by Cliff Ryder
“It’s nothing, sir. I can continue with the mission.” Jonas tried not to gasp as his leader pressed on his ankle, sending a bolt of pain through the rest of his foot.
“We cannot risk you slowing us down going there or back. You will have to remain here while we head out.”
Reinmann stood and turned to the woman, explained the situation and told her to remain, as well, that the team would be in touch once they had ascertained whether Safedy was actually where their contact had said he would be. Then he signaled to his team, and the group melted into the forest, gone in seconds.
With a hangdog expression Jonas watched them go. He tested his foot, but even sitting, the moment he put any weight on it, pain lanced up his leg, and he bit back a groan.
The young woman returned to stand over him, her arms crossed. “Shouldn’t you remove your boot?” she asked.
“If I take it off, the swelling will make it impossible to get back on again. Also, it is holding my foot in place, more or less, so there is less chance of causing further damage.” He eyed her, sensing her displeasure. “Believe me, I’d rather not be sitting around uselessly. I should be with my team right now, not—” he waved at the ruins around them
“—stuck here.”
She nodded, then knelt by him. “Your government must want this man very much, to come all this way for him.”
Jonas’s eyebrows rose at what she knew, although he figured that their contacts here wouldn’t have let them in unless there was a damn good reason. Apparently Cuba had enough of its own problems that its people didn’t want an international terrorist holing up in their country. “What he and the rest of those animals did was unforgivable.” His eyes narrowed as a thought struck him. “Do you know the story?”
She shrugged. “The government tells us only what it thinks we should know, particularly about the outside world.”
“Then let me.” He related the story of the Summer Olympics and the invasion into what was supposed to be the world coming together in peace and celebration as the best athletes competed against each other. Jonas spoke of the Black September members, and how they took eleven of the Israeli athletes hostage, killing two of them in the Olympic Village.
Even though the hurt was still relatively fresh, he told of the botched interception attempt at the airport, which left the nine remaining hostages, five terrorists and a German policeman dead.
“That is why I am here now. My unit was created to prevent something like that from ever happening again.” He’d heard rumors that the Israelis were sending their own agents to track down and kill the organizers in the Middle East, but kept that information to himself.
“But to send you and the others on such a dangerous mission. You are just a boy.”
“I am older than you,” he said.
Her smile was shy. “Perhaps.”
“Besides, from what I’ve heard about your country, your government trains children from the time they are little, indoctrinating them into an obedient, programmed state of mind to follow the orders of the people in charge.”
“Much like the Nazis and their Hitler Youth guard of World War II, yes?” the woman said.
Jonas didn’t have a comeback for that one.
“But what you say is true, unfortunately. That is why I’m here, risking my life to stop this madman so we can get help against—” She trailed off and cocked an ear, listening to the jungle.
Jonas took the cue and strained his senses, too, trying to catch what had put her on guard. Then he realized it—the animals in the surrounding foliage had gone quiet. Even when the team had been there, the area was filled with the noises of insects, birds and other nocturnal animals. Now they could be heard in the distance, but the nearby cacophony had suddenly gone still, as if the creatures were hiding—or fleeing.
Then he heard a completely different sound—the distant growl of a rough-running engine. Jonas and the woman exchanged glances. “Come on!”
She grabbed his hand and tugged, trying to pull him to his feet. Snatching up his rifle and pack, Jonas managed to get up on his good foot and was surprised when she slipped her head underneath his shoulder. “I can manage,” he said.
“Uh-huh, I watched you on the way in. No talk, just walk.”
Together they hobbled out of the ruined sugar refinery and into the nearby jungle. Just as they edged into cover, pushing broad leaves aside, weak yellow light flooded the clearing.
“Down!” Jonas dived to the ground, taking her with him.
She struggled free of him, but remained close, her smooth forehead now smudged with dirt. Eyes blazing, she didn’t say anything, but simply watched what unfolded before them.
A large, olive-drab truck came to a stop in the middle of the area. It had barely halted before a dozen men poured from the back, all dressed in military fatigues and carrying AK-47s. They fanned out and searched the area, covering every inch of ground. Jonas held his breath as a man swept past only a few yards away. Two of the men entered the tumbledown building, rifles ready in front of them.
The woman put her lips next to Jonas’s ear. “I hope you didn’t leave anything in there.”
Jonas shook his head, concentrating on the men, assess-ing their numbers and ability. The pair left the building and spoke to the driver, who turned the truck around and drove back down the road. Men immediately began erasing any evidence of the vehicle having been there.
It was obvious to Jonas what had happened. The mission had been compromised, and these men were here to capture—or more likely kill—the team when they returned.
He got the woman’s attention and motioned for her to move farther into the jungle. She crawled away, lifting one limb at a time, checking with every movement to be sure she hadn’t been noticed. When she was a few yards away, Jonas began his withdrawal, keeping his eyes on the clearing and the men waiting there.
