CURSE THE MOON (5 page)

Atcho, Isabel is safe. She’s here with me now.

In a daze, Atcho headed toward the underbrush to read the entire letter.

Neighbors found Isabel walking along a road, and recognized her. She doesn’t know where she’s been. A lady took care of her in a house far away, and when they brought her back, they waited until they saw the neighbors and then set her out on the road, and drove away.

Apparently, except for one night, she had been treated well during captivity. But her nightmares were of flying bullets and a fierce man, covered with blood, lying in a plaza. Atcho fought the tears streaming down his face. When Juan came to him, Atcho handed him the letter. Then, relief and joy spreading through him, he wandered a few more yards into the underbrush.

Suddenly, Burly called to him and came through the brush. “Tomas, we need to talk.” Atcho turned and saw him following hurriedly.

“What is it?”

“You’re pretty sharp, Tomas.” He was either oblivious to Atcho’s discomfiture or ignored it. “You handled yourself well in the meeting. Your questions aren’t being asked anywhere else, and as you said, we are often cavalier with your people.”

“Yes, you are,” Atcho interjected. “What’s the point?”

“Just this, Atcho.” Atcho was stunned. “Yes, Tomas, Eduardo, Atcho. We know your identity and background.” Atcho’s expression turned to anger. Burly held two open-faced palms up in a beseeching gesture. “Now before you get mad, let me explain.

“Figuring out who you were wasn’t difficult once you began using your contacts to find your little girl. We did some backtracking and found her identity. When Tomas was suddenly taken ill for an extended period, then seen by Lieutenant Clary in a battered condition, we were almost certain Tomas was Atcho. Your reaction to a photograph confirmed the relationship between you and the child.” He lowered his voice. “You can count on my help any time, Atcho. Remember that. Anytime.”

Atcho rubbed his eyes and forehead. “Well,” he said tiredly, “I guess I couldn’t keep the secret forever.” He took the letter from Juan, who had joined them, and handed it to the CIA man.

Burly scanned the note. “This is great!” he said. “Then there is no reason you can’t do what I suggested to Juan when I walked over here.” Atcho regarded him dubiously.

“Look,” Burly continued. “There are few men in Cuba with your education and training. The people in this group are good, brave fighters, but they don’t have necessary skills for this undertaking.”

Good choice of words, Atcho thought.

“We need someone to organize this group and make them effective. Someone who can think, ask the right questions, and lead!” Burly’s excitement mounted. “I’ve spoken with the other leaders, and we’re in agreement. We want you to be take charge and lead this local effort.”

Atcho stared in disbelief. “Are you crazy?” he thundered. Burly drew back at Atcho’s unexpected reaction. “Haven’t you paid attention?” Atcho’s voice carried through the thick underbrush. Juan nudged him to soften his outburst. “Look, Burly. Nearly three months ago, my daughter was kidnapped. I had no word of her in all that time. Now I receive a message that she’s safe at home, and you want me to head up a rag-tag outfit bound on a suicide mission? No, amigo! I’m going home!”

“But you said … ” Burly stammered.

“I said I’d fight. You tell me when and where, and I’ll be there. Personally, I think the effort will fail. I intend to spend as much time as I have left with my daughter.” He stopped and glared at Burly. “Does this operation even have a name?’

Burly looked startled, then flustered. “Yeah,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s Operation Mongoose.”

“Oh yes,” Atcho said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Well don’t be surprised if this time the cobra eats the mongoose.” He turned and left Burly speechless among a small band of men, and strode deeper into the marsh.

“Let me talk to him,” Juan told Burly. When he caught up with Atcho, the two friends walked in silence. At last Juan spoke. “Are you going straight to your sister’s house?” Atcho grunted affirmatively. “Has it occurred to you that this might be a trap?”

“Of course! I’ll be careful!” More silence.

“Do you realize that if it is a trap, Isabel might not be there?”

Atcho whirled on him. “Do you know that if there is the slightest chance of saving my daughter, that’s what I’ll do?” His face was distorted in fury. “Juan, if you have something to say, say it!”

“Atcho,” Juan said steadily. “Don’t treat me like this. I don’t deserve it.”

Atcho sucked in his breath. “You’re right, Juan. What’s your point?”

