Siege of Silence Page 10

  “Yeah; Taft. And it sure hacked off the Canadians . . . but that was 1912. Things have changed.”

  I start to answer but he cuts me off.

  “Listen, I’ve argued these questions a thousand times, starting before you were born. You want to judge a country by its historical crimes? Who decides how far you go back? Fifty years? A hundred? A thousand? You’re going to blame a Spaniard today for the Conquistadores? You’re going to blame me for the slave trade?” He points a finger. “Or you? What were your ancestors doing?”

  Again I try to speak, but he’s angry now, stabbing his finger at me.

  “Listen. A few years back I overheard a couple of blacks arguing about the TV series, Roots. One of them was sounding off about the atrocity of slavery; the other said, ‘Hell man, if they hadn’t plucked my great grandpappy outa there I’d be sittin’ in the jungle right now. I ain’t got no complaints.’”

  “And that justifies it? History condemns it!”

  “No. History explains it. As a good communist you should know that.”

  This is said with a sneer. I find my anger rising.

  “Communism is the antithesis of slavery.”

  “Oh yeah? Go preach that in the Gulags.”

  I’m going down a wrong road. This man, this leech, is impervious to logic. He’s sixty-three years old and I’m not going to argue him out of something he’s never been argued into. But he’s clever. I have to go back and open him up from the beginning. He’s talking again, confirming my thoughts.

  “Calderon, you’re crazy. You think you’re going to sit there and convince me? Convert me to communism so I’ll spout a couple of names that I don’t know anyway? You’re not crazy . . . you’re stupid!”

  With an inward sigh I replace one file with another. It’s far too early to use my weapon but I must prepare him for it. I open the file and read out a name.

  “Amparo Flores.”

  I look up and see the shaft strike into his eyes. The sneer is gone. I’ve scored. He struggles to react normally.

  “What?”

  “Amparo Flores. The reason you hate communism and particularly Cuban communism.”

  Now there is silence. I let it gestate; waiting for him to break it.

  He doesn’t. He sits mute. An almost naked statue. There is a difference in his face. Or was it there before? A haggardness. He has five days’ growth of speckled grey beard. His hair is unkempt. His lean body is suddenly thin. His poker face is firmly in position but now I’m aware of something as yet intangible. With a single name we are no longer strangers. There is a link. For an irrational and disturbing moment I feel sorry for him. It passes, and although all the details are clear in my head, I look down at the file again. I intone: “Between May 1958 and March 1959, subject had a sexual liaison with Amparo, daughter of Juan and Nani Flores. They became betrothed during the first week of March. Amparo Flores arrested March 28th, 1959, for anti-revolutionary activities. Subject recalled to Washington May 4th, 1959. Amparo Flores died of cerebral thrombosis May 11th, 1959.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  The words are a scream. He’s on his feet, hands on the desk, leaning over it. I feel a flicker of spit on my cheek.

  The tirade goes on for several minutes; a litany of hatred and pain. It finishes with the stabbing finger and the words: “You murdered her! Cuban filth! You, you, you!” He swings away and, trembling, walks to a small window across the room and stands with his back to me.

  I expected a reaction but this intensity surprises me. Softly I remark, “At that time I was just an infant.”

  His shoulders are still moving from the passion of his outburst. I hear his tight voice.

  “You . . . them. No difference. They breed scum like you to replace scum like them.”

  Is it the time now? No, too early. He is not broken, not reliant. I affect a conciliatory tone and say, “It was a time of much passion . . . and vengeance . . . and excess. She was denounced as a spy . . .”

  He turns. He looks his age now . . . and more. He walks back slowly and sits down. His voice is normal again.

  “They killed her father because he was close to Batista. They killed her because she was close to me. She was nineteen years old.”

  I must draw closer now and ease off the subject.

  “From the way you reacted to her name you must have loved her to the depth.” I want a reaction but his face is set as he looks past me. “My family knew hers. I’m told she was a great beauty . . .”

  No reaction. Time to move on.

