In the Company of Spies

by Stephen Barlay

  “Who is he?”

  “It’s a she, amigo. Take care of her for me.” He led Rust to the boat and kissed his girl goodbye. Kissed her on the cheek, Rust noted.

  “She’s not going in,” said Rust. “Or else I stay.”

  “I’ve tried every other possible solution, believe me,” said Morales. “She’s the only answer to all the problems. She knows her way about, she has all my contacts, and I can trust her.”

  “It’s too big a risk.”

  “And don’t I know it?” The old man’s voice was harsh and hateful. “But it’s that sort of a goddam world.” He quickly crossed himself with an apologetic half-glance toward the sky, but could not resist adding a whispered “goddam it all,” hoping that it would not be heard above.

  Rust wanted to refuse her help, but at the same time, he wanted to kick himself for the urge to argue: it would have been an insult to Morales because it would have implied that the old man was acting callously without calculating the risk to his girl, without weighing possible alternatives, without the tacit recognition that Rust’s mission might be, must be, very important. Rust also longed to make impossible promises and to thank him for a gesture he would never be able to repay, but could say nothing, and that made him even more resentful. “And damn you, too,” Rust heard the old man shout over the roar of the powerful engines. It would have been another wrong moment to ask her name.

  *

  “Great! Fantastic! I hope you’re proud of this glorious and monumental fuckup!”

  Schramm listened to Elliott Repson’s outburst without a word. He had no defence. He had allowed Rust to slip away, and he had no excuses. He looked away only to meet Sir Charles’s reproachful eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s not good enough. I hope it won’t be good enough when you have to explain it to Langley.”

  “But it won’t help if we keep shouting at each other,” said Charles soothingly. He had just arrived at the Upstairs for a further debriefing session with Rust. “How much do we know?”

  “Much too little,” said Repson.

  “He picked up some information and went to Cuba probably to act on it.” Schramm addressed only Charles.

  “How did you find out?”

  “Heard it from a Cuban revolutionary contact.”

  “You mean informer?”

  “If you like.”

  “What was Helm’s information?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “How did he go in?”

  “Private arrangement with a raiding party. I guess he traded some help from his smuggling contacts.”

  “Has he reached Cuba?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Why didn’t your informer contact you earlier?”

  “He said he heard it only after they’d left.”

  Repson wheeled himself between the two. The squeak was an annoying conversation stopper. “Good show, boys, a marvellous double act. Have you considered a regular late-night slot on the tube?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Not funny at all, Jake. It’s my brother’s life you’re playing with.”

  “I’m sorry. You know I’m as upset as you are.”

  “Are you really? You mean you really don’t know what he’s up to? And you, Charles. You really haven’t given him a little incidental assignment on the side? Well, I don’t believe you. Because he’s just where you wanted him to be, you bastards. Because you knew that he was good on his own, when he had to operate without any backing but free of control. And you wanted him to do something for you in Cuba from the start.”

  “That’s not true, dear boy, just not true.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “I was referring to your statement, not your character. So how’s the delectable Anna, dear boy?”

  Schramm and Repson exchanged glances: was Charles fishing for information? “A drink, anybody?” Schramm picked up a bottle of rum. “Some genuine Cuban.”

  “Here’s to absent smugglers — and Anna,” said Charles.

  “She’s well,” said Repson. “She had a minor ailment affecting her vocal chords. A fleabite, no more. In fact, she may join me out here for a holiday.”

  “Just the place. Your Mongoose will protect her even from snakebites.”

  Yes, Charles was definitely fishing, Schramm concluded, and the thought irritated him. For the first time he was under strict orders not to level with Charles on anything concerned with the Cuban situation, military preparations, invasion plans.

  Monday, October 22

  Penkovsky is arrested in Moscow. Vassall is jailed for 18 years. Soviet Union demands admission of China to UN. America condemns Chinese aggression against India. Successful U.S. high-altitude nuclear test over the Pacific. Two huge Russian nuclear tests over Central Asia and in the Arctic region. A Russian wins clay-pigeon-shooting world title in Cairo.

  *

  AMERICA WAS READY. MUSHROOM CLOUDS MIGHT BLOT out the sun whichever part of the globe it was meant to shine on in any minute of the days to come. Missile crews were on red alert, their ICBMs ready to be fired. Almost two hundred vessels of war were deployed in the Caribbean. The Strategic Air Command underground headquarters near Omaha issued orders to disperse its entire force to widely scattered civilian airfields to reduce vulnerability. Bomb-bay doors of B-52 aircraft were closed: the nuclear bombs had been loaded. A maximum force of these bombers was now to be in the air at all times — one would take off whenever another came in to land and refuel.

  Friendly governments received top-level briefing from the President’s emissaries. U-2 pictures and photo interpreters were made available to America’s main allies.

