The Venezuelan passport was an expert forgery. It bore Tania’s photograph but was issued in the name of Maragethe Isabel Bastos, a stenographer from Caracas. Tania had used the papers to travel from La Paz to Buenos Aires. The passport had served her on her mission, and now it must be destroyed. Tania burned the page with her photograph, and last she burned the cover of the passport, this taking a while longer. After she had run tap water on these ashes, she scooped them up with her hand, wrapped them in tissue, and flushed them down the commode.
Tania had used the passport to carry out the errand assigned by Guevara—meeting with the Argentinean Communist Carlos Sandoval. While in Buenos Aires, Tania had arranged travel for Sandoval and a French leftist, Rene D’Esperey. They would arrive in La Paz in ten days. After they entered Bolivia, Tania would guide them to Guevara’s base in the Ñancahuazú.
While in Buenos Aires, Tania had done the work Havana requested of her. She had impressed Sandoval and D’Esperey as a dedicated and accomplished agent. After their meetings, after their travel was arranged and she had gathered messages to be communicated to Guevara, Tania dutifully reported to her KGB controllers.
This had been done with great care and secrecy, for not only did Tania have to evade the Argentine gendermaeria, she also had to make sure she was not under countersurveillance by Sandoval or D’Esperey. In a posh hotel in Buenos Aires, Tania again met the fat man she knew as Robert. Tania was ushered into a luxurious, sprawling suite where she was quite surprised once more to meet her “auntie,” the Soviet agent who’d visited La Paz after her breakdown.
Tea was delivered on a silver tray, and Tania was thoroughly debriefed on her meetings with Sandoval and D’Esperey. She did not know the reasons why Guevara wanted these men to be taken into Bolivia, and neither Sandoval nor D’Esperey had offered much information. Robert gave Tania written orders to cooperate with Guevara and to safely guide Sandoval and D’Esperey to the base camp.
The aunt told Tania that her work continued to be of the greatest importance to Moscow. As a token of the esteem in which she was held, Tania had been promoted to the rank of major in the KGB. This recognition came complete with a copy of a personnel file stating that Tania held a regular commission with a date of rank effective from January 1, 1967. The paperwork was legitimate; Tania had indeed been inducted into the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti as a regular officer. The aunt was particularly pleased to show Tania a medal in a folding leatherette case, the Order of the Red Star, a Soviet decoration for distinguished intelligence service. Tania saw instantly through the charade but pretended happiness and pride. She knew exactly what they were attempting to do. The medal and the dossier were stratagems, psychological ploys to keep Tania on the team.
She wondered just how stupid Robert and the aunt thought she must be.
Tania made notes about operational procedures and was given a second series of postcards to mail and an accommodation address in Mexico City, and Robert promised they would not directly contact Tania unless it was a dire emergency. He continued to make promises, and Tania quit listening but came back to reality when Robert handed over a cash bonus and operational funds totaling twenty-five thousand U.S. dollars. The money was something she could use. It was something real.
At the end of their meeting, the auntie gave Tania a vial of yellow triangular pills. These, she said, were from a doctor friend in Mexico. They would help Tania sleep. Tania accepted the drugs and put them in her purse.
Tania returned to La Paz and passed through customs using the Venezuelan passport. She then took a taxi to a pharmacist’s shop near her apartment. Fearing the auntie had given her some kind of slow-acting poison, Tania took the pills to the chemist. She told the man behind the counter that she had lost the label from the pill bottle; she wondered if he could tell her what sort of medicine it was. The man went into the back of the shop, consulted a few thick books, and returned to tell her that the pills were lithium carbonate. Tania asked what the drug was for. With some embarrassment, the chemist told her that the pills were for manic depression. Tania thanked him and went directly from the shop to her apartment. The pills, like the ashes of her passport, were flushed down the commode.
