Siege of Silence Page 2

  I know the man and I know the only course.

  “No, comrade. You show me no respect”

  He straightens in his chair. Both fists come hard on to the desk. There is going to be an explosion. I have seen it with others; seen them demolished. The risk I am taking excites me; it is always so. At this moment of extreme danger I remember my final legal exams at the university. It is a memory in a millisecond. The night before the crucial paper, an old school friend had returned to Havana from Angola where he had fought for their revolution. In the morning he was to travel north to see his family. We went out for a drink which turned into a drunken party. I turned up for the exam without sleep and still partially drunk. For two and a half hours I stared at the questions without comprehension. By the time my head had cleared and I could think there was only half an hour left. With no time to answer the questions I wrote, instead, a letter to the chief examiner. I explained my condition and why. Then I argued the case that a suitable greeting for a homecoming friend and patriot who bad repeatedly risked his life for his country far outweighed the selfish consideration of my getting a law degree. It was a brilliant letter and they gave me my degree.

  Now I have to be equally brilliant to snuff out the fuse spluttering into Fidel’s brain. Calmly I say, “On July 26th, 1969, when I was thirteen years old I watched you for the first time make a speech commemorating the attack on the Moncada barracks. You spoke for four hours. During those hours I became a revolutionary. Your theme was the continuity of revolution. I can remember almost every word. I will quote you some of them: ‘We must learn from the mistakes of others, from every socialist revolution of the past; the French, the Russians, the Chinese, all of them. The greatest mistake is to allow the worship of bureaucracy, the idolizing of the official and the functionary. The people are the revolution. They are the masters.’”

  I have slowed the fuse. Underlying his anger is a hint of intrigue. Still feeling the excitement of fear I continue.

  “In another speech, four years later to the day, you said: ‘Every hour, every minute, every second is vital! To waste even a second is to dishonour the cause.’”

  He is looking at me as at a toad in his bath water. I can only go deeper.

  “My office is ten minutes from here. As you know I am busy on the Cubelas case. I was summoned here two hours ago and since then have wasted seven thousand, two hundred seconds.” I gesture at the piles of paper on his desk. “In the ten minutes it would have taken to summon me you could have done six hundred seconds of work.” I indicate the door behind me. “Gomez has been waiting out there for over an hour. He also is very busy working for the revolution.”

  Fidel takes a long pull at his cigar then blows the thick smoke at me. His voice has the timbre of rolling thunder. “Did I really say those words?” “I can’t remember; but if not you should have.”

  He makes a sound like an old steam-engine pulling out of a station and I relax. He is laughing.

  He points his cigar at a chair and I sit down. For a long time he studies me with distaste. He looks at my clothes and long hair, then at my face. I stare back. He will soon be sixty but apart from a greying and a fuzziness on his beard he hardly looks it. Only the eyes are tired but they are always so except when he is orating. I know what gives him power over others. I know exactly for I have the same power. He is first a dreamer, second an activist and third a taker of risks. For him the risk is everything. To combine the dream, the action and the risk is to create the stuff of life and power. The magnet to draw others; men and women - especially women. Others call it personality; I call it the “essence”. It is given to few.

  Finally he sighs, mashes out his cigar and says, “Jorge, the last thing you resemble is a revolutionary. You look like the kind of specimen Lenin had in mind when he said: ‘Burn the leeches and vermin9.”

  Before I can answer he presses a button on his desk console and says, “Maria, tell comrade Gomez to return to his office. I’ll call him when I need him.” He sighs again. ‘Tell him I regret keeping him waiting.”

  He stands up, moves around the desk and starts pacing behind me. He will continue pacing until the interview is over. I turn my chair.

  “We had word this morning from San Carlo via Managua . . . you read the file I sent?”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Bermudez is crazy.”

  He laughs. “Maybe, but very imaginative. He’s your age, you know. Even younger than I when we threw out Batista.” He muses on that, then says, “If they succeed in all phases we have the chance to interrogate Peabody . . . you read that file too?”

  “Of course.”

  He stops pacing and faces me, chin tucked into his beard. There is excitement in his eyes. Cautiously I say, “But for a few days only . . . maybe less.”

