“Viva!”
by
Peter Edington Book
One
The
siege at the house of Chema Castillo
Chapter One
The Mansion of Chema Castillo,
Managua 10.30 p.m. Friday 27th December 1974 Ambassador Thomas Sheldon shook the businessman’s
hand. "Rodrigues!
It's been a great pleasure meeting you here tonight."
He turned to Rodrigues’ son. "And
you too, Miguel!" At twenty-nine, Miguel Villanueva was the youngest man
at the party but his hawk-faced good looks and expensive clothes had already
attracted interest from many of the women there that night.
His oiled black hair hardly moved as he gave the ambassador an almost
Teutonic bow. Heavy gold cufflinks
caught the light from the chandelier as he shook the American's hand.
"My pleasure, Mr. Sheldon."
The white-haired ambassador moved
his attention to Miguel's wife. "Seńora
Villanueva, it has been a real pleasure."
He held the elegant hand overly long and said, "I'll watch out for
your husband, Seńora, he is on his way to great things.
People like Howard Hughes don't often ask for advice but I know he was
particularly interested in Miguel's recommendation over the casino complex last
year." He kissed Seńora
Villanueva's hand and turned back to Miguel.
"With friends in the right places, young man, the sky's the limit! I
look forward to seeing you both in Washington, one day." Their conversation was interrupted
by the arrival of their host, Chema Castillo - government Minister and close
confidant of the absent President Somoza. Somoza
had chosen Senator Castillo to throw this exclusive party in his absence to
honour the departing Ambassador. Castillo’s English was faultless,
which was as well since Thomas Sheldon had never considered it necessary to
learn Spanish. "Thomas, I
cannot say how sorry we will be to see you go," he cried.
"It has been such a pleasure having you here with us in Managua.”
He summoned a servant to bring the ambassador's overcoat and draped it
over his guest’s shoulders. Four
years as United States Ambassador to Nicaragua had thinned the old American’s
blood and he was easily chilled, even in the relative warmth of a December
evening in tropical Central America. "I'm sorry to go, Chema,"
Sheldon replied, "but you know how it is.” The ambassador raised his
hands in mock surrender. “When
duty calls…" "Indeed,"
Castillo joked and the two of them shook hands, though the Nicaraguan knew only
too well the true reason for Sheldon's removal. With the recent impeachment of his sponsor, President Nixon,
and the arrival in the Oval Office of a new broom, Thomas Sheldon was being
swept out of his sybaritic niche in Managua, to be replaced by the new
administration's own man. Like the
rest of Somoza’s government, Castillo hoped the replacement would be as
sympathetic to their ways as Sheldon had been.
“You will always be welcome," Castillo added,
"and be sure to come back soon." "Chema.
I surely will," Sheldon said, adding his free hand to the handshake.
"And you and your good lady must visit with me next time you're in
America." Castillo smiled warmly.
"Of course we will." But
he raised an admonishing finger. "In
the summer! Those North American
winters of yours are too severe for us Latin-Americans!"
They laughed and the host signalled discretely to the servant.
"Call His Excellency's car." The circle of richly dressed men
and women who gathered around the departing ambassador probably accounted for
over half the wealth that lay in Nicaragua and Sheldon took care to say a few
words to each as he took his leave. The
last man he spoke to had a look about him that was reminiscent of the country's
president, Anastasio Somoza. Though
perhaps more lightly built, the family resemblance was there.
It was probably something to do with the eyes, Sheldon thought as he held
out his hand. "Noel!"
They clasped hands. "It
has been a privilege working you." Noel Pallais Debayle, first cousin
to President Somoza Debayle, acknowledged the compliment, "And you,
Thomas." "I'm really sorry we never got
to finalise those proposals for your development program, but I'm sure my
replacement will be see them through. He's
a good man, Ambassador Theberge." "I'm sure it will be a
formality." Noel Pallais
Debayle returned Sheldon's two-handed grip.
"Have a pleasant flight back to Washington." "Thank you, Noel," he
said and the two men released each other's hands. "Be sure and give my regards to President Somoza." "I will," Pallais Debayle
said. "But you might see him
before I do. He is in Miami at this
moment and I believe he hopes to go on to Washington to meet President
Ford." The ambassador nodded thoughtfully.
Gerald Ford and Anastasio Somoza must have met already while Ford had
been vice president but, now he was President, Sheldon could see that the
Nicaraguan would be anxious they should meet again. He
would need to gauge for himself the strength of Ford's commitment to the special
relationship which had existed between the White House and Nicaragua for the
forty years of the Somoza family dynasty. "Of
course," Sheldon replied. "I
expect I will see him there." He
turned and waved a hand to the gathering at large.
"Thank you for the party, everyone. You all take care of yourselves." * The girl's voice, normally huskily
Spanish, was made harsh by the nervousness that pervaded the echoing dark in the
back of the big Chevrolet van. "Are
you sure the ambassador is still in there, German?"
She had pronounced his name 'Herman', the letter G being said that way in
her language. Street light filtered through the
windscreen of the van, accentuating the strain on the faces of the dozen or so
heavily armed youngsters who sat or crouched in the back on the uncomfortable,
ribbed metal floor. German Pomares smiled without
taking his eyes off the house across the road.
