by Mark Arundel
The politician was applying civilian-style problem-solving to a battle situation where men would be fighting for the lives. The aide produced a map of Cuba from his briefcase and he and the senator studied it closely.
After only a short while the aide spoke again.
‘This coastline passes all the required criteria for the landing, and the beach is right for an airstrip,’ he said.
McGrath and Rafferty glanced at each other.
‘Which one is it?’ asked McGrath.
‘It’s called Babia de Cochinos; translated, I think that means Bay of Pigs,’ the aide said, handing over the map. The two men studied it. Rafferty smiled to himself. The aide had got the translation wrong. In this context, Cochinos meant a type of triggerfish that swims in the bay, not pigs. As an eleven-year-old boy, swimming whilst on holiday in Cuba, Rafferty had cut his finger on the dorsal spine of the tropical fish, which it used, effectively, for protection.
Neither McGrath nor Rafferty responded.
‘If we landed at night, under the cover of darkness, wouldn’t it help our chances of success?’ said the aide warming to his task.
‘Yes, it might help in maintaining our cover and avoiding early detection,’ agreed the senator.
Rafferty knew this suggestion wouldn’t make any difference to the outcome. Getting the men and equipment ashore would take longer at night and the whole purpose of a surprise landing was to avoid detection in the first place. Rafferty was beginning to lose his patience. The Bay of Triggerfish, or Pigs as the aide had called it, was only a few miles further up the coast from Trinidad, and wouldn’t afford any advantage over Castro’s forces; not now the defending army were prepared and waiting. Castro’s superior numbers would make the invasion a bloodbath, not a battle. Castro had fifty-one thousand troops and the invading Cuban exiles numbered just fifteen hundred.
The aide and the senator were now looking at a calendar, which the aide had also produced from his briefcase.
The senator said, ‘April the fifteenth,’ as if he was organising a cocktail party, and the aide muttered sounds of agreement.
Again, Rafferty and McGrath remained silent. This date was only a few days different to the original. Rafferty wasn’t going to be able to hold his tongue for much longer. He looked at McGrath who was smoothing his hair with the flat of his hand.
They were going to proceed with a plan that was doomed to failure. This military strategy could not succeed. Rafferty decided to break his silence. He couldn’t remain quiet any longer.
‘An invading attack force of fifteen hundred men cannot defeat an army of fifty-one thousand that are backed by Russian tanks and fighter jets. It’s impossible,’ he said. ‘There are only two options left open,’ he continued. ‘The first is to call it off and find an alternative plan for achieving the objective of removing Castro and his pro-Russian government.’
Rafferty waited with all eyes on him.
‘And the second?’ asked the senator.
‘The second,’ said Rafferty, ‘the second is to back the fifteen hundred Cuban exiles with a full US military strike force; troops, armour, air force and navy. Even up the sides, go for a rapid advance to Havana and ensure a quick military victory. Once we’ve achieved control of Cuba we can then worry about the political fallout from our actions. These are the only two viable options as it stands.’
The senator was nodding; the aide remained silent.
‘What do you think, McGrath?’ asked the senator.
McGrath replied simply in a flat, certain voice.
‘Rafferty is right, senator,’ he said.
‘Thank you for your frank views gentlemen. I know that your past military experiences from World War II and Korea make your opinions valid,’ said the politician. ‘But we must never forget, it’s our duty to help the Cuban people and give them every chance, even when the odds are against them.’
Rafferty didn’t like the sound of that. It was political claptrap for we may still go ahead. Both McGrath and Rafferty understood other men would be involved in the final decision. There wasn’t anything more Rafferty could say or do at this meeting.
‘The final decision, of course, is not mine. It will be taken by the White House,’ the senator said.
‘Then you don’t need me anymore,’ Rafferty said.
He stood up and jogged the table. The cigarette butt that had been balancing on the corner rolled and fell onto the carpet. He had the urge to grind it with his heel but resisted. Instead, he turned and walked out.
Rafferty went directly to Dulles International Airport.
He made a booking on the next flight and then went to the public telephones and made a call. It was still early enough and she was at home.
‘Hello,’ she said.
Her voice was a sweet sound and Rafferty was pleased to hear it.
‘I’m boarding a plane from Washington. I’ll be there this afternoon,’ he said.
Marilyn recognised his voice immediately and laughed, excited to hear it.
‘I can’t, I’m working. It’s a new film, some romantic comedy, and I have a late call. I’m filming this afternoon and every day this week,’ she said. The excitement, created by the prospect of seeing him, made her voice gasp and she breathed faster.
‘Call in sick,’ he told her.
‘I can’t, the studio will go mad.’
‘I really need to see you; to be with you. I’ve missed you,’ he said.
‘Oh really, is everything okay?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, of course, I’ve got a couple of free days and I want to spend them with my favourite girl,’ he said.
‘... favourite girl?’ she said. ‘How many girls do you have?’
Rafferty laughed.
‘Not enough,’ he said.
Marilyn laughed.
‘The usual place?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, I’ll book the suite now,’ he said.
‘Okay, I’ll see you there. What time?’
They made the arrangements.
‘Order champagne,’ she said.
