The Atcho Conspiracy Read online

  THE ATCHO CONSPIRACY

  Lee Jackson

  Other Thrillers by Lee Jackson

  Learn more about Atcho, get freebies, and be among the first to hear of new releases by signing up for Lee’s New Releases Newsletter at

  Get Updates

  Don't worry about being spammed, I'll be the only person sending email. I do that personally, and only a few times a year when there's something new and noteworthy to share.

  To my wife and best friend, Barbara:

  “Ah Fifi.”

  And, to my father-in-law, the real-life Atcho:

  Your courage was inspiring.

  Contents

  Major Characters

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Thank you for Reading!

  Rasputin’s Legacy

  Other Thrillers By Lee Jackson

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Major Characters

  Code Name: Atcho

  Actual Name: Eduardo Xiquez

  Alias 1: José – Poses as own messenger

  Alias 2: Tomas – Identity to US Intelligence

  Alias 3: Manuel Lezcano – Prison identity

  Isabel

  Atcho’s daughter

  Juan

  Atcho’s best friend and deputy

  Govorov

  KGB Intelligence officer

  Paul Clary

  US Air Force Intelligence officer

  Burly

  CIA officer

  Rafael

  Cuban invasion force officer

  Jujo

  Leader inside prison on Isle of Pines

  Sofia Stahl

  Secretary at US Interests’ Section in Swiss Embassy in Havana

  Mike Rogers

  Senior Secret Service Agent

  Ivan

  KGB Officer

  Prologue

  Havana, New Year’s Eve, 1959

  Cuban President Fulgencio Baptista flees the country in the face of an armed insurrection. Five days later, Fidel Castro enters Havana with Ché Guevara, and seizes power. Though he is initially greeted with an outpouring of popular support, Cubans soon learn that they have traded one dictator for another. Hailed as a liberator, Castro demonstrates cruelty and tyranny that eclipses any known before on this island. Within a year, resistance groups spring up around Cuba. They are led by patriots who are largely inexperienced but fearless in the cause of restoring freedom to Cuba.

  One of these patriots is a man of unusual qualifications. The few who know him call him Atcho.

  1

  Cuba, December 1960

  Atcho slouched against a wall, alone in a small plaza illuminated by the dim yellow light of a single street lamp. His eyes probed the surrounding darkness. His fine, aristocratic features were hidden behind a week’s growth of unkempt beard, while his normally well-groomed hair fell in shaggy brown locks below his ears.

  Since state security police, the milicianos, had never seen Atcho, at least not as himself, they knew him only by reputation. Tonight, they expected his messenger.

  Atcho’s ears strained for sounds of approach. His powerful frame ached to be released from its tense stance.

  In the light of the streetlamp, his silhouette stood out, an easy target. From behind a nearby wall, the first glimmer of the moon tinged the edge of the sky as it began its ascent. Soon, it would cast its ghostly glow about the square.

  Screeching tires broke the silence. Atcho shrank further into his loose-fitting clothes. He checked the inside of his left calf for the razor-sharp hunting knife strapped there. His face melted into dull callowness. His eyes became vacuous. He looked like a crude country peasant, nothing more.

  His mind raced as two Jeeps drove into view and stopped several yards away, spotting him in their headlights. Muscles tensed. Keep control. His heart pounded, and his temples pulsed. He felt adrenaline surge, but his face showed no expression.

  The driver of the first Jeep opened his door and stepped out. “Are you José?”

  Atcho shuffled away from the wall and moved forward, shoulders drooping. “Yes. I am José.” They spoke in Spanish.

  “Do you have something to tell me?”

  “Do you have a package for me?”

  The driver shoved him. “Just tell me the message.”

  “My boss says I have to get a package first.”

  The driver delivered a brutal punch directly into Atcho’s belly. Atcho rolled with the blow and sank to the ground in pain. “Why did you do that? I’ll be happy tell you. But my boss will kill me if I don’t get the package.”

  The driver’s boot connected with Atcho’s chin, sprawling him across the ground between the Jeeps. He squatted by Atcho’s head. “You are going to tell us, or …” Leaving the threat unspoken, he grabbed Atcho by the hair and jerked his face close.

  “I’m dead if I don’t bring the boss what I came for.”

  “What’s in the package?”

  “He says I’ll know it when I see it.”

  The driver studied him, and then motioned with his hand. Two men stepped from the first Jeep. The driver conferred with one, a lieutenant, while the other stood guard over Atcho. When they parted, the driver squatted next to Atcho’s head while the lieutenant moved back toward the second Jeep. “Soften him up a bit while I speak to the captain.”