THE THUD OF THE JET’S WHEELS hitting the tarmac jarred Jonas out of his reverie. He glanced out the window to see the bright, flat runway baking under the Florida sun. Even though the airplane cabin was pressurized and air-conditioned, he already sensed the heat outside, as if it were waiting for him to emerge.
The ten-hour flight had been uneventful, save for some minor turbulence. Jonas had tried to sleep on the way over, but his restless mind kept returning to the same old thoughts.
In the decades since that mission, he had returned to Cuba more than once, but had never found any way to lay what had happened that night to rest. And now it looked as if he was going to come face-to-face with the results of that evening, one way or another.
The flight attendant welcomed the passengers to Miami, and he let the words skate over him as he waited for the plane to stop moving, looking like any of the other European tourists or businessmen coming to America. The plane taxied to a stop, and Jonas got out of his seat and removed his small overnight bag from the overhead compartment.
Slinging it over his shoulder, he waited for the door to open and walked through the airport to the baggage claim.
Miami International Airport bustled with the start of the tourist season, but Jonas didn’t give the assorted wildlife, animal or human, a second glance, scanning the crowd for his contact instead.
A young Hispanic man, dressed in sandals, khakis and a brightly colored shirt held a simple cardboard sign with his cover name on it. Jonas walked over and looked him up and down, then started walking again, the younger man falling into step beside him. “I didn’t expect it to be this warm,”
Jonas said.
“It’s not the heat but the humidity that gets to most people. You’ll get used to it soon enough,” the young man replied.
“I suppose a good night’s sleep will help.” The conversation was innocuous enough, but Jonas had given the proper initial code phrase, and more importantly, his contact had given the correct reply, word for word.
Jonas held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Azul.”
His new acquaintance took it and sh
ook briskly. “Like-wise, Mr. Heinemann. But don’t you think this is all rather melodramatic?”
“How so?”
“This back and forth we just did, like something out of the movies. I’d have thought our handlers would have sent a photo of me to your cell to compare faces.”
Actually, Jonas did have that, but he knew that his adver-saries could always disguise themselves, as well. “Tell that to one of my friends in Europe back in 1987. During a trip behind the Iron Curtain, his contact was made, apprehended and replaced with a government agent. The man said one wrong word when he gave the counter, but my friend passed it off as nervousness and went with him.”
“What happened?”
“He spent five years in a Bulgarian prison before being swapped in a trade. His career was over, his health was shattered and he died soon after. All because of one simple wrong word.”
“Point taken.” The younger man glanced up at him. “I have to admit, you’re not what I expected.”
“Oh, you were thinking someone younger?”
“No, I read your file. You just appear to be in much better shape than your picture would indicate. Taller, too.”
Jonas glanced sidelong at the young man, but got no hint of animosity or insult from him; he had just stated a simple fact. “I do my best.”
“Any baggage?”
“Just what you see here.”
“You didn’t bring any clothes?”
“My wardrobe wasn’t appropriate for this assignment.”
In response to the younger man’s quizzical look he said, “I don’t own a two-thousand-dollar suit. Yet.”
“So we’ll need to go shopping?”
“At the best tailor in town.”
“That’s gonna be expensive.”
“Don’t worry.” Jonas patted his pocket. “It will all be taken care of. In a couple of days it will be time for me to make my entrance into Cuban-exile society.”
Damason rested his head on one hand as he held an ancient black Bakelite telephone receiver to his ear. Stifling a yawn, he tried to pay attention to his commanding officer’s stream of orders and questions.
“Yes, colonel. I have followed up on all of the freed women, and their various consulates are working on getting them back home, as well. No, at this time I have not yet received a report concerning the interrogation. I will get it as soon as possible.
Yes, of course we wish to eradicate this loathsome pestilence of human smuggling. I will keep you informed at all times.
Thank you, colonel. ¡Sí, viva la revolución! ”
He replaced the receiver and rested his head in his hands.
Since the morning’s activity he’d had about two hour’s sleep, and now felt as if the smugglers’ panel truck had run him over. However, there were still a few hours to go until he could rest. Even then he knew his respite might be brief, for army officers were supposed to be “vigilant and ready to fight for the revolution at all times,” according to one of their leader’s interminable, three-hour speeches he often inflicted on the military.
Indeed, if the man spent as much time working on the problems of our nation as he did haranguing its citizens, we would be the most powerful country in the world, Damason thought. He pushed back on the two legs of his chair, feeling the old wood creak beneath him. Like everything else in his tiny office, the furniture was worn to its breaking point. Every time he leaned back, he half expected to end up on the ground as the battered piece of furniture, used beyond its ability, finally collapsed under his weight. So far, however, it hadn’t happened.
