Killing Castro (9 page)

He didn’t know a hell of a lot about bombs. Neither did Turner, really, but Turner at least knew what was supposed to go into the thing and how it all worked. He had put together a list of materials for Señora Luchar, metal casing for the exterior, TNT for the charge, various other gimmicks and gizmos that ought to work. And Turner had done most of the work, drilling and sawing and fitting the casing, figuring out the right charge. Now they had two bombs almost completed. All that was needed was a few finishing touches and a strong heave in the right direction. And that would be that.

He wondered who the bomb would kill. Besides Castro, of course. God alone knew how much of a bomb they had. It could turn out to be the world’s greatest dud since Primo Carnera or it could blow half of Havana off the map, for all they could tell. They might get Fidel Castro. They might also get some of his soldiers, and some other politicians. And some people in the crowds, some women and children, some—

Hell. This wasn’t a game. He had a score to settle, had a slate to wipe clean. Joe was dead, damn it to hell, and Castro was going to get his, and if some poor clowns got in the way it was their tough luck. It was part of the game.

Like revolutionary justice?

Well, now.

He left the room. He was thinking too damned much and it was just getting him jumpy. Maybe Turner had the right idea—take it easy, do your job, keep your mouth shut, and go out in the streets and enjoy the sights. No thanks, he thought. Not yet. I’ll stay indoors right now, thank you.

He took a flight of stairs two at a time, walked through the kitchen to the living room. The Luchar dame was sitting in an easy chair reading a Cuban newspaper. She looked up at him.

“Your friend Turner went out,” she said. “How come you decided to stick around?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sit down,” she said. “Want coffee? Or maybe some lunch?”

He told her that sounded fine. She got up and he watched her leave the room. She spoke English with an American accent and this got him, got him good. It didn’t fit with the rest of her. Christ, she was straight out of
A Tale of Two Cities
, a twentieth-century Madame Defarge who didn’t know how to knit. She got to him, sometimes. Gave him the chills. He wasn’t sure why, but that was the way it worked.

She came back with a plate of
arroz con pollo
and a cup of steaming coffee. The chicken-and-rice dish was spicy, tasty. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

“Have you been back in Cuba long?” he asked her.

“Since the revolution won. Batista left and I came back. Why?”

“I just wondered,” he said. “Maybe you knew my brother.”

“He was here?”

He nodded. “His name was Joe,” he said. “Joe Hines.”

She looked thoughtful.

“You remember him?”

“I remember,” she said. “I didn’t know him, not person to person. I knew who he was, of course. Castro had him shot.”

He nodded bitterly.

“Of course,” she said. “I wondered why you were here. Revenge, the rest of it. Am I right?”

“Of course.”

“I see,” she said. She turned away slightly. “Well, one must have reasons. And the reasons matter only to the individual. It doesn’t make a bit of difference why you are here, only what you do here. The results are more important than the reasons.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Don’t you?”

“No,” he said, annoyed. “You use a lot of words but you don’t say a hell of a lot. What are you getting at?”

She smiled shallowly. “I told you. It does not matter.”

“It matters to me.”

She shrugged. “More
arroz con pollo?
There’s a whole pot of it on the stove.”

“No, thanks—”

“More coffee?”

“No,” he said. “Look, you’re trying to change the subject. I don’t want it changed.”

“Sometimes it’s a good idea.”

“Damn it!” He stood up, his hands balled into fists of tension at his sides. “Look, you’ve got something that you’re not telling me and I just don’t get it. I want to hear what it’s all about before I crack up. If you’ve got something to say, say it. Otherwise quit playing games with me!”

She smiled again, unnervingly. “So young,” she said. “When a man is so young everything is simple, true? Easy questions and easy answers. I wish I had learned how to lie to my friends. It is easy to lie to enemies. I cannot lie to friends.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that your brother was a traitor.”

He stared at her. She was crazy, that was all. She was some kind of a nut and he was wasting his time paying attention to her. She was out of her skull, off her rocker. She was batty.

