by Mark Arundel
‘Charles Mooney,’ he joked. Charles Mooney was an ageing, overweight has-been. Marilyn laughed; Peter could be genuinely humorous.
‘No, it’s someone a little more attractive and much more famous, especially in Washington.’
‘Ah, I see. Would I be right in thinking it’s a call Penelope will have to make?’
‘Could be,’ Marilyn said coyly.
‘It might be a tough one; you know his schedule is pretty full.’
‘If anyone can do it, you can.’
Peter laughed; he’d been sipping at his drink throughout the conversation and now he laughed easily.
‘All right, for you, my darling, anything,’ he said with a theatrical flourish.
‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down,’ she said, smiling. ‘Ring me back when you’ve got a date.’
Marilyn replaced the receiver. That was easy, she thought.
18 February 13, 1961, Los Angeles, California
Two days later, Peter called her back.
‘It’s on for this Saturday night,’ he told her. ‘You owe me big time for this.’
Marilyn smiled.
‘You’re a good boy,’ she said, thanking him. ‘You’ll get a big kiss when I see you.’
Marilyn soaked in the bathtub for an hour. She closed her eyes in deliberation as she prepared herself for a seduction.
She studied her reflection in the dressing room mirror while she dabbed perfume on her skin. She was naked and she brushed her hair. She enjoyed looking at her own body; it appeared more glowing by the shade of the dressing table lamp.
She wriggled into a tight, low-cut dress and fastened the diamond earrings and necklace while watching in the mirror. She turned her hips and smoothed the fabric with her hands. If seduction was an art form then Marilyn was The Renaissance, Da Vinci and Impressionism all in one. She completed her evening’s outfit with the perfect accompaniment—her smile.
The limousine turned in and drove through the gates, where two security men checked their list. They continued down the drive and stopped outside the mansion. Two more men, wearing suits and serious faces stood by the door.
Marilyn stepped out of the car and prepared herself; it felt just like going in front of the cameras.
The two security men recognised her immediately, of course, and checked her off their list. They both stared at her as she walked past them.
He was already there and Peter introduced them. Marilyn listened with smiling eyes, hair that danced in the light, a laughing mouth and genuine enjoyment and interest; or that’s what he thought. He was actually charming and warm but not funny. He was just too much of a politician. However, it was that which gave Marilyn her way in. She suddenly knew how she was going to play it.
Peter ensured they sat next to each other at dinner. Neither of them did more than sip at their wine. Marilyn held his attention without really having to try.
Politicians, she realised, enjoyed arguing, they would probably describe it as debating, but really it was arguing. It was obvious he considered her naïve in terms of government policy; seeing a dumb actress with dyed blonde hair. How could she be informed and astute when it came to complex political affairs of state? She smiled to herself. This was going well. In fact, so well, she was starting to enjoy it.
‘I think the Cuban people have been so brave in taking control of their own future, don’t you?’ she asked him sweetly. A well-mannered countenance preceded his professionally political answer.
‘Well, Marilyn, Cuba is a very difficult situation. The revolution has led to a position from which communism and the Soviet Union may try to take advantage; which could be detrimental to the United States.’
‘But isn’t Fidel Castro in charge and surely he only wants the best for the Cuban people?’
‘I’m sure he does, but he’s sided with the Russians and that can only be bad for Cuba.’
‘Oh, I see. I don’t really understand politics. You’re so clever to be able to deal with all these problems. We’re so lucky to have you,’ she said flatteringly.
‘Thank you, Marilyn, but I have a lot of help. I don’t do it all on my own.’
‘You’re too modest.’
Her eyes conveyed attraction and she touched his arm as she spoke.
‘I feel very safe knowing you’re in charge,’ she said, with a hint of breathlessness.
He smiled politely but didn’t answer.
She had him. How easy it was.
It was very late before they managed to slip away from the main room and meet upstairs in one of the many empty bedrooms.
He was eager and quickly had her out of her dress. I guess that’s the way with men on a tight schedule, Marilyn thought, and then wondered, if he was as quick at everything.
He was.
There was nothing, which she could honestly describe as foreplay, and he had finished inside three minutes. Marilyn felt a little let down, but on the bright side, she hadn’t messed up her hair or her makeup.
He rolled off her and puffed out a sigh. Marilyn moved over to him and laid her head on his chest. She cuddled next to him and he played with her hair, which she’d rather he wouldn’t have. They were quiet for a few moments
‘Are the Cuban people going to be okay?’ she asked softly.
‘Are you still thinking about that?’ he said.
‘I visited Cuba before the revolution and I really liked the people. I don’t want anything bad to happen to them.’
‘They’ll be all right, once we get rid of Castro and put a new government in place that supports the United States,’ he told her.
‘Is that going to happen?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’ she asked.
‘Well, we’re supporting a group of Cuban exiles who are going to return and depose Castro.’
‘Oh, I see. Is this going to happen soon?’
‘They’re preparing at the moment and should be ready in a couple of months.’
