by Lee Jackson
“This is a good-sized compound – not large, but it does have multiple good facilities. We don’t have a lot of people here.” He indicated the map again. “You’ll get an orientation when you are rested. You are free to use all of the facilities at your own leisure. However, and this is the key point,” his face became set, “this compound is surrounded by two rings of electrified fences that are razor sharp. Motion-sensitive shotguns are aimed at the corners of the fence. German Shepherd dogs that are kept deliberately hungry roam between the fences at night.”
Atcho returned the expressionless look.
“There’s more. There are minefields within ten meters on this side of the inner fence and the other side of the outer fence. Their limits are well marked.” He paused again. “And finally,” he said, “Our guards are Spetsnaz troops. All of them are experts in hand-to-hand combat, and are also marksmen.” He turned to fully face Atcho. “There are also other precautions. Do you have any questions?’
Atcho felt nothing, but thought he should respond. “Did you say that I was a guest?’
The major smiled quietly. “Of sorts,” he replied. “Now, let me take you to your room. It is just up the stairs.”
Atcho slept soundly. His trip from prison to Havana seemed far in the past, though only three days had passed. When he rose late that afternoon, he found fresh clothes laid out for him, and a shower with plenty of hot running water and soap. Still feeling disoriented, he stared at them in wonder for a while before entering the shower. When he went downstairs, he found an attendant waiting for him.
“This way, sir,” the young man said. “We kept food out for you. I hope it is sufficient.” He led the way to a table set for one in a small dining room. Atcho took his seat while the attendant walked into another room and soon reappeared with a tray of meat blintzes and borscht. “I hope you enjoy,” he said. “The library is down the hall if you’d like to go there when you’ve finished. Or you could use the gym; it’s just down the road to your left. And there are walking trails through the woods. Major Karlov instructed me to tell you that your training will begin officially two days after tomorrow, and that meanwhile, you should relax and rest.” Atcho thanked him, and the attendant left the room.
Atcho felt grateful to be alone. He smelled the aroma of fresh coffee and saw a pot as well as a glass pitcher of orange juice set on a buffet nearby. He poured himself some of each and lingered over his meal, wondering at his changed circumstance. Then he walked outside to take in the day.
The air was warm, but had that crispness that occurs sometime past mid-afternoon when cooler temperatures begin to signal that the day is waning. He thought that his body was probably not prepared for gym activity just yet, but walking alone through the woods might be enjoyable.
He went down one path and then another, relishing the fresh air and hearing birds chirp. He did not meet anyone else while taking his walk, and recalled that the Major had said that there were not many people at this camp. He was relieved. The change in circumstances was overwhelming enough without the press of new acquaintances. That thought brought to mind his comrades still languishing in La Cabaña, and he grimaced with guilt over what they must still be experiencing. What am I doing here? He felt bitterness rising, but quelled the feeling. Whatever they have planned for me can’t be good.
In the near distance, he heard gunshots, and heading toward them, he came upon a firing range. Three people shot with AK-47 rifles from separate firing positions, and next to them were uniformed coaches. Atcho watched awhile, and then retraced his way back to the dacha.
He spent some time reading in the library that evening. It was a comfortable room, also giving a sense of being from another time. Various seating areas consisting of overstuffed chairs and sofas spaced about the room. Wooden tables and chairs occupied intermittent spaces. Bookshelves lined a wall, and on quick observation, Atcho was surprised to find various American classics, as well as books by contemporary authors. More surprising were current periodicals, including copies of Time and Newsweek. He found uncensored copies of the New York Times and the Herald Tribune, and sat down to read. Very soon, he found himself dozing off, and went back upstairs to bed.
Late in the afternoon the next day, Atcho was again reading in the library when Major Karlov entered. “Ah,” he said, “I see you are enjoying your reading.”
“I’m not sure I would call it enjoyment,” Atcho said, “so much has … is happening.” He had read past articles about the American lunar landing with intense interest. Rather than being inspired, he only felt angered at the resources denied to his countrymen while so much was poured into the Space Race. He did not, however, mention that to the major – he did not wish to reveal the extent of his ignorance on current world affairs. “I’m intrigued with the U.S. response to the Soviet entry into Afghanistan,” he said instead. “Boycotting the Olympics?”