“I am speaking the truth, Hines. But you don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to. Perhaps you shouldn’t believe me.”

“A traitor to Castro,” he said desperately. “He saw that Castro was ruining the country so he broke with him. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? He broke with Castro so Castro called him a traitor and had him shot. That’s it, huh? He was a traitor the same way you’re a traitor, because he wanted what was best for Cuba and—”

“No.”

The single syllable stopped him. He broke off, stared, lowered his eyes. For a long moment he stood looking at his shoes. Señora Luchar was still sitting in the easy chair, her eyes quiet. He sat down himself, with a great heaviness and looked at her.

“You’d better tell me all of it.”

“Would it serve a purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be an ass,” she said. “Don’t be a damn fool. Castro killed your brother and blood is thicker than principles. You still have to get your revenge. Joe Hines was still your brother and you still have to get revenge on the man who killed him. Why knock yourself out?”

“Tell me.”

“Listen—”

“Tell me!”

She sighed. “Your brother was a hero,” she said easily. “In the beginning in Oriente, he was a bearded hero with the rest of them. He fought like a hero and he laughed like a hero. And, with the rest of those bearded ones, he won. He marched into Havana with a gun on his belt and a gleam in his eye. He won, Hines.”

“I know all that.”

“But you don’t know the rest. He had his own ideas, your brother did. He saw riches all around, saw a whole nation which could be of use to him. He had these visions. He saw himself at the top of it all, running the country, with a host of grateful Cubans kissing his rump and telling him he was God. He fought with us, Hines, but he was not of us. He was an Anglo and wanted to take up that white man’s burden you all carry so selflessly. He wanted a batch of inferior Cubans smiling up at him and kissing his rump.”

“He wasn’t like that.”

“He became like that. He and two others organized a movement. A counter-revolutionary movement. They were not going to push out Castro because Castro was undemocratic. They were going to replace him because they wanted to have his power.”

Hines said nothing. He was numb.

“So Castro had him shot. And he deserved it, Hines. Your brother was no good. He started as a hero and ended as a traitor. Still, your revenge must be carried out. Blood is thicker than principles.”

“Joe—”

“Was a traitor.”

His eyes suddenly went wild and he sprang to his feet. “Damn you!” he shouted. “Do you think I’m going to believe something like that? Joe was my brother, you dried up bitch! He was a wonderful guy. He was a hero. He did wonderful things for your crummy country and you just want to look for rotten things to say about him. You—”

“Believe what you wish,” she said softly.

“What I wish? You think what I wish has a damn thing to do with it? I believe what I’ve got to believe, damn it. You can go to hell!”

She did not say a word. He stormed past her, pounded down the stairs to the basement room. He slammed a door, swung his fist against the wall, blinked his eyes at the pain. He walked to the bed, threw himself down on it, then stood up again. He punched his pillow, punched the wall again with his other hand, and sat once more on the bed.

Joe,
he thought.
Joe, where are you? Tell me about it, Joe. Tell me she’s a lying bitch. Tell me she’s handing me a load of crap. Please, Joe. I need you, Joe.

I miss you, Joe.

He stood up, sat down, stood up, sat down again. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying first to accept what the woman had told him, then trying not to believe it, torn constantly back and forth, torn in half.

He wanted to cry but he did not know how.

SIX

To All Who May Be Concerned

By this means it is announced that any person who furnishes information leading to a successful operation against any rebel nucleus commanded by Fidel Castro, Raul Castro, Crescencio Perez, Guillermo Gonzalez, or any other leader, will be rewarded in accordance with the importance of the information, with the understanding that it will never be less than $5,000. This reward will vary from $5,000 to $100,000, the highest amount, that is, $100,000, being payable for the head of Fidel Castro.

Note: The name of the informer shall never be revealed.

This notice appeared throughout Cuba. It was posted in every section of Oriente Province, tacked to tree upon tree, nailed to fence post after fence post. Batista was growing desperate; the head of Fidel Castro was now easily worth one hundred thousand dollars to him. Castro had returned to Cuba. He headed a tiny rebel band which grew in numbers every day, a band which caused the throne of the dictator to tremble.