“Just this. You spoke about security back there. Now you’re running off with no confirmation or support, leaving an organization to flounder when you could help. Isabel might be at your sister’s house or she might not be. We can check that out.” He paused, and then continued. “We might save Cuba, or fail. One thing is certain. We won’t succeed if we don’t give it all we’ve got.” He placed a strong hand on Atcho’s shoulder. “Go, if you must, my friend. I, of all people, know what you’ve been through, and will never think less of you, whatever you decide.”

A lump formed in Atcho’s throat. “Please, Juan. I need to be alone.” Juan nodded, then turned down the path towards the bungalow.

Atcho sat under a tree and remained there while shadows lengthened and the sun slid down the western sky. Outwardly impassive, his mind and emotions wrestled with conflicting desires and responsibilities. Why has Isabel been returned now? If she really is safe …

In late afternoon, he walked into the bungalow. Guerrilla leaders, seated in a circle, eyed him with awe and encouragement. Realization dawned that by now, every man in the room knew his story. Burly stood off to one side, eyeing him uncertainly. Atcho walked over to him and held out his hand. “I apologize,” he said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Burly stared at him expressionlessly. The men in the room stirred uneasily. Then he stepped close to Atcho, threw his arm around his neck and drew his head down. “You snot-nosed kid,” he said. “I said you shouldn’t get too much respect.” He grinned, and as the others breathed a collective sigh of relief, he whispered to Atcho. “I told you I would help anytime. Count on it.”

Atcho gave him a friendly punch in his ribs, then turned to the group. “Amigos,” he said brusquely. “I am here to help.” Amid warm greetings and encouraging slaps on the back, he raised his hands for quiet. “I have two stipulations. First, I’ll use my own organization to confirm that my daughter is safe. Second, for two weeks, I’ll oversee the planning in all areas mentioned this morning. At that point, assuming I receive confirmation of Isabel’s safety, Juan will represent me while I visit my child for a week. If the invasion begins during that time, I’ll travel directly to battle and link up with you there. Any questions or objections?”

There were none.

Atcho threw himself into his duties with an unaccustomed light heart, and anticipated the day he would leave for Camaguey. He imagined hugging his tiny daughter, then playfully holding her in the air. That alone was worth the fight.

Four days later, his messenger returned from Camaguey. For a day and a half, the man had sat, unobserved, on a hill above Raissa’s house. He had watched Isabel playing in the yard, and saw Raissa and her husband moving about the house. There was no evidence that they were being guarded or coerced. Using extreme caution, Atcho should be able to visit his daughter at a time of his choosing.

5

Two weeks later, Atcho sat on the hill overlooking Raissa’s house. Five men hid in a nearby stand of trees, armed and prepared for action.

Isabel, in pink dress and pinafore, played outside. As she ran through tall grass after a red ball, her dark hair swirled about her shoulders. Seeing again how much she looked like her mother, Atcho felt fresh anguish. A crash of thunder shook him from his reverie. Despite the urge to rush down and embrace his daughter, he restrained himself. Dusk now seemed the best time to approach the house.

His mind wandered. For the past two weeks, he had carefully overseen the resistance organization’s planning and training, yet even now, he worried about its preparedness. He recalled his last conversation with Juan. “They’re not even close to ready,” Atcho had said.

“We knew that would be the case when we started,” Juan had replied. “They’ll do what they can, and conduct themselves well. And they’ll be more effective because of your help.”

Atcho had given Juan a long, respectful look. “Thank you, my friend, for everything. I would not have survived without you.”

“The privilege is mine, Atcho. Take care of yourself and your daughter. I’ll see you in a week.” With a warm handshake, they had bear-hugged and bid each other farewell.

Atcho scanned the horizon. Dark clouds had gathered and were gaining size and altitude. A steady breeze blew dust over open fields, and a few scattered showers were visible across the landscape. Moments later, heavy rain hit the ground, and Isabel ran into the house.

In his hiding place, Atcho felt for the pistol in his coat pocket. He stepped out where he could see one of his fighters, waved, and received a return signal. His men were ready. He looked at the sky again. Lightning shot out of angry clouds. Thunder rumbled as darkness descended.

