Blackford went to his typewriter: “Dear Comandante Che: Reluctant as I am to leave my Walden Pond, I can console myself that, in your hands, we can pursue our mission, which of course includes your familiarization course in the horrors of capitalism. We shall expect you at approximately two. Caimán.” He showed it to Velasco, put it in an envelope, addressed it to Guevara, and left it on the table, to give to Bustamente when he arrived.
The Swiss ambassador, Guy de Keller, greeted Velasco courteously and efficiently. “Do you have credentials, Mr. Velasco?”
Velasco produced his passport. “Only this. We are here on a mission. You can corroborate this by making an inquiry directed to this number”—Velasco scratched out the frequency in the 14 megahertz band. M. de Keller took the piece of paper, depressed a button on his telephone console, and directed his secretary to send in the radio operator. When the elderly technician appeared, Velasco was surprised that he spoke to the ambassador in Spanish. The ambassador handed him the sheet of paper on which Velasco had set down the data. “Verify an Okay-to-Transmit on Mr. Cecilio Velasco.”
“Desde luego, Excelencia.”
Velasco noticed the Castilian “excelen-thia.” The radio operator was clearly from Spain.
During the interval, M. de Keller sounded like a roundup of world news. It was a convenient way to fill the time without engaging his visitor in conversation neither of them desired. Khrushchev had exploded his 50-megaton bomb and now there was talk of exploding a 100-megaton bomb … Khrushchev had also announced that he would not restrict his nuclear testing to the atmosphere. He said that nuclear tests would only be ended on the basis of “total disarmament.” President Kennedy meanwhile had rejected the proposal of President Sukarno of Indonesia that a fresh summit conference with Khrushchev should be held. “It’s too soon after the Berlin Wall,” M. de Keller soliloquized. President Kennedy had assured South Vietnam that the United States would aid it in its defense against intensified guerrilla campaigns launched by the communist Vietcong forces. “And quite right,” said M. de Keller. The communists had meanwhile seized border areas in Laos. The President had been asked whether U.S. troops might go to Vietnam, and had replied that his verdict on that question would have to await a report from General Maxwell Taylor, whom he was sending to Vietnam in order to conduct a reconnaissance. But General Taylor had said that he would not recommend United States troops “unless absolutely necessary.” On the other hand, said the ambassador, the Washington Post had carried a story on October 7 that the Administration had definitely decided to send U.S. combat and training formations to communist-threatened areas of Southeast Asia as required. This was denied by a State Department press officer. But reports from SEATO nations were to the effect that the U.S. had made “definite commitments” to military intervention and communicated that decision at the alliance’s military advisers’ meeting in Bangkok last week … In about fifteen minutes his phone rang. De Keller listened, and said, “Bueno.
“You are cleared for transmission, Mr. Velasco. Now if you will give the message directly to the operator he will use the United States code, which we regularly use by arrangement with the Cuban Government and have been doing ever since we took over responsibility for official Cuba–U.S. transmissions. It is secure, and, besides, is changed every two weeks.”
It occurred to Velasco suddenly to ask whether the operator was secure, but he swallowed the words as a clear affront on Swiss professionalism.
The ambassador led him to a room on the third floor. He opened the door into the office of Pedro Nogales, whom he now introduced to Cecilio Velasco. In Spanish he instructed Nogales to oblige Mr. Velasco, who was in Havana on official U.S.–Cuban business.
Velasco took the typewritten letter from his coat pocket and gave it to Nogales. “I do not know English,” Nogales said, “but that does not matter. The one perquisite of the operator is that all he needs to do is get the individual letters right! The message will be received in Washington within five minutes.” Velasco thanked him and told him he would be coming by every day or so to receive messages from the same source to which he was directing this message. Nogales said he was glad to oblige. They shook hands, and Velasco left.
Within twenty minutes Velasco, who on the brief ride had looked about greedily on the bustling streets of Havana, was back in his eremitical cottage.
