CURSE THE MOON (16 page)

They followed a route going directly east, and then turned north onto the M4, one of the main arteries leading into the city of Moscow. Two hours later, gleaming in slanting sunlight, Moscow’s unmistakable spires and turrets appeared in the distance.

Soon the automobile crossed over the great Moscow River that wound through the southwestern side of the city. The road widened, and the sedan joined traffic heading into the throbbing heart of the communist world.

Atcho leaned forward and tried to glimpse landmarks he had seen in pictures as a child. Those same images had decorated many books in the library at the training facility. He gasped at the vast scale of Red Square, and the multi-colored beauty of St. Basil’s Cathedral.

Curious, he observed the populace. They could be inhabitants of America, Cuba, or any other western country, he thought in surprise. They were short, tall, fat, thin, ugly, pretty. Their expressions ranged from distracted to friendly to angry. Harried mothers pushed baby carriages, while fathers guided them through traffic. Some people wore colorful clothing; others were ultra-conservative. Rushing in all directions, the degree of intensity on Russian faces indicated the importance of their individual errands.

One of Atcho’s escorts rolled down a window as they passed Lenin’s tomb. Foreboding gripped Atcho as his eyes followed the guard’s pointing finger. The resting place of the Father of the Socialist Revolution was plainly visible in the wall of a long building. Nearby were the sculpted images of Marx, Lenin, and Stalin. Atcho stared coldly at them. Butchers, he thought. Stalin sent eighteen million Ukrainians to slaughter. How could such a beast still be revered as a national hero?

Pedestrians passed by their vehicle as it made its way along the river opposite the unmistakable red walls that seemed to stretch endlessly. Within, tall, polished gold domes of Russian Orthodox architecture gleamed in the sunlight. They challenged his previous perceptions of a cold and gray capital.

At a bridge, the car turned, and then proceeded along the front wall. Atcho stared in stony silence. This, he knew, was the Kremlin.

The colossal compound seemed to pulse with an unholy life of its own. He remembered pictures of terror-stricken people ground under Red Army tanks in Czechoslovakia. The orders, including those to dominate his beloved Cuba, had come from this very building. An almost irresistible urge to retaliate coursed through him. He set his jaw and prepared for whatever was to follow.

They continued past the Kremlin and down another avenue. The number of buildings of classical architecture surprised Atcho. He had not been prepared for that, in spite of the elegant cathedrals. A few blocks further along, another imposing building appeared. This one was yellow, and was set off from other buildings by wide streets. At its front was a garden, in the center of which was an enormous statue. One of the escorts saw Atcho studying it. “Felix Dzerzhinsky,” he grunted, “the sword of the state.” The pit in Atcho’s stomach expanded at the mention of the motto of the KGB – the Sword and Shield of the Party – and its notorious founder, personal murderer and torturer of thousands. Dzerzhinsky was a man who had overseen the banishment and deaths of millions.

They turned along the side of the building, and Atcho saw that it continued far down the street. Before reaching the corner, they turned again into what appeared to be an alley cut into the building, but turned out to be a tunnel that led underground. In spite of himself, Atcho grimaced. One of his escorts saw Atcho’s expression, “Welcome to the Lubyanka,” he said with a sarcastic laugh. “KGB Headquarters.”

When his escorts exited the vehicle, one man grasped Atcho’s arm, and they ushered him inside the building. They moved quickly down a short flight of stairs and followed a long hall. Halfway to the other end was a bank of elevators, one waiting with its door open. The escorts ushered Atcho brusquely inside. One of them pressed a button, and they descended into the bowels of the huge building, from which so many never ascended again.

The door opened and, with a man on each side, Atcho shuffled down a wide corridor with arched ceilings. They were dimly lit, and the paint seemed a faint lime green. Each time he appeared to lag, his escorts nudged him. At last they stopped before a door to the right of the hallway. They motioned Atcho inside and closed the door. He heard a click. He was alone, locked in this strange room with no windows. There were no furnishings except a table and a steel chair, facing a wall made entirely of smoked glass. The room was well lit, but a drape was drawn on the other side of the glass wall. He wondered what lurked there.

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.”