by Mark Arundel
Both Rafferty and Smithy knew instinctively they were not going to be fast enough. At exactly the same moment, they heard it. So did the Koreans, who instinctively looked up. Rafferty and Smithy didn’t look up. The two Americans took their chance. It gave them the seconds they needed to aim and fire. Both of them used the black submachine guns. They each targeted the three Koreans, closest to them, on their own side. The black guns spat out their bullets in a long burst. Rafferty and Smithy both held the trigger down and spewed their bullets until the magazines were empty. All six Korean soldiers died in the six-second burst.
It left only one of them alive; the captain, who had turned and was running towards the staff car. He reached it and jumped in.
Rafferty lifted his Browning rifle and targeted the man as he sat in the driver’s seat. It was a distance of about fifty yards, and Rafferty could only see the man’s head. He aimed quickly and fired. He didn’t miss. The captain’s head gave up its contents to gory effect and he died instantly.
Smithy had fallen to the ground and was holding his leg. Both Americans looked up at what had made the noise; at what had saved them.
The Sikorsky HRS-1 helicopter hovered overhead with the beat of its rotor thumping the ground and the down force blowing hard. The big square door was open and looked more inviting, at that moment, than winning tickets for a VIP day out at a Playboy photo shoot. Rafferty saw its markings and grinned. On its side towards the rear, next to the five-point Silver Star, in big, white capital letters was a word. The word was Marines.
Smithy shouted above the noise.
‘Did you order a cab?’ he asked.
Rafferty grinned at him.
The pilot sat the Sikorsky down and two fully armed marines jumped out. From the air, the scene was like a war-zone with corpses littering the ground. The marines carried Smithy on board and Rafferty followed. Then they collected the bodies of the two commandos from the roadway.
As the Sikorsky lifted off the medical officer on board was already examining Smithy’s wounded leg.
Only minutes later, they were flying across the demilitarised zone and hovering above the landing pad. The doctor immediately took Smithy to the hospital.
Rafferty went to see the lieutenant general. It was still early, not yet 0700 hours, but the man had been up since before dawn. They both knew why. The two men stared at each other.
‘Was it worth it?’ the lieutenant general asked.
Rafferty put his hand inside his tunic and pulled out the Kodak.
‘Photographs of a dead Yung Sum Kii,’ Rafferty told him, holding up the camera.
‘Vengeance shall be mine, sayeth the Lord,’ the lieutenant-general quoted, missing out the part that everyone always seemed to.
Rafferty smiled at him.
‘The Devil’s boots don’t creak,’ he said.
After Rafferty had left, the lieutenant general thought about what he had said. He wondered if he had meant the boots of Yung Sum Kii or his own.
12 February 17, 1954, Korea
Marilyn closed the hotel room door behind him.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘Is your husband with you?’
Marilyn paused.
They stared at each other.
She didn’t seem sorry she hadn’t told him.
Rafferty waited for an answer.
‘No, he didn’t come with me. He stayed behind,’ she said.
‘Why didn’t he come with you?’ Rafferty said.
Marilyn didn’t answer that question.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked again.
‘I’m working,’ he said.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked her back.
‘I’m supporting the troops. I’ve been entertaining them with some songs,’ she answered. Rafferty had sat down on the unmade bed. He felt tired. He managed to laugh.
‘Entertaining them or torturing them?’
‘How did you know how to find me?’ she asked.
‘I always know where you are,’ he answered lightly. It wasn’t true, although he wished it were.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘I’ve just come to say hello.’
She felt angry, but she controlled it.
‘I haven’t heard from you in a while. I thought you must have been killed,’ she said. Her voice was flat and its usual softness was missing.
Rafferty watched her lovely face and enjoyed hearing her voice, even though it wasn’t the attractive one. He knew with a certainty that left him facing a hard truth, the mission into the North to kill Yung Sum Kii hadn’t worked. It was supposed to have removed the pain, the despair. Instead, his desire for Marilyn remained so strong that he had to consider the possibility he could never be free. For one of the few times in his life, he felt fear. It was something beyond his control, something that was stronger than he was; it consumed him with ferocity so dangerous, his destruction and possibly that of her too, might be the only outcome. He didn’t experience this epiphany as unnerving, instead, he welcomed it, accepted it. He loved this woman and it seemed his entire being pivoted on that fact. Whatever happened in their future, he would never deny it again, not to himself. Internally, he confessed with the penance of a reformed sinner; she meant more to him in this world than life itself.
Marilyn sat down on the bed next to him and he put his arm around her. For a moment, his softness surprised her, but she immediately replaced that with the emotion produced by his touch and his feel. She had missed him so much and she still loved him. She returned his embrace and buried her head in his neck and chest.
They stayed like that until Marilyn lifted her face and looked at him through blurry eyes. A tear fell on her face and her lips were wet. She sniffed. She thought he seemed different. His eyes were dark with tiredness and his face was pale. He was unshaven and his body felt weary.
‘What have you been doing,’ she asked. ‘You didn’t sleep last night.’
He didn’t answer her.
Then he said, ‘I was with another woman.’