  A shake of his head. “You don’t understand the Americans. You’ve had little contact. You are clever and shrewd in human nature- cunning; but I tell you they will not react quickly. I have much experience. We may have weeks, even months.”

  He moves back to his desk and lights another cigar. Puffing contentedly he resumes pacing and talking. “From our Intelligence we know three things. The operation against us is code-named ‘Cobra’.” He snorts in derision. “After so many operations and code-names they lose imagination. We know that two of our top people are involved . . . so far passively. They are most likely ministers. Also two or three others in the army and the militia. We know that Jason Peabody advised on the operation before being posted to San Carlo. That is fortunate . . . the only luck we had.”

  I ask, “Do you suspect any particular minister or official?”

  He walks to the window and looks out. Late afternoon sunlight filters through the cigar smoke as it writhes above him. The smoke appears to come from the top of his head. He turns and answers me obliquely. “Jorge, I have survived for over a quarter of a century. At least twelve tries at assassination and half as many coup attempts.” His teeth show through his beard in a mocking smile. “Were I not so modest I would think myself immortal.” He paces again. “It’s become a question of demography. Over half our population was born after we threw out Batista. All they know of the old days are stories which grow dimmer. They grow impatient with struggle not knowing that a revolution takes generations. That’s why it is very dangerous now. The traitors perceive that they might have a following . . . and that is possible. They must be crushed. We must find out who they are.” He jabs his cigar at me. “I trust Raul . . . but that is the trust of blood. I trust you, Jorge Calderon . . . that is the trust of necessity. Only you and Raul know of my intentions. The word is that the Chamarristas will move at any moment. As soon as they are in control we will send in people- just as we did to Nicaragua. Doctors, teachers, engineers and so on. You will go in with the first plane. I want you to leave for Managua tonight.”

  “What about the Cubelas case? It is important.”

  He shakes his head. “Next to this it pales to nothing. You arc the best interrogator we have. You broke Frias and Guijano and above all Pazos.” He shakes his head again. “I would never have believed that. You are arrogant so it cannot make it worse that I call you brilliant. I need that brilliance now. We need one name. That will be enough. From him we will get the others. Now go and see Raul. He will arrange details and a communications set-up.”

  I get up from the chair saying, “I’ll be sitting in Managua doing nothing. That Bermudez is crazy.”

  Very thoughtfully Fidel answers, “So was I. With eighty compatriots I made a revolution. Bermudez has many more than that.”

  I reach the door and say, “I hope you’re right.”

  He is watching me; his head slightly on one side. I sense before the question comes that it will be important.

  “Who is the girl?”

  I feel no confusion. I answer immediately.

  “Inez Cavallo- as I’m sure you know.”

  “What does she do?”


  “Looks after me and nothing else . . . you know that too.”

  He nods. “I never took advice about women so I don’t like to give it. But she is dangerous, that one. She is amoral, complex. Totally selfish . . . and beautiful. She is dangerous, Jorge.”

  “I know.”

  We look at each other for a long time. It’s as though Inez is in the room. He makes a characteristic gesture with the fingers of his left hand, dismissing the subject.

  “I’m planning to take her with me,” I say. “I get bored doing nothing.”

  Have I gone too far? I feel the tingle again. Another long silence, then again the dismissive flick of the fingers.

  “Just get me one name.”

  In the outer office the woman is marking an article. I lean over her shoulder. The newspaper is the Washington Post, the article is headlined: “San Carlo National Guard Starts Decisive Sweep Against Chamarrista Insurgents.”

  PEABODY

  San Carlo

  It’s luxurious, but it’s a prison. From my study window I look across the roof of the staff apartments to the high wall. Floodlights illuminate the wires running across its top and the television cameras at each corner. In the security room the duty officer will be manning the consoles and electronic equipment. Or will he? Maybe he’s asleep or gone off for a game of poker. I make a mental note to spot-check; but not tonight Yes, it’s a prison. We are fifty-two souls locked into our compound. Even the glass in front of me is bullet-proof. The window can’t be opened. How marvellous it would be to leave this artificial air and stroll down the tree-lined Paseo Maritimo and hear and smell the dark Caribbean surging up the beach. Impossible without a dozen bodyguards and a truck full of National Guardsmen trundling along behind, plus the anguished face of Fleming from Security- the chief gaoler. I miss long walks. This is what I am now. The most important man in the country, including the President; and I’m a specimen in a zoo. The irony of power. The position makes me a target of any crazed commie- or any other crazy.

