CURSE THE MOON (3 page)

A delicate pink face with wide blue eyes stared back at him. The baby yawned, then smiled fleetingly. Thrusting a tiny hand into the air, she waved it about. Atcho’s heart melted. Through tears of sorrow and joy, he slipped his hand over the baby’s. She squeezed her father’s thumb.

A thrill seized Atcho. He reached down with both arms, and lifted the infant. Cradling her, he buried his face in the blankets. “My Isabel,” he whispered.

Lying on the bed watching the whirring of the overhead fan, Atcho tried to block the memories, and then he dozed. In mid-afternoon, Juan shook him gently. “Lieutenant Clary is here.”

Atcho’s eyes blinked open. With Juan’s help, he sat up and composed himself. Then Juan opened the door to a blue-uniformed lieutenant. The man came to the end of the bed and stood, waiting, toying with his service cap.

Atcho regarded him dispassionately. “What can I do for you?”

“Señor. I have something that might be of value to you.” He spoke in broken Spanish, with a distinctly American accent.

“Well, what is it?”

The lieutenant reached inside his jacket. Pulling out a long envelope embossed with the seal of the U.S. Embassy, he handed it to Atcho. “My boss said to give this to no one but you.”

Atcho opened the envelope and a small photograph fell into his hand. Isabel! Her wide, blue eyes were fearful, and her dark hair falling about her shoulders was dirty and unkempt. A newspaper, dated the same day as the firefight, sat prominently on a table in front of her.

Forgetting pain, Atcho struggled to his feet. “Where did you get this?” he demanded.

The young officer, mouth agape, backed up to the wall. “My boss, Major Richards, tried to bring it to you last week, but was told you were too sick. He left for Washington today and told me to bring it.”

“Is that true?” Atcho looked at Juan.

Juan nodded. “Major Richards did ask to see you last week.” He took the photograph. Wearily, Atcho bent his head. The lieutenant watched in silence.

“Why couldn’t you have given this to me?” Juan looked at the lieutenant.

“I don’t know. Major Richards told me to give it to no one but Señor Tomas. I was not informed of its contents.”

“How did Major Richards get it?”

“There was a firefight a couple of weeks ago. U.S. personnel scoured the site, which was already picked over by G-2. Major Richards said the contents of the envelope were found among broken glass and shells from a Russian pistol.”

Atcho relaxed. Señor Tomas was his alias when communicating directly with the U.S. Embassy or the CIA. No one in either organization knew of Tomas’s relationship to Atcho; at least, no one was supposed to.

Atcho scrutinized the man. “Why are you in Cuba, Lieutenant?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why are you here? The United States is leaving.”

“That’s right. Most high security apparatus and personnel have left. I remained to close out and transfer routine channels to our Interests Section at the Swiss Embassy.”

Atcho mulled over the lieutenant’s words. “Have you heard of a Russian, Captain Govorov, in Havana?” The lieutenant looked sheepish. Atcho and Juan watched him closely.

“The answer is yes and no,” Lieutenant Clary said at last. “Keeping track of Soviets in Cuba is part of my job. We’ve had reports from several places about such a person, but we’ve never seen him. He’s not on any of our official lists.”

Atcho sat deep in thought. Finally, he asked, “Why did Major Richards think it so urgent that I receive this?”

The officer shrugged. “Apparently the daughter of someone in your organization was kidnapped. When that photo showed up at the site of the firefight, Major Richards thought there might be a connection.”

“Have you seen the photo?”

“No, sir,” Clary responded slowly. “Only the major and soldiers inspecting the site saw the items found there, but it was fairly common knowledge that it was a picture of a small girl.”

Atcho looked sharply at him. “You said you were not informed of the envelope’s contents.”

“I was not officially informed.”

“Why should the photograph be important to us?”

Exasperation showed in Clary’s face. His obsequious manner had disappeared, replaced by cunning. “You’ll have to ask Major Richards.”

Atcho silently studied him. “Good idea,” he replied evenly. “Meanwhile, we’ll hold you here until your story checks out.”

“You can’t do that!” Clary protested vehemently. “My flight leaves tomorrow. My superiors will be looking for me.”

“Lieutenant, I don’t see that we have a choice. You’ve learned too much about our organization. We can’t turn you loose without checking.”

