Siege of Silence Read online

  A jeep was waiting together with an armed escort. As we drove through the crowded streets people ran out and showered us with flowers and tried to touch us. The revolutionaries had flowers in the barrels of their guns. From almost every window hung red flags or pieces of cloth.

  Women and girls wore red flowers in their hair. We turned a corner and there was a pot-bellied man being dragged out of a door towards a waiting truck. Terror radiated from his wet face.

  “Probably from the ‘Model Platoon’,” my escort said. “Vargas’s pet death squad.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  He patted his sub-machine-gun eloquently. “A quick trial by a People’s Court and then up against a wall. We’ll shoot a few hundred of them- just like you did in ‘59.”

  It’s ironic. In 1959 I was three years old. Anyway, later Fidel regretted those killings, but at the time they were justified; the people demanded them. We drove past the Presidential palace. It was badly damaged; the white Christmas-cake facade pockmarked with black holes. I observed to the escort, “A tart’s face covered with acne.”

  He liked the expression and laughed and repeated it several times. Then he told me that he had been in the assault force. Over one hundred Chamarristas had died. They had hanged Vargas and his brother from the chandeliers in his office. Chandeliers imported from Venice and costing thousands of dollars! It was only two nights ago. They were probably still hanging there. Would I like to look?

  “At what? The bodies or the chandeliers?”

  He laughed delightedly and repeated it to the driver. I was the comedian from Cuba.

  But I was impatient and urged them on. Bermudez had set up headquarters in a squat building close to the palace. It was surrounded by heavily armed Chamarristas. I noticed the anti-aircraft guns on the roof.

  I was shown immediately into his office. There were a dozen people with him and there followed a very emotional few minutes. He embraced me in a bear hug and although he was only a slight man I felt my bones would be crushed. He then kissed me fervently on both cheeks. I doubt that even Inez ever put such passion into the business. He was followed by all the others, including a stout young woman whom I recognized from photographs as Maria Carranza, right hand woman to Bermudez. She had a round, plain face and also round, large breasts. I passed reluctantly from her to a hug from a man who was almost a caricature of Che Guevara. It gave me a start. Had there been a resurrection? But then I remembered him. Another top lieutenant of Bermudez who had once trained in Cuba. He even spoke like Che.

  Finally Bermudez made a short, highly charged speech: in the name of the Chamarristas and all the people of San Carlo and all the freedom-loving peoples of the world, he wished to thank Fidel and the Cuban people for their comradely help and support for the revolution. In the face of such steel-like solidarity all Fascists, capitalists and imperialists quake with fear. In our hemisphere Fidel and the great Cuban revolution are a beacon of hope casting light into darkness; faith into despair; fear into dictatorship. If Juan Chamarrista’s memory had been the father of this revolution then Fidel was the uncle. Every Cuban was a brother . . . a blood-brother. As soon as the country is pacified he will go to Cuba himself and tell this to Fidel and all the Cuban people.

  The usual stuff, but as I glanced around the room I noticed they were gazing at him raptly. He has it. There is no doubt. He has the “essence”. This almost waif-like little rebel is a singer and can turn his audience into an echo chamber. I’m impervious to it, but he held the others in his hand. They believed it because he made them believe it. I could even see that his eyes were moist behind the thick lenses.

  I made a few similar noises but I was impatient and he saw it. With the exception of Maria, he ushered the others out and we got down to business.

  He had just received some international newspapers via Managua. He spread them on the table with a conjurer’s gesture. On the front pages they all had photographs of the hostages together with their “suicide” escorts and “militant student” guards. There were descriptions of the Embassy takeover and a detailed list of the students’ demands. There was also a beautifully worded disclaimer by the Chamarrista Revolutionary Council. They had been powerless to affect proceedings. They were doing all they could to make the “students” see reason, but their first concern was the safety of the hostages. If an attempt was made to storm the compound by anyone at all, then the hostages would be blown up instantly. Meanwhile during negotiations, and in a humanitarian gesture, medicines and fresh food would be supplied to the compound daily.

