The Atcho Conspiracy Read online

  A chair scraped. A door opened. Men whispered. Someone walked into the room and looked down at Atcho.

  “Are you awake?” The voice was soft, familiar.

  Atcho forced his eyes open.

  “It’s me. Juan. Do you understand me?”

  Atcho had only one thought. “Isabel?” His voice was scratchy, whispery.

  Juan looked grave.

  Atcho struggled to ask again. “Isabel?”

  Juan continued looking grave and did not speak.

  Atcho lay motionless. A slowly rotating ceiling fan cast its shadow across dingy white walls. He moved his lips once more. “Water.”

  Juan reached for a pitcher on a nearby table, poured water into a glass, and pressed it to Atcho’s mouth. The cool liquid brought refreshing life and a respite from his agony.

  “You’re looking better, my friend.”

  “Where am I?”

  “On the outskirts of Havana. We’re safe.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Two weeks. We’ve been worried about you.”

  Fear wrapped icy fingers around Atcho’s stomach. “Where is Isabel?”

  Juan sighed and sat heavily in a chair beside the bed. “We haven’t found her.”

  “What about a second meeting? You must have attempted to reopen talks.”

  “Of course. But there’s been no effort to return our inquiries. Not through our informants, not through your sister. No one even retaliated against our attack.”

  Atcho struggled to grasp the significance of Juan’s words. “What about the firefight? Wasn’t there an investigation?”

  Juan shook his head. “No. You killed the lieutenant. The other three soldiers died from bullet wounds. When we carried you away, no one attempted to pursue. The other Jeep and the bodies were removed by security forces.”

  “Can you find out anything from our contacts in the milicianos?

  Juan shook his head again. “It’s not that no one will talk. No one knows anything. We’ve gone to every familiar source, and a few others besides.”

  “What about the Russian? He shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  “We couldn’t him.” Juan reminded Atcho that last year, for the first time in three decades, the Cuban government had opened diplomatic relations with the Soviets. The Russians wanted to increase their influence, he said, and had sent in a few advisors. “We checked every Russian on the island through the CIA. So far our informants have located no Captain Govorov.”

  Atcho closed his eyes and sank into the pillows. Then, he struggled to a sitting position.

  Juan had watched his expressions. He placed a supportive arm behind Atcho’s shoulders.

  “Juan, you’re telling me that my daughter and the one man who knows where she is, have completely disappeared.”

  3

  Atcho’s own words seemed to echo over and over again: my daughter has completely disappeared. … Completely disappeared. … Disappeared.

  Steel pincers seemed to bite into his stomach. His limbs trembled. He heard his own hopeless voice through the labyrinth of fear. “Is she dead?” Tears streamed from his eyes. He covered his face in the crook of his right elbow.

  Juan’s gruff attempt at reassurance failed to comfort. No one knew with certainty whether or not she lived, he said. Someone unknown and ruthless held her.

  Atcho sank back in bed, powerless. Keep a clear head. He struggled back to a sitting position and swung his feet toward the floor.

  Juan moved to support him. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to find Isabel.” He legs shook. The room swam before his eyes.

  Juan pressed him back into bed. “We all want to find her,” he said calmly. “But you’re too weak. You won’t help her if you kill yourself.”

  Anger rising, Atcho struggled against his friend. “Let me go.”

  Juan held him firmly. “You need rest.”

  “I can’t rest. Not while Isabel …” His voice broke.

  “Even if you were strong enough, where would you look?”

  Atcho sat on the edge of the bed, head drooping between sagging shoulders. Then, he lunged to his feet and staggered across the floor. “I’ll find my daughter,” he roared. “Nobody will stop me.”

  A moment later, he sank to the floor, too feeble to move. He lay with hot, bitter tears streaming from his eyes, his cheeks and neck flushed with humiliation, He saw now that he had planned and executed Isabel’s rescue poorly. He had anticipated badly trained Cuban milicianos and had encountered an officer of the Soviet Union. He struggled to his feet.

  “Please, Juan, help me.”

  Juan assisted Atcho back to bed.

  “What’s being done?”