The major chuckled. “We don’t know what to make of it either,” he said. “It’s pretty lame, and irritating. It’s more insult than injury, though. We would have enjoyed hosting the U.S. in Moscow! President Carter seems to know a lot about the technicalities of submarines and peanut farming, but not much about governing or leading.” He chuckled again. “Well, there are still two months until the Olympics. We can hope that he changes his mind.”
“Do you think the grain embargo will hurt your country?”
Karlov smiled his quiet smile again. “Carter seems not to know Russian history,” he said. “Russians are nothing if not longsuffering. We always do without things. Worse, we are stubborn. He is only punishing his own farmers, but if he wants to do that … ” He shrugged his shoulders, leaving his sentence unfinished, and then said, “Can you believe he gave away the Panama Canal?”
Atcho was dumbfounded, but kept his expression neutral, only shaking his head as if in agreement – he had not yet run across that gem.
He had spent much of the morning reading about the takeover of the U.S. Embassy in Tehran a few months earlier. “What do you think about that?” he asked, indicating a headline showing that one hundred and sixty-one days had passed since the event occurred.
“Unbelievable!” Karlov exclaimed. “Can you imagine the Soviet Union allowing any nation to occupy one of its embassies and hold its diplomats hostage?” Without embellishment, Atcho agreed that he could not. “Well,” said Karlov, “I just wanted to see that you are comfortable and resting. I’ll leave you to your reading.” He left the library.
Atcho returned to the article that he had been studying when Karlov had entered. He had deliberately avoided discussing the subject. It pertained to more retaliation by Castro against the government of Peru for the events at their embassy in Havana. Castro was also angry with all the Cubans who had thronged the embassy grounds seeking political asylum, and had made a public announcement that anyone wanting to leave Cuba was free to do so by whatever means available, including boats from the U.S. The article showed aerial and close-up views of thousands of small boats docking at the small port of Mariel, and departing with thousands of his countrymen for Miami. Ahh! Atcho thought in silent dismay, I should have been on one of those boats!
18
The training camp was self-contained. If an element of training were needed that was not present on the compound it was brought in. As a result, Atcho never left the camp during his stay there, except for two occasions when he left for practical exercises in surveillance technique and the use of dropboxes. One hundred meters from the outer fence, the forest was tall and deep, and he saw nothing beyond the trees other than a few lowlying hills in the distance.
Several weeks after his arrival, Atcho felt like every moment that he was not asleep was a moment spent in training. Even the movies made available at night were American slices of life. He realized that they were being used to familiarize him with American lifestyles.
One night, Major Karlov stepped into the small viewing room just off the library, where Atcho was watching The Graduate with two other tr
ainees. “Gospadin Lezcano,” Major Karlov said, “Do you suppose life is really like that in the U.S., or just CIA-developed propaganda?”
Atcho was cautious, not knowing whether the question were a sincere inquiry or a test. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment’s thought. “When I find out, I’ll drop you a postcard.” Karlov said nothing, just stood watching the movie with him for a few minutes, and then departed.
The other trainees kept to themselves, just as Atcho did. He counted twenty-three of them at one point, but their training was individual and not conducive to interaction. Atcho surmised that he, like they, was preparing for unknown missions in the U.S. Whether or not they were doing so willingly, he did not even guess. The trait most common between them was that they seemed to know instinctively how to keep a profile that drew minimum attention, yet there was an alertness about all of them that tended to set them apart. They walked in slow, swinging gaits, their eyes taking in all they could see, their arms free and seeming perpetually prepared for action. Atcho suspected that for many of them, the training here was either a refresher or to learn upgraded skills – basic training was long behind them.