Tania put two kettles on to boil and drew a bath. She allowed the tub to fill, then added the contents of the kettles, for she liked the water punishing hot. She stepped out of her panties, slipped her bra from her shoulders, then stepped into the tub. The water at first burned her feet and ankles, the sensation a delicious wave of scorching, then numbness. She lowered herself into the water, felt the same wave of stinging, then heat, then a prickly numbness as the nearly scalding water inched up her thighs to her groin and then carried over her tummy and hips. Last lowered into the hot liquid was her back, the water again nearly blistering her, the sensation of hot wires touching up her spine, then over her shoulders, then her breasts and nipples as she submerged.
Tania pointed her toes toward the base of the tub, her body totally covered by hot water except for the circle of her face. Her skin reddened as her thighs, shoulders, and breasts sank just an inch below the surface, and as she submerged her ears, she could no longer hear the small sounds from the street outside the window. The silence was complete; she was isolated in a world of nearly burning water. All she had was the pain it caused her, and that was all she needed. This place of silence and torment she had made for herself, and had often made for herself, since she was a little girl in Germany, this had been her private ritual and place of refuge.
Tania closed her eyes. She had only to wait a few moments, and the dream would come. It was always the same dream. The sensation of the hot water seemed to go away, and Tania was transported to a brook overarched by boughs of hemlock. Cattails rustled at the edge of the deep, tea-colored stream. She was drifting, being carried slowly by the water. Gentle but unimaginably strong, the current moved her along the bank. White flower petals rained from the trees above.
The same dream. Always the same dream.
Perhaps it was a thousand years ago. Tania was a woman of noble birth. Various calamities befell her family—murder, insanity, circumstances that were not elaborated on—and Tania went off to gather flowers in the forest. On the bank of a stream, she fell; in the dream, Tania could not swim and did not try. A flowing gown buoyed her up for a while, only a while, before the stream turned to a deeper place. The woods loomed over the water, and weeds and tangle brush clutched at her dress; slowly, inescapably, the stream pulled her down, first her hips, then her legs tangled in skirts, her long hair spreading like an aura around her. She was drawn underwater, her hands languidly clutching at air, her head tipped back, her mouth half open. Slowly, with exquisite finality, she drowned.
It was there, on the banks of the stream, that her beloved prince would find her. In her dream, Tania imagined the grief and shock of the man who would chance upon her body, her spirit borne away and the corpse white and waxlike yet still enchantingly beautiful. No man could look upon that body without being extinguished by sorrow and grief.
She would finally be loved.
The simple tragedy was that she would be loved too late, and her prince would mourn her unto the point of madness. This was always Tania’s dream. A beauty not reckoned by the world would at last be embraced—taken whole and made beyond value only by death.
TANIA WOKE HOURS later. Morning light was spilling through the bathroom window, and the sounds from the street had grown angry. The quiet of the wee hours had been devoured by the calamitous grinding of the morning’s rush. The water in the tub had grown cold. Tania’s skin was cold. But she continued to lie in the tub, not moving and doing her best not to sob. She had hoped that she would not wake from the dream. She had hoped that the water in the bath would do what the water in her dream could not—end this suffering.
Slowly, with dawdling bending of elbows and knees, like an old, old woman, Tania lifted herself from the tub. Dripping, nude, she walked through the hall and into the living room. She c
aught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her wide hips, her breasts hanging lower than she had remembered, her hair dark, wet, and matted in ringlets against her skin.
I am a fright, she thought. I am a horror.
It was then that she caught sight of an envelope that had been slipped under the apartment door. A white envelope on the carpet a few inches from the frame. In blue ink, a flowing hand had written: TANIA.
She stood, naked, and felt her heart begin to pound. The handwriting, she knew, was Robert’s.
The Russians wanted more from her. Greater efforts, more elaborate betrayals. Supreme sacrifices.
Tania’s mind seemed to be opening, and all the world poured in, like the ocean flowing into a stricken ship. The weight of it all was overwhelming, and for the first time since she had begun her double life, she thought of running away. But where could she go? Where could she run from Robert and Auntie? Where could she go that they would not find her?
