You could almost believe it.
And the crazy fucking thing was, who could Michael talk to? Who could he ever share this with? Whose shoulder could he lay just a fraction of this on, just enough to keep his mind from exploding?
Who except Hector?
Under its own power the gun began to shake, lower, and he was jerking with ragged sobs now, as Hector stepped forward and embraced him. “It’s all right, Michael. Go ahead, for both of us. The Senora has been a curse for all that have touched her. You needn’t worry of her anymore. I’ll finish it. I’ll throw her into the river if I must.”
Michael pulled away from him. “It’s taken care of.”
A look of uncertainty. “What do you mean?”
“Courier picked her up this morning.”
Just a strobe of Hector’s mind flying. Considering. “As we had originally planned. I just assumed…after all this…”
“She’ll be safe.”
A breeze, a faraway cry of winter off the Andes, crept about their feet. “Where, Michael?”
Michael took a long time to answer, then didn’t answer at all. He turned and walked toward the car.
“Michael, I must know. I…we…cannot just…” Hector following him now, “Michael!”
Michael spun around and shoved the .38 against Hector’s face. “She’s mine. Do you understand? Mine. If you ask me again, if I ever see you anywhere, ever, I’ll kill you. Is that clear?”
“You’re upset, Michael. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Michael lowered the gun and stared at the deputy head of intelligence. “I know, Hector. For the first time in this goddamn country, I know.” He slammed Hector then, hard on the side of the mouth. The crippled spook fell to the dirt.
“I think that about finishes it with us.”
That next morning Michael Suslov began a thirty-hour trip to Mendocino, California, with another crate: the body of his wife. From Sonoma County Airport, Michael Suslov rode in the hearse, first to the church, then to the family plot in Fort Bragg. At the funeral service Michael Suslov stood and prayed and wept and, having almost nothing to say to Karen’s family, said mostly nothing. When her younger brothers hissed they’d kill him if he came through here again, Michael Suslov nodded.
Before leaving Buenos Aires, Michael had visited a document forger he knew operating in an unmarked storefront on the wrong side of Retiro, near the Villa 31 shantytown, who he had make a fake US passport in the name of Gary Phillips.
Now “Gary Phillips,” a week after burying his wife, drove to San Francisco and boarded a round-trip flight to Italy.
Gary Phillips looked a lot worse than his picture, looked even more terrible twenty-eight hours later when he landed in Rome. There, Gary Phillips rented a van and drove to the Dun & Bradstreet corporate building on Via dei Valtorta in Milan, where the CIA substation was located. It was a warm day, a happy day, because it was somebody’s birthday and the offices were sweet with sponge cake.
The station duty officer that waited on him looked as if he’d been partying most of the afternoon, and Michael thought the CIA substation in Milan must be a nice place to work. The duty officer checked his ID and copy of the transport order and released the box.
The plan had been to retrieve Evita from the substation and hand her over to Hector. Well, not now. Lying in a Seconal haze those nights after Karen’s death, he’d considered storage lockers or freezers and finally settled on something more traditional: a grave.
It was a five-mile drive out to the gray industrial gates of Musocco Cemetery. Lining the entrance were the storefronts of gravestone cutters, groundskeepers, and coffin makers. Michael had telegrammed ahead to one, ordering the construction of two caskets: one of galvanized steel that she would actually rest in, and a simple pine coffin that would fit over it.
He arrived now to collect them, had the owner help transfer his “aunt’s” body from one container to another, overpaid him, drove to the grounds, and went to the offices of the Catholic order that administered the cemetery. His telegram had explained that he was bringing the remains of his aunt María Maggi, an Italian Carmelite nun who’d died in Argentina and was now returning for burial in Italy. María Maggi was an actual nun from Michael’s childhood and was, he assumed, still perfectly healthy.
The local nuns accepted the simple pine coffin of their sister and held a small service that afternoon. She was buried in the quiet, poor section of the cemetery, where the seeds of flowers still jumped the earthen walls and bloomed uncut in forgotten corners.
It was a good place for sleep. Away from Hector and politics, away soon even from Michael. He stood as they filled the grave in, watched pine disappear under Lombard clay. Watched a box holding a general’s wife, Ara’s masterpiece, and Hector’s obsession, become, simply, in that instant…
His.
OFFICE OF SECURITY
Investigation report
October 10, 1956
CONFIDENTIAL to:
Alan Dulles, DCI
Frank Wisner, DDP
J.C. King, chief WH Div
Number of pages in this report, including cover: 37
Investigating officers: R. Bonnet, V.R. Howe
SUBJECT: Shooting death of case officer Michael Suslov’s wife, Karen Rutledge Suslov, on September 17, 1956.
REPORT SUMMARY: Case officer Michael Suslov has reported that during the early hours of September 17, his home was invaded by person or persons unknown. A struggle ensued, during which Karen Suslov was accidentally shot.
Recovered footprints indicates that likely a single individual gained entry to Suslov’s home, and fired one M1951 .380 round that struck the west wall. Blood tracked throughout the main floor of the house indicates same male likely conducted a brief search after the shooting.
