The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  McGrath nodded.

  ‘With the current situation I thought it best.’

  Rafferty carried his pain inside and he wondered if his appetite for life would ever return.

  The crisis with the Russians over Cuba was intensifying. Both intelligence services were jumpy. Rafferty likened it to a war between two gangs where neither side could afford to show any weakness. The politicians were scared and they wanted answers. They needed help.

  McGrath stood up and walked over to the sideboard. He turned on the radio. The safe house received regularly sweeps but it was always best to be careful. Nobody ever seemed to retune the station. Jazz music filtered through the radio speaker, flooding the room with saxophone and piano. McGrath went to the window and gazed out before returning to his seat.

  ‘I want you to join Greene in Mexico City,’ he said. ‘He needs your assistance. He’s working on a new Cuban strategy.’

  Rafferty didn’t ask, allowing McGrath to continue.

  ‘If Castro were to…’ he paused while he found the words, ‘…step aside, then the White House might find it easier to negotiate with the Kremlin over the missiles.’

  Rafferty nodded and McGrath went on.

  ‘There is going to have to be a deal. If we can strengthen our position then the deal will be easier to make,’ he said. McGrath understood, precisely, the bad position his country was in. The mess in Cuba had led to a standoff with the Russians. The situation was unwelcome and, even more galling, it was unnecessary. It displeased him. He remembered what Greene had told him that the British were calling it a balls-up, and they were right. It was a balls-up. Now, it was important, McGrath knew, to finish it well. This was his single consideration.

  McGrath took a toffee from his jacket pocket, spun it open and popped it in his mouth. He held one out on the palm of his open hand for Rafferty. Rafferty smiled and took it. They sucked and chewed together.

  ‘What’s the new strategy?’ Rafferty asked, trying not mumble around his toffee.

  ‘Greene has made contact with a group of Cubans disloyal to Castro. He’s trying to make something of it,’ McGrath said. ‘I want you to help him.’

  ‘Where’s he staying?’ asked Rafferty.

  ‘At the Four Seasons,’ answered McGrath.

  They were quiet while they finished their toffees. The mantelpiece clock ticked loudly in the silence and the dampened sound of a motorcar driving along on the street outside filtered in.

  ‘I saw Smithy in Los Angeles. He told me that he and Greene pulled a Russian here in New York. Did we get anything from it?’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Didn’t Patrick say?’

  ‘No. He said that only Greene had heard what the Russian had said.’

  McGrath nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said. ‘The Russian gave us the source of the White House leak. It seems it was nothing more than a predatory, sexual seduction. It was clever and sophisticated, though. I was surprised we couldn’t see it ourselves. But then, sometimes, even the best need a little help.’

  ‘Has it been plugged?’

  McGrath sighed and looked at the clock. It really was a lovely clock.

  ‘Yes, but not how I wanted,’ he said. ‘There was an opportunity for us there, but unfortunately, Greene acted without authority and now the opportunity is lost.’

  Rafferty knew that was all he was going to get. He didn’t ask any further questions. He would ask Greene when he saw him in Mexico City.

  28 September 13, 1962, Mexico City

  The DC-8 touched down at Aeropuerto de la Ciudad de Mexico and Rafferty stepped out of the air-conditioned fuselage into the oppressive Mexican heat. The air was thin and he had to breathe quicker while he acclimatised. He started to sweat immediately and took off his jacket.

  The baggage handler brought him his leather bag and he left the airport in a taxi, headed straight for the Four Seasons. The Ford built taxi drove past Chapultepec Park and turned onto Paseo de la Reforma. Rafferty watched a group of barefoot children playing football on the arid, baked ground in the park. He could just hear their shouts drifting on the air and caught through the driver’s open window.

  Rafferty turned to the front and the Four Seasons appeared through the windscreen, big and impressive. He paid the fare with American dollars, grasped the twin handles of his bag and went straight in. The uniformed doorman saluted as he entered. Inside, the reception area was cool and large with a long, wooden desk built into the marble flooring that ran the length of the back wall.

  There was one uniformed guard and one plain clothed house detective. The uniformed man was standing against the wall, overweight and bored. The house detective was sitting with his back against the far wall watching the reception desk. Neither of them took any notice of the American.

