Rasputin's Legacy (Cold War)

by Jackson, Lee

  (U) Arturo Xiquez served in the US Army during WWII, a not uncommon occurrence for Cubans. He was a rare service member, however, in that he had graduated from West Point under a foreign exchange program set up by the Army. His peers and subordinates had difficulty pronouncing his first name correctly, and hence “Arturo” morphed to “Atcho.” Although he received an Honorable Discharge and returned home to Cuba shortly after the war, he maintained contact with his Army comrades in the US, and helped his son, Eduardo secure an appointment and enter the Academy. From all reports, both father and son were exemplary cadets.

  (U) Arturo openly opposed Castro’s regime. He had been no friend to Batista, but foresaw that conditions would likely worsen under Castro. As Castro moved to seize private property, Arturo became even more vocal. The fire that destroyed his house is believed to have been set by rampaging Castro supporters.

  The Son

  (TS) Eduardo was roughly 22 years old at the time of the fire. His father had taken intimate concern for his upbringing and education. As a result, he was an excellent student all the way through school and was a superbly trained athlete, excelling in soccer and horseback riding. When they were not otherwise engaged in work or studies, father and son were inseparable—so close, in fact, that people that knew them well remarked that they were best friends. Eduardo often called his father by the army nickname, Atcho. The name is otherwise not known to be used by anyone else in the area.

  The Emerging Resistance Leader in Camaguey

  (TS) The use of code-name “Atcho” raises curiosity. It is certainly not a common name in Cuba or even in Camaguey. Yet it is in Camaguey that the name emerges associated with a resistance leader. Following graduation from West Point, Eduardo Xiquez

  attended Ranger School, where he was an Honor Graduate. The resistance leader in Camaguey not only goes by the unusual code-name, but also exhibits remarkable skill, methods, and cunning that can only come from superior training. Without visibly revealing himself, he has already established firm working relations with our intelligence resources in Havana, and has conducted operations against the Castro regime that raised alarm. In one such operation, his group stole explosives without being detected, distributed them along the length of Cuba, and exploded government offices and munitions storage units simultaneously. He is already highly sought after by the Castro regime, and the name “Atcho” elicits fear among Cuban forces.

  (TS) Recommend that CIA pursue active contact with Atcho’s organization for future operations, including planning and executing the anticipated invasion of Cuba.

  UPDATES:

  (TS) 17 December 1960: An Air Force intelligence officer, Lieutenant Paul Clary, made direct contact with Atcho today. The resistance leader had been wounded in a firefight, was apparently in a severely weakened physical state, and was in no shape for further planning or coordination. There was mention that he was concerned for the safety of his 5-year-old daughter.

  (TS) 19 February 1961: A CIA officer coordinating preparations along the southern coast for the coming invasion of Cuba reports that he had direct, face-to-face contact with Atcho today. He appeared fully recovered, and agreed to take charge of combining the various local groups into a single, cohesive force, and training them to support the invasion. However, he stated that if news of his daughter surfaced, she would be his priority.

  (TS) 22 April 1961: Atcho disappeared during the battle at the Bay of Pigs, and is presumed dead.

  (TS) 14 April 1980: Wow! What a passage of time. This guy must have been a wheel back in the day. He’s resurfaced after 19 years, and the Cuban community in Miami has gone wild. President Carter negotiated a deal to let some political prisoners go, and this guy Atcho is at the top of the list. No one knew he was still alive. Apparently, he was held in prison for 19 years, and the Castro regime had not known his real identity. They had him locked up the whole time, and didn’t know it.

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  GLOSSARY

  GLASNOST: The term used to describe Mikhail Gorbachev’s policy of government transparency during the time that he was the General Secretary of the Communist Party in the Soviet Union. It was a policy that was vigorously opposed by Party hardliners. The word is very old in Russian usage, and had always referred to “the process.” Gorbachev coined the word to mean the process of encouraging and putting into effect a new practice of citizens to describe openly and publicly their problems with government and offering solutions.

  PERESTROIKA: The term used to describe Mikhail Gorbachev’s policy of restructuring the Soviet Communist Party, another policy opposed by Party hardliners. In practice, it allowed ministries to act with much greater autonomy than had previously been normal.

  NOTE: Practiced together, hardliners saw glasnost and perestroika represented an existential threat to the Soviet Union because they encouraged independent action and speaking out against government abuse.

  Bonus 1: THE TRUE STORY BEHIND ATCHO

  Atcho was a real person. The name Atcho was his real nickname, and never a code name. However, he had a code name that to this day, his family does not know. People died in prison protecting his identity, a fact that haunted him his entire life. He was my father-in-law. He did not graduate from West Point, but he was a WWII veteran, although he saw no action in that war.

  As I learned more about him, I came to admire his courage and daring during the fight against Fidel Castro as that dictator rose to power. The real Atcho was a real leader in that resistance, and I set out initially to honor him by writing a book about him.