  I looked up to see Bermudez watching me with an expectant smile and said, “I told Fidel you were crazy. I’m telling you the same. All right you got them. But the mood in the US is different now. They won’t sit on their arses for months squealing in outrage and doing nothing.”

  The smile left his face. “I don’t care. Whatever we do they will interfere. They cannot let San Carlo be the next domino. What does a cat do when cornered by a huge dog? It goes for its eyes! Claws its eyes! That’s what I have done. The only way . . . to attack!”

  He surely does have the “essence”. Maria had run a hand down his sleeve in a gesture of admiration. Maybe he’s right I really don’t care.

  He said, “A closed truck will go in every morning and evening with supplies. You will go and come with it. Fombona has been told to give you total co-operation. If you have any difficulties you come direct to me.”

  I nodded. “I’ll start tomorrow. Today I wish to interview anyone who worked in the compound. Servants- whatever. Especially if they had personal contact with the Ambassador,”

  I was staring down at the photos. At the tall spare aristocratic figure of Jason Peabody. On his face was an expression mixing extreme contempt with utter disdain. Now, at the sound of the door, I turn and look up into the same face and the same expression.

  PEABODY

  San Carlo

  Day 1

  There’s a hippy in the room. I look around. No one else. He slouches in a chair behind the desk, one leg up on an arm rest, swinging. He is wearing faded, frayed jeans and a black tee-shirt. His hair, reddish-blonde and curling slightly, falls almost to his shoulders. There is a newspaper on the desk in front of him and a stack of files with black covers. The clod Fombona pushes me from behind and I stumble slightly into the room. I feel a jerk on the wire and then the little suicide punk is beside me. The hippy studies me, then says to Fombona, “Take that jacket off him and get rid of the kid.”

  Fombona moves past me with his sub-machine-gun. I have never seen him without it. He is shaking his head emphatically.

  “No. He wears it every second . . . and the others.”

  The hippy sighs, swings his leg to the floor, stands up and stretches languorously; then he moves around the desk. He’s wearing cowboy boots! I’m tired, I’ve hardly slept in three nights. Is all this a fantasy?

  I watch the boots approaching. They are highly polished with an elaborate design stitched into the uppers. They are in front of me and I lift my head. With the boots he is almost as tall as me. His eyes are blue. It is a young face . . . no, old . . . young and old. He starts to untie the thongs holding on the jacket. I glance at Fombona. He is watching in astonishment. He snarls, “Leave him alone. You can talk to him. Nothing else!”

  Oblivious to Fombona, the hippy continues unlacing the thongs. Fombona’s face tightens in rage. I watch as he raises the sub-machine-gun and cocks it with great deliberation. The ratchet sound hangs in my ears. The muzzle is pointed at the hippy’s back.

  He smiles and then astonishes me. In perfect, British accented English he says conversationally, “Spare the rod and spoil the child. The trouble with all students, ‘militant’ or otherwise, is the occupational lack of discipline.”

  It must be a fantasy! I glance at the punk. His eyes, huge in fright, are switching between the hippy and Fombona’s gun. The detonator box is clutched in his sweaty right hand. The hippy reaches forward with both hands.
His face is close to mine. Irrationally, I note that he is not wearing cologne. I feel the weight of the jacket being lifted from my shoulders. I put my arms back and it slides down. The hippy hands it to the punk, pats him on the shoulder and, speaking again in Spanish, says softly, “Here, chico. Live for another day, another sunset, another girl.”

  He turns the boy and pushes him gently out of the door, then without even glancing at Fombona or his gun, he walks briskly back to the desk, his boots clomping comically on the concrete floor.

  Fombona’s rage has intensified. He is quivering. He swings the muzzle to cover the hippy and moves forward two paces. The hippy appears to be reading the newspaper. When he looks up it is directly at me. He points a finger at the chair opposite.

  “Excellency, kindly sit down. We have much to discuss and our time may be limited.”