The warm afternoon sunlight filtered through the moving voile, blending cosmopolitan atmosphere with expensive hotel air conditioning. It gave the bedroom, in the Beverley Wilshire hotel suite, a ghostly aura like a graveyard on a still summer’s day. The drapes glowed, and freshly cut flowers spread from the neck of a narrow vase. The French doors, leading out onto the balcony, were open and the sounds of the city traffic below were distant and reassuring.
They were naked together.
Rafferty was lying on his back with Marilyn pressed against him with her head under his arm. It was the same position she had been in with Kasseri.
The sex had been slow and intense. She had been lost, with her eyes closed. Rafferty had never taken his eyes from either her body or her face. She bewitched him.
Now, they rested. Moments of contemplation hidden from the world. Both possessed of good and evil spirits. They had their thoughts. Neither spoke. Both considered the truth; neither would speak it.
Rafferty breathed deeply and Marilyn hugged him tightly.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said.
‘What about?’ she said.
‘The future.’
Marilyn was quiet.
‘I could give up my job and you give up yours. I’ve got enough money, more than we could spend.’
‘Really, I don’t know, I’m pretty good at spending money,’ she said.
‘I want more than just these stolen days. I want us to be together all the time. We could change and just be normal.’
‘You once told me, there’s no happy ever after for people like you and me. Has something changed?’
‘I’ve changed,’ he said. ‘You are the only important thing I have.’
Marilyn sat up and stared into his eyes. She could see he was serious. She leant across and kissed him.
‘How much money have you got?’ she asked, with narrow eyes and then a smile.
He smiled
back.
Her face turned serious.
‘I want to be with you all the time as well. And we can be, we can change our lives, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do. We’ll have to plan it, though; I’ve only just started this new movie, so I’ll have to finish that. And you must need time to stop your work too?’
While she spoke, Marilyn was thinking to herself, I mustn’t help Kasseri anymore; I’m going to stop it and never do it again.
She lifted herself up and sat astride him.
‘Are you up for some more? Can you take the pace?’ She playfully punched his stomach.
Rafferty growled and easily lifted her into the air and flipped her over, squashing his body on top of hers. She screamed and laughed. He pressed himself between her legs and kissed her passionately.
‘I see you can take the pace,’ she said, mumbling as she bit her bottom lip.
22 March 6, 1961, Los Angeles, California
‘Hello, Marilyn,’ Marik Kasseri said.
It was after midnight, four days later, and she was at home alone.
Marilyn stared at him with confused emotions; surprised and pleased at the same time. She didn’t answer him. She knew why he had come.
‘I can’t do it anymore. I told you,’ she said. ‘Please, don’t make me. Just leave.’
‘Marilyn,’ Kasseri started to say.
She interrupted him.
‘Don’t say it,’ she said.
‘Marilyn, please, you’re too valuable and too important. You must continue, for Mother Russia.’
Kasseri knew his country was at war, and to win, Russia must use every advantage.
Marilyn stared at him. He seemed bigger, stronger and more powerful. The scar on his cheek was ugly.
‘No, I won’t do it anymore,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said, ‘please, tell me you will continue.’
Marilyn thought of Rafferty and the words he had spoken to her.
‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I won’t.’
His anger came in a terrifying rush; partly real, partly contrived. He reached her before she could react, and grabbed her hair. The tied ponytail was ideal. He pulled it violently so her face lifted and fixed. His face, cruel and enraged, spoke menacingly, only inches from hers.
‘Do not disobey me on this,’ he growled. ‘You will do what I tell you.’
She struggled but his other hand came around her throat. He loomed over her, eclipsing the light and her eyes darkened. He forced his dominance and pushed against her. She was defenceless and she writhed against the pain. His hand squeezed and his thick fingers pressed deeply into her soft flesh. The hurt shot through her neck and across her shoulders. She screamed and struggled. He firmed his grip. Seconds came and went, and then slowly he released the pressure. He moved his hand to her face and softly touched her cheek. Then his mouth was on hers and she tried to pull back but he held her tight with his fingers in her hair. He pushed his body forward, hard against hers and she tried to resist but he was too strong. He spoke quietly and softly with a deep passion that rumbled in his throat.
‘I love you,’ he said in Russian. ‘I love you.’
23 April 8, 1962, Washington D.C.
‘The White House is screaming,’ McGrath said. ‘These missiles have got them scared and angry.’
Shetland Greene made a grunting noise and rubbed the back of his neck.
‘It must be the same leak as before,’ McGrath said. ‘They want it found and plugged.’
Greene grunted again.
‘I bet they do,’ he said.
The two men sat together alone in the expensively decorated Washington room that McGrath often used for private meetings. The comfortable leather chairs and the desk came stamped with Made in England.
McGrath wore a tailored blue suit with a white shirt, plain silk tie and black leather shoes. Shetland Greene was dressed in a suit from the discount store. He drank beer while McGrath sipped whisky and soda from a crystal cut tumbler.