  As I researched, I found that the Cuban refugees who escaped to the US in the wake of Castro’s coup were frustrated that their story is seldom heard. In their minds, a holocaust took place 90 miles from US shores, and Americans generally know nothing about it. Families were torn apart, their homes confiscated; the new government murdered its opposition on a massive scale; and people were imprisoned for their political beliefs, yet that news seldom saw the light of day in the US.

  I looked to see what literature there was that detailed what happened, and there is an immense amount of it. I read much of it in doing my research. However, most were written as histories or memoirs, and were scarcely read. For that reason, I wrote a thriller based on historical fact, a story that has been called fantastical by some because of some of its gruesome detail. The sad fact is that most of the events in Curse The Moon took place.

  I won’t here insert spoilers; astute readers should be able to discern where the book launches into pure fiction. That said, not all the horrific events detailed in the book happened to the real Atcho. The Atcho of Curse The Moon is a composite character of many Cuban freedom fighters I encountered during my research. I was amazed at their courage, tenacity, faith, ingenuity, loyalty, and love for their homeland as well as the country that deserted them at the Bay of Pigs. It’s a story that needs to be told and heard. All those awful things happened to them. Just as noble as their struggle was their contributions to their new national home as they built businesses and cities, and added to the greatness that is the United States of America.

  Their story also sends a warning: what happened to them could happen anywhere. Cuba, despite the glamorization of Castro and his socialist failure, had been an island gem with an advanced society and a healthy economy. A ruthless demagogue ruined the country. What happened to them could happen even in the US, and the people suffer. You
see the same themes running through Rasputin’s Legacy.

  Bonus 2: SMACK DOWN

  A Work in Progress

  The man moved easily with the crowds as he made his way from the international airport in Havana. His size alone opened a passage in front of him, but his rippling muscles under a brilliant white linen suit and a light blue, open collar shirt attracted attention. He smiled at people as they passed, an act that increased curiosity in a land where expressions of lingering despair were normal. If he was aware of the impact of his presence, he did not show it.

  He stopped only briefly in front of the Ministry of the Presidency before heading through the entrance. A guard barred his way. The man grinned boyishly and spoke pleasantly, and then leaned in so that his mouth was close to the guard’s ear. He spoke softly. Briefly, his expression changed to one of tenacity, a man on a mission. Then his pleasant demeanor returned, and he moved into the interior of the office building. Without breaking stride, he headed toward a staircase, and was again confronted by security, and once again, he spoke low into the guard’s ear, and once again was allowed passage. Three such iterations later, he stood in front of a secretary in a grand reception area of fading glory.

  “Please let the commandante know I’m here,” he said in perfect Spanish with the peculiar staccato of the Cuban accent. His wide grin and previously broken nose gave him a roguish air that the secretary reacted to despite her practiced detachment.

  “He’s with someone,” she replied, snapping herself back to her usual decorum.

  “I know. He’ll see me. Tell him he’ll want to hear what I have to say more than what that reporter will ever write about him.”

  The secretary eyed him, startled. She hesitated.

  The man leaned across the desk, close to her. “Look at me.” His tone was low, and deadly. “You see that I can snap your neck in a second, besides which, if el commandante learns that you’re the reason he doesn’t know what I came to tell him, he might do it himself.”

  The secretary stared through fearful eyes. Her right hand started a slow slide toward the underside of her desk.

  “Don’t.” The warning was menacing, definite.

  With eyes fixed to his, the secretary pushed back from her desk, turned slowly, and walked toward a set of ornately carved double wooden doors. He followed.

  Inside, Fidel Castro leaned back in a large leather chair, one of his famous cigars lying in an ashtray on the desk in front of him. He faced another man sitting on the same side of the desk with a note pad. They both looked up, surprised. Despite his advanced age, Castro did a better job of remaining placid.

  “I’m sorry,” the secretary blurted, terror in her eyes. “He insisted you’d want to speak with him.”

  The young man smiled easily. He walked over to the opposite side of the desk, and briefly scanned the view of Havana’s decayed classical buildings over a distant shimmering blue Caribbean Sea. Then he looked directly at the reporter. “You can leave now. Your interview is over.”

  The reporter’s slitted eyes widened into brief stupor, his chiseled face under impeccably groomed silver hair breaking into a caricature of refinement. He stared at the man in front of him while he gathered composure. Next to him, Castro reached for a console with rows of buttons.

  The man glanced at him. “Don’t.”

  Castro halted his movement, his face showing curiosity rather than fear.

  “Do you know who you’re speaking to,” the reporter asked, his voice breaking despite his haughty tone.

  The young man smiled. “Yeah. Everyone knows you’re the pompous Mexican ass who holds dual citizenship in the US and brags about voting in both elections. You do business with human traffickers, and hang out with every two-bit dictator in the western hemisphere.” He leaned over the desk. “You can leave now.”

  The reporter’s eyes narrowed. Castro picked up his cigar. He leaned back further in his chair and took a puff, fascinated by the scene playing out in front of him.

