was that your doing?”

  “No, that was Castro’s work. When the incident began and all those people entered the compound, Castro decided to allow many political prisoners to leave the country. We knew this was the perfect time to bring you out. We followed your movements carefully through Havana, and were very happy when you walked into the Peruvian Embassy. If you had stayed in the Swiss Embassy, we would have picked you up after you arrived in Miami. This way turned out better. We alerted the Cuban security police, and told them to arrest you and your companions if you came back out of the Peruvian Embassy. I’m not sure what triggered the shooting. I imagine a young officer got carried away. You have to admit, it added reality.”

  Sickened at Govorov’s callousness, Atcho took a quick breath. “Where are my companions?” he asked, realizing that most of his questions would be answered accurately.

  “They are still in La Cabaña, each in solitary confinement, awaiting your return.”

  “My return!” Atcho gasped. “You brought me all the way here and put me through training just to take me back to that hellhole?”

  Govorov laughed. “Atcho,” he said patronizingly. “You’re not going to stay there. We have to get you back so we can insert you into your assignment as unobtrusively as possible. You’ll be kept in isolation for a few weeks, and then brought out with the rest. They don’t know you’ve been gone.” He chuckled. “We had someone fill in for you. Don’t worry.” The general was almost jocular. “You’ll be fed enough to stay alive, and you won’t be abused. Think, Atcho. The last time you were beaten was the night we met in Havana. I didn’t mean for them to almost kill you. But I gave strict instructions that you were not to be harmed again.”

  “What about la caja on the Isle of Pines?”

  “Didn’t they give you enough food to keep you alive? Were you beaten? Atcho, give me some credit! I looked out for you. You might recall that not all of your companions in the attempted escape survived.”

  Atcho sat numb, mouth set firmly. An image of Jujo passed through his mind. Dread of being incarcerated once more dulled his incredulity at the easy way that Govorov spoke of protecting him these last twenty years.

  “What is it you want me to do?” he asked at last.

  “I don’t know,” Govorov replied flatly.

  Atcho’s head jerked up. “You don’t know?”

  “No. We haven’t decided yet.”

  Deathly silence filled the room.

  Atcho sat in the chair. His muscles flexed as rage coursed through him. Relentlessly, the feeling snaked through him, distorting his features and turning his eyes into burning coals. In frenzy, he leaped to his feet, determined to break the barrier separating him from Govorov. He grabbed the steel chair and rushed the window.

  “I’ll kill you!” he shouted, and thrashed the chair against the unyielding glass. “You destroyed my life for a purpose you haven’t even figured out yet!” The glass fractured slightly. Atcho swung, panting heavily, sweat streaming from his face and arms.

  “Stop that!” Govorov commanded in a threatening tone. Atcho ignored both the general and the muscles screaming in his arms. “Stop, Atcho! Or I will shoot.” He enunciated his words as the gleam of a pistol appeared behind the glass.

  Atcho bashed the window again. A shot fractured the air. Splinters flew, and a small round hole appeared in the glass. Heedless, Atcho beat the window harder.

  “Atcho, stop! Or your daughter will die.”

  Atcho halted in mid-swing, straining to stop the momentum of the chair. For several moments he stood, sweat running over his face, head bowed in defeat. He raised haunted eyes to peer through the smoked window. There, just beyond his reach, was the dark figure of General Govorov.

  “It’s good to see you are in such good physical condition,” Govorov sneered. “Now listen. I am your captor and your controller. Like it or not, that’s the way it is. And you serve the Soviet state through the KGB.”

  He paused for impact. When he spoke again, there was a deliberate softening of his tone. “From now on, Atcho, life won’t be so bad. You’ll be in Havana less than a month. Then you and the men who were with you will be returned to the population. A short time later, Castro will experience another touch of humanity and allow you to emigrate with other political prisoners. Then you’ll lead a normal life in the United States until we need you.”

  Atcho sat quietly, comprehending Govorov’s words, but too numb to react. “Think, Atcho! This could be good for you.” The general had regained his enthusiasm. “You’ll be with your daughter, and meet your son-in-law. We’ll help you into business, and make sure you’re able to maintain a comfortable lifestyle.

  “Arrangements are being made to welcome you as a hero. We’ll let the press know of your release, and friends and fellow counter-revolutionaries will learn of your arrival in Miami. The West Point homecoming is next month, and I’m sure you’ll receive a special invitation. You’ll be loved and well respected.” He paused, peering through the window at his quarry.