  Rafferty climbed the wide, ornate staircase, which turned past two huge windows before opening out onto a covered walkway that overlooked a courtyard. The sunshine gleamed warmly beneath the tall archways, stippling the smooth ground with long dabs of bright colour. Rafferty walked up to the railings and glanced down into the shaded piazza. The square had a corner laid out with tables covered with white tablecloths and candlesticks. Waiters in white cotton aprons moved between them, carrying silver, circular trays turned high above their shoulders. He watched for a moment before he continued on to his suite, which consisted of two rooms with double glass doors and a balcony. The sitting room was brightly painted and the bedroom accessed through a double folding door, was plain white. Rafferty thought it looked like the bridal suite. He opened the balcony doors and hot air wafted onto his face.

  He called Greene and they arranged to meet.

  Shetland Greene sat with an empty coffee cup in front of him and two Hispanic men on either side, both drinking beer. Rafferty watched them for a while. He moved from the shadow of the arch into the sunshine. Greene was concentrating on his communication skills and had not seen him. The big American talked purposefully with his face moving from one Cuban to the other. His large body was in contrast to the two smaller ones like an adult with two children. Rafferty got right up to the table before Greene saw him.

  ‘You’re here,’ he said.

  Then, speaking to the Cubans, he said, ‘This is a friend of mine.’

  The men both bobbed their heads and spoke a welcome which sounded more Spanish than American. Rafferty sat down. The waiter came over and the Cubans ordered another beer. Rafferty ordered a coffee. Greene returned to his planning and Rafferty listened. When they had finished, Greene handed over a small wooden box, which was the same shape as a cigar box. Rafferty amused himself by thinking the box might contain exploding cigars intended for Castro. Really, he knew, the box contained money.

  The two Cubans left. Rafferty and Greene watched them go with the cigar box safely out of sight in a shoulder bag.

  ‘Let’s go to my room,’ Greene said.

  Both men stood and Greene pulled his jacket from the back of his seat. He was sweating heavily.

  They reached Greene’s suite and Rafferty followed him in and closed the door. Greene went to the big square radio and switched it on. Spanish guitar music twanged with staccato ferocity and castanets snapped Latin passion like the tapping red fingernails of a beautiful raven-haired woman.

  He turned back to Rafferty and looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Rafferty forced himself to smile.

  ‘I’m not sure they really have the contacts. It’s a big jump from those two to Castro,’ he said.

  There was a pause.

  ‘What have you got to drink?’ Rafferty asked.

  Greene seemed to relax and he turned to the cabinet against the wall.

  ‘Whiskey and soda?’ he said.

  ‘Ice?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They both drank. Rafferty watched Greene roll his cold glass over his sweaty forehead. He was tall and heavy, clean shaven with thinning hair, glassy dark eyes, a long fac
e and nose and thin lips. His whole head glistened with sweat. He reminded Rafferty of a sea lion. The two men were about the same age and Rafferty had known him for thirteen years. They had worked together, on and off, for the past four years. Greene was clever and resolute. Rafferty knew he was not a man who could be easily outsmarted or outfought. Again, Greene was looking at him expectantly.

  ‘Once you give them the rest of the money I don’t think you’ll ever see them again. We’re desperate and they know it,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Greene replied, ‘but it’s worth a shot. They might pull it off.’

  Rafferty smiled and sipped his whisky.

  ‘What happened at the safe house in New York with the Russian? Leonid, wasn’t it?’ Rafferty said.

  Greene’s face snarled at the memory of New York and he gulped a mouthful of whisky.

  ‘It went to plan,’ he said.

  Afterwards, of course, he had acted without authorization and broken discipline. He didn’t know if there would be repercussions. He knew McGrath was displeased. Perhaps he should tell Rafferty. He might need his support, later on.

  ‘Smithy doesn’t know what the Russian said,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘No. He was out of the room and I didn’t tell him. I took it straight to McGrath. It was politically sensitive,’ Greene explained. ‘Didn’t you ask McGrath?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t give me any details. He said there had been a missed opportunity, that’s all. So, what was it? What did Leonid tell you?’