  “Peabody, Batista had an extensive secret police network. We inherited most of their files. Some of them are fascinating. They were culled from many sources. Maids, chauffeurs, brothels, bar owners, girlfriends. Did you know that one of your Ambassadors was keeping four mistresses?” He shrugs indifferently. I go on: “He kept them all satisfied. The officer who wrote the report was vastly impressed. Of course there was also a report on you. I’ll indulge you and quote from it.” I turn some pages in the file and then look up quickly and catch the glimmer of interest in his eyes. Of course, it’s human nature. I read: “November 10th, 1958. Subject: Jason R. Peabody. Political Councillor, US Embassy. Further reports have come from informants (see appendix) that Peabody continues to make favourable comments during his social life on the Castro bandits. It is also known from other sources that he gives negative advice to Ambassador Smith who however takes little notice of this advice.”

  I close the file and look up. He says, “Batista was a fool and obviously so were his Intelligence people.”

  I shake my head. “No, Peabody. Some of them were good. They worked for Fidel even then. Also there were other sources. It’s interesting psychologically. You arrived in Cuba in ‘56 a young, idealistic Foreign Service Officer already speaking fluent Spanish. I wouldn’t say you were at all left wing- more like dead centre. You fall in love with a local beauty and plan to marry. Then comes the revolution. Your fiancée is arrested. At that time your Government was trying to reach a working agreement with Castro- trying to keep Cuba within its sphere of influence. Outraged at the arrest, you lost all objectivity and became a nuisance to your Embassy. You were recalled under vociferous protest. I guess at that time your career was just about over. Then the tragedy of your fiancée; the deterioration in US-Cuban relations; Fidel’s historic embrace of Marxism and Cuba’s friendship with Russia. Your career picks up again, but now with a difference. Your whole existence is a nemesis for Cuba, for Castro, and above all, for communism. Whatever idealism there was in you had imploded to nothing.”

  He is not looking bored, but neither totally fascinated. I decide to elevate the mood.

  “Let’s have some coffee.”

  His upper lip literally curls.

  “More carrots.”

  I smile and shout the order to the guard.

  PEABODY

  San Carlo

  Day 5

  I understand in one startling moment. I’m raising the mug. The rich, deep smell of the coffee drifts into my nostrils. My mouth salivates. This is the sensation an addict gets at the end of deprivation. Five days only and my fingers shake and the mug rattles against my teeth. For a moment I wished I had never tasted coffee and so would never crave it.

  He is watching. Those sleepy eyes that see everything. I feel my nakedness like a suppurating skin disease. I carefully take two sips and lower the mug. They have finished cleaning the cell and gone. He inspected it as if it were a queen’s boudoir. I stayed sitting at the desk. When he returned I made another protest at my detention, the appalling conditions, and his very presence on United States territory. He listened attentively and then informed me airily that all the other hostages were in good health and not being mistreated. It’s like spitting down a volcano. I ask him what’s happening outside; the general situation. He spreads his hands.

  “Nothing. Stalemate; no change. Your Government is issuing threatening statements and complaining to anyone who’ll listen. Its puppets
are dancing up and down on strings parroting protests.”

  He’s lying of course. There must have been developments.

  Several times today I’ve heard jets fly overhead. They can only come from the “Nimitz”. I’ll bet the pressure’s building up. He will tell me nothing, though. It’s a deliberate strategy to keep me off balance. Even the punks who bring my food have orders not to say a word.

  It’s working. I am off balance. There have been times in my life when all I wanted was solitude. I never understood that when enforced, it changed its character. After three days I’m getting a glimmer of the horrors of incarceration.

  Also Amparo. I must be off balance. I lost my senses. It was hearing that name emerge from his lips. Hearing the lilt again of the Spanish inflection. It was obscene. And the rat. I believe him about his phobia. Why do I believe? This devil could invent anything. But I believe him. At this time, now I recognize the danger. This man in front of me, this boy, is more than cunning. More than intellectually brilliant. He has in him a strange power. A few hours ago had anyone told me that this boy could extract information from me I would have thought them insane. Now, thank God, the danger has infiltrated my mind. I must be always on guard mentally and emotionally.