  On the other side, Atcho faced him in a half-crouch, panting heavily, his contorted features dripping with perspiration.

  Govorov chuckled. “You’re down, Atcho, but not beaten. That’s good! We need that spirit! Look at it this way. All you have to do is enjoy life, and be ready when we call!”

  Atcho heard the general as through an echoing void. “And if I complete your mission?”

  “Well, Atcho, for someone with your talents and background, the assignment will be very special, so I wouldn’t expect it to happen any time soon. Years could pass before we need you. And we want you to spend that time developing and expanding contacts. But, if you do a good enough job, we’ll want to use you again.”

  “Then you have no intention of ever letting me live my own life.” It was a statement.

  “Atcho, I forwarded a note to you years ago that established our relationship clearly. Don’t you remember? You belong to me.” He paused a moment. “It’s nothing personal, Atcho. I’m an intelligence officer. You’re an asset.”

  Atcho raised his head and looked morosely into the dark glass. “And if I just end my own life?”

  General Govorov’s tone became grave. “Atcho, we have too much invested in you to let that happen. If you so much as scratch yourself shaving, and we think it was deliberate, you, whatever family you have, and whatever extended family there is, will be obliterated.” He paused a moment, then said, “I must go. It’s good to see you in such superb condition, Atcho. Enjoy.”

  20

  Atcho stood rooted to the floor, staring through dark glass into an abyss. His heart beat furiously, threatening to burst its cavity, and his mind churned in kaleidoscopic tumult. He turned and trudged back to the table, dragging the chair after him. Sinking into the seat, he draped his upper body across the table, and remained there, until his escort arrived.

  Scarcely noticing those who accompanied him, Atcho retraced his earlier journey in reverse order. From the Lubyanka, his escorts drove him to the air base where another KBG agent, less amiable than Gregor, took charge of him and warned him again against attempting to escape. Atcho barely took note of anything on either leg of the flight through the Azores and back to Havana. He ate nothing, and drank very little. His body felt heavy and old.

  At the airfield, Soviet guards took charge of him and drove him back to the gloom of La Cabaña. There, they escorted him through the same long halls and left him in the same room he had been in before. Then two Cuban sentries jostled him down the winding passageway to the same dark cell he had occupied five months ago. There was no trace of the man who had taken his place during his absence. Atcho laid down on the rough cot, and for days, he took no sustenance, drinking only enough to moisten his parched mouth.

  In this dim chamber, Atcho reflected on the comparative merits of life and death. He decided that death had the greater advantage. Every hope he clung to no
w came with a price so high it seemed impossible to pay. Death became a morbid fascination. He longed to welcome it, and imagined various ways he could achieve his own demise. But there was no escape. In his torment, Isabel came often to his mind, and he obsessed over her well-being. But Govorov had been clear in what his suicide would mean for Isabel and her husband.

  By the end of the first week, he was gaunt, his clothes hanging loosely about him. His body began to devour itself. Why not allow my darling daughter absence from suffering? he thought. If I die, I will end her misery as well.

  Since he felt a profound sense of having failed her, the thought comforted him. From the day she was kidnapped nearly twenty years ago, he had been excluded from her life. But now, he could expedite her passage to a state completely free of strife and pain. Through his delirium, he snickered at having upset Govorov’s plans while advancing Isabel’s welfare. He exulted over the Russian’s imagined rage, and an image of the Lubyanka fracturing at its base.

  For three more weeks, he lay in the dank cell while cockroaches and mice consumed his untouched food. Occasionally the pests ventured close to him, but a slight movement sent them scurrying. His mind wandered while his body wasted away. Intermittent visions of earlier, happier days flashed through Atcho’s mind. While his body lay in the depths of La Cabaña, his mind traveled through the happy events of his childhood to the tragedies of his adult life. He relived the agony of losing his wife. Fire and smoke seemed to billow around him as he reached vainly to save the still forms of his parents. Then he was helpless while a dark, powerful figure strode into darkness carrying tiny Isabelita. Cruel laughter echoed in his mind.

  One night he awakened, suddenly aware that he was not alone. Two figures stood at the end of his bed. A third, in a dark shroud, loomed in the corner, his features hidden under a cowl. Pinned by the piercing gaze of this evil, terror seized him. The figure moved slowly toward him. Atcho struggled onto his elbows and leaned away from the inexorable, advancing entity.