See You Later, Alligator

by William F. Buckley

  “Where is the message?”

  “I have not yet written it out. I request the help of Señorita Catalina Urrutia to render it in proper Spanish.”

  The young captain paused to consider the request.

  “As I say, Comandante Guevara will be extremely interested in what I propose,” Blackford repeated himself.

  “Very well.”

  He called to the guard, and in a moment Catalina was brought in. The captain said, “I shall return in fifteen minutes.”

  “Make that twenty minutes. Remember, translation is necessary.”

  The moment he was gone, Catalina, looking pale, asked, “Did they tell you about the one-day appeal? And the execution tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Take this dictation and translate it.” He handed her the pad and pencil.

  “To Comandante Che Guevara.

  “Our relationship has been at two levels. The first was one that governed while we both hoped to work out an Acuerdo that would have prevented the current crisis.”

  “Slow down, Caimán.”

  “The second is at the level of enemies—” Blackford slowed down. “I of your system, you of mine. We have graduated to the second relationship, which is hostile. I do not ask you to suppose that I am now appealing to our first relationship in making the following proposal.

  “It is this: that I give you information of vital interest to Cuba, in return for a commutation of sentences for Catalina and me. I will give you this information only in a face-to-face conference with you, orally. If you agree that the information I give you is significant, you will spare my life, and commit me to a jail until the moment when you reveal, or the Americans discover, your missiles. I will then be given safe conduct to Guantánamo Bay. If you do not believe the information I give you to be that valuable, you are free to proceed with my execution.

  “The only cost you will then have run is a commutation for Catalina, which your government will decree in any case—i.e., no matter what value you attach to the secrets I will divulge. My agreeing to meet with you requires that you hand us that commutation instrument for Catalina at the outset of our meeting.” Catalina looked up at him, but the tone of his voice kept her from interrupting.

  “I should like to add, without invoking the other relationship, that I continue to trust you. If you acquiesce in this proposal, I am satisfied that you will not betray us.”

  “How do you want to sign it?”

  “Sign it Caimán. That’s how he thinks of me.”

  Che read the message from Caimán carefully, and thought. In Castro’s presence, the day before, Raúl had screamed at Guevara over his indiscretion in taking Catalina with them to the missile site. For the first time, in front of both men, Che had been on the defensive. In every preceding situation when Raúl had got out of hand, Che had treated him, as often as not in front of Fidel, with withering condescension. Che knew his own prestige and his own value. Moreover he had always been faithful to Fidel, executing the leader’s orders with dispatch even if he had expressed disagreement with Castro’s judgment. Che Guevara had an immense prestige throughout the revolutionary world; he knew it, and Castro knew it. He was a philosopher as well as a soldier. He had lent such philosophical breadth as Castro’s evolutionary communism had been able to achieve. Che had several times pointed out that many of the self-same communists now in Castro’s court, for instance Carlos Rafael Rodríguez, had from the beginning backed the infamous Batista and actively opposed Castro’s 26th of July Movement. On all these occasions Fidel had not merely permitted what others present might have interpreted as an act of condescension, he had visibly and sometimes even audibly encouraged it. Raúl, in point of fact, had been something of a problem for Fidel himself, and it was easier all the way around for Che to administer occasional deflations of his brother than for Fidel to have to do so.

  But yesterday had been different. In plain fact, taking Catalina to the missile site had been a mistake which came close to being disastrous, never mind the plausibility of what he had done. One’s translator and aide one comes to think of as an extension of oneself. Fidel, after all, pronounced regularly in his dining room, in front of the house servants, on any number of delicate national questions. So that Che had, this time around, suffered with silence Raúl’s excoriation of Che’s “stupidity.” But when this charge graduated to Che’s “near treasonable stupidity” his blood boiled and he shot back. “I was wrong in taking along Catalina, Raúl. But if my stupidity approached treason, why did not your stupidity approach treason in permitting Catalina to come with us? I admit to my mistake in taking her; do you admit to your mistake in permitting her to come along? You could have said, ‘No—you, Che, must come by yourself.’ You are the Minister of the Armed Forces. Do I therefore deserve all the blame?”

  Fidel, sitting with his cigar, had interrupted the howl of his brother by snapping, simply, decisively, “Che has a point.”

  Che’s willingness, at the trial that evening, to acquiesce in the sentence of death had been formal expiation for his mistake. He had not even argued with Fidel in the antechamber when Fidel said he desired the death sentence for both, immediately.

  Che thought more about Caimán’s letter and then made his decision. He called Castro and simply told him that he was on his way to see him on very urgent business, and where did his leader choose to meet? Answer: At Cojímar. Che arrived at one o’clock: after lunch for Che, before lunch for Fidel.

  Fidel listened.

  Did Che think Caimán had information that might be really useful? He assumed, for instance, that Che had already interrogated him on the matter of the invasion?

  “Of course. And of course he said not only that he knew of no such thing, but that he was very surprised at hearing the allegation that any such thing was planned.”

  “Is he the type who would give you secrets to spare his life?”

