CURSE THE MOON (17 page)

“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 now 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.

“Death! Leave him!” a familiar voice commanded. “You have no business here!” The apparition disappeared. Atcho stared in wonder at the two figures still standing at the end of his cot. The voice was his father’s. The old man looked at his son through gentle eyes. “I’m proud of you, Atcho. Don’t stop now. Isabel still needs you.”

The other figure glided to the side of his cot, and in the dim, prison chamber, Atcho recognized his old companion Juan. “You’re doing fine, my friend,” Juan said. “Keep going.” He reached down to touch Atcho’s arm. Instinctively, Atcho reached for him, and a mouse scampered from a place on Atcho’s sleeve, where it had begun to nibble.

Atcho peered around the cell. He was alone. A sound caught his attention. Peering through the dim light, he saw the usual pests competing for his food. Suddenly ravenous, he crossed the floor and consumed the remaining scraps.

PART IX

21

Another week passed. Then, bright sunlight pierced Atcho’s eyes, as he and his companions staggered through the courtyard of the old fortress to a waiting van. Atcho was pleased to see Domingo and Pedro, but appalled at their skeletal appearance, shadows of even their emaciated states of six months ago. They greeted each other with weak smiles. I am so sorry, he wanted to tell them.

The prisoners had been awakened early in the morning, and the process they had gone through during their previous release to the Swiss Embassy was repeated. After breakfast, the guards provided them with showers and a change of clothing. As on the earlier occasion, they wore expressions of mixed hope and fear. Mindful of how easily freedom could be withdrawn, they regarded each other in silence.

After loading into the van, their guards drove them to the Swiss Embassy, and administrative personnel led them through the same doors and corridors they had seen six months before. This time, even while waiting for processing to be completed, they maintained their guard.

The conference room again filled with political prisoners anxious to leave Cuba. Atcho looked for Sofia, the secretary who had helped him contact Isabel. She was nowhere to be seen. Disappointed, he inspected himself in the mirror he had used previously, and was dismayed to see the toll exacted by his self-imposed starvation.

As before, Director Tilden entered the room. “I understand that you are part of the group whose departure was delayed,” he said. The gravity of his face expressed probable knowledge of their re-incarceration. “I am so sorry.”

A strained voice from the rear of the room called out, “How long will we wait this time?”

“You won’t,” the Director responded. “Let’s get you to Miami. Now! The bus is waiting.”

Still not trusting their good fortune, the former prisoners filed silently out of the United States’ Interests Section to a yard in the rear of the embassy. There, ever watchful for signs that this dream would end, they clambered aboard the bus. Atcho and Domingo sat next to each other.

No one spoke. The bus started up and drove through the decrepit streets of Havana. Each blackened hulk of classical architecture seemed an emblem of a proud history long gone.

They arrived at José Marti Airport and found a waiting chartered passenger jet on a secluded runway. The bus drove alongside the aircraft and stopped next to a portable stairway. The refugees, filled with anticipation and anxiety, climbed from the bus and almost ran to the plane. They took seats aboard the jet and waited quietly for takeoff.

Within minutes, the aircraft taxied down the runway and climbed into the sky. The captain’s voice came over the intercom. “Gentlemen, we have cleared Cuban airspace. We will land at Miami International Airport in twenty minutes.”

Silence.

The men looked at each other, afraid to believe. Then, a joyous roar surged through the aircraft as they leaped from seats in exuberant celebration. They laughed, jumped, hugged each other, cursed Castro, blessed the United States, kissed the floor, and danced in the aisle.

Atcho remained in his seat. Govorov had said that Isabel no longer believed him dead. Has someone let her know I’m alive? Will she meet me?

Govorov also said that the press, former members of the resistance, and West Point classmates would hear of his release. I don’t know how to meet those people, he thought. All that matters is Isabel – and she probably doesn’t want to meet me.

Domingo noticed Atcho sitting quietly. “Aren’t you excited?” He clapped Atcho on the shoulder.

Atcho shrugged. “It’s my daughter,” he said.

Concern overtook Domingo’s expression. “Won’t she be waiting for you?”

“I don’t know.” Atcho appreciated the man’s sympathy. “Until six months ago, she thought I was dead.”

Understanding, Domingo nodded.

Well, Atcho thought, so begins a life of half-truths and subterfuge with my own people.

Just then, the captain’s voice came over the intercom again. “Please take your seats and buckle your safety belts. We are preparing for final approach into Miami airport.”

A hush fell over the cabin as former prisoners looked at each other. Atcho leaned back and closed his eyes. His heart beat rapidly, and his palms were moist. He breathed deeply several times, and glanced through the window as the plane circled and began its final descent.

Moments later, the jet touched down, screamed to a standstill, then taxied slowly to the terminal. Atcho watched with interest as an exit ramp unfolded and extended from the terminal to the aircraft. What else is new in this modern world?

Heedless of the captain’s instructions, refugees sprang to their feet, jockeying to be first out of the aircraft. Then the door opened, and they poured through, eager to reunite with loved ones.

They found themselves in an empty part of the terminal except for a line of police officers that stood at each door. For an instant, anxiety clenched their stomachs and throats. Then, from far down the terminal, they heard cheering and saw a crowd of people waving from behind a police barricade. A small welcoming committee of three men wearing the traditional Cuban guyavera shirts came forward, shook their hands, and spoke to them in Spanish.