  Greene rolled his glass again and the Latin music maintained a high tempo and sounded discordant to an unappreciative ear.

  ‘It was the main man,’ Greene said. ‘The White House leak was the main man.’

  ‘…the main man?’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Numero uno, the big dog, Jack the Lad,’ Greene said.

  Rafferty couldn’t hide his surprise.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, incredible, isn’t it? He was sleeping with a Russian agent and we didn’t know.’

  ‘Sleeping with a Russian agent,’ Rafferty echoed. ‘How did we miss that?’

  ‘That’s the incredible part,’ said Greene. ‘It was that Hollywood movie star. The really famous one with the blonde hair and the great body.’ He made a wavy motion with his hands to indicate the curves of a woman’s body. ‘She was a Russian, born there, apparently, brought to America as a small girl. A Russian sleeper and when Cuba blew up they activated her. Incredible isn’t it?’

  Rafferty couldn’t answer. He couldn’t speak. His eyes felt stuck as if something had glued the lids open. Greene appeared a long way away, as though he was standing at the end of a tunnel. Rafferty attempted to make his brain function. He forced his arm to lift his glass and he sipped. At last, his eyes blinked again. Still, his facial muscles remained stuck fast and his throat refused to grant him the ability of speech. He sipped again. Greene was staring at him. Finally, Rafferty managed a weak contraction of his cheek muscles and his lips curled upwards.

  Greene threw his head back and laughed loudly. A clear image flashed into Rafferty’s mind of a performing sea lion, barking and balancing a ball on his nose. Then the sea lion metamorphosed into Greene, just like characters in a children’s cartoon, and a shocking truth hammered into Rafferty’s skull with a jarring shudder. Greene had killed Marilyn.

  Greene stopped laughing and stared at Rafferty whose eyes had stopped moving. Rafferty’s brain broke free and he forced it to work. It raced as he processed the information. He couldn’t grasp it all. The only certainty he kept returning to was that the man in front of him had killed Marilyn.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ Greene said. ‘A Russian whore. It makes you wonder how many more of them there are?’

  His voice was harsh and then he laughed again

  ‘I had to kill her,’ he said. ‘McGrath thought he could do something else with her but he was wrong. We had to send a message to the Russians. One they would get. Anyway, Leonid would have told them what had happened in New York. I don’t know what McGrath thought he could do with her.’

  Rafferty wasn’t listening. After the words, I had to kill her his anger built like a tidal wave wiping away all conscious and rational thought. It was a tsunami, an unstoppable force, singular and remorseless. Primeval aggression surged from a dark cave within like a skin dressed beast enraged and released.

  ‘Marilyn wasn’t a whore,’ he said.

  The abruptness of the statement and the personal feeling that rasped in Rafferty’s voice caused Greene to make a sudden inflexion of his head. He stilled his long nose and small eyes and weighed the words with a confused brow. His thin lips parted into an unpleasant snarl as he considered his reply.

  ‘You know something about this, don’t you?’ he said.

  Rafferty couldn’t speak again. The cave man had fully appeared, raw and screaming.

  Greene’s reaction time was quick. His mind remembered it. It was something that had been troubling him.

  ‘It was your voice on the telephone,’ he said. Marilyn had been talking to Rafferty.

  Greene sensed the danger like a shark tasting blood in the water: immediate, certain and reactive. His body tensed and his heart quickened. He expected Rafferty to speak. When he didn’t, Greene considered the possibility that McGrath had sent him on company business.

  Without a warning, Rafferty charged at Greene. He covered the five yards between them in a second. Before Greene could bring his arms up in defence, Rafferty slammed into him like a linebacker. Greene went over backwards and Rafferty went with him and landed on top of the big man. Rafferty used his left hand to hold Greene’s wrist down while he punched his face with his right fist. Greene struggled violently to protect himself but Rafferty’s strength kept Greene down. He managed to twist and knock Rafferty’s hand away but it returned with even greater force. Rafferty altered his weight and then released Greene’s arm to throw a second punch with his stronger left fist. Greene had time to twist his face to one side, resulting in a glancing blow that scuffed beyond his cheek. Rafferty gripped Greene’s throat with his right hand and prepared to punch again. During these fleeting seconds, Greene slid his free hand below his waist and stretched to his calf where he wore a weapon strapped to his leg. It was an English made Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife. A weapon he often wore. Particularly, on business, when meeting men such as the two Cubans. Fatefully, it was the same design as the V-42 fighting knife Rafferty had used as a combat soldier. The twin-edged dagger with a foil-like grip was highly regarded by armies and agencies alike.

