Pay Any Price

by Ted Allbeury

  Marcello was known as “The Little Man.” He was 5 ft 4 in, but he was described by the Director of the New Orleans Crime Commission as “one of the two or three most sinister figures in the history of organized crime.” When pressed, the Director would name Santos Trafficante as one of the other two. The official estimate was that Marcello’s syndicate, based in New Orleans, was taking in over a billion dollars annually.

  An early conviction on narcotics charges had made him shun all publicity and public appearances, but he was feared and respected by his associates in the mob. And others too. His patronage was extensive, and on his occasional brushes with the law the New Orleans Crime Commission had made a list of those who had actually sought clemency on his behalf. The list included one sheriff, one state legislator, two former state police commanders, one union president, one bank president, one former assistant district attorney, three insurance agencies, five realtors, five physicians, one funeral director and six clergymen.

  On 4 April 1961, Marcello made a routine visit to the New Orleans Immigration Department. And there, on the personal orders of Bobby Kennedy, he was seized, handcuffed and rushed to the airport. The only passenger on a government jet, he was flown to Guatemala.

  The deportation itself was bad enough but such public humiliation of a Mafia boss was intolerable.

  Trafficante’s friend, Rubinstein, raised the 25,000 dollars it took to get Trafficante out of the Cuban jail, and he was back in the United States after only six months imprisonment. Marcello, too, was back in Florida from Guatemala. The private plane that brought him back illegally had landed on Marcello’s three thousand acre estate outside New Orleans, and that was where the first meeting took place, in an old shack used as a hunting lodge far away from all other buildings.

  Untypically indiscreet, Marcello talked openly about the Mafia’s mounting misfortunes. The tremendous financial losses now that Cuba was closed to them, and the determined attack by the Attorney-General, Bobby Kennedy. The subject of the meeting was the damage being done to the mobsters by the Kennedys and Castro.

  For once their roles were reversed, Marcello talking angrily and volubly, Trafficante drinking and listening. When eventually Marcello had talked himself to a standstill it was Trafficante’s turn. He leaned forward and tapped Marcello on the knee.

  “You get it the wrong way round, Carlos. First we hit Fidel. Then we hit that little sonofabitch in the White House. You wanna know why we do it that way, eh?”

  “Tell me.”

  “First is Fidel has cost us money. Real money. Kennedy is trouble but not bread. Second is we got help to hit Castro. Real help. The kind we need.”

  “Like what?”

  Trafficante smiled. “Like the CIA, my friend.”

  “Sure. And the US Fifth Cavalry and the Marines.”

  Trafficante leaned back in his comfortable chair, a tolerant smile on his face.

  “I’m telling you. It’s true. I’ve talked to ’em. They’re ready to do a deal.”

  “Why should they help us, for Christ’s sake?”

  “They want to knock off Castro just as much as we do. It’s official government policy to bring him down. The CIA are putting together all sorts of operations. They’re waiting to meet us.”

  “When can we talk with them?”

  “Next week. I’ve fixed a meeting for next weekend starting Friday night. At the Fontainebleau. How about it?”

  “It’s OK by me. So long as you’re sure it’s not some trap by those bastards in Washington.”

  Trafficante laughed softly. “Believe me, these CIA boys feel the same way about those sonsofbitches in the White House as we do. We ain’t the only ones who’re suffering withdrawal symptoms.”

  Trafficante had booked four suites and six double rooms at the Fontainebleau in Miami, and had gone there on the Thursday night to check that everything was satisfactory. His own man had checked every room for electronic bugs and had declared them clean.

  Shrewd and street-smart as he was, Trafficante didn’t know that the apparently accidental meeting with his CIA contact had been no accident. The original meetings with the CIA about possible cooperation with the Mafia in the assassination of Castro had been at the highest level. Allen Dulles, head of the CIA, had attended at least one such meeting himself. But it was decided that they should contact the Mafia only through an intermediary.

  The man they chose as intermediary was Robert Maheu who had once been an FBI agent in Chicago. He had cooperated once before with the CIA, helping with an operation that produced a faked sex film that successfully compromised a foreign government minister. Maheu was now working full time for the Texan billionaire Howard Hughes. It was Maheu who had contacted Trafficante.

  The talking was cautious on the Friday evening. They were sniffing round one another like strange dogs, testing and probing, uneasy, but eager to make progress. Both sides looking for proof of good faith but not finding it. Neither side had much experience in either practising or evidencing good faith. But early on the Saturday evening the dam was broken, and the declarations made. A group inside the CIA wanted Castro killed. The Mafia wanted him killed. The CIA were prepared to supply money, training, skills and facilities. Maheu shrugged as he finished saying his piece.

  “You’ll have to make your minds up by tomorrow or just go it alone, gentlemen.”

  Trafficante, as the CIA’s apparent sponsor, felt it incumbent upon himself to put up some resistance to show his loyalty to the mob.

  “What kind of money are we talking about, Bob?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Marcello chipped in. “What kind of MO have you guys got in mind?”

  Maheu shrugged his indifference. “Any way you want. Poison, explosives, a marksman maybe.”