"I am sure," he said. "Then why hasn't he come out
yet?" Pomares dropped the cigarette on to
the small heap of ground out butt-ends at his feet.
As comandante of the raid he sat in the front of the van.
"It's early yet." He
extinguished the cigarette with his foot. "But he might have left
already." Her voice was rising
a little. "We could wait here
for ever!" Another girl's voice, sharp and
authoritative snapped from the darkness. "Shut
up Maria. He's in there."
Maria could see the other woman's eyes as pale lights in the darkness.
"How could he have left without us seeing his limousine?
Just relax!" Maria couldn't relax.
Her knees trembled. She
wasn't sure if it was from sitting cramped in the stifling van like this for the
last two hours, or from raw fear. "Yes but..." she started
to say and a new voice spoke near her. "Maria."
He spoke so quietly, his breath on her cheek, that only she could hear
him. "There's nothing wrong
with being afraid." She could
feel her knee trembling against his leg and she forced it into stillness.
Her lips parted to speak but his eyes held hers with such unquenchable
conviction that her words died unspoken. She
studied him more closely. She
hadn't seen him join the group. He
was nothing special to look at, dressed as they all were in black mechanics
overalls, but there was something about him that was different.
She didn't know his real name but here he was in the van, pouring his
strength into her with those eyes. "You're the one they call The
Poet?" she whispered and she saw his teeth, white against his Fidel Castro
beard as he shrugged. He lifted his head as if he didn't
quite understand why they called him that.
"The Poet, or Rubén," he said. They were talking in voices so low that they were almost
inaudible and yet she was aware that the whole van had fallen silent, listening. "And are you a poet?" "Not really, not now, but I
used to quote Dario's poems all the time. It
helped me when I was afraid." "And is that your name?
Rubén?" He shook his head.
"That was Fonseca's joke. He
gave me it as a nom de guerre, after Rubén Dario." "He gave you it?" He nodded, his eyes still holding hers. "Fonseca?"
Maria's heart quickened. "Carlos
Fonseca?" "Yes." Her eyes widened in the gloom of
the van. "You fought with
Carlos Fonseca?" Her voice
carried the awe an eighteen-year old Sandinista street-fighter felt for anyone
who had fought alongside the founder of the Frente Sandinista.
"What was it like?" she asked and the whole van waited in
silence to hear his reply. Pomares lit another cigarette and cupped it in his hand. The Poet did not answer.
Instead he called out suddenly, "Are you afraid, Juan?" Juan, the youngest member of the
team sat up - every eye in the van unexpectedly fixed on him.
He shuffled his feet "Me? Afraid
of them?" he spat. "No!" "Good," said Rubén the
Poet and Maria saw his teeth flash white as he grinned.
"Then go and knock on Seńor Castillo's door and tell him we are
tired of waiting out here." He
squeezed the girl's knee as he went on in Juan's terrible English.
"Hey, Chema. Hif you
wouldn't mind sending out the Gringo Ambassador we haf a message for El
Hombre!" - El Hombre was their
nickname for the President. Laughter rippled though the
darkness till German Pomares hissed at them from the front seat.
"Stow it, Rubén!" He
was nervous too. There had been
little enough time to get things right, it was only twelve hours since he'd
heard the news of the farewell party on the radio and it had been touch and go
getting the weapons and the assault team arranged in time.
But his plan was simple. As
soon as Thomas Sheldon, the US ambassador, was clear, the van would rush the
gates of the mansion. In the
confusion that followed, his team would enter the house and secure it against
any counter-attack by Somoza's troops. The
temptation to take the house while Sheldon was still inside had been immense but
even in their wildest dreams, the leadership of the FSLN knew that it would be
suicide to take a US ambassador hostage. The
Americans would see to that. Instead
they had decided to wait till he left. There would still be enough of the Somoza clan inside the
house to achieve their objective. So they just had to wait.
The American was in there, he knew that.
The radio had been quite clear. Chema
Castillo's party would be Sheldon's last engagement before he left for the
airport and the American's plane would not leave until after midnight.
He checked his watch for the tenth time. Twelve minutes to eleven.
"He's in there," he said quietly. "I know it." Silence fell in the waiting van. * "Your car's here,
Thomas." Chema Castillo said
as he put an arm around the ambassador's shoulder.
The tall Nicaraguan shepherded his guest towards the door.
"Thank you for coming tonight.
We wanted you to know how much your friendship has meant to us - the
government, President Somoza," he gestured expansively with his free hand.
"Everyone in Nicaragua benefits from the continued friendship of the
United States." The door was opened unobtrusively
by a servant and the two men stood at the top of the steps that led down from
Chema's magnificent front door. In
front of them, the paved driveway swept away between palm trees to a high
wrought iron gate - the only way in or out of the grounds.
A black limousine with a miniature Stars and Stripes flag flying on the
bonnet glided silently towards them and stopped. * "There's something
happening!" Pomares could see
headlights at the front of the house. "Everyone
ready!" There was general movement as the
occupants of the van reached for their weapons. Rubén and German Pomares each had an M-1 carbine, as did
Fernanda, the girl with the pale eyes, and two or three of the other men.
