Diminov pushed a section of clementine into his mouth and chewed on it. It was the second-world section.
“I’m listening,” Hoyle said.
“Tania Vünke was placed into Guevara’s entourage seven years ago. She has been our access to him. If not for her, we would not have even known where Guevara was. It is now time to extract her. That’s why I’ve taken the liberty of visiting you. I want you to exfiltrate Fräulein Vünke from Bolivia back to Austria. Under a Western passport. A clean document. From Vienna, we will transport her back to a fraternal socialist country.”
“Have a great trip.”
Diminov ate another section of fruit. “I’m an enemy here, Mr. Hoyle. There is a limit to what I can do. Bolivia is not, for me, a permissive environment. As much as it pains me to ask, I need your assistance.”
“What’s the big deal about this woman?”
“My organization does have a certain reputation for matters dealing with personnel. But we do not wish to forfeit Tania Vünke.”
“Why not?”
“Have you not heard of professional courtesy?” Diminov spat a seed into his hand. “Besides, there is certain information she possesses that would prove embarrassing to my country, beyond the fact that we have engaged in espionage against our ersatz Cuban allies. Even if I did manage to bribe her release from prison, she is now a marked person. Fräulein Vünke has no diplomatic status. If she attempted to leave, she would immediately come under the scrutiny of the immigration police.”
“We have your Austrian passport.”
“I suspected that. The document is of the highest quality. As are its visas. It needs only a photograph.”
“So you need a body.”
“As do you. That is why I propose a trade.” Diminov exhaled though his nose. “Arquero is your stooge, is he not? Pay him money and have Fräulein Vünke released.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Che Guevara, as you say, on a platter.”
“What makes you think we don’t already know where he is?”
“Because he’s alive. You know some of the places he has been. And you suspect some of the places he may go in the future. But you have not located him. If you had, it would be a simple thing to drop napalm on him.”
“You want this woman released, I get more than a circle drawn on a map.”
“What else do you need, Mr. Hoyle?”
“I want his radio frequencies and his communication plan with Havana.”
Diminov put down the fruit. “How do you expect me—”
“I’m not done. We know there’s going to be a rendezvous. Two more men are being sent to the guerrillas. I get this fräulein of yours released, and she guides them in direct to the main camp.”
Hoyle stood. Sergev kept the pistol aimed. “That’s preposterous.”
“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“She is released—alive—and we will continue our discussion.” Diminov wiped his hands on the tablecloth. “Since it is I who have found you, if you wish contact, place an ad in the classified section of La Paz Tiempo. Perhaps asking Saint Jude to help you find lost love.” The religious allusion made Diminov smile. “I will contact you here at this hotel. You seem to like this place.” Diminov nodded, and Sergev and the man with the truncheon walked out.
“You burn me, and I’ll make sure she disappears.”
“Don’t do anything rash, Mr. Hoyle,” Diminov said. “We don’t have to be enemies on this one.” The fat man pulled the door closed behind him.
29
LIGHT SLANTED THROUGH the windows in Colonel Arquero’s grand office. The clock ticked slowly, and Lieutenant Castañeda stood by the door, as immobile and unthinking as a piece of furniture. Hoyle and Smith watched the colonel frown over the folder placed before him. He examined each of the three photographic prints, holding them close to his shiny pince-nez spectacles, then checking each photograph against a typed transcript of the microdot. This he did with deliberate and self-conscious care, and the clock ticked through diligence to insolence and finally to absurdity. It was a blessing when Arquero’s small hands pushed the photos and papers back into the folder and he squinted up from the blotter.
“This is obviously a ruse,” he said. “A provocation. Do you expect me to believe that Che Guevara is in Bolivia?”
“We believe it,” Hoyle said.
Unfolding in Arquero’s office was a battle of words, wills, and manners. Hoyle, who had more experience in Latin nuance, put himself forward in the struggle. “We’re sure that a Cuban team is in the Ñancahuazú.”
“Maybe you are playing a game within a game, Mr. Hoyle. You say there was a microdot on the letter. And you say this is what it contained.”
Smith had long ago lost what little patience he’d brought to La Paz. “Where’s the woman you arrested?”
“You need not be concerned about her.” The colonel lit a cigarette; the extinguished match was a perfect metaphor for Tania’s hold on life.
“Is she alive?”
“She is a Communist agent, Mr. Hoyle. Do you really expect me to release her because the KGB asked you?”
“She’s the only direct link we have with the guerrillas,” Smith said. He stood and paced; the colonel seemed to take a smug, quiet delight in Smith’s agitation.
“Besides,” Arquero went on, “what makes you think she would cooperate?”
“She doesn’t have to cooperate,” Hoyle said. “We give her the letter back—opened—obviously, you would have examined it.”
Arquero smirked. “And obviously, we would be too stupid to have found the microdot.”
“We replace the microdot, Colonel,” Hoyle said. “You release her. Tell her it was a mistake, tell her you were after Galán.”
Hoyle’s patience amazed Smith.