Still disguised as a peasant, Atcho stepped onto the road. His heart beat faster as he came within twenty yards of the house. Through a window, he saw Raissa working over the kitchen sink. She looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes. Atcho remembered the sparkle they had once had. She looked up and saw him, and a horrified expression crossed her face.

Alarmed, Atcho increased his speed, but moved into shadows. His men followed.

Raissa disappeared from the window and reappeared momentarily, carrying Isabel. Her husband joined her. She squinted into the shadows, and catching his movement, pointed out Atcho. Behind them loomed a fourth, unfamiliar figure. Then they left the window.

Atcho’s senses sharpened. He heard a Jeep’s engine. The other figure must have been from G-2! Pulling the pistol from his jacket, he ran for cover, away from the house.

Moments later, from his vantage point behind low bushes, Atcho watched in disbelief as a Jeep sped from around the house and down the road. A cold wind struck him. Ominous, rolling thunder echoed across open fields.

One of Atcho’s men crept up beside him. “What happened?” he asked.

Atcho shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “My sister saw me, and then someone I don’t know appeared. Did you see who was in the Jeep?”

“No, it was too dark. I’ll take a couple of guys and check out the house. We’ll signal when it’s safe.”

A few minutes later, the man waved an all-clear sign. Atcho left his position and walked around the house, up the front steps and into the sitting room. The place was empty.

An envelope lay on the kitchen table, one single word scrawled on its surface in an unfamiliar hand: ‘Atcho’. He tore it open.

The invasion will fail, the note read. Planning and coordination are incredibly poor, and the United States does not have the political will to win. This island belongs to the Soviet Union. And you, Atcho, belong to me.

Captain Govorov

6

With a roar, Atcho splintered a wooden chair across the kitchen table. Watching from the dining room, his men exchanged nervous glances. They had never seen their leader like this. He stood in the middle of the room, head and shoulders drooping, arms and hands limp at his side. Finally, he leaned against the window, motionless.

Outside, the late afternoon had grown even more dark and ominous, with claps of thunder and jagged lightning. Atcho’s men kept a watchful eye through the windows.

The wind moaned against the house, rattled windows, and howled through crevices. Still, Atcho made no move. More than two hours passed before he strode through the room, neither looking nor speaking to anyone. Flinging the door open, he walked into the stormy night. Two men started after him, but were restrained by another with a shake of his head.

At the other end of the yard, Atcho leaned with his back against a wind-lashed oak tree. Rain fell in tempest-driven sheets drenching him to his bones, but he took no notice. Gusts whipped hair into his face and cold water poured down through his collar onto his back. Lightning stabbed roiling thunderclouds overhead. Then the storm hurled a shaft of flame down, striking the top of the tree. A large branch fell, landing next to him in a mass of drenched leaves.

Atcho’s mind turned to cold calculation. Govorov! The words of the Russian’s note were engraved on his mind. And you, Atcho, belong to me!

He went over the events of the last few hours. Obviously, his sister and her husband had been threatened, otherwise they would not have acted as they did. Whoever had been guarding his family had rushed away, with no attempt to trade Atcho’s freedom for that of his daughter. He feared that Isabel might be placed in hiding again. The question Juan had posed to him came to mind again: Where would you look? And what is the intent?

No gunfire had been exchanged. And, as in the first encounter, there had been no attempt to pursue. Disrupting his resistance organization could be accomplished without involving a Soviet captain or kidnapping an innocent child. Something Govorov said the night of the firefight tugged at Atcho’s mind. What you look like is what we wanted to know.

“But why?” he asked aloud. “What can possibly be so important about me to go to such lengths? And how did they connect Eduardo and Atcho in the first place? “Govorov,” he murmured. “Hijo de puta! What do you want from me?”

Finally, the storm passed and with it, most of the clouds. Lifting his head, Atcho saw stars glimmering in the rain-washed night. He turned and looked at the house. It was dark. His men were still there, and one or two pairs of their eyes probably watched him closely.

He walked toward a high knoll not far from where he stood. When he reached the top, starlight revealed the blackened ruins of his boyhood home. The mansion lay in desolation, bricks and timber scattered in ghostly piles.

He looked beyond the house to the ruins of a long, low building that had once housed his father’s prize horses. Then his gaze swept over the weed-infested sugar cane fields where laborers had toiled and he had raced with his father on horseback.