  I’ll do the job fast. With the new aid package and the new trainees and my clout they will be swept away. Then to his surprise that fat slug of a President will have to face elections, and with enough money and influence, a decent right wing Government- or a decent right wing General will run the country on decent lines. And decent men will be able to walk down Paseo Maritimo day or night.

  Through the thick glass window I hear the faint, single chime of the cathedral clock. It reminds me of my fatigue, just as the throbbing of my big left toe reminds me of the gout. I walk painfully through the bedroom to the bathroom and take down the bottle of Zyloric tablets.

  At last the maid has remembered to put the flask of chilled mineral water on the bedside table, together with a glass. Ten days I’ve been here and wasted a vast amount of time teaching the residence staff the fundamentals of hygiene and comfort. Calper must have lived like a pig. But it’s to be expected. He was very lax in his policies, in his personal and general discipline and in his reports. I inherited a pigsty.

  Christ, the glass is not clean! I go back into the bathroom, rinse it, pour water and take two pills. Then I brush my teeth. It’s a pleasurable duty. I use a “water pik” and enjoy the tingling sensation of the tiny spray against my gums. Churchill used one. I read it in his memoirs.

  The maid has also remembered to turn down the bed and lay out clean pyjamas. She was astonished when I told her, “clean pyjamas every night- and clean sheets”. God knows how Calper used to live. The whole residence stank of cigar smoke until I had all the air-conditioning filters changed and banned smoking.

  I dress my dumb valet with tomorrow’s clothes. It is made from polished mahogany. I brought it with me from Washington- a mother’s gift forty years ago. The only one I can remember.

  In bed, I pick up a tract on the Sandinist revolution by Henri Weber. I have trained myself, no matter how tired, to read for half an hour before sleep. In that time I can read twenty pages. In rough terms it means thirty books a year. Just for that half hour!

  Tonight it depresses me to read about such a bad cause so ably argued. It is a relief when the half hour has passed. I switch off the light and rearrange the pillows. They are feather pillows- I brought them from Washington. It’s something learned from much travel. Most pillows nowadays are filled with some synthetic foam and you may as well lay your head on a trampoline. I read somewhere that the Queen of England travels with her own pillows but I was doing it long before her.

  I rarely have difficulty sleeping and I am sinking into unconsciousness when the bedside phone rings. It is Gage, Chief of Station. His voice is nervous. I guess it’s because he’s had to take a difficult decision in phoning me at this hour. He mumbles apologetically saying that the CIA deputy Chief of Station has an unsubstantiated report that a large column of Chamarristas has passed through the village of Paras, twenty miles north-east of the city, during last night. Gage is sorry to wake me but to his knowledge they have never operated this close to the capital before.

  I ask the obvious question.

  “Haven’t you discussed this with Fleming?”

  A painful pause, then:

  “No, sir. He went to a party at the Brazilian Embassy. I rang there but he left an hour ago- they don’t know to where.”

  Again I feel sharp resentment towards Calper. His laxity has rubbed off on to all the staff. There are strict procedures: a 1.00 a.m. curfew and hourly whereabout reports between sunset and that time. You’d think they were staffing the Embassy in Luxembourg. Gage’s tentative voice again, “I checked with the National Guard Headquarters, sir. They dismissed the report as nonsense. They have a garrison in that village . . . but I thought I’d better call you, sir . . . your standard instructions . . . “

  “Gage, you did right. Stay in touch with the CIA and the National Guard. Call me if anything develops and meanwhile let Fleming know that he’s to report to my office at 8.00 a.m. . . . sharp!”

  I cradle the phone, rearrange the pillows and try to sleep. It evades me; not due to the report but because of irritation.