In one hour Che Guevara sat with Catalina, studying a Xerox sheet. He said to her, pronouncing the English words, “What exactly does it mean, ‘Will he play … Can he play’?”
Catalina explained.
Sixteen
At the ending of the meeting of the National Security Council, the President signaled to his new intelligence chief to stay behind. After the others had left the Situation Room the President said, “Congratulations, John. I assume it was you who got Castro excommunicated. The outside world never fully realizes what we Catholics can accomplish when we put our minds to it.”
McCone laughed. “Yes, nice break. It will help in Latin America. I got to say, Mr. President, that was an incredibly dumb thing Castro did, deporting one hundred and thirty-five priests and putting some bishops in jail. I don’t understand why the Commies do things they simply don’t need to do.”
“John, if you had said that to the Senate committee, you would never have been confirmed. A totalitarian does things because he feels a compulsion to do things that stick it”—the President made the appropriate gesture with the middle finger of his right hand—“to the other side, even to their icons. You can’t believe in both Christ and Castro, so clamp down on the people who prefer God.”
“There are other ways of accomplishing the same thing without torturing priests. But—with due reservation over taking pleasure in the threat to anyone’s immortal soul—it was a great break for us.”
“Is the USIA playing it up?”
“Mr. President! You wouldn’t ask the Director of the CIA what the USIA was up to? We don’t monitor the USIA. That would be against the spirit of the law.”
“I can’t imagine it would break any spirit of any law I ever heard of if you called Ed Murrow and asked him if he was playing up the excommunication of Castro in broadcasts to Latin America.”
“Fiat voluntas tua.”
“What’s that?”
“Evidently something they didn’t teach you at Choate.”
Kennedy gave his little chuckle. “You mackerel-snappers will never forgive those of your fellow communicants who weren’t forced to study Latin.”
“Those of us who were forced to study our Latin were told to forgive everyone everything—sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. I meant, Thy will be done. I’ll check on the USIA.”
“Good. But what I really meant to ask you was, what in the hell is going on with that whole Guevara-Oakes business? Bring me up to date.”
“The nut of it is that Che Guevara continues to be very much taken by pretty much the same deal he described to Goodwin. Oakes suspects that Guevara is out of sympathy with the day-to-day march by Castro into the hands of Khrushchev. Guevara is very frank with Oakes, but Oakes says he can’t tell exactly whether Che is just letting off steam. And Oakes reports that there never was a more convinced communist with a small ‘c.’ Apparently Guevara even argues with Castro. It seems to me Cuba has gone pretty far with Moscow to take the kind of turn Guevara described to Goodwin.”
“Any chance of Guevara’s coming out on top?”
“No. There’s no chance of anybody other than Castro holding down the number one spot. Only Castro has whatever it is he has.”
“Charisma. Did you know I have charisma too? Jackie says the Ladies’ Home Journal says I have charisma.”
“Of course. Isn’t that why the CIA provides a secret subsidy to the Ladies’ Home Journal?”
The President chuckled again. “So if the deal plays, it’s got to get Castro’s backing. Are you saying it’s impossible to get that backing?”
“No. Just that it’s going to be ha
rd to do. It’s inconceivable Guevara would spend this much time on the whole thing except that he thinks there’s a chance it might fly. It would be the great diplomatic accomplishment of the decade if we would succeed in repatriating Cuba into the hemisphere. We could tolerate a socialist Cuba. Not a communist Cuba.”
“When you say we can’t ‘tolerate’ a communist Cuba, do you have any plans for preventing a communist Cuba, which is exactly what is shaping up right now?”
“Beyond the Guevara plan there is nothing on the table. Should there be?”
“Hell yes. If you say it’s intolerable, then we can’t tolerate it, right? So either say it’s tolerable after all, or tell me what we’re going to do to keep it from happening. What’s supposed to happen when popes anathematize somebody?”
