Amazon Slaughter & Curse of the Ninja

by Piers Anthony

  So when, a week after my father's trial, my friend Pepito told me I had to go to a meeting, I was suspicious. "No thanks," I said. "That's the classic setup for an arrest. An informer sets up a meeting and the police ambush it."

  "No problem," he assured me. "This is a small group that always gets together to play dominoes. They know each other. You have to go, because you are SAC's military coordinator."

  SAC in this case did not stand for the American Strategic Air Command, but for something even more important—to me. Salvar a Cuba, "Save Cuba," a clandestine resistance movement, small but effective for its size. We were planning an attack on a naval base near Havana. We would raid the ten-man garrison and take their weapons to the Escambray mountains, where we would set up as guerrillas. I looked forward to that; I had not yet discovered the hardships of real country warfare. SAC was made up mostly of University students, my kind of people—those that were supposed to be the most ardent supporters of the Revolution. Ha! Did Fidel assume that to be educated was to be stupid?

  Pepito was right: I had to brief this group. It was risky—but counter-revolution is a risky profession. I was learning that the hard way.

  "We'll go fast, and get out fast," I said.

  We went. I was nervous, and I looked all around as we entered the house. There were half a dozen people playing dominoes and drinking beer—an innocent enough setting, but I was not reassured. In fiction, the hero may be supremely confident—but a real-life guerrilla is understandably jittery. He has no series-contract with a publisher to keep him alive indefinitely. I thought I heard noises outside. For a moment I was ready to bolt for it, diving out the window and running. But it was probably just my nerves. Why make a fool of myself?

  Then a man entered. He carried a Springfield rifle and ten militia uniforms we planned to use on our mission. I thought he was our contact—but he was a government man, who had found this incriminating evidence. "The house is surrounded," he announced. "Please come with me, quietly."

  We were outnumbered and unarmed. Any attempt to fight would have gotten us shot. The G-2 always brought overwhelming strength to bear in arrests. Why hadn't I thought to bring my gun? In my inexperience I had stupidly walked into the trap, and now there was nothing I could do.

  And so I was arrested—in the classic manner.

  I still hoped I could bluff it out. After all, we hadn't done anything very serious that they could prove, and the main arsenal of six or eight Belgian-made FALS rifles, several revolvers, two sawed-off shotguns, and some cartridges prepared with heavy buckshot and cyanide for assassination attempts—all this was safely hidden in another place. Oh, we might be given token sentences, but nothing serious. I hoped. Provided nobody cracked under questioning. But when we got to the G-2 offices, the first thing we saw was a long table loaded with weapons. My friend Tony went white.

  "My God—they found our cache!

  Then I knew we had had it.

  I was put in the "cold room" where the air conditioning was turned up so high I thought I would freeze to death. Maybe that doesn't sound like so much of a torture, compared to thumbscrews or hot irons or electric shocks through the genitals, but believe me, a week of such cold makes confession seem very attractive. A man can stand pain for a short period, but the long, slow, subtle debilitation of simple cold can wipe out much of his will to resist. I was dressed in only a light short-sleeved sport-shirt and summer slacks, since Havana ranged from 70°F at night to 85° in the day.

  I didn't crack. It wasn't that I was tough, it was that I knew that nothing they were doing to me as a suspect would approach what they would do to me as a confirmed enemy of the state. The G-2 is not a backward organization in this respect; if they had thought I was important, they would have trotted out techniques of interrogation that would have made me crack in a hurry. I was better off shivering, and I knew it. Better to freeze as a small fish, than to roast as a big one.

  After that I was taken to the Cabanas, the fortress prison. It wasn't like an American penal institution, where cells are restricted to two to four inmates each. There were fifteen long Galeras or corridors hewn in the stone of the walls, like railroad tunnels, dank and cold at night. Each contained about 90 men in triple-decker bunks when I arrived, but later there were more. They were served by two toilets and wash bowls and showers. We had to turn in our original clothes for prison uniforms with the letter P on the backs. At the door new arrivals were greeted with the shout "Carne Fresca!" meaning "fresh meat!"—hardly reassuring.