One morning at hand-to-hand combat training, Atcho found himself paired with a bull of a man with close-cropped hair, an instructor Atcho had dubbed Boris. Atcho had been in several classes with Boris, and had learned techniques for close fighting that he hadn’t known from his days at West Point. There, Atcho had boxed, as all cadets had done, and had even won a regimental intramural championship. But here, the emphasis was on martial arts and using every advantage to take down an opponent. “Fair fighting will get you killed,” Boris had told him. Atcho had been amazed at the perfect Midwestern American accent when speaking in English. “If death is the only option, your job is to make sure that the other guy loses.”
“Go easy on me,” Atcho said as they squared off. Suddenly, the heel of Boris’ hand slammed upward against Atcho’s jaw. Boris spun low on the ball of his right foot, and his outstretched left foot kicked both feet out from under Atcho. “You don’t have time to be funny in a fight!” Boris yelled. Atcho rolled over quickly and came to a crouch, his eyes bulging with anger. “You think your enemy is going to take time to appreciate your joke?” Boris continued to yell. “Think! Watch the eyes. Distract! And if you joke, you’d better do it only to distract the other guy, and know exactly what your next move will be!”
In surveillance and counter-surveillance training, Atcho learned how to follow undetected, and how to spot and lose a tail, and his trainers even took him into a nearby town for a practical exercise. He found it refreshing to be out among ordinary citizens going about their business freely. Hmm, he thought, what I wouldn’t give right now for even their level of freedom.
He went through classes on covert communications, including the use of blind drops, and familiarized on all sorts of weaponry. The AK47 was new to him, but most of the firearms were American, and many well known to him, and he had little trouble regaining competence and confidence in shooting. He spent many hours in the gym, and running. Hardened by forced labor, and now with far better food and more rest than he had had in decades, the strenuous exercise made Atcho very physically fit.
After several weeks, he realized that there was no ideological training – no attempt to indoctrinate him. Whether or not I am a good Communist must be irrelevant, he concluded.
Isabel was never far from his thoughts. But, he told himself, she’s better off without me.
One evening, while Atcho was reading in the library, Major Karlov entered and took a seat in an overstuffed chair near Atcho’s. “You’ve done well here, Gospadin,” he said.
Atcho felt an uneasiness form in his stomach. Despite antipathy toward his captors, he had grown accustomed to the predictability and security of the training facility, even as he felt pangs of guilt over the probable continued suffering or deaths of his comrades. He had enjoyed the camp’s creature comforts and the physical and intellectual opportunities afforded. While still a captive, his day-to-day life had improved immeasurably, and the major’s choice of tense seemed to signal an impending change. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Is my training coming to an end?”
“Yes Comrade, I’m afraid it is,” Karlov responded. “You’ve been here five months. Tomorrow you leave for Moscow.” He stood up and extended his hand. “I’m afraid I will be seeing you no longer. I wish you well.”
19
September, 1980
Why am I going to Moscow? Atcho wondered. The former guerrilla leader, political exile, and apparent new KGB operative slept poorly that night, tossing and turning in apprehension. Nightmares that had been dormant returned in full detail. With them, his fear, pain, and feelings of failure flooded back. He saw clearly Isabel’s terror-stricken face in the moonlight, and felt again the pain of his beating. The scene morphed into a baby flying up into the air, and he felt revulsion on seeing its tiny body struck with bullets. He lived again in a battle tank being riddled with bullets as it bumped through a dark swamp, and sat up in a cold sweat. Rubbing his temples, he got out of bed and paced awhile, then tried again to sleep. It came in fits and spurts.
Three men sat in the foyer of the dacha that morning when Atcho had finished breakfast. “This way,” one said roughly. There was no sense of courtesy. They led him outside to a sedan parked in the driveway. Atcho sat between two of them in the back of the car, while the third drove. They wound their way back along the tree-lined gravel road, and after passing through the two sets of electric gates, turned onto a hard surfaced motorway. The weather was turning cool, but the days were still clear. Through the darkened windows, he saw wide, flat fields. They were dotted with villages and isolated houses, and interrupted with large stands of trees.