  Maheu sat patiently as the Mafia men threw various names around until he deemed it tactically sensible to push them on.

  “We can supply a marksman. Somebody who can’t be identified with us or you.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I can’t give his name at this stage. But he’s known to one of your people.”

  “Who is it knows him?”

  “A guy named Rubinstein. Runs a night-club in Dallas.”

  Marcello spread out his hands. “For God’s sake, Bob. He’s just a bum. He owes money everywhere.”

  “He’s not doing the job, Mr. Marcello. I only mentioned him to show that the man we have in mind is known to one of your operators.”

  “Who is this guy? Tell us something about him.”

  Maheu smiled. “He’s a nutter. He’ll do anything we tell him to do.”

  “Your people got some kind of hold on him?”

  “Kind of.”

  “How do we get him over there?”

  “He’ll go from Mexico City.”

  “Why there?”

  “The Russians control visas to Cuba. Our guy’s got a Russian connection. They’ll let him through.”

  “And afterwards?”

  Maheu grinned. “Maybe you’ll have someone else you’d like to knock off.”

  For long moments the room was silent. Maheu avoided looking directly at the Mafia men. It was Trafficante who broke the silence.

  “Are we both thinking of the same guy, Bob?”

  Maheu nodded, but all he said was, “Same name, anyway.”

  Trafficante reckoned that was good enough. He turned to look at Marcello, who nodded. John Roselli, who had barely spoken, nodded too.

  “OK, Bob. It’s a deal. When do we start?”

  “How about next Monday? We’ll meet in Chicago. I’ll contact you both. We’ll meet at the Holiday Inn at Mart Plaza. When I phone I’ll just give a time and a day. I’ll bring along three, maybe four guys. I’ll introduce you with cover names and they’ll have cover names too. OK?”

  The three Mafia men nodded and Marcello stood up and walked with Maheu to the door.

  “OK. What happened when you got in the launch?”

  “We went out
to the big white boat. Up the steps and the two men came with me. We went down some steps inside the boat into a cabin.”

  “What did it look like, the cabin?”

  “It was big with white Formica panelling.” She screwed up her face and shivered.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “When they fought the blood was all over the white panels. It was like one of those modern paintings when they just splash paint on the canvas.”

  “You said the key word that I gave you?”

  “Yes, that’s what made them fight.”

  “What was the key word?”

  She frowned and then looked at his face apprehensively. “I can’t remember.”

  “OK. That’s fine, Nancy. Just lie back and relax. Good girl. Now listen carefully … close your eyes … when you wake up you won’t remember anything about your trip. You won’t remember that you even went away … you won’t remember anything about the last week … it will all go completely from your mind … when you wake up you’ll forget about Nancy Rawlins … I’ll count to ten and then you’ll wake up … one, two … three … slowly … four … five … you’re feeling fine … six … seven … opening your eyes … good, good … eight, nine … ten. Now you’re Debbie Shaw, feeling nice and relaxed.”

  6

  On 12 November 1963 Boyd took Patsy Schultz and the two girls to the White House. He had got the invitation through the good offices of the Embassy which had been issued a quota of tickets because the Black Watch pipe band was one of the main attractions.

  Mrs. John F. Kennedy was playing hostess to two thousand underprivileged children on the White House lawn and as the children devoured an estimated ten thousand cakes and drank two hundred gallons of cocoa the Black Watch pipes and drums skirled their way through “Scotland the Brave,” “I love a lassie” and a dozen well-known ballads and marches that were part of the standard repertoire of the 42nd of Foot.

  There were few adults there who were not moved by the poignancy of watching the efforts of the chic and pretty hostess who only a few months before had buried her own prematurely born son, Patrick.

  They were all silent on the car ride home but when Boyd turned into their drive and stopped, Patsy leaned over and kissed him on the cheek and said softly, “That was something I won’t ever forget. She’s a real doll, that Jackie. Thank you, from all three of us.”

  Grabowski looked at the two men, trying to understand what went on in their minds. What motivated them apart from the money. Petersen he could understand. He liked the power and the secrets and all the paraphernalia of their operations. But Symons was different. Smooth and cool and competent, treating it all as if it were a genuine scientific experiment. His character was more forceful than Petersen’s, and it was Symons who could always over-ride Petersen when he raised problems of medical ethics. There was no doubt that Symons was the natural leader of the two. It was Symons he looked at as he started speaking.

  “Bring me up to date, but I don’t want all the medical stuff. Just the practicalities.”

  Symons nodded. “He’s ready, Ziggy. There’s been no problems. He’ll do what we want whenever we tell him to.”

  “What about the back-tracking operation?”

  Symons smiled. “They’d never unravel it, Ziggy. Not in a million years. We’ve covered all the Mexican bit. The Cuban Embassy, the Soviet Embassy. We’ve tied up New Orleans so that one lot will say he was pro-Castro and the others that he was rabidly anti-Castro.” Symons smiled a self-satisfied smile. “It’s like a million-piece jig-saw and none of it fits.”

  “What about our own cover?”

