Operation Che Guevara

by Nick Carter

  I plunged in after him and felt the water tearing at my body. He was in mid-stream when I caught up with him. He turned and swiped viciously at me with the hook. It was a hell of a weapon, like fighting a man with a lance and a machete combined.

  The swipe made me step back, and I lost my balance. I felt the water pulling me under and down. I managed to grab one of the rocks and cling to it until I got my footing again. Fighting against the swirling current, I struggled back to where I'd been and continued across, toward the other side.

  But Guevara knew the crossing, and he had reached the dugout. He was pushing it into the water, and I was still far from him. Once he got into it, I knew he'd be gone for good. The rapids would carry him down and away as surely as if he'd caught an express train.

  He was shoving off at an angle. I calculated quickly and said a fast prayer. I let the water seize me, toppling me from my secure footing, and sweep me downstream. I was being swept at an angle as Guevara and his canoe were being swept out from the shore. If I'd calculated correctly, our angles would bisect in moments. He had grabbed a paddle from the bottom of the canoe and was trying to turn, but the current was too strong.

  I slammed into the side of the canoe, grabbed the gunwale and over she went, toppling him into the rapids beside me. Now wherever the current swept him, it would sweep me. The turbulent, rushing waters had seized us now, and though we struggled with all our strength, we were swept down the rushing rapids. I bounced against one rock and thought all my bones had jarred loose. We were heading for an area of leaping white water which meant a lot of rocks when a crosscurrent caught us and carried us to the right. I found some footing in the shallower water, and saw Guevara struggle to his feet.

  I charged him, diving under his hook as he came at me. I caught him around the knees, and he went down in the swirling, leaping water. I slammed a hard right to his face, and he fell backwards. I went after him again. This time the hook came up just enough to tear into my groin. I pulled free and kicked his leg out from under him, and he dropped to one knee. I swung, catching him flush on the jaw.

  He somersaulted backwards, hitting the water with a loud splash. I was on him at once, and now I felt the damned hook tear into my leg. I had to let go in pain. He was on his feet again, slashing at me. I avoided one blow, then stumbled and fell, waist-deep in the water. He came at me, and I managed to get one hand up and grabbed his shirt. I yanked and slid forward in the water as he brought the hook down in a death-dealing blow.

  The hook crashed against a rock just behind me. I yanked at his legs. Only my wild rage kept me from collapsing. I was bleeding from a half-dozen wounds, fighting the pull of the rapids and Guevara's murderous hook.

  I rose up, kicked his arm aside as he tried to bring the hook up between my legs. I grabbed his head and smashed it against one of the rocks jutting up from the water. I smashed it down again and again until the white water was running red. Then I shoved his body out into the center of the stream and watched it go down in the rushing, turbulent water, crashing from rock to rock, smashing against the stones until there could not be an unbroken bone left.

  I staggered out of the water and lay there gasping, exhausted, letting my body find a way back to enough strength to move. Finally, I got to my feet, and almost falling, staggered through the woods to the rocky path. The horse was still standing there. Gratefully I pulled myself up into the saddle and heeled him once, just enough to get him going down the path.

  IX

  By the time I reached the bottom of the path I had regained my strength or part of it at least. I headed back to the ranch. There was silence, utter and complete silence, as I walked the horse slowly and carefully, skirting the bodies of the guerrilla fighters sprawled grotesquely on the ground.

  I dismounted and walked amid the carnage. Luis lay near a tree, dead, one arm still holding a knife plunged into the throat of a guerrilla. I found Eduardo next, then Manuel. I knelt down beside them, but there was no life there. Cesare was next, still clutching his carbine, lying peacefully beside a dead guerrilla. Antonio was propped up dead against a tree, a red stain on his chest. I found Olo last, surrounded by the bodies of four guerrillas.

  I got up and went into the barn. The burros were gone and everything with them. I easily pictured what had happened. Some of Guevara's men had survived and fled into the mountains with the arms and munitions. No doubt they had visions of continuing the battle and gathering new recruits. They were in for a surprise.

