On Saturday the Florida National Guard was activated to deal with the refugee crisis while two brigades of military police were hustled from the west coast to Miami in an effort to get on top of the situation. Those fleeing Cuba proved to be an invaluable source of intelligence as what was happening down there; many of them were deserting soldiers from Castro’s army who suddenly didn’t know whose orders to obey and were desperately afraid of ending up in front of a firing squad. The job of interrogating anyone who held an official title in Cuba was given to the CIA with the promise of asylum, a thousand dollars, and a new suite if they provided worthwhile information. From one of them, we learned how one of Almeida’s supposedly loyal officers had lost his nerve and gotten drunk the night of the coup and then spilled his guts to the head of Cuban Intelligence. The upshot of this was that Castro was saved from an ambush while coming back from visiting one of his mistresses outside of Havana in the early evening by a matter of minutes. It says something about Castro that with his country on the verge of invasion, he still found time to slip between the sheets with one of his concubines. By then Almeida’s men were on the move, taking over strategic positions in Havana; Castro fled to the countryside where he was able to make a radio address later in the day, rallying his forces.
The typewriters in the basement were going day and night during this time as my group processed all the incoming intelligence for reports to the President and the NSC; Ralph Gillison had real talents as a proofreader, and a master of grammar - he made me look good when I had to stand before the President and give him the lowdown. There was heavy fighting in the streets of Santa Clara, Santiago and other cities with no clear picture of who was winning. It was appeared Soviet forces were aiding Castro’s supporters - there were eyewitness accounts of Russian soldiers in uniform mowing down a squad of Almeida’s troops on the outskirts of Havana. Every Cuban arriving in Florida told stories of armed Castro loyalists dragging anyone suspected of sympathizing with Almeida or spying for America into the streets and getting a bullet in the back of their heads; same for Almeida’s men, who were doing the same to anyone they even remotely suspected might take up arms for Castro.
“Who’s on top now,” President Kennedy would ask me when I’d brief him, “our son of a bitch or their son of a bitch.” For most of the next week, there was no clear intelligence as to which son of a bitch was winning; daily we went over the recordings of Castro and Almeida’s radio speeches in which both claimed they were about to crush the other as all good Cuban patriots were rallying to them. Nothing was heard from General Andreyev or the CIA team sent to make contact with him; same for Williams and Artime, after going ashore the night before C-Day, they hadn’t been heard from since.
On Sunday, April 5th, the fighting in Cuba took a decisive turn as forces loyal to Castro pushed into Havana and began taking the streets from Almeida’s men; many of whom threw down their guns and begged for mercy, while others took to the sea as the flow of refugees to Florida went from a stream to a torrent. It was becoming more obvious by the hour: military intervention was inevitable. It was a truly hateful prospect, but that is where this show was heading five days after C-Day. If John F. Kennedy wanted to avoid another Bay of Pigs times ten, he would likely have to act within 36 hours. At a briefing later in the day, he grilled me about the Russians: How many might be killed if American troops went in? What were their orders if we invaded? “If our GI’s are killing Red Army troops in Cuba,” he asked on Monday morning, “what’s to keep it from spreading to Europe and Asia?” No one had a good answer for him.
Two minutes after getting back to my office after that gloomy Monday briefing, I got a call from Richard Helms over at CIA with some news he thought we at the White House might find interesting: it seemed a KGB officer assigned to the staff of General Alexander Andreyev was at that same moment sitting in a room inside the Miami CIA station, sipping a glass of vodka and spilling his guts. The KGB man, Major Fyodor Firsenko, who having become separated from the rest of the Soviet detachment in Havana, had decided to jump aboard an aging prop plane with some of his compatriots in the Cuban secret police and fly to Florida, taking their chances with the United States rather than trust the tender mercies of Almeida’s rebels and the good citizens of Havana, many of whom had family and friends who’d had an unpleasant encounter with their ilk.
