Killing Che

by Chuck Pfarrer

  Tania had promised them a four-hour hike, and it quickly proved to be all of that. On her previous visit, she had driven up the road from Lagunillas directly to the Zinc House. She did not think it prudent to come in again using the same route; ironically, she did not wish to draw attention now.

  Her secrets bore down on her, and as they left the village, Tania became morose. Accompanying her on the trail were falsity and a twisted, unfinished sense of mission. It came to her sadly how, seven years ago, she had fallen in love; as all lovers do, she’d wanted possession of a human soul. Guevara’s soul had never been in her grasp, but his life now was.

  The walk started out easily enough, down into a wide, forested draw. Tania led them across a creek that they managed to cross by leaping from rock to rock. Neither D’Esperey nor Sandoval was an outdoorsman. Their packs chafed, and by the time they began the climb up from the Íquira, both were developing blisters and an attitude.

  The forest about them was primordial, and the several changes of direction had left Sandoval and D’Esperey turned about. They did not know the country, or the way, or even the final destination toward which they labored. Subsumed by a thousand shades of green, they heard only the sounds of the jungle, a tittering of birds, almost constant, and far off, the hooting of monkeys. Tania led them close to another small stream and then sat suddenly on a fallen tree to rest. She said nothing to the men, not why she had stopped nor how far along on their trek they were. They were left to gather from her expression that they, too, should halt. Sandoval sat at once, struggled out of his pack, and wiped the sweat from his bald head.

  Leaning against his pack straps, D’Esperey remained on his feet and looked downstream. The forest put in him a sense of awe. D’Esperey was a man of cities and cafés, of salons and ideas—the wildness and implacability of the jungle cast all his thoughts about in heaps. D’Esperey, the revolutionary, a genius who would remake mankind, stood dismayed and humbled in a world that did not require men or their dreams.

  “How much farther?” he asked.

  The buzz of insects answered; Tania had a map given to her by Guevara, but the positions of the camps were not marked on it. Tania had made the hike up and back, but last time she had approached from the southeast, via the Zinc House. She guessed that the camps were over the next set of hills, perhaps the next. She was certain she was going in the right direction, northeast, but until she could see into the Ñancahuazú Valley and sight the farmhouse, she could not tell them exactly how much farther.

  This assessment set D’Esperey into a funk, and Sandoval asked pointedly if Tania knew exactly where they were.

  “Maybe you want to navigate?” Tania sniped back.

  Sandoval had received guerrilla training in Czechoslovakia and Algeria. He had been taught map and compass work but had retained only odds and ends. His mumbled answer made Tania frown. He looked down at his feet, and D’Esperey looked around. The tree canopy opened slightly above the watercourse, and sunlight came down in patches to the forest floor. Across the stream was a very large, dark snake sunning itself on a rock. Dark triangles lay across its back, edged with light gray scales. A shaft of sunlight came slanting through the trees, framing the creature as though it were the principal diadem in a museum of crowns. D’Esperey assumed, as novices always do, that it was poisonous. In this case, he was correct, abundantly so. The snake within his sight was a pit viper, a fer-de-lance, and very, very deadly.

  D’Esperey opened his mouth but did not speak.

  Tania did not see the snake, or she ignored it. She stood and, without a word of encouragement or warning, continued with long strides up the next rise. Sandoval grunted as he put on his backpack and followed. D’Esperey backed after him, keeping his eye on the solemnly inert coil of reptile on the opposite bank. Two eyes, like shiny onyx beads, glimmered back at him. D’Esperey hoped fervently that the snake had never once mated and that it was as dead as last year’s canary.

  Up to the ridge and onto another, the two shining lights of the revolution panted after Tania and muttered curses. Finally, through the trees, scraps of sky were glimpsed close to the forest floor. Tania picked up her pace, and even Sandoval, who stared mostly at the trail, realized they were approaching an overlook.

  At the edge of a sharp cliff, Tania halted. Below was the Ñancahuazú Valley, and to the north, skimmed over by clouds, were the promontories of Camps 1 and 2.