  Atcho’s guards relished their task. They pistol-whipped him, threw him to the ground, and pounded his head and body with kicks. Then, they stood him up, and while one held him from the rear, the other punched his face over and over. Pain seared as more blows fell, first to his face, then to his stomach. When he dropped to the ground, they continued kicking.

  Atcho offered no resistance.

  The passenger door opened. The man from the first Jeep leaned inside, talking to the captain.

  Through eyes swollen nearly shut, Atcho watched a glow of a cigarette from deep within the dark interior. Lying spread-eagle in the dust, he was unable to make out anything else.

  Dogs in the neighborhood, hearing the sounds of violence, barked madly. Nearby doors creaked on their hinges, and then softly thumped as they closed. The people are afraid.

  The moon had risen high into the sky and bathed the area in cold, white light, sharply contrasting buildings against their own shadows. Atcho craned his pain-racked head to watch the second vehicle. The G-2 milicianos spoke quietly by the Jeep.

  Apparitions floated before Atcho’s eyes. Columns of cadets in gray uniforms marched by. His wife appeared, arms outstretched, eyes longing for t
he child she would never see. Then, dancing flames in cold moonlight consumed the pale figures of his parents.

  He felt himself waning and shook his head, fighting to stay awake. Cruel visions continued, immersing him in waves of grief.

  Pain reminded him of his mission. He concentrated his attention on the second Jeep. The glow from inside was again visible. Occasionally, a ghost of a face peered through the windshield, then faded into the black interior.

  Voices murmured, low and undulating. The shorter, sharper responses of the man next to the Jeep indicated the authority of the man inside. Believing Atcho incapacitated, the guards ignored him.

  Atcho reached alongside his leg. The knife was there, cold and hard, the leather sheath pressing against his skin. He edged the knife from its sheath with his fingertips and inched it up under his body.

  A noise halted his movement. The Jeep door swung open. The dark figure of the captain emerged. He was tall and wore a dark civilian overcoat and slouch hat. He strode toward Atcho, grabbed a lock of hair, and yanked Atcho’s head into the light, staring into Atcho’s beaten eyes. Then, he dropped Atcho’s face into the dirt.

  Barely conscious, Atcho could not see the captain’s features. He watched the officer walk back to the vehicle and swing into the passenger’s seat, hissing to the lieutenant too low to make out the words. Then the Jeep door closed, and the engine cranked to life.

  Atcho’s heart pounded. He fought desperately to sit up.

  The lieutenant moved toward him. “You are fortunate.” He spoke in menacing tones. “Captain Govorov let you live. For a while. You get to enjoy our company—until you tell us what we want to know.”

  “I’ll tell you.” Atcho gasped. “Right now. Please don’t hurt me again.” He watched the lieutenant, who waved his hand. The Jeep’s engine cut off.

  Silence settled over the night. The moon looked down, uncaring.

  “All right, coward,” the lieutenant said. “Tell us.”

  “Give me the package. Atcho will think I lied if I don’t bring it to him. He’ll kill me. You’ll have nothing.”

  At the mention of the name, the lieutenant’s face became hard. His mocking tone ebbed. “How will you know it’s the right package?”

  “I’ll know.”

  The lieutenant looked thoughtful, then walked to the captain’s Jeep. More conversation took place.

  Captain Govorov’s tall, lean figure stepped out again. He carried a bundle. His face in shadows, he strode to Atcho and leaned over. When he straightened, a much smaller figure stood beside him—Atcho’s four-year-old daughter.

  The lieutenant spoke. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  Eyes shielded from the light by one hand, Atcho rasped, “I can’t see her face.”

  Govorov shoved the tiny girl forward. The lieutenant shined a flashlight in her face. “Is this what you came for?”

  Atcho nodded weakly.

  The child began to cry. “I want my Papá.”

  The captain swept her over his shoulder and started toward the Jeep. The lieutenant leaned over Atcho. “Where is Atcho? Give us the message.”

  Atcho made no move.

  The lieutenant prodded with his boot.

  Atcho still made no reply.

  The lieutenant kicked him.

  Atcho let loose a furious cry that burned through the night. He lunged from the ground and buried his knife deep in the lieutenant’s chest.

  The night exploded with gunfire. The driver and guard of the first vehicle dropped to the pavement, lifeless. The driver of the second Jeep cranked the engine, and then slumped as the windshield shattered in his face.

  Govorov held the little girl close. Turning, he stared at the lieutenant’s corpse. It lay in a pool of blood.

  Atcho crouched next to the body, ready to strike again.

  The captain produced a pistol from the folds of his coat. He held it next to Isabel’s temple. The firing stopped.