  “We’re in touch with Raissa. The CIA wants to find the Russian too, for their own reasons. They watched every known Soviet on the island. Our contacts will keep us informed. We have direct communication with the US Embassy, but,” he shook his head, “that will end tomorrow.”

  Startled, Atcho asked, “Why?”

  “While you were unconscious, Castro seized American oil refineries. The US countered by boycotting sugar. In retaliation, Castro nationalized American businesses. So, the US cut diplomatic ties.” He shook his head. “It was inevitable.”

  “This is too much, too fast. We might never find Isabel.”

  “It’s a tough situation, but you have to build strength.” He paused. “You need to eat.”

  Reluctantly, Atcho assented. Juan issued instructions to someone in the hall, then returned and sat wearily on the chair. “Lieutenant Paul Clary wants to see you. He’s an Air Force liaison officer in the US Embassy.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He won’t say. We checked him out. He’s on special assignment. My guess is he’s planning air support for the invasion—they’re calling it Operation Mongoose. I met Clary twice. He seems nice, but if you’re going to meet him, you’ll have to do it today. The embassy closes tomorrow, and everyone ships out except those needed to maintain the US Interests Section at the Swiss Embassy.”

  “Does he know where we are?”

  “No. We’ll use security measures to bring him in and move as soon as he leaves.”

  A young woman brought in Atcho’s meal. As he ate, some of his strength returned. Later that afternoon, he goaded Juan into walking him around the room. A wall mirror revealed his cut and bruised face; he recoiled from his own reflection, appalled at the scars and bruises. After one more circle, dizziness and nausea overcame him. He had to lie down again.

  He dozed fitfully, his mind working constantly on the whereabouts of Isabel. Then he lapsed into dreams, his subconscious mind returning to the sugar plantation of an earlier time.

  Four years beforehand

  Atcho stood under a giant oak tree in front of his sister Raissa’s house. A gentle breeze carried the woosh of rustling leaves in early autumn sunlight.

  Raissa sat in a chair on the front porch, cooing into soft blankets held in her arms. She was petite, her face refined, a gentler version of Atcho’s, and framed by soft, dark locks of hair. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed and glanced up at Atcho, and they clouded over on seeing his expression. She shifted as if to bring him the baby, but Atcho turned away.

  His father walked from the family mansion. The patriarch had aged dramatically in recent weeks. He approached quietly and stood next to Atcho as they observed the peaceful scene.

  “Have you held the baby yet?”

  Atcho shook his head.

  “It’s been three months.”

  A lump formed in Atcho’s throat as moisture gathered around his eyes. He said nothing.

  “I’ve always been proud of you,” his father said. “Not even Isabel’s parents blame you. Many women die in childbirth.”

  Atcho turned away, filled with remorse.

  “You can’t blame the baby, either,” the old man continued urgently.

  Atcho still made no response.

  Grasping his arm, the old man’s voice rose. “Atcho, your daughter is beautiful, a treasure. You have to do everything in your power to make her life happy.”

  Atcho stared at the ground. He already felt the guilt that would add to his despair. A motto that seemed always to invade compromising thoughts came to mind: Duty, Honor, Country. He embraced his father. Then he climbed the steps to the porch and gazed into the bundle in Raissa’s lap.

  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, he slipped his hand over the baby’s. She squeezed her father’s thumb. Thrill seized him. He reached down with both arms and lifted the infant. Cradling her, he buried his face in the blankets. “My Isabel,” he whispered.

  Lying in bed, watching the fan whir overhead, Atcho tried to block sad memories. He dozed.

  In midafternoon, 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 officer. The man came to the end of the bed and stood, waiting. He toyed with his service cap.

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

  “I have something for you.” He spoke in broken Spanish, with a distinctly American accent.

  “What is it?”

  The lieutenant reached inside his jacket. Pulling out a long envelope embossed with the seal of the US Embassy, he handed it to Atcho. “My boss said to give this directly to you.”

  Atcho opened it. A photograph fell into his hand. Isabel. Her wide blue eyes were full of fear under dirty and unkempt hair. A newspaper, dated the day of the firefigh
t, had been set prominently on a table in front of her.

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

  The young officer took a step backward. “From Major Richards. He tried to bring it to you last week but 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.