  I wrapped rags and bandages around my wounds to at least slow the flow of blood. Then I drove away from the ranch. I headed north, toward El Puente. Dawn was giving way to day now, and I drove the truck as fast as I could. The towering puya loomed up finally, and I turned onto the road to the abandoned mission. As I drove into the courtyard I heard a scream, then another. I dropped from the cab, crawled to an open arched window and peered into the sanctuary. I saw two forms rolling on the ground, clawing and fighting and screaming. Yolanda and Teresina were at each other's throats. As I watched, Teresina wrenched free, leaving all of her already torn blouse in Yolanda's hands, grabbed at the peasant girl's leg and tried to apply a leg-lock. I chuckled. Bolivian Intelligence had obviously put her through some form of combat school.

  But Yolanda had been through another land of school, and it taught her lessons Teresina had never even heard of. She grabbed at Teresina's breasts, raking them with her nails. Teresina cried out in pain and let go. Yolanda was on her in an instant, clawing and scratching. Teresina tried a half-cocked karate chop that made me wince at its ineptness. It did serve to knock Yolanda back a pace and take some wind out of her.

  Teresina grabbed at the girl's hair, spun her around and smashed a hard right into her belly. I almost applauded. Yolanda doubled up and Teresina applied a head-hold. If she'd been stronger, it might have worked. Or if Yolanda had been less the gutter fighter. I saw Yolanda reach up Teresina's skirt, and the girl screamed in pain. Yolanda tore free and leaped on her opponent, biting, sinking her teeth deep into Teresina's leg, her hands were like an eagle's talons scratching and clawing.

  I swung over the window ledge and into the room. I couldn't let it go on any longer. I grabbed Yolanda and yanked her away, throwing her halfway across the room. When she saw me, her fury reached new heights. She sprang at me, but I caught her with one arm, twisted and sent her sprawling again. She rushed into a corner of the abandoned sanctuary and came up with a broken bottle in her hand and pure hatred in her eyes.

  "You, first," she hissed, "and then your bitch. You, I will kill. I'll just cut off her breasts."

  "Knock it off, Yolanda," I said. "It's over. It's done with. He's dead. They're all dead."

  I thought the sobering news might stop her. Instead, she screamed unintelligibly at me. Even a child with a broken bottle can be dangerous, and this was no child but a rabid tigress. She advanced on me. I didn't move until she swiped at my face with the bottle, then I ducked to the right and tried to grab her arm, but she was as quick as a cobra. She came at me again and this time I circled until her back was to Teresina.

  "Now, Teresina," I yelled. Teresina, against the far wall, looked at me blankly, but Yolanda spun around. I leaped forward, grabbed her and slammed her against the wall. The bottle shattered, and she gasped in pain. I pressed her neck and she collapsed. Teresina was in my arms before I could half turn to her.

  "What happened?" I said. "You didn't do what I told you to do, right?"

  "Not exactly," she admitted, her face pressed against my chest. "I got to thinking about you and decided to believe you. I'd just worked myself loose when this girl came. We started talking, and we both got mad at what we said. Suddenly, she flew at me."

  "Use the rope I had on you to tie her," I said. "I think we both could use some fixing up." I saw her stricken face as she noticed the red stains on my shirt and trousers.

  "Let me see," she said, trying to open my shirt.

  I pushed her away. "Later," I said. "I've lasted this fa
r, I can last a little longer. Just get her tied and well go back to La Paz with her."

  18th

  The Bolivian authorities refused to believe the guerrilla leader El Garfio had really been Che Guevara. Perhaps they couldn't bring themselves to admit that they hadn't killed him the first time around. Teresina attested to everything I said — and the aftermath of the battle at the ranch was conclusive — but she hadn't seen Guevara herself. The girls from the school in Chile only knew what had happened. They didn't know who the men were. Only I had seen Che face to face. Only I knew that the legend had not died the first time. Major Andreola was frank with me, and I could almost understand his position.