‘I hope no one will be hurt?’ she said, naively.
‘It’s important we oppose the spread of communism and achieve the overthrow of Castro.’
Marilyn stopped there. She had learnt enough for now. She got up and used the en-suite bathroom. When she came back out, she was wondering if he might want to have the second try; the answer was obviously no, as he was already getting dressed.
19 February 20, 1961, Palm Springs, California
It was one week later and Marilyn wore a suede bikini and big sunglasses. She reclined on a sun lounger beside the swimming pool.
The mansion was in Palm Springs. It belonged to a famous singer and actor who enjoyed entertaining other famous people. He was at home but his wife and children were away visiting family. It was sometime in the afternoon and the host’s piano playing drifted sweetly through the open doors. Marilyn sipped her iced tea and let the melodic sound take her on a daydream. She closed her eyes and fantasised she was in danger; threatened by men who intended her great harm. She was in fear of her life when suddenly Rafferty appeared to save her. He was shirtless and looking strong and handsome. He took her in his arms, stared deeply into her eyes and then kissed her passionately. It was her favourite fantasy and it always made her feel warm and happy inside.
Her host had stopped his piano playing and Marilyn opened her eyes. She swung her bare feet onto the warm stone ground and pulled her sunglasses up onto her head. As she focused on the doorway, she saw he had arrived. They had not seen each other since the night of the dinner party. Today, after finishing an appointment in the morning, he had taken the rest of the day off.
Marilyn had arranged to meet here, as she knew her host was a gentleman who prided himself on discretion. Being aware and on the inside was what he enjoyed. Someone had described it as being “in the know”. He would never speak of this afternoon to anyone. Just knowing himself was enough. It gave him pleasure.
Marilyn didn’t get up. He walked over to her, bent down and kissed her on the cheek.
> ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You look captivating.’ His voice made it sound as if it did not really need saying.
Marilyn covered her bikini with a silk peignoir. Her hair was golden in the shafts of late afternoon sunlight that arrowed through the fir trees, and her placid face was dappled cream and brown. She carried serenity with ease like a cloudless sky.
‘Thank-you,’ she replied and lifted her sunglasses off her head. Her smiling eyes held great warmth. ‘Was it difficult getting away?’ she asked.
‘I have to have some time off now and again,’ he said.
‘The world can look after itself for an afternoon?’ she said.
‘I guess so,’ he said and laughed casually.
They sat together in the shade. He drank strong coffee from a white cup and Marilyn watched him. He was dressed in a light coloured polo shirt with chinos and blue canvas shoes. He had taken the time to change from his suit. His eyes lay concealed behind very dark glasses.
She made the conversation. It was light, friendly and charming; not about anything specific, just shooting the breeze, as if they had known each other for much longer. Behind it, though, they both knew once the talking was over and the coffee drunk they would be having sex.
As he put down his empty white cup, his countenance changed and Marilyn knew what to do. She stood up, took his hand and with that look only a woman can give, led him into the house.
As before, her breasts and buttocks showed naked within a few seconds and he was eager to move directly to the main event. Again, it was over quickly. Marilyn did not mind. They lay naked together and her breasts pressed against his chest.
‘Have you been working hard?’ she asked.
‘Yes, although we don’t seem to be getting important things done. We’re always fighting fires,’ he said.
‘Can’t you get more people to help?’ she innocently suggested.
He chuckled and stroked her hair.
‘If only politics was that simple,’ he said.
‘But don’t you tell people what to do and then they do it?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, it seems, everyone has other ideas and it appears to be more about horse-trading than doing the right thing. Can you understand that?’
‘Not really…I suppose people want lots of different things and they can’t all have their own way,’ she said.
Again, he chuckled and continued to flick her golden locks as a collector might touch a new addition.
‘That’s pretty much it,’ he said.
‘Is that the same with Cuba or does everyone agree?’
‘Well, Cuba is different, seems everyone does want rid of Castro, only friends and allies might not like us being too heavy handed, so we’ve got to be smart.’
‘What does that mean?’ she asked.
‘We can’t be seen to be directly involved,’ he explained as if he were telling it to a child.
‘Is that why you’re using Cuban exiles instead of American soldiers?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
He could have easily added the words, you clever girl.
‘Are they nearly ready to return and win back their country?’ she asked with natural curiosity.
‘Sometime around the middle of April,’ he answered.
‘And will you be able to openly back them with military support?’
‘I don’t know; maybe with the Air Force and then ground troops once they’ve been successful. But they’re landing in daylight at a place called Trinidad which makes any involvement harder for us to keep hidden.’
Marilyn got up to use the bathroom. She smiled to herself and wondered if all politicians were so indiscreet with lovers, they didn’t consider a risk?
It had been so easy.
20 February 23, 1961, Ottawa, Canada
Marik Kasseri sat in the sealed chamber in the Russian embassy in Ottawa and made a secure telephone call.
