CURSE THE MOON

by Lee Jackson

  Atcho sat quietly absorbing the scene around him. Babies cried. Children sat where they had just relieved themselves. Faces were transfixed in a strange expression of incredible hope and dreadful fear.

  Gloom possessed Atcho. He shook the old doctor’s hand and stood up. Then, with his companions, he made his slow way toward the entrance gates. When his group reached the street, the nature of crowds outside the compound had subtly changed. Refugees pushed harder to enter the estate, while their tormentors across the way stood in a sullen, menacing mood. A platoon of security guards had strung themselves in a line between the two groups.

  Atcho looked around warily. Dusk was rapidly approaching, and he wanted away from this place as fast as possible. But it would be foolish to move in a way that would draw attention.

  Anguished cries caught his attention. Down the street, ruffians viciously beat people attempting to reach the gate. Refugees still outside the portal became more urgent. They jostled each other angrily, trying to squeeze through whatever openings were available in the fence. Guards made no move to intervene or interfere.

  From the corner of his eye, Atcho saw a sentry gesture in his direction. He inhaled sharply, but pretended not to see. The guard walked toward him.

  Atcho’s companions had also seen the soldier. Trying not to appear obvious, they stepped up their pace. Another guard turned in their direction. Between the soldier who had first gestured and the one up ahead, a string of guards spread out, cutting off his progress and that of his companions.

  A shot rang out. A woman screamed. Refugees ran in all directions. More shots were fired. A man fell, his chest blown open, his eyes glazed in death. More people fell. Blood spilled onto the hard surface of the street. Someone tossed a baby into the air, intended for the sanctuary of the foreign embassy. It fell to the ground, its tiny form riddled with bullets.

  Atcho dove onto the asphalt, as did other members of his group. They lay stunned, not comprehending the savagery they had just witnessed. The agonized cries of the wounded and the wailing of those who had lost loved ones cut through the ominous quiet. A chant of approval came from the loyalists as they picked up a chant, “Gusanos! Gusanos! Gusanos!”

  A soldier jabbed Atcho roughly with his rifle. “Get up!” Atcho did as he was told and saw his companions also being taken prisoner. Behind them, loyalists roared their approval, while in the embassy compound, the refugees pressed against the fence to see what had happened. They wailed their agony over loved ones lost in the carnage, and hurled invectives at the soldiers.

  The soldiers herded Atcho and his companions into the back of a van and drove away. Eyes dull, and prisoners once more, they sat in silent shock on the hard benches.

  The sun’s waning rays shone feebly through the small van window. After ten or fifteen minutes, the shadow of a great building blocked the remaining light. Atcho stared at the part he could see. Recognizing its outline, his every nerve stretched taut. They were at La Cabaña, Castro’s private house of horrors, the prison that hid Cuban intelligence’s most brutal interrogations and tortures.

  In the portal of the ancient fortress, the driver honked the horn. When the iron gate swung open, they drove into a medieval courtyard. Sentries emerged and escorted them from the vehicle, down a winding corridor into the bowels of the notorious prison. Long halls led away into darkness in multiple directions. Atcho and his companions followed down one passageway lined with heavy, wooden doors. The first, on the left, was open, leading into a single cell. A guard grabbed Atcho and shoved him roughly into the interior of the dimly lit, smelly chamber, then closed the door and turned the key.

  Emotionless, Atcho leaned against a wall, his mind taxed almost to its limit. For several minutes, he was impervious to any feeling beyond physical fatigue. He lowered himself onto a cot, and reflected on the atrocity of the afternoon. He felt the agony of the unknown father whose baby fell from the sky. Then, he thought of Isabel, and wondered if she were now gone from his life forever.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor. A key turned in the lock. The door swung open and in the dim light, a sentry motioned Atcho into the hall, ordering him to stand facing into a corner.