Several hours later I had a report from Miami in hand on the first interrogation of the Major, and as I read it, something clicked, and the seed of a plan started to form.
Major Firsenko was one hell of a coward and a font of information, not the least of it being the location of General Andreyev after he had abandoned the Capri when the situation in Havana became untenable for the Soviets. It seems the General had retreated to a bunker beneath the villa of the rural Blanco sugar plantation near Camagüey, a safe distance from the capital and was commanding the Soviet contingent from there; it was doubtful he was in contact with Moscow since the Soviet embassy in Havana was surrounded by Almeida’s troops.
It was Firsenko’s mention of a sugar plantation in Camaguey that caught my attention; Carlos Marcello made mention of just such a place when we were talking terms back at the Town and Country Motel and Restaurant, for some reason he wanted that property returned to him. I called Helms back and asked for everything the Agency had on this place; a manila envelope was on my desk two hours later. Inside were some twenty pages of documents. I consider Helms a true patriot despite what a later court said.
The documents told the history of Blanco plantation, which before being appropriated by the Revolution in 1960, had been owned by the LaSeur Distillery of New Orleans, which had purchased the property from the Albany Fruit Company of New York in 1950. In truth, the place had been the country home of one Charles “Lucky” Luciano, the most successful bootlegger and pimp in American history. The imprisoned Luciano had been deported to Italy after World War II as a payoff for the Mob’s help during the war in keeping the New York waterfront safe from Nazi sabotage. But Charlie Lucky had no intention of running his American criminal empire from Naples, and for years had crossed the Atlantic incognito and would conduct business from rustic Cuba, close enough to home, but still far enough from the watchful eye of American law enforcement. Eventually, the Federal Bureau of Narcotics forced the Italian government to crack down on Luciano, who was now running the world’s largest drug smuggling operation, and he was kept on a short leash in Naples for the rest of his life.
But Luciano’s tropical home away home remained behind in Camaguey, on paper the ownership might have changed, but the same people still had the title. And it seemed something else remained behind from the days Lucky ran the show: a private telephone line located in an office on the ground floor of the main house, (not unlike the newly installed “Hot Line” between Washington and Moscow) put in at great expense for Luciano’s personal use, running to the United States, so that he could secretly talk directly to his partners in crime in the country from which he was forever exiled. According to the CIA report, this private telephone line had never been tapped nor had a trace run on it, even though it used the same undersea cable owned by ITT. The kicker to all of this: the owner of the LaSeur Distillery of New Orleans was none other than Carlos Marcello, and some of the Mob’s old Cuban hands had been using Luciano‘s private line to keep the Mafia kingpins informed of happenings on the island - info passed on to the Agency.
This made me stop for a moment and ponder just who got the best end of this deal with the Devil.
But I now had a plan and had to act fast.
I picked up the phone on my desk, called the White House switchboard and requested they connect me with the Town and Country Motel and Restaurant outside of New Orleans, Louisiana. I identified myself to the front desk clerk who picked up on the other end and said it was imperative that I talk to Mr. Marcello immediately; when told that Mr. Marcello was not available, I left my name, number and a message for him to return my call as soon as possible, and said it
would be worth it to his employer. While waiting for the phone to ring, I seriously questioned the wisdom of what I was doing, how maybe I should have called the Agency or the FBI and let them handle it, but that would have taken time, which we did not have if a Cuban invasion was imminent. I thought about calling Vance Harlow to arrange things, but as a free agent, he would have wanted to be compensated, another wrinkle which would have cost us precious time. And if Luciano’s “Hot Line” had never been tapped, then there was a reason why, and in going through the law enforcement bureaucracies, I would surely run up against it.
No, time was running out fast on that Monday afternoon for the President to salvage the situation in Cuba, and if a major stumbling block could be removed by a simple telephone call to a Mafia Kingpin in Louisiana, then so be it and let the consequences come what may.