“He goes up in smoke.”
“Good. Get good Pope John please to anathematize Castro.” The President rose, nodded his head and, scratch pad in hand, went out of the room. “See you later, John.”
Seventeen
Che Guevara was dressed exactly as he had been the day before, indeed probably in the same set of fatigues, Blackford thought, consulting his reservoir of information about him. Catalina, on the other hand, wore a skirt instead of yesterday’s pants: khaki-colored, to be sure, but well-fitting, and her white cotton shirt was braided with colored thread rising from waistline to schoolboy collar. Her hair looked freshly washed, and there was a touch of rose lipstick on her full lips. Blackford had wondered what kind of a vehicle Che would drive up in. It (or they) would need to be large enough for the two principals, the two interpreters, and however many others traveled with Che.
It turned out to be a Volkswagen bus. Or, rather, two; the bus behind them conveying the bodyguards. The day, benefiting from yesterday’s storm, was cooler, and Che Guevara was talkative.
He began by conceding immediately that the cars on Havana’s streets were neither numerous nor new. “We imported a few of your cars in 1960. Nothing since then. We have twenty thousand cars in Cuba that need American spare parts. We cannibalize and meet with some success. But I do not pretend it would not be helpful to be able to import parts if you lifted your imperialist embargo.”
Blackford was elated that Che had actually got back on track, consenting to talk on the subject that had prompted their meeting. He took him up immediately.
“That’s one of the things we’re here to—” But Che cut him off. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a cluster of buildings standing around a green quadrangle, boys and girls in blue cotton uniforms ambling about, an impromptu soccer game going on at one end, “is the Colegio San Juan. I mean, that used to be the Colegio San Juan. We have renamed it. It is now the Colegio Ciro Redondo. In honor of Ciro Redondo. Do you know who he was?”
“Of course.”
Che Guevara stopped, and turned his head inquisitively toward Blackford.
“Well then, tell me. Who was Ciro Redondo?”
Blackford half smiled, then closed his eyes in mock agony of concentration. He was seated on the right of the bus, by the window. A narrow aisle separated him from the seat opposite, occupied by Che. Behind Blackford was Cecilio, attending to his duties as interpreter, and behind Che sat Catalina doing the same thing for her principal. Blackford paused a tantalizing second, as if Che had called his bluff. And just as Che was about to exclaim on the subject of imperialist hypocrisy, Blackford said, “Ciro Redondo, the founder of the 26th of July Movement in Artemisa; one of the twelve survivors of the Granma expedition; a skillful young military commander who was killed fighting alongside you, Che, in November 1957 at Tocio; elevated posthumously to the rank of major.”
Che Guevara was at once impressed and disappointed. He looked hard at Blackford and whispered in Spanish to Catalina, something Velasco was not supposed to overhear. Blackford would find out later whether Che had succeeded.
“Anyway—at Colegio Ciro Redondo we have now the sons and the daughters of the poor. Before the revolution it was a preparatory school run by religious bigots for the sons of the rich.”
For the hell of it Blackford said, “Where do the sons of the rich go to school now?”
“Eton, Winchester, Groton, and Hotchkiss.”
Che is paying me back (Blackford attempted not to reward the riposte with a grin) for knowing about Ciro Redondo.
They were driving down Avenida Marianao, through what had obviously been a middle-class neighborhood. At first Blackford made no mention of the long lines outside the food stores, but his failing to note the lines finally itself became conspicuous. So: “There are many people in line. Shortages?”
“Not only shortages. There is rationing. And I expect you knew that. Any Yanqui who knows about Ciro Redondo, who has been dead for four years, knows we have had rationing for two months.” Blackford said nothing. And then decided that, once again, he would try to draw attention to the agenda.
“What will your sugar production be this year?”
“We don’t need American spare parts for our sugar production.”
“But how would you expect to pay for imported American goods?”