  Too tired to speculate on what was happening, Atcho did as he was told. More footsteps sounded, and someone groaned, as if in pain. Then, he heard the cell door close and lock. Arms seized Atcho from both sides. The guard led him back along the corridor, up the winding passageway into another room, and left him there alone. The sentries were barely beyond earshot, when two new guards entered.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  Surprised at the courteous greeting, Atcho looked sharply at the two young soldiers. Then he noticed their uniforms. They were Soviets!

  “Please come with us, sir.” They led him back into the old courtyard to another van. The guards motioned Atcho into the vehicle and closed the door. Inside was a man in a business suit and two Soviet soldiers armed with submachine guns. All three returned Atcho’s stare, but said nothing as the van’s engine turned over.

  “Who are you?” Atcho asked the man in the business suit.

  “Sir, my orders are to answer no questions and deliver you to Camp Columbia as quickly as possible. Also, I am to shoot you if you attempt to escape.”

  As the van wound through the streets, heading toward the city’s outskirts, Atcho was too tired to think or speak. He wondered why three people spoke respectfully to him and called him ‘sir.’

  Soon, they pulled to a halt. There was a short conversation between driver and sentry, then the vehicle was moving again.

  Through thin metal walls, Atcho heard the high-pitched whine of aircraft taking off and landing. The distinct odor of fuel and exhaust permeated the vehicle’s interior. The van made several turns, and then halted again. A soldier opened the door, and Atcho and the men accompanying him stepped outside.

  Though weapons were pointed in his direction, this time, no one took his arms. The man in the business suit led him toward a brick fieldhouse. On the other side of the building, an asphalt road led to a runway. A single large plane sat there facing away from Atcho, and a rear ramp was down, exposing its cavernous interior. Crewmen moved about loading cargo onto it

  Atcho followed his escort into a brightly lit room. Men lounged around in seats arranged around the wall. Some of the men were in uniform, some dressed in civilian clothes. They bore the air of travelers waiting for the next leg of their journey. No one paid him particular attention.

  “We’ll wait here!” Atcho’s escort said with a heavy Russian accent.

  “Where are we going?”

  “That will become clear.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “No,” came the flat reply, “but you can call me Gregor. C’mon. Looks like we’re ready to board.”

  Speechless, Atcho looked up and saw that the other passengers, about fifteen of them, had left their seats and started toward a door leading out to the runway. He followed Gregor. The two soldiers who had accompanied them stood at the corner of the building watching them, but apparently would not be traveling with them.

  The passengers formed two single files and followed a guide out to the gaping cargo ramp. They stood there for a while awaiting final signal to enter the aircraft. Atcho looked around but being out on a runway, there was not much to see aside from other aircraft, hangars, and terminals in the distance.

  Gregor turned to him. “I will tell you now that I don’t know who you are,” he yelled. The sound of idling jet engines made conversation difficult. “I know nothing about you, not even your name, or why you are traveling. I can only tell you that my orders are to treat you with all courtesy and respect unless you try to escape, in which case I will not hesitate to shoot you. We will make a refueling stop in the Azores. Our final destination is Moscow.”

  Just then, a crewman signaled to the guide, and the passengers walked up the ramp into the deep interior. At the forward end were rows of seats. As passengers jostled for position, Atc
ho noticed that they treated Gregor with deference, and that he benefitted by extension. As a result, they were able to take two of the most desirable seats, although they could hardly be considered comfortable.

  Generators whirred, the cargo ramp raised, the interior lights dimmed, and the huge aircraft rolled ponderously down the runway. There were no windows, so Atcho could not see out, but he felt the distinct moment when the nose of the aircraft raised, and the plane lifted into the air. He had not experienced that since his return home from West Pont.

  Ah, West Point, he thought. I haven’t thought of you, or home, or family in … He was suddenly startled to think that only hours ago, he had arrived in Havana on the train from Boniato. The events at the Swiss and Peruvian embassies seemed liked blurs, the secretary Sofia a kind dream, and the conversation with Isabel, a nightmare.