  Meals were simple. They didn't starve us, but one time the meat was bad, spoiled. Our Galera was overcrowded then, and 150 men had to use the two toilets all at once. Many had such indigestion they could not wait, and had to relieve themselves where they stood. The stench was terrible.

  The prison was a community in itself, with all sorts of ups and downs and personal interactions. Much of the life was brutal; some had its humorous aspects. One thing you have to realize about political prisoners: they do not consider themselves to be criminals, but men of conscience. They are the high officials who happened to back the wrong side, the reformers whose good works were not appreciated by the evil State, the innocent who were drawn in by random arrests or mistaken information. Or so they claim.

  The truth is that some are criminals, but many more are not. Some of the very best resources of a nation are in the political prison. A lot of political opportunists, too—counting on a change of government to provide high office for them on the strength of their imprisonment. It is a unique atmosphere, completely different from the conventional penal institution.

  When I was there, roughly one third of the prisoners were ex-Batista soldiers, another third were ex-Castro men, and the rest were civilians: lawyers, engineers, students, doctors, artists, Cuba's leading astrologer, the heavyweight boxing champion of the country, University professors, jewelers, chess players, and of course me, the judo champion. In short, an elite society, eclectic as it was.

  We tried to entertain ourselves with chess, checkers, dominoes, poker, Parcheesi, Monopoly, and exercises in the yard. Practice in self defense or martial art was of course forbidden. But interesting as these diversions may seem for a few weeks or months, the notion of continuing that life for twenty years or so was appalling. Yet even the short haul was no picnic. There were fights and beatings and riots, with virtual warfare between the Batista men and the Revolutionists. Yes, each group carried its loyalties right into prison. And always the awful pall of the approaching trials. We knew many of us would die at the wall, Paredon, but always hoped selfishly that it would be someone else.

  Actually, my experience was far from unique. In Latin America, political prison is often a stepping stone for political power. Perhaps half the leaders are graduates of this type of school. Fidel himself served two years in Batista's prisons, and Batista's predecessor in power had also been in prison. Batista himself had the wit to skip the country fast with his money when his regime toppled, or he would have been in prison too—for the little while until he was executed.

  My watch was stolen. My two friends, Eduardo Bringas and Juan Pla, let it be known that if my watch were not returned in one hour, they were going to take action. Such was their reputation, even in prison, that my watch reappeared within the deadline.

  Another friend, Ricardo Cruz, started beating up an informer. There are informers inside as well as outside, and they can make a lot of trouble. Once we made a tunnel through the wall of the prison, from the infirmary. We were almost through, when an informer spilled the news. Potential freedom, wiped out just like that. So tempers can flare when an informer is discovered.

  When I got to that fight, the soldiers were just coming to break it up. I got in the way, not exactly accidentally, and saved Ricardo from getting struck by a rifle butt, and it ended with Ricardo and me both getting arrested. Technically we were already under arrest, since we were prisoners—but as I said, this was like a community, and we were left pretty much to our own dev
ices if we stayed out of trouble.

  We were taken to Teniente Manolo, the chief of the prison. He hated us, because he thought students were supposed to be more in favor of the Castro Revolution than the average citizen. Those of us who opposed Castro were thus doubly traitors, in his eyes. He was so furious I thought he was going to strike me across the face. I'm no hero, but my temper was ragged, and if he had touched me I would probably have thrown him against the wall and tried to beat him to death. You can do a lot of damage to a man in a very short time, if you know how, and I happen to know how. But that would have been the end of me, of course. Such heroics are much safer in fiction.

  Manolo must have heeded my expression and thought the better of it. He had much more to lose than I did. Instead he sent us to the Capillas. These were dark, cold, barren stone tunnels under the castle, a kind of solitary confinement cell-complex. Prison was bad, but the Capillas were worse! I would certainly be more careful in the future; I didn't want to be sent there again.