  As D’Esperey stumbled up behind, Tania pulled him down and sought cover. Below in the valley was the Zinc House. Around it were a dozen olive-drab tents, and she could see soldiers, small flecks moving across the red dirt by the crook in the river. Neither D’Esperey nor Sandoval had been to the farmhouse; neither had any idea what they were looking at. They comprehended first the bend in the river, then a truck trailing a plume of dust up the valley floor. It meant nothing to them. Nor did the other trucks or the clutch of tents arced around the bend in the river. Tania made them understand that the army was at the farmhouse, obviously in force, and both men became sullen.

  “Should we turn back?” D’Esperey asked.

  The idea had not occurred to Tania that the army might prevent her from delivering her charges. Diminov had not told her that the Zinc House had been discovered. The Americans had not mentioned it. It came as a jarring shock that her mind had to overcome.

  “How did they find the house?”

  “Where—”

  Tania held up her hand to silence them. She removed her pack and fished out a pair of binoculars. Lying prone next to a tree trunk, she pointed them down into the valley and watched the road and clearing around the house. She scanned up the tree line and around the bend in the river. She studied the army’s positions, looking for assemblies of men, for mustering squads, for groups loading onto trucks. Any of these things would indicate that the army was preparing a patrol. She found nothing like this. The soldiers came and went as randomly as termites in a woodpile.

  Tania guessed that there were three hours of daylight left. She did not know if this was sufficient time to cover the distance to the camps. The ridgelines between her and the camps were open in several places. If they continued on directly, they could be seen from the valley floor.

  Continue or retreat; of their two alternatives, neither seemed attractive. The jeep and El Meson were three hours behind them. If they started at once, they would not reach the jeep until long after dark, and Tania doubted they could find their way up and over the several ridges and into the tiny village by moonlight. She felt certain she could navigate, keeping the Ñancahuazú in sight, but now, finding it in the hands of the army, she knew she had to keep out of sight from the valley floor. Before this, her task had been relatively simple. She had only to head northeast from El Meson. She’d counted on finding the farmhouse in the valley and then ascending to the camps by the usual trail. That would be impossible.

  Crouched next to Tania, Sandoval and D’Esperey were faced with their first whiff of actual danger. It did not occur to her to ask what they thought—both were clearly out of their depth. As Tania put away the binoculars, her hands shook violently, and she was aware of their eyes on her. The idiotic thought came to her to run down into the valley and surrender. She knew that the Bolivian soldiers would probably murder them out of hand. She did not care. She had been sent to the valley to betray and deliver destruction. Murder was around her at every turn. She only slowly dismissed the idea of surrendering. She looked on her death as the just deserts of her failure as a lover and friend, as a daughter and true comrade. Shame at her mission, dishonor, and self-loathing uncoiled, and she felt herself dividing into pieces.

  Behind them, metal struck metal—the noise of a bolt plunging forward on a rifle. D’Esperey and Sandoval turned and gaped. Before them were two men in olive drab; their hair was wild, and both had dark beards. Their uniforms were dirty, patched, and mended with large awkward stitches. Both carried automatic weapons, American-made M2 carbines. The groups looked at each other, one armed,
one without weapons, one amazed, one in command. Sandoval did not know whether to put up his hands. D’Esperey had sense enough to remain still, but it was several long seconds before Tania said to the armed men, “Do you remember me?”

  The closest of the two men said that he did.

  The speaker was Arturo, and he recognized Tania as La Chiquita, the woman who had visited the camp with Selizar Galán. The men Arturo did not recognize, so he did not do them the courtesy of deflecting the muzzle of his rifle.

  Tania came to her feet as though she were bearing an indescribable weight. “Take us to the comandante,” she said.

  43

  WHEN THE CENTER group at last came into the small clearing no one spoke and their footsteps were muffled on the forest floor. They had come at a forced march, an entire day and night, and now that they had reached their objective they staggered and placed their hands on the back of their necks, the way runners do after a race. To a man, they found shade against the bases of the trees, dropped their packs and rifles, and sprawled out.

