The Atcho Conspiracy, page 7
part #1 of Atcho International Spy Thriller Series
“Yolanda. I’m here,” he yelled. “Yoli. Over here.”
A thin, matronly woman stopped in the mass of passing humanity and looked around. She saw Francisco and headed toward him. Her long face displayed the stress of the trip, and she seemed to have given up on her curly, graying hair. Despite the conditions, her eyes sparkled when she saw Francisco. Then they clouded over when she took in his physical condition.
“Oh my God, Francisco,” she cried quietly, and tears formed in her eyes. “This is even worse than the mess hall. I can’t hug you and can barely touch your hand.” She pounded on the chicken wire angrily with her fists, and then looked around furtively. Then she pushed her fingertips to meet Francisco’s between the strands.
With no ability to leave, Atcho watched quietly. Then Francisco introduced him.
People were scared, Yoli said in answer to some of Atcho’s questions. “The American embargo is hurting us. There’s nothing on the store shelves. And Castro set up neighborhood committees that turn in anyone suspected of anything. Even if they just think we are thinking something, they report us. Children denounce their parents. And in school, they have to sing the Communist ‘Internationale.’”
“How are they treating families of political prisoners?”
“They call us gusanos,” she replied vehemently. “Worms. People wanting to leave Cuba have to quit their jobs, give up their houses, and live with relatives. Then, those relatives are also persecuted.” She sobbed. “Food is so scarce. Everything is rationed, and when anyone applies to leave Cuba, their rations are cut off. Their only food comes from relatives, who have to share their rations, and then,” she waved her hands in indignation, “and then, the relatives are also called gusanos—even if the relatives are not trying to leave.” She put her hand to her forehead. “It’s crazy.”
“How are you living?” Atcho asked in concern. “You and your children.”
Yolanda waved a hand. “Oh, we get by,” she said with poorly concealed despair. “I worry about our children. What kind of lives will they have?”
“But how do you eat? You said there is no food.”
“No, but we still have good friends, and they get food to us.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “What happened, Francisco? What happened? We were a prosperous country. We could make plans for our lives. How did this … this demagogue … this son of a whore convince the country that he would be better for us?” She wiped tears from her face. Francisco looked around, nervous about being overheard. He tried to reach further through the chicken wire to console his wife but could still only touch her fingertips.
They conversed about other things, and then Atcho said, “There was a little girl kidnapped in Camaguey a while back. Whatever became of her? Did they find her?”
“Oh, yes,” the woman responded, rolling her eyes. “That was a strange story.”
“What happened?”
“Her father was killed in a fire along with his parents. He lived in that great sugar plantation, you know, the one about five miles east of the town of Camaguey?” She paused. “Francisco said you were from Camaguey. Did you know them?”
“I know people there,” Atcho replied. “Of course, everyone knew of the family.”
“Yes. Anyway, the girl lived with her aunt Raissa. Then, last December, she disappeared. There was a rumor that her father was still alive and that the milicianos tried to use her as bait to capture him. But about two months later, some neighbors found her wandering on a road near her house. The story I heard was that a deranged lady wanted a little girl to take care of, and then got tired of her.” Yoli shifted her weight. “About four months ago, the weekend of the invasion, she disappeared again, this time with her aunt and uncle.”
“What?” Atcho could hardly restrain himself but tried to act casual. “How did she disappear again?”
“No one really knows. They stayed away for three months, then showed up again last month.”
“All of them?” Atcho scarcely believed his ears. “The little girl—how was she?”
“Fine, as far as I know. I saw her two weeks ago, in line at the government store with her aunt. They didn’t talk to anyone, but they looked okay.” While Atcho listened intently, Yoli continued describing Isabel and his sister Raissa in detail. Then she said, “The strange part of the story is that they’re gone again.”
“What?” Atcho demanded, and then caught himself. “Where?”
“To the United States. They left for Havana last week and boarded an airplane to Miami. They should be in America right now.” Other people listened to the story as Yoli continued. “It happened so fast. Most people have to wait months to process papers, wait for Castro to let them go, then reserve space on a plane.” She shrugged her shoulders and waved a thin arm. “But they just came and went.”
Atcho felt stricken. He leaned against the chicken wire. “That is a strange story. A very sad one. So many families split up. Thank you for telling it.”
After a while, he thanked Francisco and Yolanda for sharing their time with him. He struggled through the mass of inmates and made his way to a far corner of the enclosure, to be as alone with his thoughts as he could. Then he sat on the ground and closed his eyes, bitterly recalling his brief intent to leave Cuba after the destruction of the mansion. Letting Atcho die was a good thing—they let Isabel go.
11
July 1961
“I think we can move tonight,” Atcho told Jujo softly. Outside, the wind moaned against the rounded walls of Circular 4, and the steady drum of a tropical downpour sounded on the old corrugated steel roof. Streams of water dripped through in various places. The prisoners placed buckets to catch it, as much for the rare joy of sweet, fresh water as to prevent runoff into living areas.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Jujo replied. They stood in his cell on the second floor. “Let’s go over things one more time.”
