“The old man seemed worried as he left the SecCom meeting,” said the presidential aide, addressing the man in the wheelchair.
“Not too worried, I presume.”
“No.” It was an obvious presumption. John McCone, director of the CIA, had expressed fears and suspicions that the SAMs would be in Cuba only to protect some new, major, most secret installations — offensive weapons, perhaps. But that was no more than reasoned speculation, not worrying enough to prevent him from leaving for his Riviera honeymoon at Cap Ferrat, but causing serious concern about another unanswered question: Did the Russians need offensive weapons in Cuba?
The theory of a “missile gap” in favor of Russia had given nightmares to the West ever since the early space spectaculars that had shown how far behind the United States was in that field. The military then exploited the theory in pressing for a huge research and investment program to reset the balance and tilt it in America’s favor.
“Many people in the Pentagon argue that we’ve had missiles staring at us long enough and that it makes no difference where they’re fired from,” said the aide, though without much conviction. Big missiles in Cuba would reduce America’s warning time to almost nothing. “And Khrushchev claimed again only two days ago that ‘due to imperialist threats to Cuba’ he’d send more aid and defensive weapons to Castro but he’d need no foreign bases because he could hit us anytime from his own backyard.”
“Usual Soviet vranyo,” mumbled the pilot and seemed a little surprised that he had been heard.
Three men looked baffled until Repson turned his wheelchair and explained with a smile: “A favorite Muscovite reaction to official statements, gentlemen. Vranyo covers a full range from inaccuracy through falsification to outright bullshitting, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
The lecture irritated the aide: “Of course, if the CIA gave us more precise information, we wouldn’t need guesswork. For we still don’t know if the Russkis are bluffing about their accurate long-range missiles.”
This could not be argued. Hard intelligence sources were badly missed. Agents in Cuba had been decimated after the Bay of Pigs. The flood of reports coming mainly from exiles and refugees could contain too much hearsay. How to pick out quickly the few that would merit a mention to the President and his immediate advisers? There had been some “sightings” of cohetes — a Spanish word that could cover anything from firecrackers to missiles. A former Havana Hilton employee sent word about “missiles at San Cristóbal.” He might have seen the SAMs. Castro’s personal pilot had been overheard boasting about nuclear missiles in Fidel’s pocket. Could the man be trusted? He was known as a periodically heavy drinker, and delight in exaggeration was in the national character. Senator Keating had publicly warned about the Soviet military buildup in Cuba but would only quote “private sources.”
The Army officer returned with yet another dispatch. It was to make those present feel truly privileged: more than three hours before the issue of the presidential statement, they would read the full text which emphasized that there was “no evidence” of “significant offensive capability” in Cuban hands, but threatened that the “gravest issues would arise” if the situation changed.
The wheelchair moved. Repson faced the window as if he was talking only to himself. “The question is why we tolerate the presence of a threat on our doorstep. Our plans to neutralize Castro were stood down temporarily. But if, under provocation and with built-in plausible deniability, we sank the damn island or floated it away, it wouldn’t matter what Moscow needed. They wouldn’t have anywhere to put their ‘offensive capability’ within spitting distance.”
The aide shook his head: “It still shouldn’t concern us. The President is about to make it clear that we’ll never make a compromise. We’ll prevent ‘by whatever necessary means’ any aggressive moves and the development of a Cuban threat. And Khrushchev knows we can lick him and the bearded fella in one go.”
“Which would be a good enough reason, perhaps, to put nukes in Cuba,” said the pilot. “And if we don’t spot them or if we spot them only when they’re operational, we’ll have to start the war to end all life on earth.”
The silence that followed was uncomfortable, but nobody said a word.
Friday, September 7
Deadlock in nuclear test ban treaty negotiations: Soviet Union refuses to accept controls and compulsory inspection of sites of suspected illegal nuclear explosions. Kennedy requests authority to call up 150,000 army reservists “to permit prompt and effective responses … to challenges … in any part of the free world.” Heart specialists call for intensified anti-butter campaign.
