CURSE THE MOON (2 page)

Four days earlier

Atcho could still scarcely believe that he was cutting sugarcane by hand with a machete. He had been in the fields many times here at the family plantation in Camaguey, on horseback, racing with his father through the rows of cane, even while field laborers swung their sharp, steel tools during the harvest. Fidel Castro, worried about losing the crop while the country was still in chaos since his coup, had issued an edict that all citizens would go into the fields to help harvest.

Sweat streamed from Atcho’s brow and down his neck and back, and blisters swelled his hands. He looked down the row of laborers to his right. He knew none of them, and hoped none recognized him. A laborer was heading Atcho’s way. He was tall and lean, and he too, carried a machete. Atcho recognized the familiar figure. It was one of his men in the resistance, and he would take his time making his way down the row.

Atcho returned to cutting, and minutes passed. Then the man was next to him, also cutting sugarcane. They did not talk, but when they were close enough, the man handed him an envelope, and then moved on, continuing to harvest as he made his way down the line.

Without drawing attention, Atcho went to an area in the scrub brush that laborers used as a latrine. The pungent air was stifling, but here at least, he had a little privacy.

The envelope contained two sheets of paper. One was a letter from his sister Raissa, who had been caring for Isabel. Atcho read it, and froze.

Dear Eduardo, Isabel has been taken! Officers from G-2 came to the house. They know you are alive! And, they know your code name. They said that if you want to see Isabel alive again, you must turn yourself in! I didn’t tell them anything.

In a daze, Atcho reread the letter, noting smudge marks where Raissa’s tears had landed. Then he read the second note. The first line was particularly startling.

Eduardo Xiques (alias Atcho)

It instructed him to surrender to G-2 headquarters in Havana within a week or risk never seeing his daughter again. Approaching footsteps warned Atcho that someone else intended to use the area. Thrusting the papers into his pocket, he assumed the attitude of a good comrade and went back to his position in the field. As soon as he could, he left the field.

His gut wrenched with fear for his daughter – he had seen little boys led away to face firing squads. How can they know that I am alive? Turning himself in was not an option – that placed his comrades’ lives in danger. After some furious thought, he decided to attempt a rescue.

That evening, Atcho showed the letters to Juan Ortiz, his best friend and deputy in their resistance organization. “I don’t know how they found out, Atcho,” Juan said. “But you can’t be impulsive.”

Atcho whirled on him. “We have to get my daughter back!”

Realizing Atcho’s state of mind, Juan had quietly helped devise the plan that had brought them and four of their best fighters to this empty plaza four nights later. The cold face of the moon continued its impassive observation. The young guerrilla leader lay motionless in the dust.

2

For two weeks, Atcho lay in bed, inhabiting a mental space between coma and consciousness. In his clouded mind, he cried out for his daughter. She reached for him in his dreams, whimpering softly in a toddler’s voice, “Yo quiero a mi papa!” Her matted locks of long dark hair framed a small oval face filled with fear and fatigue.

Still dreaming, Atcho reached back, only to see a sinister hand snatch Isabel away while he agonized over the flaws in his failed plan. He had endangered her life by exposing her to gunfire. Maybe he should have turned himself in. Those who stood to suffer if information was forced from him could fend for themselves. Isabel could not. He saw himself being interrogated under bright lights, refusing, then answering when his tiny daughter was threatened. Faces of people he could betray marched before him, some accusing, and some understanding. The ghostly image of his father in U.S. Army combat gear drifted in and out.

As Atcho’s body healed, his mind reached toward consciousness and new questions. How did G-2 connect Atcho to Eduardo? Besides Juan, Atcho’s sister, and her husband, who else knew he had survived the fire that destroyed his family mansion? And where did the Russian captain fit in? He had never considered that Soviets might be involved.

He felt sweat, suffocation, oppression. Pain. Pain in his left hand. He looked at it: blurry, lumpy, and wrapped in bandages. He brought it closer to his face, realizing dimly now that he was awake.

Through a narrow window, he saw a night sky where the moon, now only a sliver, continued its cold, impassive observation. He tried to turn to one side, but sharp pain surged through his neck and spine. An anesthetic odor met his nostrils, and nausea welled in his throat.

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.