  “Almost nothing they could discover unless some idiot’s not destroyed what we’ve told them to destroy. We’ve wiped it all out and fed in some confusion as well. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Maybe you’ve covered too well and that could make them suspicious.”

  “The Mafia connection alone will keep any investigators happy for years.”

  “How many of the mob are involved?”

  “Five.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Trafficante, Marcello, Hoffa, Roselli and Giancana.”

  “You’re satisfied that they are secure?”

  “Absolutely. They know what would happen if they even looked like leaking.”

  “Are both of you giving him the final instructions?”

  “No. Just me. Pete has played no part in this particular operation.”

  Grabowski looked across at Petersen.

  “How about your man?”

  “He’s under control but I haven’t activated him yet.”

  Grabowski nodded. “OK, Petersen. No need for you to hang on here.”

  When Petersen had left, Grabowski sat on the edge of the operating table making himself comfortable before he looked back at Symons.

  “He hasn’t been told about the real target?”

  “No. It’s still Castro as far as he’s concerned. The current target has never been discussed. Not even mentioned.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Is there any way they could connect him with you?”

  “I’ve never met him in a public place. Except under hypnosis by me he would neither recognize me nor know me.”

  “What if somebody else hypnotized him?”

  “If they tried they’d fail. I’ve given him a solid block against hypnosis by anyone else. I’ve tested it and he wouldn’t go under. He couldn’t without my key-word.”

  “What’s the key-word?”

  “It’s better you don’t know, Ziggy. I’m not being cagey but it’s safer this way.”

  “So we come back to you, Tony. How secure are you?”

  “You’d better spell it out, Ziggy.”

  “You’ll be the only person who knows the whole scenario. Somebody could think it would be safer not to have you around.”

  Symons shook his head. “If anybody thought that, and did anything about it, the whole story would be with the media in a matter of hours. The CIA would be sunk without trace inside a month. And a lot of heads would get chopped. I’m not worried, Ziggy.”

  “What if you have an accident or die from natural causes?”

  Symons laughed softly. “Let’s just say that it would be embarrassing all round.”

  “How long does it take to activate him?”

  “Say fifteen seconds.”

  “Does it have to be face to face?”

  “No. He just has to hear the key.”

  “You’d better move down tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “Dallas.”

  Symons smiled. “At least it’ll be warm.”

  “It’ll be warm all right, in more ways than one.”

  “I’d like to ask you just one question, Ziggy. Would you answer it truthfully?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Try me.”

  “How far up the line to Langley does this thing go? Is it official or private enterprise?”

  Grabowski folded his arms across his big chest and the psychiatrist noted the defensive action. Grabowski was looking down to where his right foot was swinging slowly, and it seemed a long time before he looked up at Symons. His pale blue eyes looked strangely haunted.

  “You wanted the truth so I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t know the answer to your question. Obviously it isn’t official, but it ain’t unofficial either. Let’s just say that what started as private enterprise and the mob, has changed course and had a blind eye turned towards it.”

  “And a helping hand?”

  “Yep. And a helping hand. Several helping hands.”

  “Why, Ziggy?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Because a lot of people hate him and are scared of what he’s doing to their interests.”

  “Who’ve you got in mind?”

  “The FBI, the CIA, the mob, Castro, the KGB, the John Birches and all the other nutters.”

  “You told me
once that nutters was a word I shouldn’t use.”

  Symons shrugged. “OK. All the other psychopaths.”

  “How do you define a psychopath, Tony?”

  “You may not like the definition, Ziggy.”

  “I’m a big boy, Tony.”

  “A psychopath is someone with a defective conscience. With aggressive and irresponsible conduct, and a complete lack of regard for others. They seldom respond to medical treatment. They frequently pretend to regret what they have done, but in fact they are incapable of regret for their own behaviour.”

  “Sounds like you and me.”

  “Self-diagnosis can be dangerous.” Symons smiled. “I don’t recommend it for intelligence agents.”

  Grabowski eased his backside off the table and hitched up his trousers, his eyes still on Symons’ face. He said quietly, “The day after tomorrow, the twenty-second.”

  Symons nodded and smiled, but Grabowski saw the tension around the young man’s mouth.

  Governor Connolly of Texas was as handsome as any Hollywood actor, and his wife was handsome too. As the huge crowd in Dealey Plaza cheered and waved she turned in her seat to smile at the President as she said, “Mr. Kennedy, you can’t say Dallas doesn’t love you.”

  Seconds later the shots rang out in rapid succession and the President lurched in his seat, both hands grasping frantically at his throat and he said, “My God, I’m hit.” His voice seemed to rise in surprise rather than fear or pain, and then there were more shots. Governor Connolly screamed as a shot hit him. The President was knocked violently backwards, a rainbow of blood, brain tissue and bone around his head. Jackie Kennedy reached out her arms to her husband and said “Oh Jack …” She turned to look at the others. “They’ve killed my husband.” And she held out her hand with tears in her eyes, like a child with a cut finger. “I have his brains on my hand.” She said it again and again.

  Boyd was reading through the routine statistical report prepared by the CIA. It was only marked “Secret” and there were several hundred recipients on the circulation list.