‘Yes, the intelligence is very reliable. They are preparing a military group of exiles who will be ready in two months. America will support as much as they dare. They are determined to achieve a change of government. It must be countered with all possible preparation and force,’ he said, speaking into the receiver.
Kasseri listened to the questions patiently before answering.
‘I don’t have any more specific intelligence at present; as soon as I do you will know immediately,’ he said.
Kasseri ended the communication and looked across at Leonid.
His friend nodded.
‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘You made the right choice.’
Kasseri shook his head dispassionately.
‘Did I?’ he said.
21 March 2, 1961, Washington D.C.
The room was functional. It was small and white, furnished with only a square table and eight chairs. It was windowless and smelt of cigarettes from the previous day. A faint smell of carpet glue rose from the newly laid square tiles.
Rafferty disliked Washington briefing meetings. He found it difficult to connect with either politicians or their aides. Agency meetings were different. At those Rafferty was confident, relaxed; he knew the other men. They had an understanding. It was the significance of club membership.
William McGrath never seemed to have any such problem with Washington. He was always calm at these briefings, happy to play the political game.
This morning was worse than usual. Rafferty was already in a bad mood and McGrath knew there was no hope of improvement. The two men exchanged a glance but didn’t exchange words.
The senator sat with his aide beside him on one side of the wooden table and Rafferty and McGrath sat together on the other.
Rafferty gazed at the politician and his aide. He knew they were not to be trusted. As a soldier, he had had experience of political lies; lies that cost people their lives.
This briefing was about Cuba.
Each of the four men had their views on the plan. Rafferty especially, who knew without the right commitment and support, the American-trained Cuban exiles were attempting an impossible task. There was a reason that Rafferty was so certain. That reason was the intelligence he and McGrath now possessed. This intelligence had come from aerial photographs taken by spy planes flying over Cuba, and now the other two men in the sterile meeting room had this information too.
‘The Cubans have mobilised their tanks, troops and supply trucks and their fighter planes are positioned and ready to go,’ Rafferty said.
His voice was clear and certain.
Each of the other three men, even McGrath who already knew what it contained, were studying their own copy of the intelligence folder. Rafferty watched them looking at the photographs.
‘It’s clear to see they have located their forces near the Escambray Mountains, next to Trinidad on the southern coast,’ he said.
The room was silent. McGrath, of course, knew what this meant. The other two had to have it spelt out for them. Rafferty wasn’t going to leave them in any doubt. The lives of fifteen hundred soldiers were at risk.
‘It’s obvious,’ he said to them loudly, ‘not only does Castro know we’re coming, he knows it’s soon and he knows where we plan to land.’
The senator and his aide both looked up, concern lowering their brows, and searched Rafferty and McGrath for visual support of the words spoken.
McGrath nodded solemnly.
‘There has been a security leak which has compromised the operation,’ he said, giving confirmation. ‘It has removed the element of surprise and reduced the chances of success to zero.’
Rafferty was pleased with McGrath. He had given them the facts without appeasement. He was right to do so; the facts were inescapable. There was silence in the room, broken only by the senator lighting a cigarette. He dragged deeply and searched for an ashtray. There wasn’t one. He let the ash drop onto the new carpet.
Both McGrath and Rafferty knew the intelligence could only have been leaked by someone very senior, but they d
idn’t know who or how. They assumed the Russians were involved, as the Kremlin was supporting Cuba and it was only something, in their opinion, Russian Intelligence had the capability of doing.
The senator finally broke the silence.
‘Are you saying that someone in the White House leaked this to Castro?’ he said.
‘Yes, or to the Russians,’ Rafferty said.
McGrath quickly interceded.
‘We’re saying someone has breached security, we don’t know who or how. But Castro now knows enough about our plan to kill it dead,’ McGrath said.
‘I don’t believe it,’ the senator replied.
‘It’s true,’ Rafferty said, simply.
There was a further silence. The senator finished his cigarette. He moved his head, searching for an ashtray again. Still unable to find one, he stood the cigarette butt on its end on the corner of the table. A stream of smoke rose in a spiral while it continued to burn. He hadn’t once looked at his aide. The man’s eyes remained fixed on Rafferty and McGrath.
‘You two are unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Don’t you want Cuba back?’
McGrath wasn’t going to get into a debate or an argument. He ignored the question, and before Rafferty could reply, McGrath said, ‘The plan is compromised and right now that’s the only consideration.’
There was another pause. All four men were considering their position. The senator exhaled his breath loudly, resigned to hearing the rest.
‘What are our options, gentlemen?’ he asked.
Both Rafferty and McGrath were pleased with this question. However, before either of them could respond, the political aide spoke.
‘Perhaps the operation can still succeed, if we change the date and move the landing site,’ he said.
Rafferty frowned and his eyes narrowed with annoyance. The political aide wore circular, tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and his sandy hair flopped onto his forehead.
The senator brightened.
‘I assume the date is easy to change, but what about the landing site; do we have a viable alternative?’ he said.