Tania’s knees buckled, and she hit the floor.
Nude, wet, and shivering, she held her face in her hands and began to sob.
22
A HUNDRED STEPS ON, then another hundred, and what had appeared from the valley to be the ridgeline was only a false summit. Behind Guevara, the sun was slipping from the sky, and for a long minute he stared upslope, panting. His hands trembled as he wiped the sweat from his eyes. Almost exactly twelve hours ago, his asthma had returned, and throughout an arduous day’s march, he’d felt the coils of it winding about his throat. This day had been hell on two legs. As the column moved out of the valley, he found himself farther and farther behind; first with the center group, then the rear guard, and finally, as the men marched to the ridgeline where they would spend the night, Guevara found himself alone on the trail. He was the last man to make the ridge.
Below him, a steep hillside plunged west, and under the bluffs spread the gathering dark. Guevara had continued to press the training march north, following first the Ñancahuazú and then the Masacuri. Two weeks had stretched into three, then four. The passage since they left the banks of the Masacuri had been a nightmare; the terrain was a torment, and the maps were a joke. These mountains, the San Marcos by name, had proved an implacable foe.
At least a dozen times since the ambush on the river, the column had to retrace their steps when cliffs barred the way. Yesterday there had been no water, and the men suffered from thirst. The day before, it had rained for eighteen straight hours. Today, as they parched beneath a merciless sun, mud sucked the boots from their feet. Even on the steepest hillsides, the earth oozed up to their ankles. Guevara had never seen such mud.
From his vantage on the ridge, he considered the low, undulating set of mountains. Beyond this final obstacle lay his immediate goal: the Rosita River. In the reddish light, the mountains very much resembled waves on the ocean, lined up one after another. He was not given to pessimism, but the distance to the plain staggered him. If they continued to move at the same pace, it would be five days before they hit the plain and the Rosita. Then and only then would he turn back for base.
A smudge of blue smoke wafted from the ridgeline above, indicating that the fires had been started for dinner. He knew that the eyes of his men were upon him. He did not want to be seen as a straggler. Using his rifle as a staff, Guevara pulled himself up and trundled on. Sagging beneath the weight of his pack, he lurched past the clearing where the mules and the red mare had been picketed. He said not a word to anyone but wobbled to the edge of the camp and dropped his rucksack. Joaquin could see that the comandante was exhausted and did his best to busy the men as Guevara set up his hammock. Joaquin organized the gathering of wood and water and the posting of sentries—the simple tasks that would grant them hot food and security for a night’s rest.
Wheezing, Guevara went through the motions of preparing his sleeping place and then walked to the edge of the tree line. His heart still pounded, but it was better now that he was off the trail. His throat rattled as he drew breath. He popped a hydrocortisone tablet into his mouth and crushed it between his teeth. The bitter powder slid down his throat, and he imagined that the medicine would scald his asthma. Like biting his tongue, it was a tactic he’d employed since childhood. He somehow believed that the disease itself would be discomforted by the sour medicine. In a few moments he did breathe easier, but he still felt the high, sharp ache in the back of his chest and a hammering in his throat that mimicked his heartbeat.
Guevara sat on his hammock, his body pounded with fatigue. From the camp, he could hear the coming and going of the men, and slightly downslope, the mules shuffling about. He concentrated, trying to gain control of his breathing. He took out his journal and wrote: A bad day for me. I was exhausted and made it through on willpower alone.
His pen stopped, and he thought. He had entered the camp like some sort of shuffling hobo. It would not do that he sat alone while the others worked and prepared the meal. He was in command, and bad day or not, he must still be seen to lead. Carrying his notebook, he went toward the sound of voices. It was full dark now, and he felt a bit recovered. He straightened his back as he walked toward the fire. The clearing smelled of sweat and lard and gun grease; the last of the cornmeal was being boiled together with jerky made from a wild hog.