  The aircraft ascended to thirty thousand feet and settled into its cruising velocity. Atcho looked over at Gregor. He seemed to have relaxed a bit, perhaps relieved to have had no incident during boarding, but studied Atcho steadily.

  “You look tired,” he called above the sound of engines and rushing wind. “Get some sleep.”

  “Thank you,” Atcho replied. “I think I will, but do you mind if I ask a question?”

  Gregor looked at him, askance. “What do you want to know?”

  “Who is bringing me to Moscow? What organization do you work for?

  Gregor showed no expression. “I can only tell you what my orders are, and that I am with the KGB.”

  Atcho sat back sharply and leaned his head against the back of his seat. His mind wrestled with too many surprises and traumas for a short time. He had eaten plenty at the Swiss Embassy, but now he felt the slow gnaw of hunger approaching. He turned again to Gregor. “Is there any food?”

  Gregor looked at him without expression, then nodded. “I’ll get it,” he said, “I know where it is.”

  As Gregor moved forward in the cabin, Atcho leaned into his seat again and stretched his legs in front of him. Rushing wind over the airplane soothed him. He relaxed as much as he could. Gregor returned and handed him a bag with a ham sandwich, some chips, and a nondescript fruit drink. He thanked Gregor and began munching.

  An abrupt thought flashed through his mind. The way he and his companions were arrested at the Peruvian Embassy seemed to have been planned. Security police had deliberately surrounded them. No one else had been taken away. Also, while Cuban soldiers escorted the captives to their cells at La Cabaña, Russian soldiers had retrieved Atcho, leaving someone else in his place.

  They pulled a switch! he realized suddenly. They want someone to believe I’m still in prison. He reflected more deeply on the manner used to bring him out of La Cabaña.

  First, there were guards who had actually taken him out of the cell. They had not mistreated him, but neither had they been gentle. Two others escorted him to the van. They had taken his arm in the same way they might assist an injured person. Their attitude had been one of deference, to the point of calling him “sir.” Despite the warning against attempting escape, Gregor and his two companions in the van had shown respect, and Gregor had stated that such were his orders. The passengers had not regarded him as anything out of the ordinary. Then there was Gregor’s last revelation – that he was with the KGB?

  What do they want with me?

  PART VIII

  17

  The cargo plane landed at an airbase near Moscow in the middle of the night. Unknown men in a long black car waited for him and drove him quickly through the dimly lit streets of the capital city. He strained to see through the windows, but came away with only vague impressions of massive buildings and wide streets that trailed into narrow, empty roads leading into the country. He felt more than saw the twists and turns, and had no idea of where he was.

  As pre-dawn light settled, they arrived at a large chainlink gate topped with concertina wire. The driver rolled down the window and showed documents and identification to a guard, who then waved them through. Inside, Atcho saw another gate about fifty feet further on. The space between them was bereft of vegetation, and was very well lit. The guard at the second gate had already opened it, and waved them through.

  The road turned into a gravel surface, and rose at a slight incline. On either side, tall fir trees rose like sentries, reminding of his departure from the Isle of Pines.

  The road soon broke into a clearing, and wended through a garden of sorts. Atcho saw that someone had planned the garden with great care, but that the current tender did not devote love and attention to it. The shrubs and flowers had been cut short, and weeding had been less than thorough, so that it lent an atmosphere halfway between mildly pleasant and desolate. Ahead of him, a house came into view – seemingly pleasant, and not at all what he expected. “What is this place?” He asked.

  “A dacha,” came the response.

  “What is a dacha?”

  “A country house where people go for holiday.” The escort chuckled. “This one was built for that purpose before the socialist revolution, but I don’t think anyone comes here now for holiday.”

  This dacha was a large frame house, painted deep green. The roof was metallic and steepled, and alcoves jutted from three upstairs windows on the front. Broad wooden stairs led onto a generous porch, and Atcho saw well-worn garden furniture there.

  The car stopped. When Atcho stepped out, the chill of dawn caused him to suck in his breath, and reminded him that he was very far north where cold weather extends well into spring, and nights become short very quickly. Above him, a cold wind swayed the firs.

