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me now.
    In a daze, Atcho headed toward the underbrush to read the entire letter.
    Neighbors found Isabel walking along a road, and recognized her. She doesn’t know where she’s been. A lady took care of her in a house far away, and when they brought her back, they waited until they saw the neighbors and then set her out on the road, and drove away.
    Apparently, except for one night, she had been treated well during captivity. But her nightmares were of flying bullets and a fierce man, covered with blood, lying in a plaza. Atcho fought the tears streaming down his face. When Juan came to him, Atcho handed him the letter. Then, relief and joy spreading through him, he wandered a few more yards into the underbrush.
    Suddenly, Burly called to him and came through the brush. “Tomas, we need to talk.” Atcho turned and saw him following hurriedly.
    “What is it?”
    “You’re pretty sharp, Tomas.” He was either oblivious to Atcho’s discomfiture or ignored it. “You handled yourself well in the meeting. Your questions aren’t being asked anywhere else, and as you said, we are often cavalier with your people.”
    “Yes, you are,” Atcho interjected. “What’s the point?”
    “Just this, Atcho.” Atcho was stunned. “Yes, Tomas, Eduardo, Atcho. We know your identity and background.” Atcho’s expression turned to anger. Burly held two open-faced palms up in a beseeching gesture. “Now before you get mad, let me explain.
    “Figuring out who you were wasn’t difficult once you began using your contacts to find your little girl. We did some backtracking and found her identity. When Tomas was suddenly taken ill for an extended period, then seen by Lieutenant Clary in a battered condition, we were almost certain Tomas was Atcho. Your reaction to a photograph confirmed the relationship between you and the child.” He lowered his voice. “You can count on my help any time, Atcho. Remember that. Anytime.”
    Atcho rubbed his eyes and forehead. “Well,” he said tiredly, “I guess I couldn’t keep the secret forever.” He took the letter from Juan, who had joined them, and handed it to the CIA man.
    Burly scanned the note. “This is great!” he said. “Then there is no reason you can’t do what I suggested to Juan when I walked over here.” Atcho regarded him dubiously.
    “Look,” Burly continued. “There are few men in Cuba with your education and training. The people in this group are good, brave fighters, but they don’t have necessary skills for this undertaking.”
    Good choice of words, Atcho thought.
    “We need someone to organize this group and make them effective. Someone who can think, ask the right questions, and lead!” Burly’s excitement mounted. “I’ve spoken with the other leaders, and we’re in agreement. We want you to be take charge and lead this local effort.”
    Atcho stared in disbelief. “Are you crazy?” he thundered. Burly drew back at Atcho’s unexpected reaction. “Haven’t you paid attention?” Atcho’s voice carried through the thick underbrush. Juan nudged him to soften his outburst. “Look, Burly. Nearly three months ago, my daughter was kidnapped. I had no word of her in all that time. Now I receive a message that she’s safe at home, and you want me to head up a rag-tag outfit bound on a suicide mission? No, amigo! I’m going home!”
    “But you said … ” Burly stammered.
    “I said I’d fight. You tell me when and where, and I’ll be there. Personally, I think the effort will fail. I intend to spend as much time as I have left with my daughter.” He stopped and glared at Burly. “Does this operation even have a name?’
    Burly looked startled, then flustered. “Yeah,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s Operation Mongoose.”
    “Oh yes,” Atcho said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Well don’t be surprised if this time the cobra eats the mongoose.” He turned and left Burly speechless among a small band of men, and strode deeper