If only my faith in our leader was as strong, he mused. In the beginning, it had not been that way. Indeed, there had been no other way but the revolution. Raised as an orphan during the turbulent 1970s, Damason had gone to a state-run school, where he had been indoctrinated into the Communist phi-losophy and, having nothing else in his life, had embraced it fervently, becoming one of the revolution’s most ardent supporters. For him, the only way forward was to join the army of the revolution, pledging to fight against all oppressors of the glorious Cuban state. His ascent through the ranks, first as a member of Castro Rebel Youth group, then as a full-fledged member of the army at age eighteen, was rapid and distinguished. Too young for service in Angola, Ethiopia or Nicaragua, Damason became a soldado just two years before the U.S.S.R. collapsed in 1991, cutting off all funding to Cuba.
At the time, Damason had still believed that Castro would find a way to enable his country to regain its footing. Even through the crippling recession, blackouts and food short-ages, the struggle to create industries and goods to export for much-needed technology, medicines and other supplies, he had believed El Comandante’s assurances that Cuba’s health care was supreme, and that their country would weather this “special period.” Like the rest of the army, Damason spent much of his time ferreting out traitors, political dissidents and informers, anyone who could be working against the revolution. He had sent many to his nation’s infamous prisons.
But even then he had seen signs that there were problems with Castro’s idea of a peaceful, content Communist nation.
The hasty trial and execution of Arnaldo Ochoa Sánchez in 1989, one of the finest generals Cuba had ever known and a hero of the revolution, had forced Damason to reconsider his blind faith in Castro and his vision for Cuba. The soldado had heard nothing but praise for “El Moro,” as his soldiers and other officers had referred to him, yet suddenly he was on trial for drug smuggling, corruption and treason. His swift execution, and the widespread rumor that it was because he was a realist who agreed with many of Mikhail Gorbachev’s reforms instead of an ideologue toeing Castro’s inflexible party line, had caused the first crack in Damason’s previously unshakable dedication to the cause.
Then he, along with several dozen other officers, had been sent to Europe under a pilot program spearheaded by Raul Castro to learn accounting and business practices. They were to return to the island and use this new knowledge to improve the infrastructure as the military began its steady takeover of many Cuban business sectors, including agricul-ture, the tourist trade, air transportation and much more.
Although Damason did learn much about how to run a profitable business, what was even more valuable to him was the time spent with the people in other countries. He was stunned to discover the many personal freedoms that people enjoyed in places like Spain and Sweden. The cultures, opinions and philosophies that he was exposed to only served to illustrate the wide gulf between the Cuban people and the rest of the world. When he had naively tried to explain that Cuba was the greatest nation in the Western Hemisphere, he was astonished at how quickly others dismantled his arguments. Most piercing was a piece of advice from a Spanish professor who said, “When you return home, try to look at it not from the viewpoint of a Communist, or even a Cuban, but simply as a human being, and ask yourself, ‘Is this how human beings should live?’A leader truly dedicated to his people would put them first, not his cause or ideology.”
When he had returned to his homeland, he had taken a good look around and saw, as if for the first time, the crushing poverty, the unemployment or menial jobs available to many people, the high education level yet the scarcity of appropriate jobs for white-collar workers and, increasing more and more every day, the tourist apartheid, as it was referred to by many outside the nation, where resorts, beaches and other areas were available only to foreign travelers and off-limits to Cuba’s own people. The law was even enforced by the police officers, putting the foreign dollars before their own countrymen.
When Castro eliminated the reform programs his brother had instituted, he announced that those changes were coun-terrevolutionary. There was an increase in crime and corruption, but no change in the everyday life of the average Cuban citizen, who still existed on only a few dollars a day.
When he heard that message broadcast to the people, Damason had realized an inescapable fact—Castro and the state-controlled media said one thing, but the neighb
orhoods and people of Cuba showed the exact opposite. He had gone out and seen the truth with his own eyes.
And if Castro was wrong, then what did that make him?
What did that make a man who had spent his entire life following the orders of a leader he’d respected and trusted, a leader who had ordered him to spread fear, to punish the innocent, to brutally oppress those who were simply trying to improve their lives and the lives of those around them?
A lesser man would have broken under the weight of having his world so completely shattered. Growing up in the streets, Damason had learned to rely on himself, and only himself, to survive, and when this reality was forced upon him, he turned from Castro, turned from Communism and turned inward to survive. Outwardly, he was the same person that everyone else knew—a dedicated soldier, a loving father, a staunch Communist. On the inside, however, he was a seething storm of rage at what was being done to his country, to his fellow citizens, all in the name of a failed ideology that should have died out with its creators in the previous century.
It happened one night at home, when Damason was playing with his two young daughters. As he watched them chase each other around their bare, crumbling, three-room apartment, he had realized a second vital truth. He did not want his daughters growing up in the same environment that he had. He wanted them to have the freedom to choose what to do with their lives, not have things forced upon them. He did not want to see his daughters, the twin joys of his life, turned into subservient Communist lackeys, working all their lives for someone else’s outmoded ideal of a disintegrating social model.
Damason decided that night that something had to be done. The only question was, what? The entire island was riddled with informers and secret police. A wrong word to the wrong person could land him in prison next to the very men he had persecuted for years. It was nearly impossible to figure out who might be willing to gamble everything on a desperate bid for freedom and everything—good and bad—