She held him tighter as though that answer was the right one.
She was pleased he had found her; happy she was holding him.
Marilyn had to face her own epiphany. Her desire for this man, she could only ever see sometimes, still had an irresistible intensity. She explained it to herself as a powerful natural phenomenon, probably the most powerful in existence. It exerted a force over her like the pull of gravity. She could not stop it or change it.
She pushed her lips against his and he returned the kiss with deep passion. They fell back on the bed, and their bodies moved together.
Marilyn moved her leg across him, lifted herself up and sat astride his waist. She ran her hands through her hair and shook her head while smiling into his eyes. She released the cord and shrugged off her robe. She was naked underneath. Rafferty raised his hands and felt and kissed her breasts. Her skin smelt of French perfume. He quickly undressed and their naked bodies pressed hard against one another.
They satisfied their sexual needs in equal measure. Both giving and taking what they wanted. It was intense for both of them like the first time, back in the Onyx Room, on the night of Avid Zuckerman’s party.
Afterwards, they lay in bed together thinking their own thoughts. Rafferty was tired, Marilyn wasn’t.
‘I’m hungry; let’s order room service.’
Marilyn called from the bedside telephone. She ordered a full lunch with wine. The food was good and they sat by the window.
‘So why didn’t you call me?’
‘I was working away; either in Washington or here in Korea.’
‘Fighting communism?’
‘I suppose.’
‘You still could have called me.’
‘I thought it was better if we stopped…’
‘...because we can never be together; never be married.’
Rafferty nodded.
‘I was wrong,’ he said. ‘But you are right;
we can never be together. I guess there is no happy ever after for you and me.’
Marilyn nodded.
‘Why did you marry Goofy?’
Marilyn laughed.
‘Because I couldn’t marry you, and because I wanted to be married.’
They were quiet for a while.
‘What will you do now?’
‘Go back to Hollywood and get a divorce. The press will have a ball. What will you do?’
‘See you as often as I can.’
‘What’s going to happen?’
‘I don’t know, but I do know we can’t go on without times like this.’
They finished their lunch and took the wine bottle back to bed.
13 New Year’s Day, 1961, Los Angeles, California
‘It says here I’m the most famous movie star in the world,’ Marilyn said. ‘I’m so famous there are posters of me on the bedroom walls of teenage boys in Sumatra.’
She was reading a review of her latest movie.
‘You don’t even know where Sumatra is,’ Rafferty said.
‘Somewhere in Africa,’ she said, guessing.
‘It’s an Indonesian island in the Indian Ocean,’ he told her.
She was none the wiser. She might have been super famous but she was hopeless at geography. She had shot one movie in England. She knew where that was. She had starred opposite a famous Shakespearean actor whose advances she had declined. He was not amused. The highlight of her visit to England was to be an introduction to Queen Elizabeth II. Marilyn had stood in the line-up. When it was her turn, she had curtsied and smiled. Queen Elizabeth had not smiled back. Marilyn didn’t think she approved of dyed blonde hair and low-cut dresses.
The film she made next, after her return to Los Angeles, was a comedy playing opposite two famous Hollywood actors. One of them hadn’t liked her either.
‘This critic describes my film as an ice cream sundae with me as the cherry on top,’ Marilyn said, continuing to read the magazine review.
‘Can I have a lick?’ Rafferty asked.
Marilyn smiled provocatively and then giggled.
‘Will you be at the inauguration?’ she asked, putting the review down.
‘I dislike politicians. They’re weak, conceited liars; who think they’re God.’
‘Ah yes, of course, your hatred of politicians. They have no right; everyone knows that you are actually God.’
‘Ha-ha, you know, you’re not as funny as you used to be.’
‘No?
‘No. I think you’ve lost it.’
‘Well, I suppose the Almighty would know. Please take pity on me, oh Lord, and return my power.’
Rafferty tried not to laugh but he couldn’t stop himself. Marilyn put her arms around him, smiling and happy, and kissed him.
‘God, I love you.’
‘Stop it now.’
Marilyn laughed.
‘Yes, sir,’ she saluted.
They kissed again, and then Marilyn asked, ‘what time are you leaving tomorrow?’
‘Early. When does your new movie come out?’
‘Next month.’
‘Is it any good?’
‘I don’t know. Probably not,’ she answered. ‘Don’t you know that movies are just flickering lights of nonsense made by adults pretending to be children, and watched by children pretending to be adults?’
Rafferty kissed her on the forehead.
‘I’ll come back to celebrate with you. I’ll contact you in the usual way,’ he replied.
They dined late, by candlelight.
‘What’s for dessert?’
‘Ice cream sundae.’
They went to bed early and made love. Afterwards, she forced herself against him and asked him to hold her tightly. She felt frightened. He wondered what would happen.
The next morning Rafferty left early. He kissed her goodbye while she was still in bed. She made that throaty noise without lifting her head from the pillow, which he knew from experience meant goodbye.
14 January 20, 1961, Washington D.C.
It was a pleasant January day on Capitol Hill.