Karen Suslov was killed by a .45 round fired from a Ballester Molina that struck her in the womb, passing through the fetus and severing the umbilical cord, causing her to bleed to death in approximately ten minutes (see autopsy attachments). The round matches the Molina semi-automatic Michael Suslov was still holding when BAPD arrived. Suslov has reported that the gun was bought second-hand in Buenos Aires.
No known problems existed between husband and wife and no obvious motive for a murder scenario exists.
Despite continued inquiries, no probable suspect has been identified in this incident. Suggestions have been made of possible Peronist guerilla activity, but this cannot be proved. Likewise, there is no credible evidence at this time of involvement by a hostile intelligence service or elements of the Argentine government, though this possibility will continue to be investigated.
Signed, Robert Bonnet, Office of Security
ATTACHED:
Buenos Aires police report
Photographs
Karen Suslov autopsy
Filed interviews
1957
January 9, 1957
CONFIDENTIAL to:
Frank Wisner, Deputy Director Operations
1956 Year End Fitness
Report for Michael Suslov
Dear Sir,
In writing an evaluation for case officer Michael Suslov, I am somewhat handicapped since only being appointed station chief since Robert Norris’ death from a heart attack in November. Case Officer Robert Lofton went to the FBI after Norris’ death, and John Miller and Esther Thomas both took immediate retirement in December, all before or directly after my appointment. This has left the unusual situation of an entire changeover in staff, with no one remaining who had personally dealt with Suslov’s work performance.
The problem is further complicated by the legacy of inner-station conflict stemming from the FBI/CIA Western Hemisphere consolidation. As the first postconsolidation officer assigned to Buenos Aires, Suslov was routinely harassed by his superiors. As a result, previous fitness reports, in my opinion, must be viewed with skepticism.
However, despite these limitations, and my brief association with Suslov, I feel secure
in saying that Michael Suslov is, as of this writing, a deeply troubled man and a problematic case officer in Clandestine Intelligence.
During daily routine operations, I am confronted by a remote, hostile young man who’s job performance is increasingly sloppy and error prone. Embassy officers on the State side recall Suslov as a generally outgoing, positive, and committed personality who changed dramatically after the accidental shooting of his wife.
I am well aware of Suslov’s popularity in the DOP for his former quality intelligence gathering on SB activities here and his contacts in both the Peron and successor regimes. But in the last six months, all these sources seemed to have completely dried up. Suslov himself has become unable to take serious direction and often appears in public under the influence of alcohol; a man disliked by the local police, bumbling in his contacts with the East Bloc missions, frozen out of Casa Rosada and not trusted by his coworkers.
Clearly we must take into account Suslov’s previous work, but we must also face the reality of a case officer who is a drain on station resources and patience. I think, at the least, serious consideration should be given to removing him from field duty and placing him on administrative rotation, till it can be determined if his decline is permanent.
On a personal note, I enjoyed our dinner last month in Lima and I believe you’re exactly right: while this much change at a station can be disruptive, it is also an opportunity to clear the deadwood and get on with the quality work I know Buenos Aires operations is capable of. I look optimistically forward to the challenge.
Fraternally,
George Pompian
Acting Station Chief, Buenos Aires
cc: Alan Dulles, DCI
February 28, 1957
Michael Suslov
Buenos Aires Station
This letter is to notify you that the attached reprimand has been placed in your service folder for conduct unbecoming of an operational officer.
On the evening of February 18, 1957, during an embassy cocktail party welcoming the Mexican ambassador, you arrived an hour and a half late and in a clear state of intoxication. After showing gross inattention to the Ambassador’s remarks, you, within clear earshot of several foreign missions, referred to several of your coworkers as CIA case officers. You then spilled a drink on the Mexican Ambassador before abruptly leaving.
Such behavior is a clear violation of both the letter and spirit of operational conduct and a gross abuse of your position as an officer in clandestine intelligence.
This letter will remain in your folder. A copy will be forwarded to the DDP’s office for any additional action.
Fraternally,
George Pompian
Station Chief, Buenos Aires
February 22, 1957
CONFIDENTIAL TO: Office of Security, CIA
FROM: Dr. Allen Silver, Department of Psychology
Psychological Exam of Michael Suslov
Please find enclosed my full evaluation. To summarize, subject is an individual under severe psychological trauma, manifesting in anti-social and paranoid behavior.
Though such traits are not completely uncommon in clandestine operations officers, it appears to have advanced to such a degree in subject that it’s difficult to imagine how, at this juncture, subject could continue to be considered a functional personality for such work. Recommendation is removal from all field operations and reassignment to Washington staff during aggressive treatment options listed within.
March 3, 1957
Michael Suslov
2801 Davis Avenue
Alexandria, Virginia
Allen Dulles
Director, Central Intelligence Agency
2430 E Street
Washington DC
Dear Sir,
I am writing this letter to tender my resignation from the Central Intelligence Agency, effective March 15, 1957. This seems to be the best solution for everyone involved, including, perhaps, even myself.