  “That’s the principal problem. No, he is not such a type. I must assume he is trying to get the girl off. But in order to get her off, he might give us useful information.”

  “The clock is running very fast now. The only thing we would need to fear is an invasion if it came within the next two weeks. The KGB and our own people have not been very useful about exact dates, but if in fact a massive strike were within two weeks of taking place, you would think—no?—that we would have heard something?”

  “I would.”

  “There is, of course, the obvious solution. Hear what he has to say, then shoot them both.”

  “No, Fidel.”

  “Yes, I expected you would say that.” Castro half smiled. “But you would have no objections to shooting him if his information was less than extremely illuminating?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  Fidel thought for a while. “He didn’t take the precaution of asking what, in place of a commuted sentence, we would still be free to mete out to the girl.” He laughed.

  “No. I was rather surprised by that. There is nothing in the proposed contract that would prevent us from giving her a life sentence.”

  “We do not give out life sentences in Cuba, Che.”

  “Of course. I forgot about that progressive aspect of our penology. We could give her twenty years.”

  Che went on, rising from his chair. “Here would be one way to do it that is attractive philosophically—”

  “You always get philosophical, and philosophy bores me. I mean, except Marx’s and Lenin’s philosophy.”

  It was Che’s turn to laugh, but he pursued his point. “Why not do this: If the information he gives us is truly useful, we let him go to Guantánamo—after our D-Day, when he cannot hurt us. And we give the girl a light sentence. If his information is not useful, we shoot him and give the girl twenty years.”

  “Why not?” Fidel said. “If that is your recommendation.”

  Che smiled inwardly. Fidel often ratified difficult decisions by recording that they h
ad originated as someone else’s suggestion. Che knew what was expected of him:

  “In that case, I will proceed with”—he put the slightest emphasis on the possessive—“my suggestion.”

  Castro nodded.

  Che was almost out of the door when Fidel spoke again. “One thing. Let us first deny the appeals—let them think they will die tomorrow. That will put them in better shape for your conference. Schedule it some hours later.”

  “Bueno, Comandante.”

  At six o’clock the captain from the Ministry of the Interior arrived at Blackford’s cell door. Though the message was hardly so complicated as to need reading, he nevertheless did read it, from a piece of paper he took from his pocket.

  “‘The appeal from the sentence of death by Blackford Ohks is herewith denied. S/Osvaldo Dorticós.’” The captain added that any reasonable requests would be granted for Sr. Ohks’s final evening, and that a representative of the superintendent of El Príncipe would be there shortly to hear from him.

  “Did you deliver my note to Comandante Guevara?”

  “I did.”

  “He had no reaction?”

  “I do not know. I gave it to his personal secretary and left.”

  “What is the appeals verdict on Catalina Urrutia?”

  “Her appeal has also been denied.”

  “Has she been told yet?”

  “Yes. Good night, Sr. Ohks. I shall … be a witness tomorrow, so I shall not say adiós.”

  “Then hasta luego,” Blackford Oakes replied, dully.

  At 7 P.M. the huge bearded assistant to the superintendent came in, and Blackford noticed with wry amusement that he read out his questions from a printed form on a clipboard.

  “Does the condemned man [el condenado] desire to see a priest or a minister?”

  “Yes.” The assistant made a notation on the form.

  “Does the condenado desire anything unusual from the kitchen?”

  “Anything unusual from your kitchen.”

  (No comment.) “Does the condenado desire any alcoholic beverage? He may have a total of eight ounces of rum. He may have them all tonight, all tomorrow before he is summoned, or half tonight and half tomorrow.”

  “All tonight.”

  “Does the condenado have sufficient writing materials for anything he desires dispatched upon his decedence [decedencia]?”

  “I will need more paper, and I would appreciate the use of a ballpoint pen.”

  “Does the condemned understand that any correspondence is subject to passage by Cuban security censors?”

  “I understand I have no rights.”

  (No comment.) “Does the condemned have any other requests?”

  “Yes. I would like to visit with the Señorita Urrutia.”

  “I shall inquire as to whether or not that will be possible. Buenas noches.”

  Odd, the strength of convention. To wish a “good” night to someone scheduled for execution on the following morning.

  Blackford went to the desk and began a letter to Sally.

  He was still writing at eight when the door opened and a tray was brought in. Chicken and beans and rice, and about eight jiggers of rum.

  “Gracias,” he said to the guard.

  “Para servirle.”

  Another of those conventions. Para servirle. Rough translation: Anything to make you happy.

  He nibbled at the chicken, and had drunk half the rum when the door opened again and the captain from the Ministry of the Interior, manifestly surprised by it all, said:

  “We have instructions to take you to a …”—he had mistakenly begun to give the site of the appointment, thought better of it, and continued—“place, for a meeting ordered by the High Command.”

  Oh my God, Blackford thought. Here it is. He had thought of nothing else since dictating the letter than what it was he would confide to Che Guevara. But his heart leaped with life. He had saved Catalina. He had better make the point absolutely certain.

  “I go nowhere without Señorita Urrutia.”

  “She is listed on the order to go with you. She is waiting in the corridor.”