*
THE SEA WAS CALM AND TRUE AZURE AS RUST’S BOAT drew a gentle curve that hugged the shoreline of the Keys. Flying fish glittered everywhere in the sunset, and Rust approved: on his southeasterly course anybody scanning the sea from the east would have to contend with this confusing dazzle. He slowed down, slipped between yachts, jetties, wrecks and rocks near Marathon, and moored in front of a ramshackle building with a huge sign:
TAKE OUR BEER AND TAKE OUR GAS, YOU’LL BE GLAD WHEN LEAVING US
The 225-pound owner, Hal “Jus’-juice” Sheridan (“I’ll be damned if I sell anythin’ but liquid”) was waiting for Rust with several bales and crates, all packed with great expertise to be watertight. They loaded Rust’s boat, refueled it and checked if all the auxiliary tanks were full. Until then, no words were spoken. There was no need. Rust would take and exchange the merchandise, for goods coming out of Cuba, and the profits would be shared. They took turns making the runs.
“I think I could use someone to watch my back this time,” said Rust.
The big man nodded, walked up to the house almost completely overgrown by tropical shrubs, made sure that the door was open, turned an OPEN sign to read TAKE OUR GAS AN’ TAKE OUR BEER — BUT LEAVE YOUR BUCK IF YOUR LIFE’S DEAR, and returned to the boat without a word.
The wind picked up and the swells grew. Rust’s Half Pint, frequently airborne and crest-hopping, kept a steady course across the Straits of Florida. It was one of the most deceptive contraptions in the Caribbean. Usually underestimated because of its meek features, it could outrun most Coast Guard vessels, and its structure gave it an excellent chance to slip under radar surveillance.
They were running fast toward the Double Headed Shot Cays, flyspeck islands on the edge of the Cay Sal Bank, when Hal said without any introduction: “I’ll be leavin’ the jus’-juice business.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to sell solids?”
“Nope. Jus’ back to work for a little while. I’m joinin’ the Green Berets.”
“Never knew you had a taste for hearts-and-minds campaigns.”
“It’s jus’ my old chief’s in it. And he says we’ll do counterinsurgency our way.”
“Introducing social reforms under pressure, you mean,” said Rust, knowing well that the irony in his voice would escape his companion who had won medals galore in Korea, fighting under his “old chief,” who had managed to run a kind of rat pack unit.
“Right. I mean right if you mean what my old chief means — that if you’ve got ‘em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.”
He emitted a dirty laugh, and Rust joined him without much conviction. Hal was not quite the perfect companion for a stimulating conversation over a couple of drinks.
*
Sound and bullets could never penetrate the three-inch laminated glass, but the last of Washington’s daylight entered the Oval Office with ease. The President’s shadow grew longer and thinner until, like some quixotic matchstick-man, it reached across the floor toward the curved, cream sofas near the fireplace. Nobody bothered to switch on any lights yet.
“Have you seen those?” An endless shadow-finger slid across the old ship-timber of the President’s desk and came to rest on a blue plastic folder.
“No.” Bobby Kennedy walked to the desk and removed a seri
es of large photographs from the folder. He flicked through them. His eyes darkened.
“We usually take it for granted that inefficiency is a typical democratic disease,” said the President. “But then you look at the antics of dictatorship … “
“It’s not the dictatorship. It’s the wisdom of the military,” Bobby Kennedy interrupted his brother. “Look at them.” He shook his head in disbelief. The photographs were the latest batch from the CIA. The high-definition U-2 pictures of Cuban airfields showed an open display of military aircraft, wing tip to wing tip, without camouflage, without any attempt to disguise that many of them bore Soviet markings.
“It’s good to know they’re there for the taking. If need be, that is,” said the President.
“It would have to be a pre-emptive strike. Without warning. And I doubt if you’d ever do that.”
“Not unless we were pushed too far.”
“I don’t believe it, I can’t visualize you as the Tojo of the 1960s. You’d never do a Pearl Harbor in reverse.”