  *

  Rust and the raiding party were too close to Cuba to notice any of the unusually heavy traffic beyond the Bahamas. They listened frequently to Spanish and English news broadcasts from American stations to pass the long hours of waiting, but nothing startling was announced. Inactivity helped to fray the nerves. The battered sailing boat was still visible occasionally on the horizon. Orlando was not expected much before midnight. Arguments seemed to flare up at the slightest provocation. The 6:00 news mentioned Gromyko’s departure from Idlewild and quoted his stock farewell clichés of peace and mutual friendship. Because of it, the Cubans almost came to blows. Rust kept well out of it. Some of them argued that despite all the military activities in Florida and all the elaborate preparations for Mongoose, the current CIA-backed Cuban invasion plan, “Kennedy might still sell us down the river.”

  “That’s a lot of crap.”

  “Who’re you to call my opinion crap? Don’t you remember the Bay of Pigs? Didn’t he sell us out then? Why should it be different now?”

  “Because Mongoose is his plan.” Rust felt compelled to intervene. “Didn’t Bobby Kennedy himself come to see the preparations a couple of months ago?”

  That silenced them. But it was an uneasy silence. The leader of the group dispersed the men into defensive positions.

  At 7:00, they gathered around the radio again, but instead of regular news, the President himself was heard. In a speech of spine-chilling simplicity, he revealed the evidence about the missiles in Cuba. He detailed the threat and catalogued the long list of Soviet deceptions. He declared his initial countermeasures. Naval quarantine was to be the first step. “All ships of any kind bound for Cuba from whatever nation or port will, if found to contain cargoes of offensive weapons, be turned back.”

  The Cubans cheered. Rust swallowed hard: war could be an arm’s length away. And did the blockade mean that the Bucharest would be turned back? If yes, it would probably be the death sentence of anybody hidden in that crocodile tank. Yelena might starve to death. His father might come out, give himself up and scream for mercy. What was the point in entering Cuba and waiting for a tanker that might never come or might deliver only two decomposing bodies?

  Kennedy went on. Surveillance. Threats of retaliation. Diplomati
c moves. Appeal to the United Nations. Appeal to Khrushchev, urging him to move “the world back from the abyss of destruction,” to honor his own word given so solemnly not to put offensive weapons in Cuba, and to withdraw the missiles already there. Until then, ships would be challenged. Any Russian ship trying to run the blockade would be sunk.

  Then, as commentators began to fight their own battles, the Cubans on Cay Sal faced their most immediate problems. Would Orlando still show up? Was it still worth their while to carry out the raid?

  Rust had never asked them what exactly their mission was, and he did not want to know now. “Whatever happens, and whatever your own decision is, I’m going in,” he said quietly.

  They cheered him. “And we take you, as agreed!”

  Orlando arrived long after sunset. Rust waded into the water to meet and embrace him. “I thought you’d never come.”

  “Why?”

  “You might have heard Kennedy’s speech.”

  “I have. That’s why I’m here. I thought you’d need warning to turn back.”

  “I can’t. I must go into Cuba with you.”

  “No.” Orlando viewed the Cubans standing in a half-circle. “You said you’d be alone. Who are these people?”

  “Friends.”

  “You said you’d be alone. It’s the second time you haven’t played straight, amigo.”

  “It’s very important that these people make it. That’s why we’re going together.”

  “You and them, okay. But not together with me.”

  The Cubans argued in flowery language. Most of their words were too big for Rust’s taste. Words about Orlando’s historical role. The fate of the world being in his hands. The service to Cuba and mankind he could perform. Orlando kept shaking his head but, Rust noticed, with less and less conviction. He was beginning to be impressed by his own importance. His waning resistance might be only to prolong his moment of glory. It was now only a matter of time. Clouds swam across the moon. It was almost midnight.

  Tuesday, October 23

  Nothing but ominous silence from the Kremlin; Khrushchev may be playing for more time. A long, sleepless night for millions of Americans; the mood: high noon at midnight — the gunfighters are still walking to reach shooting distance. Front pad small ad in the London Times: “Middle-aged lady. Fluent Russian and English. Work required. Write BOX P. 1492.”

  *

  AT 12:40 IN THE MORNING, THE CUBANS WERE STILL arguing on Cay Sal. There was now a mild hint of threat. Orlando sensed it. They might force him to take them. Better to consent. That called for rum. There was plenty on Orlando’s beached boat. They were going to get it when a strong light mowed a wide swathe through the night. Water and flying fish glittered, men and fish dived for cover. Then the engines could be heard approaching. The spotlight picked out ghostly features of coral outcrops. There was no time to hide Orlando’s boat.

  Any movement now would attract attention. The raiding party’s best hope was that the boat might look just like part of the island from the distance.

  The girl crawled with Rust under some prickly shrubs. Three of the Cubans shared their cramped spot of safety. The light scanned southward and left their island. The leader of the Cubans signaled to his men to spread out more and retreat to higher ground. The moon came out and lit up the patrol boat with its heavy machine gun and another boat in tow. It was the old sailing boat. “It must have been unmanned when they picked it up,” the Cuban told Rust, “and now they’re looking for survivors.”

  “Let’s hope they won’t risk a landing,” said Orlando. His hope was short-lived. The light swung around and picked out his boat. The engines were stopped at once. Although the patrol vessel was still moving, the light remained glued to the raiders’ island.