“The moon is about three-quarters tonight, but the clouds are black and low. The outside lighting is blocked by rain—which keeps the guards from their regular patrols.”
As they spoke, thunder rolled, and lightning flashed, lighting up the inside of the massive tower for an instant.
“What about the boat?” Jujo asked.
“It’s in the harbor now. One of the men on the orange-picking crew saw it there this afternoon when his group returned from the groves.” His voice took on more urgency. “If we wait for a low moon, it’ll be another three weeks, and we won’t know for sure that there will be rain, or that the boat will be there.”
“I was thinking the same things,” Jujo said. “I’ll tell the men in the escape cell to finish sawing out the bars and spread word to the others that we go tonight. I’ll meet you there.” He followed Atcho out the door.
They both looked furtively at the watchtower, but the cavernous interior of Circular 4 was dark, the guards dozing in their chairs, with their arms wrapped over their chests against the unusual chill that came with the rain.
Atcho returned to his cell and changed into a military uniform he had stolen piece by piece.
Domingo watched him. “I wish I could go with you.”
Atcho met his look. “I’ll let you go in my place.”
Domingo shook his head sadly. “No, we all have our parts to play. You are the best chance for this escape to succeed.” He stared into the dark tower a moment. “You know, if you’re successful, you might save us all.”
Atcho looked at him without comprehending.
“Maybe you don’t know,” Domingo continued. “All these cellblocks were wired to blow up with us in them.”
“What?”
Domingo nodded. “It’s true. It happened before the invasion. Look.”
More thunder and lightning cracked as he crossed to the walkway outside the cell door. He indicated for Atcho to follow and pointed at several depressions in the floor two stories below. “You see those?” Atcho nodded, and they returned to sit on their steel racks. “There was a lot of talk about the coming invasion. There was fear among the guards—and I guess all the way up to Castro, that the island would be attacked, and the prisoners set free to join the invasion.
“One day, the guards drove a truck in here. They made us all get out of the way except for a few that they forced to dig tunnels under the floor. Then they took the stuff off the trucks. The items were covered so we couldn’t see what it was. Of course, we speculated, and many thought it might be dynamite. Then one day, a guard came over to mock us. ‘You think it’s dynamite,’ he said. ‘Well, you’re right. We’re going to blow this place up, with all of you in it.’”
Atcho’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “What did you do?”
“Well, you know I’m a civil engineer.” He saw Atcho nod and continued. “We dug our own tunnels, came in from the other side, and disarmed the dynamite.”
“You did what?” Atcho was dumbfounded.
Domingo laughed. “We’ve done lots of things in here, Atcho. We built a radio out of scrap. We assembled it and disassembled it every day. Each man involved hid a piece in his room so that if our cells were searched, they would find nothing.”
Atcho shook his head, still disbelieving. “Where is the radio now?”
“It wore out, but while we had it, we listened to the stations in Miami. We knew what our countrymen were doing there, and that was a great morale booster.”
“What about the tunnels? You had to dig them in front of the guards?”
“That was dangerous. We also had to find the demolitions blindly and disarm them. But we did it.” His smile glowed with triumph. “Of course, if the guards had tried to explode them and found them not working, they would just have turned canons on us, and that would have set the dynamite off.” He shook his head. “Unbelievable what evil people will do.” They sat quietly a moment. “So, you see, when you escape and tell the world what is going on here, you help us all.”
Atcho felt a new weight of responsibility. Then Domingo laughed quietly and indicated a makeshift mannequin lying on Atcho’s bed. “Your evil twin is ready to do his duty.” He pulled a rope, and the mannequin sat up. “He won’t fool anyone up close,” Domingo added, “but he should get you through the next bed check.”
Atcho smiled. The head count was five hours away. The guards in the watchtower would then raise the lights in Circular 4 to full power, and from their platform, look into every cell and count heads. In at least sixteen cells on this night, they would see the silhouettes of what appeared to be heads and torsos but were the prisoners’ best efforts at making puppets to cover their absence. If the ruse worked, their escape would not be discovered until the daily work groups formed, which could be delayed or canceled due to the rain.
Domingo stood and shook hands with Atcho. They clapped their arms about each other’s shoulders. “I hope to see you in Miami,” Domingo said, “to share a Cuba Libre—una Mentirita—a Little Lie.” They both laughed, and Atcho headed out the door.
He hung to the shadows, and minutes later entered a cell on the first living tier, just above the ground floor. This cell had been selected because it was farthest from the lights, had the deepest shadows, and was closest to the direction of travel—the escapees would not have to maneuver around Circular 4. When Atcho arrived, other men were already assembled, huddled in the shadows against the back wall.
“Are we all set?” he whispered.
Jujo appeared in front of Atcho. “We’re ready. It’s your show.”
Atcho inhaled. “Take the bars out of the window.” Two men stepped through the darkness, reached up, and with painstaking care not to make a sound, pulled the four bars from their places. They came away easily.
“I’ll go first,” Atcho said. “If I think conditions are right, I’ll pull on this rope.” He indicated a long line of clothes and sheets that had been tied together. It now hung from the window. “I won’t call out because you won’t be able to hear me anyway in this storm, so be sure someone is paying attention.”