  Rafferty punched, but again Greene avoided the full blow by turning his face. Greene pulled the dagger from its sheath and raised his arm in preparation. Rafferty swung back and punched again. This time, his fist deflected away, blocked by Greene’s defensive left arm.

  Rafferty began to pull back again just as Greene positioned the knife to inflict a blow between the ribs. Rafferty reached his backswing and an instinctive warning sounded in his head like a woman’s voice whispering in his ear. Be careful, Greene isn’t struggling as much as he should be. With only a split second to react, Rafferty turned to see the dagger coming at him. His reflex was an instinctive, automatic impulse from the brain without thought, faster than seemed possible. He twisted his body away from the knife, allowing his weight to roll with the attack. The blade’s edge glanced across his ribs, cutting his shirt and slicing skin and flesh as it travelled beyond him. The movement left him on his side and gave Greene the opportunity to free himself and take the advantage. Greene moved the dagger into position and steadied himself to lunge. Rafferty had just enough skill to deflect the attack with his arm while lifting himself at the waist. He was unbalanced and Greene, having missed him with the lunge, slashed the fighting knife backwards with a vicious swing of his arm. It struck Rafferty across the chest, cutting shirt, skin and flesh. The slash was a wild and uncontrolled action, only used by Greene in desperation because of the man he was figh
ting. He knew Rafferty’s capabilities and was desperate to make a telling blow. It was a mistake. It had caused Greene to lose his balance and his impetus just as Rafferty regained his and was poised to attack. In a single movement, he pushed himself forward, using strength from his thighs, and landed a full punch to Greene’s stomach. The big man staggered and dropped onto one knee, desperately struggling to breathe and keep his head up.

  Rafferty moved and took the advantage. He gripped Greene’s wrist and turned the dagger away, pushing strongly. The blade of the knife jutted out like a naked groom on his way to the matrimonial bed. Greene still gulped for air and desperate to recover his strength. His eyes were on Rafferty’s face and he tried to stand. He pushed himself up and forwards against Rafferty’s body, trying to use his weight to unbalance him. Rafferty twisted his body and maintained his grip on Greene’s wrist. The action pulled the knife between them. With his free hand, Rafferty punched a short hard jab. His fist struck Greene cleanly and his jaw snapped across. Greene pulled his arm and Rafferty couldn’t stop the knife from turning. As they fell, Rafferty twisted and brought his free hand between them. The knife was pointing down. Rafferty pushed with both hands just as Greene’s weight dropped on top of him. He heard the rush of air from Greene’s mouth and felt the strength drop from his muscles.

  Rafferty pushed him off and pulled himself away. He stared at Greene. The blade had entered fully into his chest and his blood ran freely like milk from a dropped carton. Greene turned his head. His hands were cradled, his breathing heavy and his eyes distant, almost retrospective.

  Rafferty knew he would soon be unconscious and then dead. He watched Greene twitch occasionally while his blood soaked the carpet. Greene went still and Rafferty could see he was dead. Rafferty sat on the floor, his own breathing slowed, and his hands stopped shaking as his tensed muscles eased.

  Greene’s eyes were still open.

  Rafferty’s senses fully returned. He felt the two cuts across his body and his scuffed knuckles from the punches. He heard the music coming from the radio. A woman sang soulfully in Spanish, accompanied by a plucked guitar. She was reminiscing over a lost lover. Rafferty stood and breathed deeply. He wiped the handle of the knife but didn’t pull it out. He washed his glass and put it back on the tray, and he wiped the door where he had pushed it shut. He went into the bathroom and slowly pulled off his shirt. In the mirror, he saw himself bleeding from both cuts. He cleaned them carefully. They would both need stitches. He made two makeshift bandages from a towel.