  The reporter started to speak, the color in his face now crimson, slightly masking fury and fear. Suddenly, the young man’s hand lashed across the desk, and he smacked the reporter across the face with the open palm of his hand. “Get out, now.” His face had morphed from pleasant to ominous. He backhanded the reporter on the opposite cheek.

  The reporter drew back, white finger marks on both cheeks outlining where he had been struck. He glanced up at Castro, who blew a smoke ring, and waved a leisurely hand toward the door. His message was clear. The reporter stood, straightened his back, and walked toward the door. His drooping shoulders registered humiliation.

  The young man pulled another chair in front of the desk. Castro set his cigar down, straightened his chair, and moved to the center of the desk. “How do you expect to get out of here alive?”

  “If I don’t, you won’t either.” He straightened back up and arched his eyebrows, almost comically. “How many guards are you willing to lose before they take me down – considering that you won’t be around to count them.”

  Castro studied the man, his dark hair, strong jaw, now intense eyes, and impressive physique. He seemed familiar, but Castro could not place him. He could be the son of any number of prisoners I either shot personally or had executed. He leaned back in his chair, picked up his cigar again, and took a long puff. “You’re not from here, are you?”

  “Oh, but I am. Believe me.”

  Castro studied him a moment longer. “All right, what do you want to talk about?” He studied the young man a moment longer. “Do you have a name?”

  “You can call me Sojo.”

  Bonus 3: ALEKSEY’S ACCOUNT OF RASPUTIN’S MURDER

  Sofia heard a chair scrape and looked toward the dining room. A very old man trudged in. He was stoop-shouldered and had scraggly hair combed over an otherwise bald and wrinkled scalp. His head drooped over his chest and he leaned on a cane. He was thin and wore a long robe over pajamas. On his feet, he wore soft fur slippers.

  As he ambled toward them, Sofia studied his face. It was long and thin, but had that look of having been full and happy at some point. His age showed in the skin on his face, which was loose and sagged down below his chin. Nevertheless, he carried a dignified air, and his bright, intelligent eyes peered out at her beneath a relatively smooth forehead.

  Francine sprang to her feet and moved to meet him. “Grandpapa, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be up and about!”

  He smiled quietly and headed towards an empty chair. “Bring me coffee, s’il vous plait.” He sat heavily on the chair and leaned on the table with an air of being very pleased to be there. “I heard you had a guest, and that she is young and pretty. Were you going to bring her to me?” He smiled again and laughed gently.

  The irony, Sofia thought. But I guess at his age, everyone else is young. She rose to greet him, and laid a hand on his arm. He placed his own free hand over hers, and his head bobbed up and down in acknowledgment.

  Sofia sat back down. “I feel like I’m talking with a piece of history,” she said. “Francine just told me that you served Rasputin?”

  The old man nodded and looked up at her jovially. “Rah rah Rasputin,” he said, and his laughter rocked his body. “I’m not being irreverent,” he said. “It’s been so long ago, but I remember everything clearly.” He leaned toward her. “Please, call me Aleksey.”

  “Then, then, Aleksey…” Sofia found herself stuttering. “You were there when they took away the Tsar and his family…”

  Aleksey looked very sad and somber. “Yes,” he said quietly, “and before that, when they assassinated Rasputin. I saw it.” He paused a moment. “I saw when our beloved Russia ended, and when this Soviet monstrosity began. I was there.”

  Sofia watched Aleksey’s face closely. He seemed to force a smile. “Never helps to dwell on the past,” he said, sipping his coffee.

  “But you knew Rasputin,” Sofia remarked incredulously. “That’s amazing. How did you get out of Russia?”

&
nbsp; “Oh, that wasn’t difficult. After Rasputin was murdered, I went to work in the Tsar’s palace, and when the royal family was detained and the Tsar abdicated, the whole place was in confusion. No one paid attention to a lowly servant. I just quietly left the palace and kept working my way south until I was through Poland, then Germany, and finally France. I settled here in Paris.

  “Rasputin had given me some things of value, and when the royal family vacated, there were loose jewels and gold pieces lying about. I scooped some up and took them with me. They were quite rare and valuable, and set me up nicely here.” He shrugged. “Forgive my rationalizing—I don’t think of it as theft. By the time I left the palace, the Tsar and his family had been assassinated, mobs ruled the streets, and those things seemed to have no legitimate current owners. When Lenin took power, of course he claimed all things in the name of the state—but who named him chief? Certainly, not the people by any democratic process.”

  “You also saw Lenin rise to power?” Sofia asked.

  “Of course! And Stalin, and Khrushchev! I watched them all. I observed Lenin set the socialist state in motion with its secret police and military purges. I had friends in the Ukraine, farmers whom Stalin disarmed and slaughtered, along with eighteen million others. I witnessed the contrived drought he engineered in that country that brought starvation and death.” He raised his right hand and shook his index finger at her. “That’s the common achievement of the socialist state.”