The sun shone brightly on the great and the good of America. Although that wasn’t the description of them Rafferty would have used. If asked, he might have been a little less flattering. The United States Congress wore their Sunday best; there was even a man sitting behind, wearing a top hat. The police chief didn’t have to worry; he had his uniform to wear. Everyone appeared solemn and earnest, in keeping with such an important political occasion.
The man himself didn’t wear a hat. He probably doesn’t want to cover up his neat, schoolboy haircut, Rafferty thought. It was more likely, he wanted to appear fashionable and modern; after all, he was the future, not the past.
The man raised his hand and took the oath; it was a well-rehearsed piece of political theatre. In his speech, he spoke of the nations of the world joining to fight the common enemies of man. Rafferty listened and smiled to himself. Yeah, he thought, so long as they join under the stars and stripes and fight the enemies that America tells them. Well, a gang’s no good without a leader, right.
William McGrath turned to Rafferty, and knowing how he felt about politicians, asked, ‘Have you seen enough?’
Rafferty turned to the man standing beside him and nodded. McGrath was older than Rafferty. In France, during the war, he had lived undercover as an American spy and worked closely with the French and dressed like a peasant. Once, he had told Rafferty the thing he disliked the most from that time was the dirty clothes he had had to wear. Since meeting McGrath again in 1946, Rafferty had never known him to be anything other than impeccably dressed.
They moved away silently and walked side by side. Once away from the crowd and beyond the security men, McGrath spoke. His voice was always soft as though he were addressing a knowledgeable associate on a principal of law. He had perfected his approach. He was always businesslike and calm; Rafferty had never seen him lose his temper in all the years he had known him.
‘It’s still on,’ McGrath said.
They were the words that Rafferty expected to hear.
McGrath continued.
‘The politicians won’t accept a communist state to exist so close to American shores.’
He used the flat of his hand to smooth his shiny, dark hair. It was a mannerism. He often performed it. He looked at Rafferty with his wide, small, unsmiling eyes.
‘Although the revolution came about for internal reasons, the alignment by Castro with the Russians makes it impossible for the White House to ignore,’ he said.
McGrath was standing upright with his shoulders back. It looked as if his jacket was still on its hanger. The collar of his tailored shirt fitted comfortably below his freshly shaven chin.
‘We have to try and make it work,’ he said.
Rafferty hoped he wasn’t going to hear those words. He didn’t really know how to respond, but he had to. He gazed back towards the inaugural address. The faint sound of applause drifted through the thin January air.
‘Military support, particularly from the air will be essential,’ he said and moved his eyes on to McGrath’s pale face. ‘And secrecy is the key; a surprise attack is the only hope.’
‘Yes, I know,’ McGrath said.
Rafferty’s mind went back to a recent discussion he had had with McGrath and Shetland Greene. He had listened to Shetland Greene who was not as guarded with his temper as McGrath.
‘If we don’t solve this, and soon, they’ll be hoisting the red flag over the White House and you’ll be calling everyone comrade and eating goulash every night for dinner.’
Greene’s voice had rumbled with conviction and anger. Rafferty had sat relaxed and silent. McGrath had watched the two men and smoothed his hair. He didn’t enjoy rants, but sometimes they were a necessity. He endured them when had to.
‘The Russians are in Cuba, where next, Miami?’ Greene had said, continuing his rant. His fleshy, long face had been red and his lips ha
dn’t seemed to meet. He had pulled the chair out from under the table and sat down exhaling loudly. His heart rate was high. I’m not going to give him mouth to mouth if he collapses, Rafferty had thought.
There was a long pause until McGrath had broken the silence.
‘What should we do?’ he had asked and looked at Rafferty.
‘Continue with the training,’ Rafferty had said.
Greene had relaxed and nodded at McGrath.
‘The final decision can wait,’ Rafferty had told them.
Rafferty put the memory aside. He and McGrath walked on slowly. They could hear more applause, fainter now than before.
‘Are they less enthusiastic or are we just farther away?’ asked McGrath without humour.
‘They will always show the required respect,’ Rafferty answered.
He watched McGrath’s eyes as the older man, now smiling, nodded in agreement. They both wondered if the Cuban plan would go ahead. Rafferty hoped not. He didn’t believe it would work.
15 January 21, 1961, Ottawa, Canada
The new Russian embassy in Ottawa was a stark, harsh building of Russian block design.
Some of those who knew it wondered whether the architect had designed it deliberately that way, cold and threatening.
They rebuilt the embassy after the original manor house, gifted to the Russians by the Canadian government, burnt down in a fire started by an electrical short circuit. The Russians had been extremely cautious, during the building work, to ensure security from any foreign listening devices. To the regret of the Americans, they had been successful.
Marik Kasseri sat inside a sealed chamber, which he used as the embassy’s communications centre. They had purposely installed it to guarantee secrecy. The large room, with only one entrance and no windows, held a round, wooden table. Sitting with Kasseri, at the table, was Leonid. The two men poured Russian vodka from a bottle without a label. They were on their own, facing each other.
‘It is time to use her,’ Leonid said, voicing what both men knew to be true.