Goodbye cuba, p.9
Goodbye Cuba, page 9
“Before you take off,” said Charlie, “what is Flavio’s real name?”
“You ask too many questions, kid,” he said in his deep slow voice. “Flavio’s name is a secret. Just like this conversation is a secret. It never happened. If word gets back to me that you’ve talked about it to anybody, I will be unhappy. Very, very unhappy.”
He straightened up and put his fedora on top his head. “Right now I have to get over to the National Gallery.”
Although shaken by the warning, Charlie couldn’t help but smile at the idea of Meyer Lansky visiting an art museum. “The National Gallery?”
“Yeah. They’ve got busts of Homer that they’re selling for only $12.50. Get yourself some culture, kid. It’ll make your life better.”
Charlie smiled as he watched the man leave the deli. Meyer had given Charlie a brilliant idea
11
Week of August 19, 1962
Tysons Corner, Virginia
When Charlie entered Bishop’s dingy Tysons Corner shop Monday morning, Gordon and Wolsey were sitting by the wall, staring vacantly into space. Wolsey, Charlie noted, had ears so big they stuck out like megaphones. Bishop sat at a desk, rolling back and forth over a patch of faded and cracked linoleum, grimacing each time the wheels got stuck. He waved a copy of The Washington Post in front of the lieutenant’s face the moment he sat down.
An unidentified gunman fired two shots on the National Mall Friday afternoon. There were no injuries, and police have no indication of the shooter’s motive.
Witnesses reported seeing a man walk toward a motor scooter driven by a second man. They headed up Madison Drive to 14th Street and then across the Potomac, where they disappeared. The abandoned scooter was later found by the Alexandria police in a vacant parking lot.
Washington Police are asking that anybody who witnessed the event call them with any information they may have.
“I know,” said Charlie with a glum look. “I screwed up, but I don’t know how. I’ve replayed this in my mind a dozen times, and I still can’t recall a single person watching when I set up for my shot. I don’t know how anybody saw it.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Bishop advised. He seemed to relax once Charlie admitted something had gone wrong. He pointed out that Charlie had succeeded in putting both bullets into the trap and gotten away. He, along with Gordon and Wolsey, had been scrutinizing everything Charlie did, and they also hadn’t spotted anybody watching. Maybe a cop just drove down 14th Street at the wrong moment. You can’t control everything, but in the last analysis, he and Flavio had pulled it off.
“Do you think you’re ready for Cuba?” said Bishop.
“I have some questions,” said Charlie “Number one is blending in. At Quantico, they stressed that you have to blend into the environment and make yourself invisible. How is a tall, pale guy like me, with a limp, going to blend in as a Cuban?”
“You’re not going to. You’ll have a cover.”
Bishop paused for Charlie to ask about the cover, but Charlie sat and waited.
“You’re going to be a newspaper reporter for The Irish Times doing stories on the accomplishments of the Castro regime. You’ll be one of their stringers.”
“What’s a stringer?”
“You’ll find out next week when you take a crash course on reporting. Then you’re off to Dublin to meet your contact. Since he owes us a favor, he was glad to take you on. If he can edit any of your dispatches into something publishable, it’ll be a feather in his cap. And as far as your limp goes, it’s an asset. Castro’s security police won’t look twice at a guy with a limp. It will also help with your getaway. As soon as you’ve finished your job, you’ll put on a special pair of shoes we’ll make to even out your footsteps. While they’re out searching for somebody hobbling around, you’ll walk away just like a normal guy.”
Charlie snarled. “I’ve got news for you, Walter. I am a normal guy. It’s you guys blackmailing people into doing your dirty work who aren’t normal.”
The CIA agent stayed stone-faced.
“Besides, Walter, my clothes all have American tags. Any cop who looks at them will know I’m not Irish.”
“That’s why you’re going to Dublin first. Your contact there will help you buy an Irish wardrobe.”
“However, he won’t be able to give me an Irish accent or give me a feel for what it’s like to be Irish. How is any of this going to fool the Cubans?”
“Do you really think Castro’s goons can recognize an Irish accent? You’re going to pose as the great-nephew of an historic Irish revolutionary, and that’ll be enough for them. For icing on the cake, while you’re in Dublin, wander around the city and gather impressions about places you can mention to the Cubans.”
He held out an Irish passport with Charlie’s photo but made out in the name of Michael Collins, born in Cork, in 1939. Charlie scowled.
“So you just dreamed up this person and forged a passport?”
“Of course not. He’s an actual person born in Cork in 1939. Just in case anybody checks it out, we want it to be authentic. And he was quite willing to let us use his name.”
“Let me guess. He owed you a favor.”
Bishop chuckled. “Sort of. We paid off a gambling debt for him.”
“What if he can’t keep his mouth shut? Nobody’s going to resist telling his friends that the CIA used his name on a forged passport in exchange for getting his debts paid.”
“He thinks it was the Irish Republican Army, the IRA. No Irishman who wants to stay healthy is going to talk about them forging a passport.”
“I thought the IRA was dead.”
“Just dormant. You worry too much,” said Bishop. “Everything is going to work out. Do you know anything about the real Michael Collins?”