“What do I know?” the lieutenant stormed. “That you’re Tomas and he’s Juan? And you’re both paranoid over a picture of a little girl? I don’t even know why your organization exists!”

“You knew enough to contact us,” Atcho replied flatly. “And you know that this photo evokes a strong reaction. This isn’t personal. If our roles were reversed, you’d take similar precautions.” He turned to Juan. “See that he’s guarded and comfortable. And contact Major Richards immediately for verification.”

Juan nodded and motioned the lieutenant to the door. Lieutenant Clary glared at Atcho. “Don’t worry,” Atcho said. “If everything checks out, we’ll see you delivered into safe hands.” He paused. “Of course, if it doesn’t … ”

Juan ushered Clary out of the room. His suffering forgotten, Atcho watched the door close.

Moments later, Juan re-entered the room. “Clary’s under guard, and we’ve sent a message to the Embassy that he’s here. Of course we didn’t tell them we were keeping him against his will. The wire to Richards is on its way to Washington.” They discussed the lieutenant’s change of expression. “I noticed the personality change too,” Juan said. “It seemed abrupt. I’d be careful with him.”

“Juan, a Russian captain somehow connected Eduardo Xiques Rodriguez de Arciniega to Atcho. Only you, Raissa, and her husband know that they are the same person. Now an American lieutenant makes a deliberate point of bringing a photograph to me personally. It could have been delivered through other channels, with less risk.”

They sat quietly, and then Juan interrupted the stillness. “Atcho, we should also consider that Clary said the Major instructed him to bring the envelope to Señor Tomas. If true, he can’t be blamed for following orders, and at personal risk. Maybe he’s entitled to anger at being detained.”

“Good point Juan, but his outburst began before I gave that order. It was such a radical departure from the personality we first saw. I’m telling you, Juan, he’s faking something. You met both Clary and Richards before. Do you think we can trust them?”

Juan shrugged. “I don’t know Major Richards well, but I don’t have any reason to mistrust him. As for Clary, I don’t think he can hurt us. But keep in mind, we’ll have to pay attention to how the CIA and other friendly intelligence agencies react to our holding him.”

“I thought of that. Juan, he is the last and only link we have to Isabel. If there’s the slightest chance he knows more than he is saying, I want him close by.”

Juan placed a hand on Atcho’s shoulder. “Atcho, I doubt Clary knows anything. And we can’t be paranoid, seeing enemies where they don’t exist. I think the danger of alienating our friends is much greater. Paranoia might affect not only our ability to find Isabel, but also U.S. willingness to help us liberate Cuba.”

“For that matter,” Atcho said slowly, “I don’t understand why both the U.S. and the Soviets show such interest in me. Our group isn’t big enough to draw this much attention.” He returned to his current dilemma. “Look, Juan, all I want is confirmation that Lieutenant Clary followed Major Richards’ instructions. If the story checks out, he’ll be returned safely.”

“What if details are garbled in transmission?” Juan looked anxious. “Atcho, there is a better way. We’ll hold him overnight as planned. Several days might pass before we receive a reply from Major Richards. We can’t hold Clary that long. But we can let Richards and the CIA know if there is something wrong with his story. Tomorrow, shortly before he’s scheduled to fly out, we’ll escort Clary to the Embassy, and keep him under surveillance until flight time. That way, he won’t be able to relay information to anyone about us. We’ll close this place and move to a new hideout, so he’ll have no information to pass along.”

Atcho mulled the options. He did not trust Clary, but he agreed with Juan’s assessment. Juan looked at him seriously. “Atcho, you know you tend to be impulsive.”

Atcho jerked as if stung. Then, quietly, he acquiesced. “You’re right, my friend. We’ll follow your plan. Let Clary know.” Juan left the room.

Lying back in bed, Atcho covered his face with his hands. “Where are you, my little sweetheart?”

PART II

4

Atcho settled into the back of the old bread truck bumping its way over a narrow country road in the central province of Matanzas. He felt desolate. More than two months had passed since the firefight, and there had been no word of Isabel. He and Juan had paid a surreptitious visit to the plaza, but found nothing to suggest such an event took place.

Through the CIA, Atcho received confirmation of Lieutenant Clary’s story from Major Richards. “He might be overzealous in carrying out his duties,” the note read. “But I assure you he is harmless.” Atcho remained dubious.