  I take more coffee, a gulp this time. He says musingly, “You devote your whole career, your whole life, to an anti-communist crusade, with great emphasis on Latin America and Cuba in particular. But your career does not take off. You become almost a recluse. Devoting yourself to study. You have no friends. You write anti-communist books which are widely acclaimed by your capitalist intelligentsia and your career spurts a little, then slows, then spurts, according to the ideological swings in your administrations. Finally you’re made Ambassador to a Government that is ousted a week later. Tell me, Peabody, when did you last have a fuck?”

  I’d been lulled by the cynical but accurate biography. I grasp for a retort. He has a half-smile on his face. I ask, “Why do you tint your hair? When did you last look in the mirror? Don’t you carry one with you?”

  He grins amiably. If I didn’t know about him it would be engaging.

  “I don’t tint it, Peabody. I squeeze lemon juice on which streaks it as it dries in the sun.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s a kind of bleach in the juice.”

  “You know what I meant; why do you do it?”

  “It suits me.”

  “You look damned ridiculous. Like a woman.”

  He shrugs, still smiling.

  “You don’t find me attractive?”

  I feel a sudden chill. God, does this relate to the previous obscene question? Does he think the shock of Amparo and my self-imposed isolation turned me homosexual? Why am I even considering this? Why even allowing this dialogue?

  Curtly I say, “I find you repulsive in every way. Now it’s late. I’m going to sleep.”

  He looks at his watch and nods in surprise.

  “Okay. But one more question: for the last three or four years, whenever you’ve been in Washington you’ve made frequent trips to Dulles Airport without flying out. On average about once a week. You get there about seven in the evening and leave an hour later. You’ve never been observed talking to anyone. Generally, you just sit in the arrivals hall. Sometimes you have a coffee or a drink. Then straight home. It puzzles our analysts. Why, Peabody?”

  That’s going to be the last shock today. I feel unsteady as I stand up. I walk towards the cell and manage to say, “Your questions are boring. I prefer my own company.”

  I go into the cell and turn at the door. He has an elbow on the desk, his palm cupping his chin. His eyes watching me are narrowed in thought.

  Trying not to rush, I close the door and walk across to the far wall. The tart smell of whitewash is in my nostrils. Has he guessed? Even he could not guess. Can he look into my head? I hear the scrape of his chair. I pray he won’t come in. Won’t look at me again.

  With relief I hear the key turn in the lock, then his voice.

  “See you in a day, or two, or three.”

  I sink down on to the palliasse. My limbs are weak. How much does he know? How can he know? It’s hot in the cell but as I clasp my knees they feel cold. I realize that I must have been a target of their surveillance for years. Of course I must have! For years I’ve been State’s top analyst on Cuba; desk man for four years; political advisor to the CIA. The Russians would have channelled everything they got on me. Why do I worry? I’m clean. God knows I’m clean. No goddam skeletons in any cupboard. But they’ve been watching me/or years. I feel dirty. I look at my thin legs. I am dirty. How long can this hell last? Eating slops, washing out of a bucket. Crapping in a bucket. My spirits lift at the memory of Calderon standing at the door covered in shit and piss. But he was right. Fombona would probably have killed me. With a jolt I realize that at the time I hardly cared. That’s what a single black rat can do to me. I must be rational. Today I’ve been through physical and emotional shocks which I haven’t experienced for thirty years or more. I’m drained and exhausted, maybe even suffering the effects of shock. I have to get my mind on to something tangible.