  Tania, Sandoval, and D’Esperey had been brought into camp and shunted to the corner next to the smaller fire pit. They sat silently and watched as the center group arrived. The guerrillas were dirty and skinny, slumped under the weight of packs; they looked to Tania like refugees. She was astounded by how bedraggled and exhausted they looked.

  Guevara strode into camp like a compact tornado. He scanned the clearing and saw D’Esperey and Sandoval—last he saw Tania, and his expression laid waste to her. In his eyes was the smallest check, recognition only, not surprise, relief, happiness, or any emotion, good or bad. This was another hurt piled upon her.

  “We found them on the ridge south of Camp One,” Arturo said.

  “You fucking idiot,” Guevara shouted at him. “The army’s swarming all around the place! I told you to stay away from the farmhouse—”

  Arturo started to make some sound, perhaps the first two syllables of an explanation or defense, but Guevara came over the top of him. “What the fuck? You kept back and forth—wearing out the fucking path! Now, thanks to you, they’ve gotten at the weapons. There’s a company of soldiers in the valley because you are a stupid, lazy piece of shit.”

  The harangue went on, loudly, excruciatingly, and in several minutes Arturo’s humiliation was complete. Guevara did not register the expressions of horror on the faces around him. He was congenitally unaware of the force his words had on others. He was angry and had a right to be. The farmhouse was compromised, captured by the army, and an enemy force was anchored there, at the very root of the insurgency. Guevara had never been one to mince words, and he did nothing to moderate his fury. He, too, was worn from the march, as tired as any of the men, for he had shared their burdens, and on top of that, the weight of command. This same man who had worked carefully to build up the strength and esprit of his men now ruthlessly disciplined them. He was no stranger to combat or to life under arms, but his experience was oddly skewed—he had spent most of his time in command, not in the ranks. In the six hundred days of the Cuban revolution, he had gone from being an anonymous guerrilla, a rifleman and medic, to the rank of comandante, a hero to the nation and much of the world. Those six hundred days were his only experience leading men in the field.

  In truth, Guevara had never been spoken to as he rebuked his men; in the first place, he would not stand for it, and in the second place, no person except Fidel Castro had ever commanded him. In the end, Guevara had not submitted even to Castro—when he no longer felt inclined, they parted ways. Guevara demanded as much of the men who worked as much as he gave, which was all.

  Reduced to an object of derision, Arturo couldn’t even slink away. He sat, looking down, as mute as a scolded dog. Guevara then turned on Marcos, who got it doubly because he’d been in a position of authority and had disappointed on the march.

  “And you,” Guevara nearly spat, “fucking useless. You arrive three days before the main column—”

  Marcos had a penchant for talking back. It did not serve him well. “I wasn’t in charge of the camp,” he said, snidely defiant.

  Guevara’s rage was incandescent. “You aren’t fit to be put in charge of shit-eating monkeys! When did you arrive back at camp?”

  “Five days ago.”

  “What time?”

  “Midafternoon.”

  “Broad fucking daylight. You and the entire forward detachment. You walked right up to the fucking farmhouse? Guns, backpacks, radio? You don’t give a shit. Do you wonder why the army’s come? What the fuck, Marcos? Didn’t I tell you—all of you—to stay the fuck away from the Zinc House? What do I give orders around here for?”

  The camp was silent.

  “Miguel will take your place as leader of the forward detachment. You are also relieved as third in command. You can go back to Cuba or serve as a rifleman in the rear detachment. It’s up to you. You have no more responsibilities in the column.”

  The comandante’s temper was famous, but this was the first time it had flashed in Bolivia. Mercilessly, Guevara stayed focused on Marcos. “What are you going to do? Go or stay?”

  Marcos seemed as dumb as a scarecrow. It took him several seconds to answer quietly, “I’ll stay.” He licked his lips and said in a half-whisper, “I’m committed to what we’re doing here.”

  “You don’t act like it,” Guevara shot back. He shouted over his shoulder, “Where is the goddamn food for the marching column?”