The
Gramma
was a yacht owned by an American named Erickson who lived in Mexico City. In early 1956 Colonel Alberto Bayo had begun training Castro’s troops on a Mexican ranch, leading them in forced marches, instructing them in combat techniques, guerrilla warfare, compressing into a three-month period all the training they would have received in three years at a military academy. By November of ’56 Castro was ready. Comrades bought the
Gramma
from Erickson and Castro filled the ship with his eighty-two soldiers and all the arms at their disposal. The loading was conducted in secret at Tuxpan, a river port in Vera Cruz. On November 25th the ship set sail, cruising down the Rio Tuxpan to the Gulf of Mexico, heading eastward for Oriente Province and war with Batista.

While Castro was at sea, underground forces launched an uprising in Santiago. Batista replied by suspending all civil rights in the eastern sectors of the island, sending tank battalions to Oriente to crush the rebellion. Castro was sailing into the mouth of hell. Batista knew he was coming, knew the revolt he planned. Yet the
Gramma
landed on December 2 and Castro’s forces disappeared into the hills.

The revolution was in progress.

It was a new sort of revolution. The first order of business was that of survival, an impossible enough task at the beginning. The government troops were everywhere, rooting out rebels and crushing them by sheer weight of numbers. Of Castro’s original landing party of eighty-two men, only twenty-two managed to stay alive. And ten of those were captured, leaving a band of twelve to carry on the revolution in the hills. Could twelve men topple a tyrant? It seemed to be a question not worth answering, a thorough impossibility.

But Batista was afraid, and had good reason to be. His answer was terror and repression, terror which had to be witnessed to be believed. His air force crossed the hills of Oriente time and time again, strafing fields at random on the off chance that rebels lay hiding there. His soldiers roamed Oriente, arresting peasants at will on charges of aiding Castro. Men and women were murdered. Peasants were tortured by the score in an attempt to gain information about Castro.

Terror was a poor weapon. Peasants who had given no thought to politics now saw Castro’s men on one side, brave and honest, paying for food and shelter. And on the other side were Batista’s mercenaries, taking what they wanted, looting, raping and slaughtering. These peasants listened to Castro’s promises of agrarian reform, heard him speak of liberty and freedom. The twelve ragged rebels grew in number. New recruits swelled their ranks, and peasants throughout Oriente were ready to feed and hide them from the government soldiers.

The spirit of rebellion which Castro had started in the hills soon spread to the cities. Underground cells sprang into being, harassing Batista’s men and gathering ammunition and supplies for the rebels in the east. A band of Havana students fearlessly attempted to assassinate Batista; the plot misfired and the assassins were machine-gunned outside the palace. The dictator grew increasingly desperate. His secret police made midnight arrests, and citizens vanished into jails and died there. Libertarian newspapers were suspended from publication. Their editors were tortured, murdered.

Castro could not be crushed. His men put the full techniques of guerrilla warfare into operation, striking, running and living to strike again. They sucked raw sugar cane to stay alive. They threw away their razors, vowing to remain unshaven until the revolution was a reality. The full beard became the emblem of liberty, and the public saw the
barbudos
—the bearded ones—as a new generation of freedom fighters, a race of supermen.

Batista’s wave of terror could not defeat Fidel Castro. The healthy revolution feeds on terror, thrives on it. Every act of repression wins support for the men who are fighting to overthrow the oppressor. Still, the terror of the dictator served a purpose.

It did not defeat Castro. But it began to change him.

It is not easy to fight a clean fight against an opponent who fights dirty. It is no simple matter to observe the Marquess of Queensberry rules in a contest with one who is trying to gouge your eyes and plant a knee in your groin. The temptation is always present to fight fire with fire, to greet terror with new terror.

Castro did this. There is still the question whether he ever intended to fight any other way. After all, many of his followers had been Communists for some time. Many of them had spent time in Russia and had learned Communist tactics there.