“Very little.”
“He led the move for Irish Independence forty to fifty years ago. He was tall, just like you. He was so tall, they called him ‘the big fellah,’ and he practically invented guerrilla warfare. The Cubans are going to love the idea of his great-nephew touting their revolution for a newspaper from a country that gave the finger to the British a long time ago.”
“Walter, this is so off-the-wall it doesn’t make sense.”
“The trap shot probably didn’t make sense to you either. But you followed our instructions and pulled it off. Why do you think it won’t work this time? We’ve done this kind of thing before, and it always works.”
“If it always works, then why is Castro still alive?”
Bishop pounded his fist on the dingy desk. “Nobody involved in those attempts ever got caught. And you won’t be caught either. The big difference is that you’re going to succeed. No success, no big reward.” He narrowed his eyes. “And if you fuck it up on purpose, you and you father will be in deep shit.”
Big reward if I succeed; deep shit if I cop out. Charlie slapped the dashboard of the Corvette as he drove back to his apartment in Arlington County. What an asshole, that Bishop! If in fact his name is Bishop. Charlie pulled off the street into a strip mall parking lot, stopped at a pay phone, and dialed the number of his old office. He asked for Delroy Brown, the trusted platoon sergeant who had served under him at Arlington Hall Station.
“Virginia plate, number A 312 279?” repeated Delroy.
“Yes,” said Charlie. “Tell them you’re checking a security detail for army intelligence. But don’t call my home phone. It’s bugged. I’ll call you back.”
12
Week of September 16, 1962
Rosslyn, Virginia
For weeks, Vanessa had fended off Charlie’s requests to visit the West Wing. She hadn’t opposed the idea at first. Charlie was a good-looking guy, and it might be fun to show him off. But now that she’d slept with the president, she couldn’t possibly let Charlie into the West Wing. What would happen if their paths crossed?
The problem was that Charlie kept coming up with new reasons why she should give him a tour. She laughed at the latest scheme he’d concocted. He laid it out for her one night after they had arrived at her apartment in Rosslyn, VA.
“You’re telling me,” she said, her eyes opening wide, “that because you and the president are both Irish-Catholic, you want to see the West Wing?”
“Yes,” he said. “He’s our first Irish-Catholic president.”
“I’ve never heard you talk much about being Irish.”
“I don’t like to brag.”
She rolled her eyes. “So far as being Catholic, you haven’t gone to Mass during the entire time I’ve known you.”
“So I’m not fanatic about it. What difference does that make? If the president were an Argentine immigrant, wouldn’t you want to see the West Wing?”
Vanessa decided to seek permission for Charlie’s visit from the most forbidding White House official she could think of. Then when she brought the rejection back to Charlie, he would stop bothering her about it. And as she made her request, Kenneth O’Donnell sat stern-faced at his desk, arms folded across his chest and the president’s official portrait on the wall behind him. “By all means.” He smiled. “Have Miss Flanagan put him on the list of visitors.”
That evening she coached Charlie on the visit. “Wear your uniform,” she instructed him. “The president tends to like military officers—as long as they’re not generals or admirals.”
“I’m going to meet the president?” His eyes widened.
“No! But the president’s likes and dislikes filter down to everyone else.”
She spread a set of photographs on the kitchen table. “Here are some people you might run into. I want you to recognize them so you’ll know who’s who. You shouldn’t say anything inappropriate to any of them.”
“Where’d you get these photos?”
“I borrowed them my first day on the job so I could study them. I wanted to be able to recognize the main people by sight so I didn’t make any mistakes. Now this,” she said, pointing down, “is my boss, Mr. Sorensen. He goes all the way back to Kennedy’s first days in the Senate ten years ago. He writes most of his speeches. Next to his brother, the president trusts him more than anybody else. He’s nice, but he’s very introverted. So don’t start any conversations with him.”
“Who can I start conversations with?”
“Nobody.” She pointed to a second photo. “This is Mrs. Lincoln. She’s also been with him since the Senate. She’s loyal, and she’s a tough bird. When he decided to run for president, she was recovering from a medical problem, and he wanted to dump her for someone who would have more stamina.”
“But he didn’t.”
“Word is he sent an aide to ask for her resignation. She supposedly replied, ‘If he wants me to resign, let him tell me himself.’”
“It appears he didn’t do it,” said Charlie.
“It’s a weird thing,” said Vanessa. “He’s ruthless at cutting off old friends and old contacts who aren’t useful to him anymore. Apparently, there was a big flap last spring when he cut off Frank Sinatra. But he can’t personally fire any of his employees.”
She pointed to another photo, of a black-haired stern-faced man. “But Kenneth O’Donnell can. So don’t do anything to upset him. He’s been with the Kennedys ever since he and Bobby went to college together. He pretty much runs the White House.”
Charlie pointed at the pile of photos. “Which one is the national security advisor?”
She pulled up the photo showing McGeorge Bundy with a receding hairline and plastic-framed glasses. “You don’t want to talk to him either. Even if he starts the conversation.”
“Why not?”
“He’s arrogant.” She turned up her nose. “Your work deals with Latin America, and he has no respect for those of us who are Latinos or those like you who work on Latin America. He once said about people like us, ‘Second rate minds deal with second rate problems.’”