  About two weeks ago I’d been reading a book on the Karpov-Kasparov chess marathon. The thirty-fifth game had intrigued me. Kasparov fighting for survival; Karpov, an icy computer. I start to go through the moves, straining to remember. It’s no good. Amparo played chess. Keen but over adventurous. Karpov fades from my imagination and Amparo is sitting there opposite me, her nose wrinkled in concentration. She lifts her head and I’m looking at the golden olive cameo of her face, framed in jet black silkiness. The picture has never faded, the face never withered. What would Calderon know or understand? I’ve never had a “fuck” since before I went to Cuba. What Amparo and I did, and had, could never be classified, or debased, with a four letter word. Why should I need anything after that but a memory?

  Despite the heat, I shiver at another very recent memory. The shock as Calderon asked his question about Dulles Airport. The casualness of his voice belied by the probing stare. I felt an odd juvenile shame that anyone, let alone he, could ever crawl so close to my mind even to ask that question. All those years after the death of Amparo when, clearly, and for the first time in my life, I saw and recognized my enemy and exulted in the conviction of my purpose. It was so strong that I needed nobody, no emotion, no mental comfort, no affection, but a small recessed part of my brain refused to be cowed; stubbornly refused. Sometimes on rare occasions that refusal sent me out to Dulles Airport like a prowler in the night. Afterwards, long afterwards, I would feel the guilt of my weakness. The guilt of a long-distance runner covering the course alone and sometimes stopping to draw breath. Sometimes cutting the surreptitious corner, unseen except by the gaze of his own conscience. I tried so hard but I could never banish that weakness. Now there are more doubts in my head. Should I ever have tried? Have I been running alone for nothing?

  Five days in this cell. The word “cell” startles me with its succinct accuracy. It sounds like it feels and it rhymes with hell. Five solitary days and the loneliness sharpens my senses. I look at my feet. Grime growing between my toes . . . grime; the word so suits the substance … a fungus on my body. Does a man unable to wash measure time against the thickness of grime on his skin? No; a man would forget the squalor in time, forget this filthiness. That, for me, is another weakness . . . . How well Calderon knows it. I cannot forget. Each day the grime grows and humiliates me. Five days gone. How many more?

  I try to get back to the thirty-fifth game but I’ve lost the sequence. I wonder if Calderon plays chess? Will he come in a day, or two, or three?

  SLOCUM

  Washington

  Day 3

  I savour the memory. There’s not much else to do. My room is on the tenth floor but the view is confined to watching the side of a heavy rainstorm. In two days of sitting on my ass, I’ve seen enough TV re-runs and soap operas to want to go out and strangle every producer in the land.


  The memory eases the boredom- the memory of the President’s face. I’d finished telling him what was wrong with the rescue plan. I’d kept it brief; the cat was looking hungrier by the minute. I’d explained the overcomplications. The plan involved five co-ordinated operations: a ground assault by infiltrated special forces; a simultaneous air strike to take out the city’s electricity generator; a simultaneous air attack on the main army barracks, and finally the centre piece: a simultaneous helicopter-borne assault into the compound itself. Meanwhile aircraft and helicopter gunships would be “sanitizing” the area around the compound to discourage any reinforcements getting close.

  I had highlighted the one word “simultaneous”. It’s much loved in military jargon. What would happen if, because of miscalculation, error, or bad luck, just one of those operations failed to be simultaneous? Under the plan, the compound guards were reckoned to have no more than sixty seconds’ warning before the assault force landed. But if one of five operations mistimed or went wrong, they might have several minutes. I’d said that it was crazy to multiply the “fuck up” factor by four when it was big enough already, what with all the services competing to get in on the act. Komlosy had coughed discreetly at the obscenity but the President was unruffled. Then came the moment. The President said: “The Joint Chiefs have emphasized that this is a major military operation.”

  I took a breath. “No, sir. With respect, World War Two was a major military operation. This is an itsy bitsy little one.”

  The memory is of his expression when I said that. I quickly went on, “It’s an operation to secure a small compound right by the sea and only twelve miles from a major base of operations- the ‘Nimitz’. To release twenty-seven people from a semi-trained bunch of youths and chopper them back to base.”

  “You make it sound a snip.”

  “It is.”

  He glanced at Komlosy and said sceptically, “What about the explosives strapped to our people?”