  The Embassy is a sloppy mess and it’s going to take weeks to straighten it out. There’s going to have to be changes of personnel, starting with Fleming and Bowman, the deputy Chief of Mission. Gage is all right. He’s only been here as long as me, flying in on the same plane. It took guts to phone so late on a flimsy report- and incidentally to ditch his boss.

  Over the next few minutes I mentally rearrange the entire senior officer structure and my anger wanes. I’ll definitely keep Colonel Sumner, the Military Attaché. His briefing this morning was clear and concise and he’s a crisp, well-turned out officer. My mind dwells on the man and his briefing and abruptly, like a tiny electric shock, I remember something. I sit up and call Gage on the phone and instruct him to wake Colonel Sumner and ask him to meet me in the tank in fifteen minutes. If Fleming returns in the meantime he is to be sent straight there.

  Sumner makes it in twelve minutes. He looks sleepy but I note with approval that he’s dressed in a well-pressed suit and tie.

  I’m standing at the large wall map. I’ve stuck a red pin on the dot of Paras.

  “Sorry to get you up, Colonel. I’ve ordered coffee.” I tap my finger on the map. “There’s an unconfirmed report that Chamarristas have passed through this village heading for the city.”

  With the heels of his hands he rubs his eyes and nods.

  “Gage told me. Also that the National Guard discount it. That village is well garrisoned and it lies at the foot of a steep valley. There’s no way a large column of rebels could move through there undetected.”

  “Terrorists, not rebels, Sumner,” I remind him irritably. “And what if they were detected?”

  Now he is both sleepy and puzzled.

  “But . . . “

  There is a tap on the door and it opens to reveal a young Mestizo with a tray holding two steaming mugs of coffee. He puts it on the table and withdraws. I gesture towards it and Sumner drinks
gratefully, then says carefully, “You’re suggesting that the garrison may have collaborated?”

  “Is it a possibility? Would they be from Lacay’s brigade?”

  Wide awake now, Sumner nods. He is looking at the map. I say, “This morning at your briefing you talked about Generals Cruz and Lacay. Recently Cruz has been in more favour with Vargas than Lacay. You stated that the latter was bitter over Vargas’s decision to post all the Fort Bragg trainees to Cruz’s brigade. Also in a confidential report last month the agency suggested that if we ever contemplated supporting a military coup against Vargas, then Lacay would prove more amenable.”

  Sumner is looking very sceptical. He drinks more coffee and says, “Mr Ambassador, let’s slow down a bit. First there’s an unsubstantiated report about reb . . . terrorist movements. Now we’re talking collaboration by the National Guard. That’s way out. Those guys know that if the Chamarristas ever take power they’ve had it. They’re dead. It’s like hitching a ride across a river on an alligator’s back. Halfway over you get eaten.”

  “Okay. But what about that report?”

  He shrugs. “We get an awful lot of worthless stuff coming through. Even disinformation. I’ve been here two years, sir, and sifted through any amount of crap.”

  He is very confident and his allusion to his length of service is meant to contrast with my brief tenure. Let’s wake somebody else.

  “Well, the report came from our own assets here.” I point to the phone. “Get Tessler over here and find out exactly where it came from.”

  He picks up the phone with enthusiasm, obviously pleased to spread the suffering.

  It takes Tessler twenty minutes to appear. He is rumpled and in a foul mood. I don’t care. He might be the Chief of Station and he might have an important father. I’m the Ambassador. I don’t bother ordering coffee for him; merely instruct him to check out the report.

  He is on the phone for a surly ten minutes. Then hangs up, sighs dramatically and says, “We have informers in most villages. They’re very low grade stuff. They get a little monthly stipend and a small bonus when they come up with something. This guy hasn’t had a bonus for over a year so he’s trying it on. Our regional guy passes through there and gets what’s known as a ‘scam’ report. By regulations he has to file it. Anyway consider it worthless. If the Chamarristas are trying to move close to the city, they sure as hell wouldn’t use that route- and they wouldn’t be in a large column. They’d infiltrate in groups of three or four . . . normal procedure.”