“I wouldn’t want to.” The President stood at the window, watching the distant trees as they were slowly denuded by the winds of early fall. Each dropping leaf revealed a square inch or so of the emerging jigsaw picture of the Washington Monument. “But some day, I may be forced to act.”
“I can’t imagine any president of this country being impeached. Not unless he’s done something really criminal. Or really immoral.” A mischievous smile softened the Attorney General’s face. “And by immoral I mean something more serious than a bit of a tumble with a blonde, you know.”
But the President refused to share the intimate joke of the innuendo. He gestured toward the photographs on the desk. “You said ‘it’s not the dictatorship, it’s the military’ or something like that, right? Well what about our own military? Would they allow a thing like that to happen at our airfields?”
“Good point. Ask them.”
“I can do better.” The President picked up the phone and pressed a button on his 18-line console. He did not need to identify himself. “I want General Taylor to run U-2 missions to all our military airfields without any warning. Apply the same secrecy as to Cuban operations. And I want the pictures as soon as they’re in without letting anyone else see them.”
Bobby Kennedy’s little nod of approval paid homage to both his President and older brother. “Now why didn’t anyone at CIA think about that?”
“Because most of them are very ordinary people.” Which was one of the most devastating remarks about anyone in routine Kennedy parlance. “We ought to have put you in charge there. I’ve said it before — you’re wasted at Justice.”
*
The Caribbean became choppy, and sharks trailed the Half Pint as it approached Cay Sal, the largest of the barren coral dots which were hardly visible even on detailed naval charts. Rust maneuvered the boat with great caution. In the darkness it was hard to find the right island facing Cuba, just across the Nicholas Channel. Rust cut the engine, and Hal jumped out to pull the boat into some shrubs. It had been a three-hour ride without ever requiring the slightest effort from the twin Ford Mermaid engines.
Now there was nothing for them but to wait and trust Orlando, whose instinctive navigation had never failed to keep a rendezvous.
“Do you expect trouble?” asked Hal at last.
“No.”
“What then?”
“I want you to go home and bring back the Half Pint on Monday to pick me up. If I’m not here by Tuesday, just run and keep the boat.”
“You wanna go into Cuba?” And when Rust nodded, Hal told him he was a fool.
It was an unpleasant wait. Many Cuban refugees had died there of starvation, thirst and exposure to violent storms, while waiting in vain for the occasional call by American patrols. Regular control and protection of the isolated little islands was impossible, and Cuban coast guards sometimes sent in landing parties to capture stranded fugitives.
Rust stared out across the Nicholas Channel. On the left he saw the flashing entrance beacon of La Isabela harbor. The lights on the right might have belonged to Cardenas or Varadero. In between, searchlights kept sweeping the dark, hardly navigable mass of mangroves and coral reefs. A ship passed between him and the Cuban coast. Even with binoculars he could not identify it. But it seemed odd to see most of the hull above the water despite some bulk cargo on deck. Would the holds be almost empty? That was a pretty ridiculous idea.
They both heard a strange noise. A small boat approaching slowly, probably driven by oars. Hal moved back and disappeared among shrubs. Rust was too late to say there was no need.
“Amigo, you’ve beaten me to it.” Orlando stepped ashore and warmly embraced Rust. He had two other men with him. Rust looked at them with a question in his eyes. “I’m getting too old for this game,” said Orlando. As if to prove their usefulness, the two worked hard to swap their rum and cigars for Rust’s wares, including radios, small electrical appliances, and clothes of great scarcity in Havana.
“One other thing,” said Rust. “I’m coming with you.” And when he saw surprise and reluctance on Orlando’s face, he added: “I pay for the favor.” He produced a large wad of dollars, which caused obvious excitement among the Cubans. The two insisted on going into a huddle with Orlando. They retreated, and there was some whispered argument in Spanish which was too fast for Rust to follow. Once Orlando shouted at them: “You’re not good enough to be fed to the sharks!” Then they all approached him. The old man was white with fury: “Give them the money, you foolish dog. Haven’t I always warned you never to show cash to animals?”