The rest made do with assorted handguns. "Got the grenades, Rubén?"
Pomares asked quietly and the Poet patted the webbing haversack on his
shoulder. "Yes, I've got them." "Good.
Everyone got your emergency pack?"
There was silence. Each one of them carried their own cotton bag with emergency
equipment - nylon rope, a plastic bag to store water in case the supply was cut
off, a torch, vitamins, medicines, glucose. "Well...?"
Pomares snapped "For God's sake German, we've
got our emergency packs, OK?" Fernanda
spoke abruptly from the darkness. "OK," Pomares agreed.
"OK." He was under
control again. "That's good. Masks on!" In silence they each pulled a nylon
stocking from their pocket and dragged it over their head so that they became
indistinguishable from each other, anonymous - all identical in their black
overalls. Anonymous except in one
thing - a red and black bandanna tied around their upper arm.
Red and black - the colours of the Sandinista Liberation Front, the FSLN. * The chauffeur stood by the open
door of the limousine while Ambassador Sheldon gave a last farewell wave to the
gathered aristocracy of Managua. Amid
assorted wishes for a good flight, a safe arrival or a peaceful retirement, the
Cadillac drew silently away and the wrought iron gates swung open. * "Wait for it," Pomares
said quietly. The engine was
running. The driver had the van in
gear. "Let him pull out onto
the road first." The heavy gates were open.
The limousine dipped decorously across the pavement ramp.
The chauffeur powered the big car away, between the tall trees of the
street-lit avenue. Pomares banged the dashboard with
his fist. "Go!"
He yelled. "Go!"
and the van lurched forward, smoke pouring from its rear wheels, screaming tyres
tearing the heavy heat of the night. "Come
on!" he shouted. Alerted by the sudden onrush of the
van, the guards who had opened the gates now threw themselves against them,
desperate to close up the only breach in the ten-foot high wall that secured the
house. "Keep going!
Keep going!" Everyone in the van was on their feet and shouting, weapons
slung across their chests, bracing themselves against the violent lurching.
They staggered as the vehicle smashed into the gates and Rubén glimpsed
a security guard dragging a pistol from its holster as he leapt clear of the
speeding van. Someone cried out as
a bullet shattered one of the backdoor windows and whined off the steel roof
over their heads. The girl with the
pale eyes thrust her carbine through the broken glass and unleashed a long burst
of fire. The guard fell to the
ground. Rubén turned to look
ahead. Ornate palm trees and
foliage flashed past in the headlights as the van careered up the long drive to
the house. Suddenly they were
slowing down. He had the sliding
side-door open before they stopped and dropped to the paved drive, doubled up,
running, his carbine in front of him, eyes on the steps up to the house.
The van slewed to a halt and the other twelve fighters were with him.
They were at the top of the steps. "Stand back!"
Pomares ordered and Rubén ducked aside as the door burst open under a
hail of automatic fire. "You know where to go!"
the Comandante yelled and eight of the guerrillas threw themselves past him
moving quickly to the rear of the house. As
he ran, Rubén was aware of the running footsteps of his comrades dropping away
as they peeled off to left and right to secure rooms with doors to the outside
that could leak quick-witted guests into the night and away.
Alone, he reached the servants' quarters at the back of the house.
He was in the kitchens. Everywhere,
terrified servants screamed and ran about.
He had to take control. Raising
his carbine he fired into the ceiling and shouted the words he'd been ordered to
use. "This is a political
operation. Hands on your heads and against the wall. This is the Sandinista National Liberation Front.
VIVA SANDINO!" He fired
again and suddenly it was over. Suave
waiters in white aprons and sweating cooks in white hats fell over each other in
their hurry to obey his instructions. There was another burst of gunfire
from the body of the house and he heard German Pomares uttering the same words
he had used. In front of him a girl
with black hair and terrified eyes cowered on the floor, sobbing. There was a movement beside him and
Rubén swung the gun instinctively. It was Fernanda.
The nylon stocking hardly altered her voice and certainly did nothing to
disguise her figure. "All right in here?"
She asked as she came further into the kitchen.
Rubén had taken a position with his back into a corner where he could
watch his hostages and the door at the same time, knowing he could not be
attacked unexpectedly from behind. "Fine.
You?" She shrugged.
"I think so. What about her?" She
gestured with her carbine to the sobbing girl. "She’s OK.
I can handle her." Fernanda took another quick look
around the room. "I'll be back
soon," she said and was gone. Rubén lowered the barrel of the M1
and looked towards the cowering girl. The
helpless terror in her eyes reminded him of another girl he'd once known - a
girl who'd watched a soldier place the muzzle of his gun against her brother's
temple as he lay on the hard pavement of a Managua street - a girl who had seen
her brother's head jerk as his brains exploded, red against the black tarmac.
In his dreams he still heard her screams as the soldiers dragged her to
their van. "Get up, kid," he said.
"I'm not going to hurt you." |