  Back in the main prison a week later, I found the mood changed, tense, ugly. The prison authorities feared that mood, so they started having sudden trials. Five people would be summoned at a time, and only one would return. "They gave me thirty years!" that one would cry joyfully. "Thirty years! Thank God!" This was not a strange reaction—for the other four had gone to the execution wall.

  We were all sweating now. They could shoot us all if they wanted, just to clear the cells. Justice in Cuba was at such a state in Fidel's brave new order that all they needed were the bullets. In three short hours thirty men were condemned to death, including many of my friends. All but one of those were commuted to thirty years, however. Excellent psychological strategy: the black mood lightened, now that the axe had fallen, and there was no riot. But the single one who was shot was my friend Ricardo Cruz, my companion of the Capillas.

  When my own trial came, I was convinced I would get at least three years to nine years, while a part of me hoped for a lighter sentence, and another part carried the awful vision of Paredon. Oh God, not the Wall! Yet Ricardo had gone...

  My trial was around three in the afternoon, but the results were not announced right away, and at six we were returned to our cells. We did not know how long it would be; maybe in a couple of hours, maybe in a week. There was no point worrying about it, though of course we did worry; how could we stop it? I went to sleep early, around eight, my emotions played out—and at nine-thirty they gave the results over the speaker system.

  The names of three of my friends were called out for release. Lucky bastards! Then someone woke me up: "Roberto, get dressed. You are free!"

  But I knew about that cruel joke. Wake someone, tell him his name has been called for release. A dream come true! His hopes rise sky high, he runs to the gate—and there he learns the truth. Everyone laughs heartily. Ha ha! Excruciatingly funny. For everybody but him, with his dashed hope. Maybe next day he goes to the Wall. How nice that his last day was brightened by this humor. So I didn't believe this news. But the chief of the galley in our cell told me it was true, and he wished me luck. Then I believed. And so I went home, incredibly, a free man.

  Death had missed me, once.

  Some people might have given up counter-revolution after that experience. But I had tasted the water, and had been through too much. The blood of my friends was on the hands of the Fidelistas. I was more determined than ever to overthrow the Castro regime in Cuba. Maybe I would have been wiser to leave the country for Miami, as my friend Pepito did—to return four months later as a parachuter in the Bay of Pigs invasion. Ah, well, hindsight...

  The day after I got home, I went into hiding and started contacting my former associates. We were involved in terrorism—at least that was what the government called our activities. But for us, what we did was the first step in the process of freeing Cuba. A year and a half before, our pursuers had been doing exactly the same thing; then they were the terrorists. They had been the ones doing the bombings and shootings, trying to assassinate high government officers and averting disaster only very narrowly. Strange, isn't it, how last year's terrorist becomes this year's law-and-order man. Maybe next year I would be a high government official of Free Cuba, on my fine white horse, adored by lovely young girls, trying to suppress the nefarious Communist counter-counter-revolutionaries! I, the patriot! Ah, dreams...

  There was to be a patriotic dance in a small town near Havana, Guira de Melenas. If there was one thing I was not, right now, it was patriotic. Not for the Castro regime! So I welcomed the chance to break this up.

  A local boy knew the key electric post: the one that, if destroyed, would blacken the entire town. Beautiful! Just let them try to hold the dance, without any electric power. No light, no radio, no music—nothing that depended on the current. Maybe it wouldn't do much to topple Castro, but what a satisfaction to mess it up!

  Maybe James Bond type agents deal exclusively with world-shaking missions—but I was merely a garden variety protester. Later my horizons broadened. But at this time, darkening a village dance was my level of expertise. We all have to start somewhere, you know.

  The boy did not have the nerve to plant the bomb himself, and there was no one else with the critical knowledge, so it fell to me. We went in a car painted like a taxi, with Jorge, another friend of mine, driving. Friends are a great comfort to a terrorist. We got to the entrance of the town, and saw about ten militiamen with rifles stopping the incoming traffic.