“Well,” said Charlie, “better I should be a person with a second-rate mind than a person who’s a first-rate asshole.”
Vanessa stomped her foot on the floor. “Do you see why I don’t want you talking to anybody there? If you say something like that to any of these people, I’ll be put out on the street the next day.”
13
Week of September 16
The White House
Charlie wore a freshly pressed khaki uniform when he showed up at the West Wing entrance the next morning, his garrison cap folded over his belt. Vanessa walked up to him, looking even more stunning than usual, in a white cashmere sweater and a tight, tweed skirt he had not seen before.
“Don’t expect too much,” she warned him as she led him into the building. “This is just like any other office. I need to run you by the president’s secretary, Mrs. Lincoln, who is a command post for everything that goes on here.”
On the way to Mrs. Lincoln’s desk, Charlie spotted Tom McGillivray, whom he remembered from the day McGillivray and Bishop had recruited him. McGillivray followed a man Charlie recognized as Ted Sorensen into the Cabinet Room. For a brief second, Charlie and McGillivray locked eyes.
“Is that an Operation Mongoose meeting?” Charlie whispered to Vanessa and pointed to the men going into the Cabinet Room.
Her mouth dropped open in horror. “How did you know that? You’re not supposed to know about that.”
“It’s something my Cubans talk about.”
“Well, don’t ever say that again,” she warned, lowering her voice. “They’ll think you got it from me, and I’ll be out of a job.”
She introduced him to Evelyn Lincoln, but they were interrupted before they could do any more than say hello. A pert, young, redheaded woman came out of the Cabinet Room and told Vanessa that Ted Sorensen needed something from her immediately. “I’ll escort your lieutenant to the Fish Room, Vanessa, and keep him company there until you come out.”
She took him by the arm and headed away from Lincoln’s desk. As they walked, they passed two young women who smiled at Charlie. One said to the other, “Now that’s a good-looking boyfriend. If it was me, I would have stuck with him.” She spoke just loud enough that Charlie could overhear.
His redheaded escort marched him into the Fish Room and seated him at the end of a long shiny table. A portrait of Franklin Roosevelt hung across from Charlie, a huge grandfather clock stood in a corner, and behind Charlie, a huge sailfish was mounted on the wall. She served them each coffee in a China cup with a small presidential seal. Then, pulling out a chair from the side of the polished table, she sat primly erect.
Troubled by what he had heard, Charlie asked, “What did that girl mean, ‘she would have stuck with me?’”
“Oh, dear,” said the redhead, her smiled disappearing. “I don’t think she meant for you to hear that.”
“But I did hear it, and so did you. What did she mean?”
“Lieutenant, please don’t put me in the middle of that. It would be better for you to talk with Vanessa.”
Charlie’s face flushed at the implication of what he had just heard. His eyes hardened as he said, “Who?”
The redhead continued looking Charlie in the eye. But she said nothing.
“Dave Powers?”
She shook her head no.
“Ted Sorensen?”
“Good God, no!” said the woman. “He’s so straitlaced, even Marilyn Monroe wouldn’t have been able to get a rise out of him. Not even if she had dressed in a tight gown and sung Happy Birthday to him.”
“Then who?” he demanded, raising his voice again.
“Lieutenant, keep your voice down, and stop badgering me.”
But she let her eyes drift back through the entrance to the Fish Room. Charlie followed her gaze out of the Fish Room toward a door to the Oval Office that Vanessa had pointed out earlier.
“Oh my god,” he whispered hoarsely. “Get me out of here.”
“Wait, Lieutenant. Give her a chance to explain.”
“I’d explode if I talked to her right now. Please, just get me out of here.”
He stopped at a Virginia liquor store on the way home to his apartment. Knowing very little about liquor, he bought a fifth of the only brand he could think of, Jim Beam. He poured a glassful and set it on the end table by his sofa while he went into the bedroom to change from his army uniform to civilian dress. As he finished, the phone rang. It was Bishop.
“What the hell were you doing at the White House? Don’t you know you could compromise this whole operation doing something like that? How the hell could a guy as smart as you do something so stupid?”
When Bishop calmed down enough to listen, Charlie explained that his girlfriend had invited him over to show off her new job as Sorensen’s typist.
“She went into the Cabinet Room to check something with Sorensen, and that’s when I made eye contact with your pal McGillivray sitting by the windows. But don’t worry about it. I won’t be going back. We’re breaking up.”
“Why?”
The phone Charlie held to his ear was starting to annoy him. Standing up while he held the phone annoyed him. And above all, Bishop’s voice annoyed him. He snapped into the phone, “Never mind. It’s personal.”
“Don’t be too hasty about breaking up, Charlie. Every relationship has its ups and downs. Give yourself a chance to patch it up. It might be useful for us to have a connection to Sorensen’s typist.”
“A connection!” Charlie shouted into the phone. “She might have pissed me off, but if you think I’m going to spy on her, forget it.”
“All I’m saying is don’t do anything rash. You’ve already got plenty to worry about, and you don’t need the distraction of a romantic breakup.”