As Guevara drew near, Pombo smiled and said, “Hey, Comandante, that trail was a whore.”
Joaquin made a joke to the effect that Pombo would know a whore if he walked on one, and the others laughed. Guevara smiled, and the tension and worry of the men was broken. It was enough that they knew the boss had suffered and triumphed. Few thought it their place to even whisper of Guevara’s illness, certainly not Moro, his physician, and no one other than Pombo dared to address the comandante directly.
Guevara felt well enough to order the radio set up, and at 2030 hours, he monitored a coded broadcast from Havana. As dinner was served out, he deciphered the message in his notebook. The unworking of the puzzle occupied him completely, and his food went ignored. The others ate like hyenas. The fact that the comandante seldom ate was also noticed and communicated by meaningful glances. As Guevara worked on the cipher, letters assembled themselves into words and words into phrases, and the message spread out across the pages of his journal. Havana advised that Tania had returned from Buenos Aires. Sandoval and D’Esperey were to travel next week from Argentina and could be expected to arrive at the main camp over the coming weeks. Havana said also that the Bolivian Communist Party had declared itself against the armed struggle and would do nothing further to support the guerrillas in the field.
Guevara did not share the contents of the message with Joaquin or with anyone. He closed his journal and then picked at his dinner, two small humitas wrapped in soggy corn husks. When the food no longer amused him, Guevara asked to speak with Joaquin privately.
When they were alone, the big man asked, “How are you, Comandante?”
“I’ll be better tomorrow.”
“I can send a runner back to the caves,” Joaquin said, “if you need more medicine.”
“I’ll be all right.”
Joaquin said nothing, but he did not think Guevara was well. He knew that the comandante was capable of running himself into the ground.
“I figure it’s five days to the Rosita,” Guevara said.
“Four, if I can get these assholes to move,” Joaquin answered. A few of the Bolivians had been lagging on the march. Worse, there had been grumbling.
“I wasn’t up front very much today. How did they do?”
“The comrades are tired. There’s some frustration that the maps are so bad.”
Guevara considered this and then said, “We’ll get to the Rosita, then turn back for base camp.”
Joaquin computed the time they had already been on the trail, twenty-three days, and the time to the river, another five. Even if they returned by the most direct route, Joaquin figured it would be twenty more days, at least, before the column returned to the relative comforts of the main camp
.
“Can I speak to you frankly, Che?”
“Always, friend.”
“Why don’t we turn for base now? We’ve already had contact with the enemy. We’re pushing the men hard. We’re at least three weeks from base.”
“I want the men to be pushed,” Guevara said. “I need to stress the column in order to have it meld together.” He paused and took a wheezing breath. Guevara measured Joaquin’s expression in the firelight. “Anyway, it wouldn’t make sense to turn south, not until we get across these fucking mountains.”
“The Rosita,” Joaquin said.
“The Rosita and then back to base.”
“There’s one other thing,” Joaquin said.
“Go on.” Guevara yawned. He felt like he might fall asleep on his feet.
“It’s Marcos,” Joaquin said. “He’s been getting after the Bolivians in the forward detachment.”
“The stragglers?”
“Yeah, there’s a couple of shit-eaters. But it’s going a bit far. He’s constantly riding their asses—”
Guevara cut Joaquin off. “I’ll keep an eye on it.”
Joaquin felt like some sort of stool pigeon, but as second in command, he had to report on the conduct of the men, especially when their conduct was detrimental. “Did you eat?”
“Some.”
“Eat more,” Joaquin said. “Tomorrow is going to be a bitch.”
Joaquin walked back toward the fire, and Guevara stood alone. The night around him droned with the sound of insects. He found his way to his hammock and removed his boots. Almost against his will, he ducked under the mosquito net and let himself fall into his hammock. He fought off sleep the way a child might—by trying to outthink it.
Killing Che Page 19