  Rust and the others knew that if they picked the right moment, they could probably sink the patrol boat, but the captain might still have a chance to radio and alert Cuba. In which case they could do nothing but run for it.

  The leader of the party turned to the girl: “If they land, you go and talk to them. Say you’re a smuggler, here to meet your contact, who hasn’t shown up. Offer to bribe them if they let you go.”

  “No,” said Rust.

  “Okay,” said the girl.

  “It’s the only way,” said Orlando. “She’s a clever girl. I know it from Morales.”

  The patrol came right up to the beach. The searchlight examined the surrounding shadows, then a burst of machine-gun fire raked the shrubs nearest to Orlando’s boat. When nothing happened, two men waded ashore. Three more pairs followed. One soldier stayed on board manning the machine gun. An officer examined Orlando’s boat. Then four of them took up defensive positions while two two-man patrols prepared to search the island.

  Sylvia crept away from Rust and his group. “Don’t shoot!” she screamed as she stood up and took a few hesitant steps toward the beach. Her hands were high up in the air.

  “Come down here. Slowly. All of you.”

  “I’m alone.”

  The foot patrols delayed their search, and everybody talked at the same time, all the time, when she reached the group. The initial menace disappeared from the tone of their hubbub. From time to time, Rust could make out a clear sentence or two about bribes. “And what else would you give me?” one of them asked her. It was a joke.

  “I’d tell you if we were alone,” she said, and it was another joke.

  A couple of the men laughed. But another tried to embrace her. She pushed his hands away. The young officer stood with outstretched arms: he pressed a submachine gun to one breast and fondled the other. There was silence now, and the scene froze. Only that one hand kept moving. Then one of the men sidled up to her and drew with one finger her bodyline from neck to knee. Only two soldiers and the man on board kept watch now. The others dropped their weapons.

  Rust moved. The leader of the raiders touched his shoulder. Think of the mission, he seemed to say.

  “I know her well, amigo,” whispered Orlando. “Believe me, she can take it.”

  “But I can’t.” Rust nodded toward the patrol boat. “I take out the machine gun and the light.” And slithering backward, he was gone.

  A couple of minutes later, he was swimming on his back to keep a couple of grenades dry in his hands. He was hoping that there were no sharks in the shallow waters. The girl was yelling. Men laughed. The coral reefs kept slashing Rust’s clothes and flesh. He managed not to cry out, but pain forced him to jerk. The soldier on board paid no attention to the splash. He was too busy watching the scene developing on shore. Rust popped the grenades on board and ducked. He preferred to be cut up even more than stay exposed to the blast.

  The explosions and flashes in quick succession paralyzed the men on shore. The machine gunner was killed. The two guards fired blindly. It gave their positions away. Both were shot. The remaining six men surrendered. By the time Rust appeared from behind the wrecked boat, they had been lined up and gunned down.

  “There was no need,” he said.

  “How would you know?” retorted the leader of the raiding party contemptuously.

  Rust asked the girl: “You okay?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I could have handled them.”

  Rust turned away. He refused to feel guilty or like a fool.

  *

  The Kremlin remained silent. Khrushchev was stalling throughout the night. Stalling, but why? What was he preparing? War? Compromise? Capitulation? Kennedy could not be sure. Then came a blast of denials of having any aggressive weapons in Cuba. Khrushchev accused America of piracy, criminal threats and lies. In the Security Council, too, the Russians denied everything. Missiles? What missiles?

  Some people doubted Kennedy’s statements. Was he just electioneering? The Organization of American States and even the sometimes quarrelsome NATO allies came out with full support for the U.S. U-2s photographed Cuba and the sea routes. The pictures revealed frantic work and cons
iderable progress on the missile sites. Others proved that twenty-five Soviet ships were continuing on their way to Cuba — their course had remained unchanged for twenty-four hours. The Poltava, now a known transporter of missiles, was among them. The Kremlin issued a threat: the Poltava and other ships were approaching the pickets; they would definitely defy the blockade no matter what.

  As night fell, the Washington equation — night-time is party-time — still held. The Russian military attaché was throwing a lavish reception. The First Lady was entertaining “as arranged.” But there were a few subtle and not so subtle changes to be noted by those in the know.

  At the Russian embassy, over buckets of caviar and vodka, guest of honor General Dubovik joked that the ships would sail through the blockade or be sunk: “I’ve fought in three wars, and I’m looking forward to fighting in the next.” Nobody laughed. And the absence of Ambassador Dobrynin made people feel even less comfortable. “He’s been delayed,” they were told.

  The Kennedys’ pre-crisis invitation for a private dinner-dance still stood. But the dance part of it was now cancelled. And Bobby Kennedy missed dinner, too. “He was delayed,” guests were told. In fact, he was with Dobrynin who denied any knowledge of a Russian threat and blamed America for the crisis.

  Bobby Kennedy then went to the White House. Although it was 11 P.M., the lights were on in almost every office. He found his brother, away from his guests and social chatter, in a private study talking alone to an old and trusted friend, British Ambassador Sir David Ormsby-Gore. The President’s famous calm was only skin-deep. He talked incredibly fast, in short bursts of fiery sentences.