The return call I was waiting for came seventy-three minutes later. It was not Marcello, but Frank Ragano on the line. I told him what I knew about Blanco plantation, its former owners and the existence of a secret telephone line to the states. Then I told him what I needed from Marcello. “I am sure the President and his brother will be most grateful if Mr. Marcello could render them aide which would prove most helpful in resolving a national crisis, most grateful indeed.” That was how I ended my request, wanting to be careful not to promise anything specific in return for the American end of Luciano’s “hot line.”
When I had finished, the lawyer told me to hold on for a minute, then I could hear him talking to someone else in the room, presumably his boss; this went on for several minutes and the discussion got quite intense at times though they were careful not to speak loud enough to be overheard by me. At last the lawyer came back on and said that one deal had already been negotiated, contact with the Russian Commander in exchange for the return of confiscated property, if my side desired any further service of his clients, Ragano said, I would have to met their price.
I put Ragano on hold and used another line in my office to track down Robert Kennedy, who happened to be in the Oval Office with the President. It took me a good ten minutes to explain to him the existence of Luciano’s “hot line,” its potential value in reaching General Andreyev and the delicate situation I was in with a certain party in Louisiana. There I was, with a Mafia Kingpin on one line and the Attorney General on the other, and myself in the middle.
Robert Kennedy must have consulted with his brother briefly; then he came back on the line and told me to agree to whatever the other party asked for, only tell him it would not be honored until Cuba was free, this being an incentive to ensure his honest cooperation. “And good work, Colonel,” he said before hanging up, “my brother and I appreciate what you’re doing.”
Once back on the line to Ragano, I explained what I needed from his client and then asked what the price would be for his cooperation. That is when Marcello himself, who must have been listening in on an extension, came on the line, loud and clear, “I want a Goddamn pardon from John F. Kennedy hisself, nothing less,” he said, “for all crimes committed, and ah do mean for all crimes - all crimes!” I informed the man that such a document would be forthcoming only when operations in Cuba were successfully completed, that being a condition required by the Attorney General himself and not subject to negotiation. There was silence on the other end save for Marcello’s heavy breathing, and I was sure the man was going to tell me to go perform an unnatural act on myself. But after a long minute he said, “Fair enough, I’m not one to look de gift horse in de mouth; go to the penthouse in the Mirabeau Hotel in Miami, inside dere’s an office with a great big desk; there you’ll find the telephone you want. Charlie Lucky was going to run to whole damn show with dat one phone, and if you‘d evah met him, you’d know he’d have done it.” Then he gave me the number. “Maybe your Russian general will pick up when you call, maybe he won’t, but no maybes ‘bout it, I gave you what you asked for, and I want that pardon signed and delivered the day Santos and me and the boys get our Cuban property back. Make no mistake ’bout it, Marine Colonel Maddox, make no mistake ’bout it.”
And with that I concluded my business with Carlos Marcello of New Orleans, Louisiana; an hour later I was in the Oval Office describing my plan to the President and the Attorney General; it was simple, the President would call General Andreyev directly in Cuba an offer him a truce.
President Kennedy was more than a little dubious about this scheme of mine, but if a single phone call might - and it was a big might - save lives and mitigate a potential confrontation with the Soviets, then he was more than willing to try it. The man loved to take risks and as I think the whole thing appealed to his love of going outside the chain of command. Most to the NSC were doubtful of the success of my plan, fearful it would compromise a military operation before the first shot was fired. Secretary Rusk made the point that even if he’d had the opportunity, Roosevelt wouldn’t have spoken directly to Field Marshall Rommel on the fifth of June, 1944. “He would have if he thought it would shorten the war and save lives,” the President countered, “and FDR certainly would have done it if he thought it would have driven a wedge between Hitler and his top General.” He went on to say that our fight was not with the Russians in Cuba, it was worth a try.