  "God, they are searching the cars!" I exclaimed. There I was, in the front seat, with the bomb in my lap like a picnic basket. It consisted of five pounds of C-3 plastic explosive wrapped in newspaper. Five pounds may not sound like much, but it was equivalent to ten sticks of commercial dynamite: enough to destroy a house, let alone our car-full.

  I was eating Pan de Caracas, a dry cornbread, and my mouth got so parched the stuff stuck in my throat. The Chinese used to have a test of guilt: if a handful of rice held in the mouth remained dry, the suspect was guilty. I would have failed that test, for sure!

  I clutched my gun under my shirt. I looked out at the militiamen in front of the car. I will never forget his mustached face or the FAL rifle he carried. If he asks me what I have in the newspaper, or makes me get out of the car, I thought, I'll shoot him in the stomach and make a break for the woods! I was not being brave; I was terrified, but I knew I would never get out of prison alive a second time, because all of those caught with explosives were sent to Paredon. My temperament was such that I preferred to die fighting; I did not have the nuts to stand before the firing squad bravely defiant to the end.

  But Jorge, thank God, had a face of iron. "Companero," he said to the militia-man, "want me to open the trunk?"

  The man nodded. "Yes, please." This was routine, for him; he didn't expect to find any plastic explosive wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish.

  Jorge opened the trunk—and of course it was empty.

  "All right—go on," the militiaman said, bored. We were through—but I'd had the worst scare of my life.

  We continued on into town. We found the pole with the transformers, wrapped the bomb around it (you can shape plastic explosive; it is very versatile, the bomber's best friend), tightened it with a belt, and touched a match to the three minute fuse. The fuse would not light.

  Of all the—! We tried again—and again. Once it started to burn, but it was only the outer casing, not the powder trail, and nothing happened. I had to go back, cut off the end, and try with a much shorter piece. I swear it took five excruciating minutes to ignite that thing, with us sweating all the time. Any chance discovery by the militia—

  Finally it caught. Now all we had to worry about was getting blown up! We piled into the car and took off. I know we made it out of town within three minutes, because as we left we heard the explosion behind us and saw the lights go out. Success!

  Later I learned that one man, Tomas, who had helped us, had been caught and sentenced to 30 years. I had been tried in absentia
and sentenced to death. That didn't bother me much; the sentence was meaningless so long as they didn't catch me. But how well I still remember that mustached militiaman who stopped our car: my second miss with death.

  Berty Andino, the MRR Action and Sabotage chief, called me one day; he had 20 pounds of C-3 explosive already made into bombs, and he wanted me to test a new kind of detonator. Would I do it?

  "Sure," I said. I like bombs. Watching a real blast is almost like a religious experience. "But can I keep the bombs until tomorrow? My brother is Christening his second son this afternoon, and I'm to be the Godfather."

  He paused. "No, it can't wait. I'll get another person." I knew he thought I was going to die soon—after all, I had been condemned to death, and my luck couldn't hold out indefinitely—and he wanted me to have this one moment. This nice little family ceremony might well be my last.

  Maybe Berty would not have been so nice about it if he had known my other reason for begging off: I had lined up three luscious girls for a party with two friends that night. One was Hilda, one of the most beautiful black girls I have known: petite with lovely silky shoulder-long hair; another was her friend Toby, and I have forgotten the name of the third (a rose by any name would smell as sweet), but she had soft cloudy black hair and other attributes best left to the imagination.

  Terrorism has a strong effect on the personality, because of the constant threat of death. Some people turn religious; others develop an inordinate craving for sex. I was not religious.

  So I did not go on the bombing mission. Instead I attended my nephew's Christening, and my private party. My friend Enrique went to pick up our third man, Barreto, and for one whole glorious hour I was alone with all three girls. What a party!

  Suddenly we heard a tremendous explosion, that shook the buildings in a wide area. That would be Berty's crew, doing the job; for a moment I was sorry I was not in on it. But there are other things in life than bombs, and I was enjoying three of them right now; my regret was minimal.