McGrath had served in World War II behind enemy lines. After the war, someone had called it the Jedburgh mission. Three man teams were parachuted into France, Belgium and Holland where they trained partisan résistance movements and conducted guerrilla operations against the Germans in preparation for the D-Day invasion. He had been good at it. He looked at his hand and felt the stumps of his missing fingers. It had been a dangerous time. He spoke natural French and German and was an intelligent, courageous man. He had always been a successful problem-solver.
Greene had once asked him about it and McGrath had told him that the French men and women were much braver than he. McGrath saw Greene looking at his hand.
‘Shetland, did I ever tell you what happened in France in 1944?’ he said.
It surprised Greene, and not just because McGrath had called him Shetland.
‘No, you never did,’ he said.
McGrath sat forward.
‘I was working with the résistance,’ he said. ‘We were sabotaging the Germans in preparation for the allied invasion. One night, we set two bombs on a railroad track outside a southern town to disrupt a German supply line. My team detonated the bombs an hour before dawn. After the explosions, the six of us, four men and two women, planned to escape on motorbikes along the tracks between the open fields. It was still dark. Within minutes of the detonations, a German patrol was on the scene. We only just managed to get away. Afterwards, we knew someone had tipped off the Germans about the operation and we understood how lucky we had been that the Nazi patrol had not caught us. The security leak worried us, especially the French, and we worked hard to discover the truth. It transpired that one from our group, a senior man in the résistance, was having a sexual relationship with the sister of a man who sold cigarettes, brandy, stockings and other black market goods. He did this with the knowledge of a German captain who expected information in return for his protection. The résistance confronted the man with the facts and he swore to end the relationship. He was a true and loyal Frenchman and he did end the affair and we all thought that was an end to it. Less than a week later, he turned up dead, dumped beside the road on the outskirts of the town. Someone had shot him in the head.
‘Who did it?’ Greene asked.
McGrath shrugged.
‘Nobody knew,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one of the résistance. You see, although we hadn’t been captured by the Nazis and nobody had been killed or injured, and the leak had been plugged we still needed to maintain discipline, the toughest discipline. It was a war for France and for the country’s very survival. Whoever did it must have thought they had justification in using the ultimate sanction.’
‘I thought you were going to tell me how you lost your fingers,’ Greene said.
McGrath shook his head.
‘This story is much more interesting than that one,’ he said.
‘Well, I don’t think it was too harsh,’ Greene said.
McGrath shrugged again and said simply, ‘France defeated the Nazis and they won back their country. Many people died.’
After the war, back in America, McGrath had been recruited into a new agency that the then President, Harry S. Truman was forming. Many from the war had joined.
‘So, what are we missing?’ McGrath said.
‘It’s not what we’ve missed, it’s what we can’t see,’ Greene said, ‘and without help, we’ll probably never see it.’
‘Tell me,’ said McGrath.
Shetland Greene sat forward and his rubbery jaw clenched and unclenched.
‘Unless someone who knows tells us, we’re never going to know.’
McGrath didn’t understand but he didn’t show it. He stayed silent and waited for Greene to explain.
Greene fought against his anger, breathing deeply. He would have to spell it out, which irritated him.
‘We need to find a Russian agent, here in America, who knows how the Russians are getting the intelligence and persuade him to tell us.’
McGrath considered it. He
thought about the White House and about the missiles and Cuba.
‘Can you find a Russian agent who knows?’ McGrath asked.
Greene nodded and his wide mouth and thin lips parted into a cruel grin.
‘Then do it,’ McGrath said.
24 July 5, 1962, Manhattan, New York
The Manhattan day shimmered in the heat of summer. New York City bustled and thrived with energy every bit as powerful as the heat from the dazzling sun.
Shetland Greene hated New York.
He considered it a foreign country inside mainland United States. To him, immigrants, illegal degenerates, criminals and worst of all communists populated it. Only his work would ever bring him to such a cesspool of humanity. This assignment was important enough, and required his particular talents, which meant a visit to New York could not be avoided; and worst of all it was Manhattan, and in July. He cursed to himself.
Breathing in the hot city air, he grimaced as though a bad smell had found him by surprise. He thought New York smelt worse than anywhere else he had ever known.
He stepped off the sidewalk and ducked into the passenger seat of the dirty, blue ‘58 Oldsmobile Dynamic, pulled the door shut and settled comfortably. The driver turned and looked at him. It was Patrick Smith.
‘Where have you been? They’ve left already,’ Smithy said, with a suggestion of annoyance in his voice. He turned back and watched the traffic through the windshield.
‘Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of time,’ Greene told him, confident and relaxed.
Ten minutes earlier, the grubby, light brown ‘59 Chevrolet Impala had stopped in traffic four cars back. The two men had radioed to their partners. Only Smithy was there to hear it.
‘Contact made; following north on Fifth. Looks like the target is sitting in the back behind the driver,’ said the crackling voice, and Smithy had wondered where Greene was.
‘Where are they?’ Greene asked.
‘Just turned off Fifth,’ Smithy replied.
‘Good. Let’s go.’
They pulled out slowly into heavy traffic and headed for the rendezvous point. It was slow going but they arrived with time to spare. The Manhattan club had an excellent restaurant, which served a rib-eyed steak of such quality that men returned time after time. It was just so with their target.