  There is silence- almost a silence. I can hear Fombona’s breath made heavy by fury. I can literally feel it building to an apex. At any second he will fire. I am certain. I look into the hippy’s eyes, trying to detect any sign of fear. There is absolutely none. They gaze back with languid unconcern. Abruptly, I know that this man’s life is in my hands. I walk forward slowly but positively, past the gun barrel. I have the sensation of moving over ice. I sit down. The chair squeaks- shrieks in my ears. The hippy smiles and says over my shoulder,

  “Comrade, on that uncomfortable journey in the supply truck I noticed some bags of your wonderful San Carlo coffee. Please arrange to have two mugs sent over here . . . very strong. And again in an hour.”

  He does not know the man. He has gone too far. Yesterday I watched Fombona beat one of his own men half to death because of a minor infraction. He enjoyed it. Now I can imagine his finger tightening on the trigger. I have an ache in my back, I wish to move even slightly but I stay rigid. There is total silence. Apparently Fombona has even stopped breathing.

  Seconds pass, or minutes. My nerves jangle at the scrape of a boot, then again at rapid footsteps and the slam of a door. I want to let out my breath in a great gasp of relief but I don’t. I let it out very slowly and quietly through my nostrils. I will not show the relief. I cross my right leg over my left and adjust the crease of my pants. The hippy notes the action, smiles and says, “I learned never to argue with such people. Debate gives them a false sense of importance.”

  I am pleased. I have managed to control the trembling in my fingers. Casually, I say, “Had I not moved when I did, he would have shot you.”

  “That’s very probable.”

  I don’t know how to answer that. I feel again the fantasy surrounding mc. He was close to death and knows it. I believe he may even be savouring it. The whole emotion is alien to me.

  The silence grows while we study each other and then he says, “My name is Jorge Calderon.”

  He says it as though I must know it. Even as a man might say: “My name is Winston Churchill or George Washington or Albert Einstein or Sigmund Freud or Karl Marx or.. With a terrible mental explosion I realise that I do know it.

  Has my face registered the shock? I pray not. I simply look at him. He waits. I wait. I raise an eyebrow, glad of that facial facility. He shrugs, leans forward and says, “I’m from the . . . ”

  I’ve won a tiny but deeply satisfying victory. I cut him off. “The Cuban Directorate of Intelligence. Jorge Calderon . . . rising star . . . one of the whizz kids.”

  He smiles and leans back. I am still astonished. As an expert on pre and post Castro Cuba I am very familiar with the top echelon of their Government. I vividly recall a meeting a few weeks ago. Jameson, the CIA’s top man on Cuba, talked at length about Jorge Calderon. Under thirty- he looks much older- obviously a dissipated life- one of the new generation of leaders brought in by Castro to regenerate his damned revolution. You’d think the idiot would have learned something from Mao and his Red Guards. But I know that the man in front of me is both brilliant and dangerous. An intellectual revolutionary; the worst kind. His father was Spanish, a wealthy painter. His mother a Scotswoman. The father left Cuba shortly after the revolution. Mother and child stayed on. Calderon trained as a lawyer and went straight into Intelligence, becoming a brilliant analyst and interrogator. Described by Jameson as cynical and unconventional . . . and a Marxist with all the fervour of a convert. He sure as hell doesn’t look it. He might have shambled off the campus at UCLA. What is he doing here?

  He pushes the newspaper across. It’s the Herald Tribune dated the previous day. I look down at my own face. I’m gratified by the expression. I quickly read through the article. I can’t help it. The words come out. “They’re crazy!”

  “I agree.”

  I look up. His face is serious.

  “But your presence means that your ever-meddling Government is behind it.”

  “Wrong. My presence here has nothing to do with the Chamarrista revolution, or with your Embassy.”

  “Then?”

  He waves a hand dismissively. “We’ll get to that.” He points at the newspaper. “What do you think your people will do?”

  He’s impertinent. He really expects me to give a professional opinion so he can run off to Bermudez and pass it on. I say, “They have several options, all of which will be bad news for your friends here.”

  He shrugs non-committally and pulls the paper back towards him, reads for a moment, then says, “Two and a half billion dollars is not unreasonable. After all, your budget deficit this year will be a hundred times that.”