He paused. “Stay close together. In this light, we’ll need to have no more than an arm’s distance between us. As dawn approaches, spread out. By the time that happens, we should be most of the way to Nueva Gerona.”
He gave his final instruction. “We’ve been over this, and we’ve been lucky up to now. If we’re discovered anywhere along the way, scatter. The code word for that is ‘Havana.’ When you hear that, execute your individual escape plans. That’s how we’ll protect each other. They might catch some of us, but they might not catch all of us.”
When final questions had been asked and answered, Atcho went to the window. Outside, the rain beat a steady rhythm. He pushed his head through, and immediately felt the cold deluge. Twisting his body, he put his feet out, held on to the sill, and shinnied down the makeshift rope.
The ground was about a foot below the end of the rope, and when Atcho felt safe, he dropped the remaining few inches. The wind buffeted him as he settled a moment to acclimate. Then, convinced that no immediate danger lurked, he headed in the direction of the closest guard shack. It was sealed and quiet—not even a sliver of light appeared at the base of the door. He imagined that the guards were happy for the rare opportunity to sleep undisturbed through a whole night. He waited a few more minutes, and then, convinced that no patrols were out in the torrential rain, he moved swiftly back to the window with the rope. He gave it a tug.
Moments later, he felt more than saw someone descend, and heard him drop to the ground. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and positioned him a few feet away against the wall. “You are Number One,” he said. The man grunted understanding, and Atcho went back to the rope and pulled it. Another man dropped to the ground. Atcho positioned him on the other side of the first. “You are Number Two,” he told the man.
Fifteen times, Atcho repeated the action until all the men were on the ground. Then he did a physical check to make sure he had the proper count. As a final precaution, he moved in front of Number One and whispered in the man’s ear, “Head count.” The man turned to Number Two and repeated the instruction, “Head count.” Atcho waited. Very soon, Number One touched him on the shoulder, indicating that the count was complete, and all men were accounted for. He turned to Number One again and touched him on his arm.
“Moving,” Atcho whispered. He waited only enough time for Number One to relay back, and then started off in the same direction he had previously gone.
Meanwhile, the wind increased its velocity, and the rain poured in sheets. Atcho glanced anxiously at the sky, hoping that the weather continued its wrath. Behind him, he heard the squish of feet in the mud, and smelled the rank odor of wet ground oozing up its hidden waste.
They had soon passed the guard shack, and as before, it was quiet and dark. They proceeded on toward the center of the compound.
Their exit point had to be the main gate. That meant crossing the breadth of the prison grounds. Once again, they counted on darkness to mask their approach and on the rain to drive the guards into more comfortable shelter. They moved slowly, checking their head count periodically, and stopping to listen.
Atcho kept his eye on the sky. Dawn was still hours away, but behind the clouds a three-quarter moon poised, prepared to radiate light on the sparkling wet ground. The rain still fell in wind-driven sheets, soaking every man to his core.
Then Atcho saw something that stopped him cold. A glimmer of light shone between the clouds, enough for Atcho to see that they flew across the sky rapidly. Just the fact that he had seen moonlight meant the clouds were thinning—the rain cover might end.
He sent word back to step up the pace and altered his course to head more directly toward a key intersection in the middle of the compound, guided by the darker hulks of the circular prison towers. As they progressed, he felt the rain abate. Minutes later, it ceased altogether
Atcho looked at the sky again. Moonlight was visible behind a translucent sky. He looked around. More objects came into view.
As they had trained to do, the escapees increased the distance between them so that the man ahead was still visible, but they were not so closely grouped. With greater visibility, they traveled faster, still conscious of maintaining noise discipline.
Then the moon broke through the clouds, resplendent in its ghostly beauty, deadly in its exposure of desperate men in their flight.
Again, Atcho altered course, heading toward shadows, and still needing to cross the now-dreaded intersection. They came to some low administrative buildings and moved to the dark side, away from the moon. Atcho hoped that the natural inclination of soldiers to like sleep more than patrol would keep the guards in their barracks a while longer.
Several minutes later, they came to the front of the buildings. The wind had diminished, and the rain had stopped altogether. Atcho peered around a corner, and then pulled back in dismay. The moon swathed the streets running to the intersection with illumination. Between their current position and the buildings on the other side, there were no shadows, no cover, and no concealment.
Atcho turned to Number One. “Do as we rehearsed,” he whispered. “Stay low, but get straight across that road, fast. If you get caught, yell something out, make noise. If we don’t hear you, we’ll assume you made it over all right, and then I’ll come. Go.”
Number One moved swiftly to the narrowest point between shadows, and then ran across the street in a low crouch. As soon as he had disappeared, Atcho turned to Number Two. “You’ll be the last one over,” he said. “You stay here. Send each man over when you see the previous one disappears into the shadows. After the last one gets across safely, then you come.” Number Two whispered his assent.
Atcho turned back to the road. He followed the same route that Number One had, and moments later dashed across. When he reached the safety of the shadows, he encountered Number One. “As the others come over,” Atcho told him, “you position them. I’ll stay here and look out for anything that might come down the road.”