They followed a route going directly east, and then turned north onto the M4, one of the main arteries leading into the city of Moscow. Two hours later, gleaming in slanting sunlight, Moscow’s unmistakable spires and turrets appeared in the distance.
Soon the automobile crossed over the great Moscow River that wound through the southwestern side of the city. The road widened, and the sedan joined traffic heading into the throbbing heart of the communist world.
Atcho leaned forward and tried to glimpse landmarks he had seen in pictures as a child. Those same images had decorated many books in the library at the training facility. He gasped at the vast scale of Red Square, and the multi-colored beauty of St. Basil’s Cathedral.
Curious, he observed the populace. They could be inhabitants of America, Cuba, or any other western country, he thought in surprise. They were short, tall, fat, thin, ugly, pretty. Their expressions ranged from distracted to friendly to angry. Harried mothers pushed baby carriages, while fathers guided them through traffic. Some people wore colorful clothing; others were ultra-conservative. Rushing in all directions, the degree of intensity on Russian faces indicated the importance of their individual errands.
One of Atcho’s escorts rolled down a window as they passed Lenin’s tomb. Foreboding gripped Atcho as his eyes followed the guard’s pointing finger. The resting place of the Father of the Socialist Revolution was plainly visible in the wall of a long building. Nearby were the sculpted images of Marx, Lenin, and Stalin. Atcho stared coldly at them. Butchers, he thought. Stalin sent eighteen million Ukrainians to slaughter. How could such a beast still be revered as a national hero?
Pedestrians passed by their vehicle as it made its way along the river opposite the unmistakable red walls that seemed to stretch endlessly. Within, tall, polished gold domes of Russian Orthodox architecture gleamed in the sunlight. They challenged his previous perceptions of a cold and gray capital.
At a bridge, the car turned, and then proceeded along the front wall. Atcho stared in stony silence. This, he knew, was the Kremlin.
The colossal compound seemed to pulse with an unholy life of its own. He remembered pictures of terror-stricken people ground under Red Army tanks in Czechoslovakia. The orders, inclu
ding those to dominate his beloved Cuba, had come from this very building. An almost irresistible urge to retaliate coursed through him. He set his jaw and prepared for whatever was to follow.
They continued past the Kremlin and down another avenue. The number of buildings of classical architecture surprised Atcho. He had not been prepared for that, in spite of the elegant cathedrals. A few blocks further along, another imposing building appeared. This one was yellow, and was set off from other buildings by wide streets. At its front was a garden, in the center of which was an enormous statue. One of the escorts saw Atcho studying it. “Felix Dzerzhinsky,” he grunted, “the sword of the state.” The pit in Atcho’s stomach expanded at the mention of the motto of the KGB – the Sword and Shield of the Party – and its notorious founder, personal murderer and torturer of thousands. Dzerzhinsky was a man who had overseen the banishment and deaths of millions.
They turned along the side of the building, and Atcho saw that it continued far down the street. Before reaching the corner, they turned again into what appeared to be an alley cut into the building, but turned out to be a tunnel that led underground. In spite of himself, Atcho grimaced. One of his escorts saw Atcho’s expression, “Welcome to the Lubyanka,” he said with a sarcastic laugh. “KGB Headquarters.”
When his escorts exited the vehicle, one man grasped Atcho’s arm, and they ushered him inside the building. They moved quickly down a short flight of stairs and followed a long hall. Halfway to the other end was a bank of elevators, one waiting with its door open. The escorts ushered Atcho brusquely inside. One of them pressed a button, and they descended into the bowels of the huge building, from which so many never ascended again.
The door opened and, with a man on each side, Atcho shuffled down a wide corridor with arched ceilings. They were dimly lit, and the paint seemed a faint lime green. Each time he appeared to lag, his escorts nudged him. At last they stopped before a door to the right of the hallway. They motioned Atcho inside and closed the door. He heard a click. He was alone, locked in this strange room with no windows. There were no furnishings except a table and a steel chair, facing a wall made entirely of smoked glass. The room was well lit, but a drape was drawn on the other side of the glass wall. He wondered what lurked there.