The two were behind him, side by side as if for mutual reassurance. Rust now saw the gun in the younger helper’s hand. “Half now, half when you bring me back here,” Rust said and moved slowly to his right. If they followed him, they would soon have their backs to the spot where Hal had disappeared. He only hoped that the big man had not fallen asleep. But before he could finish his move, there was a terrible crack of bones that made his stomach turn. The gun went off, the bullet whizzing toward a passing cloud. Both helpers were on the ground, blood pouring from the corresponding wounds where Hal had made their heads collide. They were yelling in pain, but only for seconds. Hal kicked one unconscious, and his hand came down on the neck of the other.
Orlando shook his head sadly. “How can we take them back? They’ll report us right away.”
“They’ll be all right here with Hal, who’ll wait for me,” said Rust. “And you’ll collect the second half of the money.”
“How long do you want to stay?”
“Just a day. I must see Morales.”
Orlando did not react to the name. He knew perfectly well that Morales ran some part of the Second National Escambray Front, an important part of the little resistance there was on the island, but it was best not to know these things. He moved toward his boat, then stopped and looked back at the still-unconscious men on the ground.
“They’ll be all right,” said Hal, and his voice had the sympathy and confidence an ambulance driver would try to convey to a coronary patient.
The run to the edge of the black clumps of mangroves was uneventful. Rust wondered how much the old man depended on luck and how much on bribes to the coastal patrols, but he never asked. Once they were inside the narrow channel among the coral formations, larger boats could not follow them. And Orlando seemed to know every knot and tangle in the dense vegetation, where they had to duck frequently not to be hooked and fished out by low branches.
Morales was pleased and displeased to see Rust, who woke him up just as dawn was about to break over the Caribbean. As always, there was a young, fleshy and sensual girl in attendance, and Morales shoved her out of bed to make room for the visitor to sit down. The girl stood in the corner, covering her nakedness as best she could with a small pillow until the old man lit a cigar and dismissed her with a wave of two fingers. His heavily lined, ageless peasant face reveale
d nothing while listening to Rust.
“I have to get someone out of Russia. It’s very important to me. Can you help me?” Rust’s Spanish was just about adequate, but Morales, whose English was excellent, let him struggle. It was an old game between the two. If Rust needed something, he would have to make the effort.
“I don’t know, amigo, it’s very difficult.”
“If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t come and ask you.”
That made sense. And Morales owed Rust enough favors to take the hopeless request seriously. “You haven’t been here, amigo, for what, two years? Things have changed. The place is crawling with informers. Don’t laugh, I know they’re only inefficient Cubans, but they’re Russian-trained, and they’re well paid by and much afraid of the DGI.”
Yes, Rust knew that. Only last March, the Russians had tried to oust Castro and annex his revolution “as though they had won it in a raffle.” Those were the Líder Máximo’s words when he raved and denounced the conspirators for almost four hours without stopping. Escalente, their leader, slipped out to Prague at the last minute, but other old Communists were arrested or exiled, and Kudryavtsev, the Russian ambassador, was expelled. The Soviet Union had to buy back Castro’s friendship with extra weapons and goods, and had to accept the fact that Cuban intelligence, the Dirección General de Inteligencia, was a force to restrain or reckon with.
Rust had no time to argue. He had to hit Morales below the belt. “I didn’t list the risks when your grandson had to get out, when you needed supplies, when … “
Morales interrupted him, raising both hands as if surrendering. He got out of bed, put on his tatty white shirt and calico pants, and pressed a raffia hat on his head. When he pulled aside the curtain that served as a door, the girl appeared, still clutching the pillow. “Get some sleep, amigo, I may be some time,” he said to Rust, looked at the girl, looked back at the visitor, then added: “She’ll give you food. Don’t let your prick talk when your head knows better what not to do.”
In the Company of Spies Page 4