“And the passport? Do we ignore that as well?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Hoyle said. “Tell her anything, just make her think she’s free of surveillance. After the arrest, she’ll try to contact her controller. They’ll transfer the two new guys direct to the guerrillas. We’ll transmit a message to Guevara, pretending to be Havana. We’ll tell him there’s going to be a supply drop. Food, clothing, ammunition. When Guevara shows up at the drop site, we’ll hit him.”
“Then what do you need the woman for?”
“Guevara won’t just fall for a radio message. She’ll confirm the drop site to him. Personally.”
“Oh,” Arquero said. “This is based on trust.” The clock ticked. Smoke swirled from the end of Arquero’s cigarette. “Your plan doesn’t seem very well thought out, Mr. Hoyle.”
“How does keeping her in prison serve any purpose?”
“She is a Communist agent. And if I am to believe you, a Cuban operative working simultaneously for the Soviets. We have searched her apartment thoroughly and found codebooks and photographic equipment; her radio set is now being examined by our technical section. In short, she is a spy. We would be within our rights to shoot her.”
“She can deliver Guevara to us.”
“You presume, rather hopefully, that she will see the justness of our cause and the mistake of her ways. I have no doubt she is a hard case. Nor do I doubt that she will flee the country at the first opportunity.”
“How can she run from the Ñancahuazú Valley? It’s surrounded by the entire Bolivian army.”
“The guerrillas operate at will within the Ñancahuazú. You’re asking me to throw a rabbit into the briar patch.” Arquero delighted himself with this bit of Yankee wisdom. It felt wonderful to club Hoyle with his own language.
“Colonel,” Hoyle said evenly, “this woman is the quickest way, and the only way, we can eliminate the guerrillas.”
“Assume for a moment that I share your sense of urgency, Mr. Hoyle. Let’s also assume that this woman will deliver Guevara into a trap. Do you think our forces are ready to take on the guerrillas in a head-on engagement?”
“We have to find them
first.”
“Then who will fight them? The Presidential Guard?”
“The forces at our disposal—”
“Oh,” Arquero said with high derision, “the forces at your disposal.”
At this, even Hoyle grew disgusted. The clock continued to click away, each fleeing second an ally of the colonel.
“I have been instructed to inform you that our ambassador in Washington has formally requested that three hundred more military advisers be dispatched to Bolivia.”
“You don’t need more Green Berets, Arquero. You need to get people into the field,” Smith said.
“We need arms. And American troops, Mr. Smith, not cheerleading.”
Arquero stood by way of bringing the meeting to an end.
“Let’s go, Mr. Hoyle,” Smith said.
Hoyle reached for the folder. Arquero’s hand got there first. “I will keep the letter to examine. With your permission, of course.” Arquero smiled like a lizard.
Hoyle lifted the passport from the blotter. “Then we’ll keep the passport,” he said. He added, slightly less gracefully, “With your permission, Colonel.”
“As you wish. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
30
THE RAINS HAD ended, and steam rose from the earth like puffs of smoke. Boro flies were everywhere in swarms, and this was but a nuisance on top of a week of torment. The column had not yet gained the Rosita River, and this fact alone disappointed and annoyed Guevara. He was too much a leader to show his men, and he did his best to appear at all times upbeat and positive. His asthma, at least, had declined, and this was a lucky thing, for he was out of medication, and should his illness return, he could expect nothing but unmitigated suffocation.
The terrain continued to be an enemy. The mountains came on in succession, though their altitude had lessened. The underbrush more than made up for it, as did cliffs and bluffs that stuck up from the dirt in places like the bones of gigantic, buried monsters. After five days on the trail, Guevara labored under his pack, determined to make the river; and now there was little choice but to do so. The maps had proved so unreliable that they could scarcely be trusted to aid navigation. The only sure way back to base was to reach the Rosita, descend it to the Rio Grande, and then join the Ñancahuazú and follow it south. Even this route was sketchy, since the column frequently came on streams where there should be none, and dry gorges that the maps claimed were rivers in full glory.
There was also the issue with Marcos, who continued a quarrelsome attitude with the Bolivians. This reached a head when the forward detachment wandered onto yet another false trail. The error resulted in an entire morning lost to a laborious backtrack. At noon Marcos radioed the main column and asked Guevara for help clearing a new trail. He was sent Braulio, Tuma, and Pacho. Three hours later, Pacho returned from the forward detachment in a lather of rage, demanding to speak with Guevara and stating that conditions up front were unendurable. He said he’d left his post after an altercation with Marcos. It began about a question of map reading and very quickly escalated from insults to assault.
His voice cracking with anger, Pacho said that Marcos had become a bully on the trail, capriciously ordering the comrades about, and after they’d gotten lost, he had threatened the men with a machete. When Pacho got involved on behalf of the Bolivians, Marcos had struck him with the handle, giving him a shove and tearing his shirt.
Guevara called Inti and Dario, the most senior Bolivian comrades, and they confirmed that the low morale in the forward detachment was a result of Marco’s arrogance. Inti added, however, that Marcos had been provoked by Pacho’s disrespect. He said also that four of the Bolivian comrades—Chingolo, Eusebio, Paco, and Pepe—were slackers, disheartened and lazy. This was especially disappointing to Guevara. The Bolivian comrades were all volunteers, so he had expected more, especially since the struggle was being fought for them.