Fraternally,
Michael Suslov
1962
June 1, 1970
15.
Former president Aramburu thought, This room is not so unlike the room of my youth. The narrow concrete floor, flaky plaster wall. The tick of heat withdrawing off a corrugated metal roof. The former president was a moody child, or so his father once told him, but he remembered those days fondly, as he remembered few other things in his long, tired life.
He hadn’t heard a car pass for several minutes, and that meant he was in an outer barrio. The only light fixture was an oil lamp, which meant he must be in one of the poorer ones too. Probably the north. They always seemed, these people, to come from the north.
He was tied to the chair such that it was difficult to look at anything but the faces sitting directly opposite, of which there were three. Just as well; what glimpses he’d managed of himself revealed only spattered blood…
The Fat One, nervous, whose knuckles were surely wrecked by now—and why didn’t he put on gloves?—was on his feet again. He was young—they were all young, these college shits—with the body of a man but the swagger of a cruel child. His face was close, breath ferocious with garlic. “Where is she?”
You’d think he’d have gotten bored of the words by now.
“I don’t know.”
“Liar!”
Another crack to the numbed, swollen side of his face and he tasted blood, but he was old and bled easily. So predictable, these fiery children. So unskilled. What was one more crack to a destroyed face?
The Fat One stepped back, shook his knuckles in agony, then savagely kicked at the prisoner. A surprised blast of pain shot up former president Aramburu’s leg. As the tears cleared from his eyes he thought, That’s the idea, kid.
The Short One was up now, waving the gun around like a second phallus. He jammed its stubby barrel against one of Aramburu’s pulpy hematomas and gushed stupidly, “You think we’re kidding? You think I won’t do it, old man? You think I won’t blow your fucking head off? I’ve used this, old man. Used it plenty.”
And every time a blast of drunken fury from a moving car. How is it now, college boy? How is it close up, looking into eyes ready and bored?
“Where is she!”
Sigh. “I don’t know.” Ironically it was, after a fashion, the truth.
“You were president! You were in charge! You were president!”
President. Yes. Just for a moment a long moment ago. The carnival geek left with Perón’s rubble piled to the moon and just a broom to sweep it up with. A couple of strokes with that broom and he was gone, another turn in the endless Casa Rosada revolving door. In that time he had never asked. Never wanted to know.
“No one knew.” He hated the way his voice sounded. Sloppy and toothless. “She just disappeared. You don’t know what it was like in those days.”
“You expect us to believe that? Answer me!”
“I don’t care what you believe, Little Man.” A calculation and it almost worked. The Short One blanched and shook and stuck the quivering barrel in his eye. “You’re dead, man! Dead!” But in the end he hesitated, the fury dropped, and he was just another fool too close to his mortality.
Aramburu concentrated and managed his absolutely last smile.
“Carlos. Martin. Get out.” It was the Third One, speaking for the first time. The other two lingered, resistant, and the voice steadied with ice beyond its years. “Get out. Now.”
So they were alone, he and this calm, young voice that was clearly more than some collegiate firebrand. He rose now, medium height, and paced around Aramburu without hurry. This was no city boy, either. “Senor Presidente…” The voice was slippery gravel. His pace was unhurried and his feet, though clad in loafers, carried the unmistakable weight of a life in country boots. He crouched at Aramburu’s eye level. “You know we must have Her. You know what She means to us.”
His hair was reddish, his eyes full of the calm emptiness of a boy who was never a boy, living his existence now on
the last mile of life. A scar ran from ear to ear on his neck. “And I believe you when you say you cannot tell us.”
The young man walked back to the table, picked up the curved blade of a gaucho facón, and Aramburu smiled.
Argentina had never developed a myth of the heartland. Like its topsy-turvy place on the globe, this topsy-turvy culture invested all value in urban Porteño values. The countryside was a hostile, brutal place; its people, their gaucho cowboy tradition, despised.
Aramburu stared at the ruined young man before him, holding the symbol of his humiliated class, and now understood. It was not the urban spoiled but the pampas, Her pampas, that would rise against his Porteño universe to claim Her missing crown. And something untamed in Aramburu sucked deeply on that revelation.
“What is your name, young man?” Aramburu managed through a shattered face.
“Alejandro.”
“Did you love Her?”
“Above all others.”
“Such a love I have never known.”
“I pity thee.”
“And I admire thee.”
The feeling was not unpleasant, like the stroke of a lover’s fingernail, as Alejandro cut the former president’s throat ear to ear.
16.
A memory:
The air was serrated that first night she came to him. So silent, his father never stirred. So dark, her Indian hair, Indian stillness, waiting over the boy’s cot as a vision, willing him to wake, whispering, “Shh, Alejandro, it is your mother. Come with me.”
As a boy does in dreams, he released his will to her, finding himself in trousers and country boots, gliding now in the tow of this raven image, away from his father’s shack, past the corral where his father broke horses for the estancia, down the gravel path and into the sighing grass of the plain. When they were far from the village and the light on their skins was the frosty rippling of stars, this woman he had never before seen held his hands and knelt down to him, for he was only seven.
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