  His escorts led him up the stairs through the main door and into a foyer. The house was warm and reasonably well maintained. Mustiness permeated the ground floor, bespeaking months of being closed up for winter and not yet aired out, but the furniture looked comfortable. The paned windows were large though, and allowed plenty of daylight. That was fortunate, because the ceilings were low, and the light from the fixtures were dim. To the right, a worn polished-wood staircase with a scarlet carpet runner led upstairs. From somewhere in the interior, Atcho heard the sad strains of Russian classical music on a scratchy record.

  A thin middle-aged man in uniform came through a door to the left. His manner was reserved, but not unfriendly. He was balding, with a tuft of hair in the middle of his scalp, and he peered through wire-rimmed glasses. He held out his hand, but the move was perfunctory, almost an afterthought.

  “I am Major Karlov,” he said in heavily accented English. “I am the Commandant of this camp. Would you come into my office with me, please?”

  He dismissed the escorts, led Atcho back into his office, and indicated a wooden chair. Atcho sat in it and looked around while the major went to the other side of the desk. The room was utilitarian, but not uncomfortable – the furniture appeared to be quality holdovers from better days. Like the foyer, the walls of the office were constructed of tan-colored wood, and evoked a feeling of an era past. The desk was large and ornately carved oak. The major seemed comfortable enough in this environment, and yet strangely out of place. Atcho imagined that his forebears had probably been part of the proletariat, not the bourgeoisie.

  “I know virtually nothing about you, Gospadin Lezcano,” Major Karlov said unceremoniously. “I was told only that you have been many years in deep cover, and that you served the Motherland well.” Atcho only gazed steadily, refraining from any reaction. “My job here is to provide you with an opportunity to rest, and to prepare you for your next mission. However … ” He removed his glasses and his stare bored into Atcho. “Your preparation here is only general, as provided to all agents. You’ll be trained in weapons, combat, espionage, and counter-espionage methods. I know nothing of future missions, nor should you ever ask me about them. Is that understood?”

  Atcho nodded.

  “I saw that you are a mid-level guest of the Soviet Union, and as such, you will be afforded every courtesy and comfort. But you are expected to train hard
.”

  Atcho rubbed his eyes and stood up sluggishly. The major looked startled. “Major Karlov,” Atcho said. His voice was unusually deep and hoarse from exhaustion, and he injected a mild tone of authority. “I appreciate your courtesy, but I have been up and traveling for at least two days straight – maybe longer. I’ve lost track. Where I can get some sleep?”

  Karlov had remained seated, but now rose. He replaced his glasses and faced Atcho with an expression of deliberate firmness. “I’ve been rude,” he said. “However, you need to be made aware of a few things, and then I’ll show you to your room.” He crossed to a map of the compound. “Officially,” he said indicating the map, “this place does not exist.” He paused for effect. “No one, myself included, is here. Do you understand that?”

  Atcho spread his feet far apart, and rubbed his cheek. “Major,” he said, “I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m just very, very tired. Anything you tell me now is probably wasted effort.”

  “Well I sincerely hope that is not the case,” the major said sternly, “because you must understand what I tell you now.” He shifted his position. “I am an officer in the Spetsnaz. As you might know, the Spetsnaz is a special division of the Soviet army specifically detailed with disrupting enemy operations before a war begins. During peacetime, we train.” He took off his glasses again and cleaned them with a handkerchief.

  “We cooperate with KGB Section S, which was formed to train and manage ‘illegals’ – those operators who will be active in other countries. You’ll also train with Section V, which is responsible for wet operations.”

  Atcho winced. I’m training to be an assassin?

  Karlov pointed to the map again. “You are free to go anywhere on this compound. We have a library. It is robust; we don’t restrict anything you read. In this location, the current material focuses on the United States.”

  Atcho shifted his feet. His shoulders ached with fatigue, and his mind barely registered the significance of what he had just heard.