  "Guevara was killed by our forces in the hills a year ago," he said. "This man, this El Garfio, was an imposter. We will stand on that, my friend. I cannot help it, we must."

  "So be it, Major," I said. "I'll tell it my way and the world can judge for itself."

  I walked outside where Teresina was waiting. We had both been treated at the army hospital where word had come to us that there had been a tremendous explosion in the mountains the day after the battle at the ranch.

  "Do you have to leave, Nick?" she asked as we went back to my hotel.

  "I'm afraid so," I said. "But not until tomorrow. I have plans for tonight."

  She smiled and rested her head against my shoulder. I had dinner and wine sent up and, as darkness came, I took her in my arms. I unbuttoned the side buttons of her dress, saying nothing. Then I leaned back.

  "Aren't you going to take it off?" I asked.

  "No," she said. "You take it off."

  I smiled and pulled it gently from her as she raised her arms. The deep scratches on her lovely breasts showed red, and I rubbed my finger gently over them as I unsnapped her bra. She sat rigid, holding herself back with determined effort.

  "I will not make love to you until you tell me one thing," she said.

  "What?" I asked in surprise.

  "How did you know I was, as you said, t phony peasant girl?" she asked. "I thought I played the part perfectly."

  I grimaced. "I don't know quite how to put this," I said. "Or even if I should say it at all."

  She reached for her dress and I stopped her "All right, I'll tell you if you're so damned insistent on knowing. I knew it when you went to bed with me."

  I saw her eyes darken and then hot fire leap in them.

  "Are you telling me I wasn't good enough in bed?" she blazed. I winced. I was afraid this would be the reaction.

  "No, no, nothing like that."

  "Then what are you saying?"

  "It's just that a girl like Yolanda, well, she makes love differently."

  "She's hotter than I am?" Teresina demanded. "She pleases you more?"

  "No, I tell you!" I said. "You're being silly about this."

  "Am I?" she retorted. "And what about you? Don't you think you're being silly? You think you can tell a girl's background by the way she makes love. Well, I am going to show you who is silly."

  She turned to me, and her lips were hot against mine. She flew at me with the fury of an avenging angel, a passionate, hungry, yearning avenging angel. She stripped the clothes from me and then covered my body with kisses. I fell onto the rug with her and we made love. Teresina was a charged, fiery creature, her legs wrapped around my waist, holding me tightly inside her.

  When she reached the heights of her ecstasy, she fell back, but only for a few moments. As I lay beside her, I felt her lips nibbling across my chest, my abdomen, my belly. Her hands were soft messengers of desire, and she crawled atop me to rub her body against mine. I took her breasts in my hands and caressed them until she was sobbing and gasping with desire again, and we came together for the moment when all the world is one.

  We stayed together the whole night. She was passionate, insatiable, all the things a girl can be when her inhibitions are put away. When morning came and I dressed to leave, she stayed in the bed.

  "I am going to stay here for a while, Nick," she said. "I want to think that you're here beside me while you are flying back to America." She pulled the sheet down, exposing her slender, small-boned body with the soft, full breasts.

  "Come back," she said, her eyes deep and dark. "Try to come back."

  I kissed her and left her there that way. The picture is still clear in my mind.

  Another picture is clear too. That of Che Guevara. Maybe he still lives. The human body has been known to withstand fantastic punishment.

  But I have told it as it happened. It is for the world to read and judge, to dismiss truth as fiction or accept fiction as truth. Che Guevara lives on as a legend, romantic to some. I can tell you he was an unprincipled fanatic, a man obsessed with visions of grandeur. Some say the world is a better place for his having been here. I say it is better for his having left.

  Look, I have spent a lifetime of action, of fighting and killing and blood. I say the world doesn't need fanatics and zealots wrapped up in their own ideas of glory. It'll be a better place when my job isn't needed any longer. Unfortunately, I think I've got a lot of work still waiting.

  I still like what Boileau said. "Truth may sometimes be improbable." Truly, it sometimes can.