  Pots were brought from the fires; rice and urina were dished out on banana leaves. All were served who had come off the trail. The men ate ravenously, the camp watchers made even more humble as the others shoveled down their meal. Guevara, too, was handed a banana leaf heaped with rice and stringy meat. The dressing-down continued as he shoved rice into his mouth.

  “It’s a fucking miracle the army hasn’t captured Camp Two. A fucking miracle. You goddamn idiots. Isn’t there any one of you that I can trust? Not one fucking one of you?”

  Tania sat with the others, thunderstruck. Those who hadn’t seen Guevara’s temper were put into a trance; his words cut and his eyes smoldered. The objects of his rage were reduced to trembling wrecks—grown men, accomplished guerrillas, some known to him for years, were made mute and nearly distracted with humiliation. Guevara then turned on the resacas, the young Bolivians who had failed on the march. As he had been with the Cubans, he was uncompromising.

  “And you assholes,” he said. “Carrying a weapon is a privilege. It is an honor to fight for the liberation of the people. You have nothing to offer to your country, to the revolution, or to me. From this moment you are expelled from the column. Your weapons are to be given up. And likewise your equipment—it will be redistributed among the fighters. You are suspended from the cigarette ration. If you do not work, you will not eat. You are no longer combatants and will not be treated as such. You will remain at the camp, under the orders of your superiors, until we can find a place and time to discharge you.”

  Pepe, Chingolo, Paco, and Eusebio stood with their faces burning. They’d been tested and found wanting, they knew it, but this humiliation was unexpected and more so for being public.

  Orders were given. Squads picked up their weapons and took to defensive positions downslope, between Camp 2 and the valley floor. The guerrillas assigned to ambush exited the camp quickly; it fairly could be said that they feared the enemy much less than they presently feared their commander. Guevara ate a portion of his meal and tossed the remainder back into the pot. Tania was gripped by the sight of him. He seemed simultaneously pathetic and heroic, greatness showing itself in him despite his tirade. He walked toward the second fire, and as he approached, Tania felt her legs start to go numb. He said nothing but bundled up Sandoval in an old comrade’s abrazo, slapping him on the back. He then extended his hand to D’Esperey. “It’s good to see you again.”

  He glared at Tania, and it astounded her that she somehow managed to rise from the log and stand in front of him. Her ha
nds trembled, and there was a wringing pain in her abdomen. “I have to speak to you,” she stammered.

  “Talk here,” he said curtly.

  Sandoval and D’Esperey, already uncomfortable, positively squirmed. Neither wanted to be any part of what they thought was a private matter between Tania and Guevara.

  Her knees trembled. “Alone, Che. I need—”

  Guevara took her by the wrist, not gently, and led her ten or fifteen yards away from the fire. He spun her around impatiently. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

  Tania’s voice was strangled; she felt as though she were being suffocated. “The resupply at the river junction is an ambush,” she said.

  His eyes narrowed. The unexpected words crashed against his ears. He did not understand at first. “What are you talking about?”

  “The supply drop in the valley. It’s an ambush. The Americans are waiting there.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Listen to me. I have betrayed you. Since we first met. I have been working for the KGB. Informing on you. The Soviets now want you dead.”

  Guevara weighed Tania’s pronouncement. It was incredulous; he tried to reconcile it to all that he knew of Tania over almost eight years, but his mind would not easily accept her words as fact. She described to him her arrest and the arrangement with the Americans that had set her free. She told him of her meetings in Buenos Aires with her Russian controllers and how she had begged the KGB to be taken out of service. She told him everything, and tears streamed down her face.

  When it finally registered that she was telling the truth, Guevara’s vision constricted to a shiny black tube. He struck her face with the back of his hand. The blow knocked Tania to her knees and the sound broke like a pistol shot over the clearing.

  Joaquin dropped his food and came immediately to the comandante’s side. The immense secret finally unburdened. Tania remained on the ground, great sobs breaking over her. Guevara took a step backward, panting as his asthma reached up from nowhere to choke the life out of him.