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

  “I don’t know. The major told me to give it to no one but Señor Tomas. He didn’t tell me its contents.”

  “How did he get it?”

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

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

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

  “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 officer, a Captain Govorov, in Havana?”

  Clary looked sheepish. Atcho and Juan watched him closely.

  “The answer is yes and no,” Clary said at last. “Keeping track of Soviets in Cuba is part of my job. We’ve had several reports about him, 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 get 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?”

  Clary responded slowly. ‘Not until now. Only the major and soldiers inspecting the site saw what was found there, but everyone heard about the picture of a small girl.”

  Atcho looked up sharply. “You said you were not informed of the contents.”

  “I wasn’t officially informed.”

  “Why should we care about it?”

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

  Atcho studied him. “Good idea. Meanwhile, you’ll stay with us until your story checks out.”

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

  “You left us no choice. You learned too much about our organization.”

  “What do I know?” Clary stormed. “That you’re Tomas and he’s Juan? And you’re both paranoid over a picture of a little girl?”

  “You knew enough to contact us,” Atcho replied flatly. “And you know this photo caused a strong reaction. If our roles were reversed, you’d do the same thing.” He turned to Juan. “See that he’s guarded and comfortable. And contact Major Richards.”

  Juan nodded and motioned the lieutenant to the door. Clary glared at Atcho.

  “If everything is as you say, we’ll release you into safe hands,” Atcho said. “Of course, if it doesn’t …”

  Juan ushered the lieutenant out of the room. Pain forgotten, Atcho watched the door close.

  Moments later, Juan re-entered. “Clary’s under guard, and we’ve sent a message to the embassy that he’s here. We didn’t tell them we were keeping him against his will. The wire to Richards is on its way to Washington.”

  Atcho pondered a thought. “Did you notice the change in Clary’s demeanor?”

  “It seemed abrupt.,” Juan agreed. “I’d be careful with him.”

  “A Russian captain somehow connected Atcho to Eduardo Xiquez Rodriguez de Arciniega, and the US Embassy connected him to Tomas,” Atcho ruminated. “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. Juan interrupted the stillness. “If the major instructed Clary to bring the envelope to Tomas, we can’t blame him for following orders. That was dangerous for him. Maybe his anger was natural.”

  “His outburst began before I gave that order. It was such a radical change from the personality we first saw. He’s faking something. You met both Clary and Richards before. Can we trust them?”

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

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

  Juan placed a hand on Atcho’s shoulder. “I doubt Clary knows anything. We can’t be seeing enemies where they don’t exist. We’d better be careful not to alienate our friends. Paranoia could get in the way of finding Isabel and US willingness to help liberate Cuba.”

  “I don’t understand why both the US and the Soviets give me so much attention,” Atcho said slowly. “Our group isn’t that big.” He returned to his current dilemma. “I want confirmation that Clary did Richards’ bidding. If his story checks out, we’ll let him go.”

  “What if details get garbled in transmission?” Juan looked anxious. “There is a better way. Let’s keep him overnight. We can’t hold Clary for days while we wait for Richard’s reply.

  “We can let Richards and the CIA know if there’s something wrong with his story. Tomorrow, before he’s scheduled to fly out, we’ll escort Clary to the embassy and keep him under surveillance until flight time. He won’t be able to relay information to anyone about us. We’ll close this place and move to a new hideout. 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. “You know you tend to be impulsive.”

  Atcho jerked as if stung. Then, quietly, he acquiesced. “You’re right. Do it your way. Let Clary know.”

  4

  Atcho settled into the back of an 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 the attack even took place.

  Through the CIA, Atcho had received confirmation of Lieutenant Clary’s story from Major Richards. “He might be overzealous,” the note read. “But he’s 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 US invasion, led by Miami-based exiles. The CIA had air-dropped armaments that had been stockpiled by the resistance, although coordination was poor, and tons were lost in dense swamp.

  Castro already expected the assault.

  Atcho had not wanted to attend the meeting. Juan prodded him. “No one else on the island has military education and training like yours. 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 Atcho’s concern. “Other people at the meeting might help find her,” he said, and closed his eyes to sleep while the van continued its bumpy ride.