  Blackford looked back at the cell. His worldly goods, at that moment, added up to his unfinished letter to Sally and the clothes he had on. He followed the captain out the door.

  Catalina said nothing, but her eyes were wild with hope as she looked up at Blackford. They were led to a military truck and seated in the back, facing each other. The grilled hatch door was then locked. Each had a guard seated to one side; in front, shielded by a steel bulwark relieved only by a high, small barred window, was the captain, seated next to the driver. The truck moved to the prison gates, which were raised after a brief transaction between the captain and the sentry. Soon, on the highway, they were tooling along at eighty kilometers per hour.

  Catalina spoke. “It will be Che, obviously.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Are you prepared?”

  “As much as I can ever be.”

  “I owe you my life.”

  “I was a horse’s ass this morning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I neglected to specify for you anything other than the commutation of your death sentence.”

  “Believe me, I never thought of it.”

  “I didn’t either. But anyway, if we can ‘trust’ Che, to use the word you and I exchanged on a certain beach six weeks ago, at least you will not be shot tomorrow. You will not be shot at all.”

  The truck slowed down. Blackford stretched his head and peered through the small window that gave him visual access, across the driver’s compartment, to the road. There was another truck there, flashing a policeman’s red light. The two guards stiffened and took their pistols out of their holsters. When their own truck had come to a full stop, ten meters from the flashing light, Blackford saw the captain step down and an elderly, slight, bearded man wearing a colonel’s insignia walk out of the truck ahead, a clipboard in hand.

  They conferred, the red light still oscillating, causing the two officers alternately to disappear from view and then to emerge as animated red statues, apparently engaged in calm discussion.

  The captain paused, and then directed the colonel to his own truck. Blackford heard the captain say, “They are in the rear quarters, with the guards.”

  The colonel responded, “I must ascertain their identity—my orders, Captain.”

  The captain led him around with his flashlight and unlocked the grilled door at the back of his truck.

  He flashed the light inside, at the two guards and the two prisoners. The colonel, situated behind the captain, suddenly beamed his own much more powerful light at the staring faces of the four occupants. With his right hand he fired first into the head of the captain, then with a bullet each at the heads of the two guards, who slumped down. Simultaneously, from the back of the truck in front a rifle cracked, a bullet piercing the head of the driver.

  “Come along,” the colonel hissed.

  Catalina and Blackford jumped from the truck into the cavity at the back of the police truck.

  “Quick!” the colonel said.

  Two armed men in fatigue uniforms jumped in beside them. The colonel went to the front beside the driver and the truck sped off, though not at such speed as would arouse suspicion. Several minutes went by.

  Catalina: “Should we talk?”

  “Yes, unless our friends here tell us to be quiet. Talk in English, of course. I think it would be wise if we did not address them at all.”

  “What a … I mean … what an …”

  “Operation. That was something. But we don’t know what …”—it was Blackford’s turn to be rattled—“what it means …”

  Catalina’s face was barely visible, by the moon, still strong, its rays collected, strengthened, focused in the light that passed through the window’s prism. Her expression was of wonder and relief and exuberance.

  “I tell you, Blackford, it is—” she must not use a wo
rd the guards would recognize “—it is … the man you and I said we trusted, on the beach. I think he has delivered us.”

  “Funny way of doing that, Catalina. Four Cuban officials were killed five minutes ago. By—the-man-we-trusted?”

  They were off the main road, approaching the lights of a small seaside town. The truck drove, with unhurried deliberation, along the main street to the outskirts, where there were fishing wharves. Next to one of them the truck stopped.

  The door behind them was opened. There was no flashlight this time, merely the bearded colonel, who said, “Follow me.”

  They descended, and the colonel told them to wait. He went up to where the two silent men were, extended his hand and said huskily, “Dios les bendiga, compañeros.”

  He had evidently already said good night to the driver, because he beckoned to Blackford and Catalina to follow him, which they did. They walked along a wharf toward the end. There was a fishing trawler there, perhaps thirty-five feet long and twelve feet wide.

  “Step down,” the colonel said.

  Within five minutes the boat’s captain had the vessel under way. The diesel pushed it along at seven knots. Blackford looked up, from force of habit as an old fighter pilot, and located the north star. He was not surprised that it lay in front of the little boat. The moon, still bright, made silver the pathway out of the harbor. One or two fishing boats, their running lights on, passed them to starboard. Their own vessel was unlit. The captain was at the wheel. Catalina and Blackford sat on the starboard side of the little cockpit. Opposite them the colonel.

  He said in Spanish, “I don’t care what your rules are about lights, skipper. This is the longest I have been without a cigarette in forty-five years.”

  He struck a match and, behind the beard, Blackford discerned the features of Cecilio Velasco.

  Thirty-six

  Che Guevara had decided to meet with Caimán at the military intelligence headquarters of the Jiménez. There he could have instant access to all Cuban records and personnel and could check out without delay anything Caimán said to him that could be verified—or discredited. He waited, having assumed the prisoners would arrive just before ten o’clock. At ten-fifteen he became anxious. At ten-thirty, quietly desperate.