  “It’s blackmail.”

  “True.” He smiles slightly and runs a hand through his hair. It’s a mannerism I’ve already seen repeated a few times. “But only in the method of asking . . . or if you like, demanding. There’s a basis to it. Morally your Government owes them money.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He prods at the article. “Three US corporations, Andana, General Metals and Universal Foods, over the past fifty years, have raped this country, with the active aid of successive US Governments, just as they have raped others in the region. If Universal Foods had paid a fair price for their half million acres of prime land, and if Andana and General Metals had paid normal royalties for their ores, then at least three billion dollars would have accrued to the State of San Carlo. Bermudez is being generous . . . He’s offering half a billion discount. After all, most of those ores are now exhausted . . . and bananas aren’t what they were.”

  Is it only three nights ago that I was reading Henri Weber trotting out the same inanities? Coldly, I say, “I don’t need a lesson in the history of Central America. Anyway Bermudez won’t get a cent from my Government.”

  “He doesn’t expect to.”

  “What?”

  He grins. “At least not directly, and he doesn’t expect two and a half billion. He’ll settle for a billion.”

  In spite of myself I’m intrigued. Without doubt this man has recently been conferring with Bermudez.

  “So?”

  “So Bermudez is a realist- and a Marxist. If he even holds on to the country he’s facing a disaster. It’s bankrupt. Its main assets, the iron and bauxite ores, are almost finished. It’s overpopulated with one of the lowest per capitas in the world. Where will he get money? The World Bank? It’s controlled by your Government. So are most of the other international aid agencies. He has the example of Cuba and Nicaragua in front of him. Because of their ideologies they got and get nothing.”

  He’s supposed to be brilliant but he talks rubbish. I’m unable to keep the derision from my voice.

  “If he survives, he’s blown whatever chance he had of getting aid. The western world doesn’t give money to kidnappers.”

  He laughs good naturedly. “Unless they’re Fascists. But you see, Peabody, Bermudez does expect to get aid- at least a billion dollars.”

  “From where- Russia? He’s dreaming.”

  “No, from the World Bank. The European Community. Japan and so on.”

  “He’s crazy. So are you.”

  “I’m not. He
might be. But he has a plan. Of course the ‘militant’ students are a charade. Everyone knows that, but sometimes charades are necessary. The students demand two and a half billion dollars in reparation for the past economic rape of their country by the USA. Bermudez knows that it will never be paid. Meanwhile, stalemate. The students have graphically demonstrated what will happen to you and the other Americans in the compound if any rescue is attempted. By the way, one of your aircraft carriers, the ‘Nimitz’ is already sitting on the horizon. But it’s a question of fire power being impotent.”

  He gives me comfort with this news. I say, “Maybe my President doesn’t see it that way.”

  He runs a hand through his hair again. “I hope for your sake he does. Anyway assume a stalemate. North Americans don’t like stalemates. They’ll pressure for action. Your President’s in a spot.” He smiles. “It’s a beautiful coincidence. One of your so-called staffers is Arnold Tessler. We know he’s CIA. His father is the president of none other than the Andana Corporation. He’s also one of the powers behind your President. His millions went towards getting him elected.” He points at the photographs, at the row of hostages and smiles sardonically. “Now, daddy Tessler is going to see his little boy all trussed up in explosives and a lunatic fanatic next to him just dying to press the button. He’s going to urge his friend the President to be a mite cautious and the President is going to have to listen. I don’t think the marines are about to land any second.”

  He is watching me, waiting for a reaction. There is truth in what he says but I won’t give him the satisfaction of confirming it. I remain silent and he shrugs and continues. “So after a while, Bermudez, through third parties, will offer a solution. He’ll let it be known that the students will release the hostages if an international aid package of one billion dollars is put together, say over five years. Oh, the suggestion could come from anywhere, even the Red Cross. Obviously, due to pride and politics, the USA cannot be seen to contribute even a single cent; but of course these things can be arranged. It will contribute all or most of it.”