Now, he and Juan were on their way to a meeting of underground leaders in a country house outside Jaguey Grande, a village near the southern coast. They were to help coordinate resistance groups supporting the coming U.S. invasion of Cuba, led by Miami-based exiles. Castro already expected the assault. And the CIA had airdropped armaments that had been stockpiled by the resistance, although coordination was poor, and tons were lost in dense swamp.

Atcho had not wanted to attend the meeting, but Juan prodded him. “No one else on the island has military education and training like yours,” he had said. “We need you.”

Juan was right. Atcho’s education at West Point was unequaled in Cuba, and so was his Ranger training. He glanced at Juan’s deeply tanned face, lined from strain. He tried to think of the meeting, but his mind traced back to Isabel’s plight. All other matters paled to insignificance.

Juan read his concern. “Others will be at the meeting who might help find Isabel,” he said reassuringly. He closed his eyes and slept while the van continued its bumpy ride. Atcho regarded his tanned, leathery face affectionately. He was about twenty years older than Atcho. When Atcho was a boy, he had revered Juan as the only man whose advice his father took without question. After the fire, he had become Atcho’s closest friend. “I owe you my life twice now,” he muttered softly. Juan did not stir. Atcho drifted off to sleep, where memories became nightmares.

Smoke billowed, ceilings collapsed, and timbers fell as flames leaped higher, greedily consuming the majestic structure that had been Atcho’s family mansion. A fiery serpent streaked across the carpeted floor toward his parents’ lifeless bodies, and he gagged at the smell of their burning flesh.

He tugged desperately against the large cabinet pinning his right leg to the floor. The deadly smoke that had overcome his parents now engulfed him. As flames reached for him, he cried out for Isabel.

Fire streaked closer, lashing within inches of his imprisoned leg. The tile floor under him radiated infernal heat. As smoke inhalation overcame him, only time stood between him and excruciating death.

A dark figure lumbered over him. Strong hands wrestled with the heavy cabinet until at last his leg was free. Then the dark figure seized Atcho under his arms and dragged him through a long hallway, past the kitchen. He felt himself hefted onto broad shoulders and carried down a flight of stairs into the cellar. A door in one corner stood ajar. The great lock that had secured it lay in its hasp on the floor. Panting with exertion, the dark figure struggled through the door and downward through an earthen tunnel until gradually the air became cooler. Atcho felt himself lowered to the ground. The light of a lantern shone down on him. A steadying hand settled on his shoulder and a thermos of cold water pressed against his parched lips. He drank deeply.

“You’re safe for the moment, Atcho.” The light shifted, and Atcho looked into the strong face of the plantation manager, Juan Ortiz.

“How is Isabel?” Atcho gasped. “And my sister?”

“They’re safe,” Juan replied. “They were at Raissa’s house when the fire started.”

“My parents?” Atcho already knew the answer. He had tried to get to them, but the heavy cabinet had crashed down on him, and when the smoke overcame them, they fell into flames.

In the weeks that followed, Atcho struggled with fresh grief. He recovered from the effects of smoke inhalation, and although his leg was sore, there were no broken bones. Juan believed that the fire had been started by peasants caught up with enthusiasm for Castro’s plan to redistribute private lands.

During Atcho’s convalescence, Juan convinced him to maintain the fiction of his death and talked about the growing resistance to Castro, of which Juan was a member. “Small organizations are forming all over the country,” Juan said. “We’ve started one here, but we’re leaderless. You could help.”

Atcho resisted. “I just want to get Isabel, and maybe Raissa and her husband, and go to the U.S.,” he said. “You could come too.”

Juan reacted angrily. “Cuba has given so much to you. You owe it to your country and your people to fight for freedom! Castro isn’t the first dictator here.” He paused, and then continued more fervently. “Do you think your father would shirk from defending his country?” Atcho felt stung. “Besides,” Juan went on, “If you try to leave, you’ll either be forced into a commission in Castro’s army, or go to prison. Face it, Atcho; in this country, you are a valuable commodity.”

After more heated discussion, Atcho acquiesced. “Good,” Juan said. “And we need to keep your identity secret. People think you’re dead. Let them think it. You can operate more freely. Your daughter and sister would be better protected. They won’t even have to move. We’ll use that nickname your father called you, the one you used at West Point.”