The matter was settled; within an hour, a team composed of CIA agents and Army Intelligence officers descended on the Mirabeau Hotel in Miami, finding the telephone right where Marcello said it would be. By 4:00 a.m. Tuesday morning, the necessary patches had been put in, allowing the President to pick up a phone in the Oval Office and speak directly to Blanco plantation in Cuba. Major Firsenko was brought to the penthouse because it was believed the Soviets would be more disposed to stay on the line if they first heard the voice of a fellow comrade. The Major cooperation was assured when he was reminded that he could easily be delivered to the Soviet embassy the next day, where he could explain to the KGB why he should not be considered a traitor and a deserter. The man was given a shot of rum, so his hands would not shake when he held the receiver.
There was no way to be sure General Andreyev would be at the plantation outside Camaguey when the call was made, but U2 reconnaissance photos taken that day showed a heavy concentration of Soviet troops in the area, so maybe the odds were in our favor.
The entire NSC was in the Oval Office when the number was dialed and Lucky Luciano’s private line to Cuba was opened. It rang, once, twice, three times and while it did so, my anxiety was excruciating as I was convinced the whole plan was about to fail and I had made my superior look like a fool. But on the fourth ring, it was answered by a voice which spoke Spanish with a heavy Russian accent. So far so good, Firsenko did his job, getting three Soviet officers on the line, each one of higher rank, until at last, he was speaking to General Alexander Andreyev himself, who sounded as if he’d been up all night in a smoke filled room pounding down shots of vodka. He demanded to know why he was talking to an officer who’d been reportedly killed in action on the streets of Havana. This is when the whole plan could have gone south, because Firsenko now had to reveal his location and true circumstances.
To his great and everlasting credit, Andreyev stayed on the line, an act which instantly made him a traitor in the eyes of his superiors. The General asked Major Firsenko to explain how a KGB officer came to be in Florida while the United States was preparing to attack Cuba, his duty post. Firsenko was all but sobbing as he explained to the General how he came to be in his present situation. There must have been something in his tone that convinced Andreyev to keep listening, for we later learned that the Soviet command in Cuba had been cut off from any communication with Moscow since C-Day and were without orders on how to proceed in the face of a civil war and an imminent American invasion. The General had no knowledge of the recent events in the Kremlin, but he did know that his men were expendable as far as his superiors were concerned; knowledge which must have focused his thinking because he still listened when Firsenko handed the phone off to a CIA Soviet expert who spoke fluent Russi
an.
The CIA expert set things up for the President to come on the line, assuring Andreyev that no record of this communication would be kept (not exactly true) and that no one in the American government would ever disclose to anyone in the Soviet government that these conversations had ever taken place. “If you are saying no one in America will remember that we talked,” the General said, “and no one will ever find out in Moscow, then there is no harm in me listening to what you have to say.”
This is when President Kennedy came on the line, and using the CIA expert as a translator, said he was speaking as Commander in Chief the American military to the Commander of all Soviet forces on the island of Cuba, and that first and foremost, they were not enemies. There was a legitimate quarrel between the government of the United States and Fidel Castro, but not one between America and General Andreyev or his command. The President said he fully appreciated the position of the General and his men, who were simply being good soldiers in a dangerous place. Soon orders would be issued which could bring the good soldiers at the President’s command into conflict with the good soldiers of Andreyev’s command, with the result being a lot of good men being killed. It did not have to be that way, for the President was willing to make the following offer: if the General would pull all Soviet forces back to within five miles of the city of Camaguey in the next 48 hours, the area would then be treated as neutral territory. Andreyev had the solemn promise of the Commander in Chief of the United States that all Russian forces therein would not be molested in any way, they would not be bombed from the air or fired upon from the ground; there would be no surrender request or command to disarm. They would be treated as equals and fellow soldiers; at the first opportunity, they would be allowed to leave Cuba and return home without hindrance. So swore John F. Kennedy, President of the United States.
All the Way with JFK: An Alternate History of 1964 Page 9