  He regarded the ring of men forming around him and gestured with the pistol at Isabel’s head. “Atcho,” he crooned.

  Hatred burned from Atcho’s eyes, his muscles tensed to pounce.

  “It is you.” Govorov spoke fluent Spanish.

  Atcho made no reply.

  The captain mocked. “It is you.” He sighed. “I still don’t know what you look like. That was my mission. You’re a bloody mess. I should have instructed the lieutenant better.”

  Atcho circled in a half crouch. His legs wobbled. He shook his head to clear it. If he attacked, Isabel would die. If he did not, he might never see her again. He loosened the grip on his knife.

  The captain shrugged. “If I shoot you” he chuckled, “one of your men would put a bullet in my head, your little girl be damned.” He peered at Atcho. “You’re too valuable to discard. So, you live. And we’ll meet again—I have your daughter.”

  He moved to the Jeep and yanked the dead driver into the dirt. Pulling Isabel onto his lap, he sat behind the wheel. With a grind of gears, he drove into the night.

  Atcho watched the Jeep disappear. Then, he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

  Four days earlier

  Atcho hacked down sugarcane with a machete. His best memories came from racing on horseback with his father through these rows of sugarcane during harvest, while field hands swung their sharp tools.

  Chaos had ruled since Fidel Castro’s coup. Weeks ago, the new dictator worried about losing the crop and ordered all citizens into the fields to bring it in.

  Atcho looked along the row of laborers to his right, hoping none recognized him. Sweat streamed from his brow. Blisters swelled his hands.

  A tall, lean man headed his way, one of his fighters in the counterrevolution. He would take his time making his way to Atcho.

  Atcho returned to cutting. Minutes passed. Then the man moved next to him. They did not talk, but when they were close enough, the man handed Atcho an envelope and moved on, continuing to harvest.

  Without drawing attention, Atcho went to an area in the scrub brush that laborers used as a latrine. In this pungent, stifling air, he had a little privacy.

  The envelope contained two sheets of paper. One was a letter from his sister Raissa, who had been caring for his little daughter. Atcho read it and froze.

  Dear Eduardo, Isabel has been taken. Milicianos came to the house. They know you’re alive. And, they know your code name. They said if you want to see her again, to turn yourself in. I didn’t tell them anything.

  In a daze, Atcho reread the letter, noting smudge marks where Raissa’s tears had landed. He read the second note. The first line startled him.

  Eduardo Xiquez (alias Atcho)

  It instructed him to surrender to the milicianos headquarters in Havana within a week. Failure meant never seeing his daughter again.

  Approaching footsteps warned that someone else intended to use the area. Thrusting the papers into his pocket, he assumed the attitude of a peasant comrade and went back to his position in the field. As soon as he could, he left.

  Atcho’s gut wrenched with fear for his daughter—he had seen little boys led away to face firing squads. How can they know I’m alive?

  Turning himself in was not an option—that placed others’ lives in danger.

  That evening, Atcho showed the letters to Juan Ortiz, his best friend. “I don’t know how they found out,” Juan said, “but you can’t be impulsive.”

  Atcho whirled on him. “We have to get my daughter back.”

  Juan had helped devise the plan that brought them and four of their best fighters to this empty plaza on this night.

  The young guerrilla leader lay motionless in the dust. The cold face of the moon continued its impassive observation.

  2

  For two weeks, Atcho lay in bed, inhabiting a space between coma and consciousness. In his clouded mind, he cried out for his daughter. She reached for him in his dreams, whimpering in a toddler’s voice, “I want my Papá.” Her dark, matted locks framed a terrified
oval face.

  In his nightmares, Atcho reached back, only to see a sinister hand snatch Isabel away while he agonized over the flaws in his failed plan. He had endangered her life by exposing her to gunfire. I should have turned myself in. Those who would suffer if information was tortured from him could fend for themselves. But Isabel is helpless. Faces of people he might betray passed before him, some accusing, some understanding. The ghostly image of his father in US combat gear drifted in and out.

  As Atcho’s body healed, his mind reached toward consciousness and new questions. How did the milicianos connect Atcho to Eduardo? Who else knew he had survived the fire? Where did Govorov fit in? I never thought about the Soviets.

  He felt sweat, suffocation, oppression. Pain. Pain in his left hand. He looked at it, blurry and wrapped in bandages. He brought it closer to his face, realizing dimly that he was awake.

  Turning to one side, sharp pain surged through Atcho’s neck and spine. An anesthetic odor met his nostrils. Nausea welled in his throat. Through a narrow window, the moon, now only a sliver, continued its expressionless surveillance.