Guevara spoke that evening with Joaquin, reliable, steadfast Joaquin, and the decision was made to replace Marcos as commander of the forward detachment. Guevara made this choice not out of deference to the Bolivians, though it was important that they be respected; he dismissed Marcos because in adversity he’d found him short-tempered and wanting in judgment. Joaquin suggested that Marcos be replaced after they had returned to base camp, so that his relief would not provide a distraction. In his suggestion was also the small hope that Marcos might redeem himself during the journey back to base.
Joaquin estimated that they were still one or two days’ hard travel from the Rosita, and it would take at least six or seven more days to descend the Ñancahuazú and regain the base. Guevara concurred. If Joaquin had any faults at all, they were his optimism and that he overestimated the stamina of the men around him. There were few combatants anywhere who were as worthy as the big man, or as tough.
Guevara slept badly that night, as he did most nights. Dinner had hardly satisfied—a few hearts of palm stewed together with a rancid hunk of jerky. The palm hearts and chewy, reeking meat did nothing to settle his stomach. As unpleasant as their dinner had been, it was better than nothing. Guevara knew also that the men had only three days’ rations left, a few cans of meat and condensed milk and twenty pounds of rice and beans. After that, unless game rendered itself plentiful, they would have to eat the pack animals. The specter of hunger wafted outside of the light of each campfire; this, too, added to the anxiety of the men. As Guevara closed his eyes, he reminded himself that there was food in plenty at base camp. But first they would make the Rosita; then and only then would they turn for base.
The morning came as gray as a smudge, and the sky above was mottled with high, colorless clouds. The sugar ration Guevara intended to distribute turned up missing, and as a result, breakfast was only a mug of tea. The mood was sullen all around, and the brooding, slow-motion preparations for movement compelled Guevara to gather together all the comrades and give them a talk.
“This isn’t the way I wanted to start the day.” Around him, the wind stirred through the trees. “It’s been an unpleasant surprise for me to find that comrades already tested on the field of battle—men I handpicked for this mission—are the first to become a problem.”
His eyes passed deliberately over Pacho and Marcos. They were seated at opposite ends of the group like bookends, arms and legs crossed, heads cocked, and eyes narrowed.
“The march we are on has a purpose. It is intended to prepare the Bolivian comrades for the trials and difficulties of guerrilla life. We are out here to come to grips with hunger and thirst, constant marches, and the separation from our families. We do this so that we might become stronger. We do this so we will meld together as a combat guerrillo—a unit that operates cohesively, instinctively, and without friction.
“We have been on the trail many days now. We have twice encountered the enemy, and twice we have inflicted on him defeat.” Guevara paused again, scanning the faces, meeting the eyes of almost every man in the column.
“But the events of the last several days tell me that we have not yet achieved the goal of this march. We do not yet function as a unit. We are far from operating together as a team.
“Some of us have physical limitations. I am aware of that. I have them myself. Some of us are out of condition. Some of us are simply not used to life in the forest. This worries me less. Physical shortcomings can always be overcome by a willing mind and a combative spirit.
“This morning the sugar ration was found missing. I will use the word ‘stolen,’ for I am certain it was not misplaced or dropped along the trail. I will point out to you all the great truth that theft is incompatible with socialism, and it is incompatible with the principles followed by this guerrilla unit. Anyone caught committing the crime of theft—the crime of stealing food from the mouths of his brothers—will be punished.
“What bothers me is that it is not the Bolivians who are having problems, but Cubanos—comrades I think of as veterans, men who have smelled powder on the battlefield. Men who have foug
ht the enemy on two continents. I could point out to you many instances of carelessness and lack of discipline on the part of Cubans and Bolivians alike. This tells me that we are not yet complete revolutionaries. We are still individuals. This should provide a lesson for the future: Men who once gave blood and sweat and their hearts for a cause have become used to lives of ease. Marcos has commanded large units, and Pacho is a comrade who has been in combat. It seems now that they have become bureaucrats, used to life in an office—working apart and above others—accustomed to having everything come back to them already worked out. A relatively easy life has made them forget the rigors and sacrifices of the guerrilla life in the field.”
Guevara did not shy from naming names or citing specific instances or attitudes. His criticisms were always direct, not intended to alleviate a problem as much as to excise it. This was almost his unconscious style—to reduce the offending individuals, to throw a brilliant light on their failings, and in so doing, to lower them in the eyes of their compatriots. He now went for the jugular.
“I don’t want to think that the reason for Marcos and Pacho’s constant problems is that they do not have the courage to say they want to quit. I don’t want to think that they have had enough. I do not want to think they have lost their revolutionary zeal.”
The men held their breath. Even Joaquin was surprised by the cold fury in Guevara’s words.
“The next time Pacho leaves a post, he will be dishonorably expelled from the column. Comrade Marcos is now formally placed on probation. He must change his manner of addressing comrades—his insulting manner undermines his authority and is a detriment to good order. We have enemies enough around us. I will not tolerate enemies within.
Killing Che Page 23