“We have, under socialism, cooperative ventures. There is no profit motive anymore, and for that reason we will be able to compete in world markets.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What does that mean, Uh-huh?” The Spanish version was heavily accented, and Che’s caricature added further flavor. “It means you do not believe me?”
“Che. I really don’t think we ought to get into that. The question is whether the United States will lift the embargo, and on what conditions. Not how you are going to pay for what you import. Not only are you expected to pay, you told Goodwin in Montevideo you would even be willing to compensate American owners for confiscated properties out of the profits of your trade with us.”
“Wait! Quiet for a moment!” Che commanded. “There you see a two-thousand-bed hospital under construction. It will be a great complex—hospital, medical college, research facilities. Of course these things cost money …” He paused, peering out the window of the bus.
“Ah yes, profits with which to pay the Yanquis, a problem. But a problem we propose to face up to. As you know, I have embarked Cuba on a program of industrialization. Cuba has been too long dependent on sugar. That will end, believe me. And that will end”—he had raised his voice—“whether the United States does or does not lift its embargo.”
“The United States is right here in the bus, willing to hear your proposals. For instance, how would you guarantee noninterference in the politics of governments in Latin America?”
“How would we guarantee it?” He puffed on his cigar, then flicked the stub out the window. “That is a silly question. There is no way we can ‘guarantee’ that our neighbors will not see the light. By the same token, presumably you would be free to reimpose your embargo if we were caught explicitly violating our promise. But you cannot expect us to help to repress revolutionary movements in Latin America, can you?”
Blackford thought the moment right to be tough. “Che, we are well situated to monitor the difference between indigenous revolutionary movements, and others that are—might be—cultivated.”
“How, ‘cultivated’?”
“We would not want Radio Havana preaching revolution. That would need to be a part of the agreement. And no Cuban economic credits could go out to revolutionary movements. And obviously no Cuban arms. Comprehensive neutrality.”
“Why should we be neutral since you are not neutral?”
“Because, Che, as of the moment, Cuba has”—he needed to be careful here—“become so heavily dependent on the Soviet Union that it is in the nature of things that interference by Cuba in the affairs of any Latin-American country becomes a Soviet operation. We would be no more concerned about the spread of Cuban socialism than we are by the spread of Ghanese socialism in Africa if it were not Moscow-oriented. I guess I ought to say that our concern would be platonic if it were just indigenous socialism.”<
br />
Surprisingly, Che said nothing. Neither about what Blackford had just finished saying nor about the Paseo del Prado, a broad street with palm trees and every few blocks a statue to—Blackford guessed—somebody heroic, though Castro-Cuban revisionism was running behind, and no doubt some of the equestrian bronze figures he passed had been sentenced to be court-martialed before the external pantheon of the new Cuba was regularized.
Occasionally there was a store, but most of these were closed; the others as ever characterized by people waiting to enter them, some of them reading books while standing in line, Blackford noticed.
Guevara suddenly pepped up. “We are coming now into Colón. And Zanja. They are very spirited parts of the city. The bohemian sections, where there is very much life. Much music, much gaiety. But with it, of course, many of the bad habits bred by capitalism.” He pointed to the numerous bars and cafés they passed by, and to larger establishments—nightclubs, perhaps. Brothels. Blackford drew a deep breath.
“This is where Operation P took place?”
“What do you know about Operation P?” Guevara puffed on his cigar, blowing it directly into Blackford’s face. Protest Operation P, you Yanqui bastard, he was challenging him, and fuck you. Blackford had to wait a second or two so as not to choke on the cigar smoke. He went on calmly, “I am referring to the night a couple of months ago when the police descended on Colón and on Zanja and rounded up the prostitutes and the pimps and the homosexuals. And herded them into prisons and detention centers, and made them dress in uniforms with a huge ‘P’ in back. ‘P’ for ‘pederast, prostitute, pimp.’”
See You Later, Alligator Page 12