Kittredge, I have not wanted to interrupt this story to dwell on the circumstances of the telling, but we did hear it up on the flying bridge of La Princesa. The rigging of our platform was creaking on every roll of the ship. Since Martínez had waited out the day in the Gulf Stream hoping Harvey would rescind his order to return and we could make another search for the men who were missing, it was late afternoon and we were getting low on gas before we turned north. The story was heard, therefore, at night. It is not difficult to visualize ghosts in these waters. As I listened, it occurred to me that our famous specter of the Keep, Augustus Farr, did perform his acts of piracy in the Caribbean, and I must say he now felt near to me, but then, I had not really slept in forty-eight hours.
Somewhat abruptly, Martínez concluded his tale. It seems Cubela told Martínez, “Do you know, one day I will kill Fidel Castro.”
I shall never comprehend Cubans. Even though Cubela now occupies a high position in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and would certainly have nothing to do with his old friend Martínez, “I am,” says Eugenio, “convinced that he will in fact terminate Fidel’s days on earth.”
We returned to Miami to discover that Harvey’s days here are numbered. It seems that in this last week, while Russian ships were approaching the line of our blockade, Harvey sent out sixty men to Cuba in different operations right in the teeth of Bobby Kennedy’s order to call off all raids.
Well, Harvey is of the old school: They call your bluff and double it. His hatred for the Kennedys—which up to now I have virtually spared you—has magnified so much in the last six months that he is beginning to see them as the root of all evil. I wish I could pretend this is his special aberration, but, in fact, a poisonous bile is circulating through JM/WAVE in reaction to the missile crisis. Our Cubans feel let down, and our own personnel are of the same mind. There is much talk that we were too easy on Castro and Khrushchev. As you may have gathered, there has always been loose talk about assassinating Castro; the Miami Cubans serve up the idea daily. The follow-up joke around here these days, however, is: “When does the elimination take place?” “Of whom, Fidel?” “No,” goes the reply, “Jack.”
Such sentiments represent a minority of the personnel at JM/ WAVE—we, like all other places in the Agency, do keep our midwestern Ph.D.’s with their wives, children, and threewheelers on the lawn, but, in truth, Kittredge, the mood is ugly. A lot of people say they were ready to go to war last week (especially now that they realize they don’t have to) but I know the intensity of the root feeling. In my small taste of combat (we had to evade some machine-gun fire) it felt exhilarating at the time. Now, however, I wake up angry many a night and want to fire back. If I feel thus warlike, be assured that others are raging.
In any event, Harvey not only broke Kennedy’s no-raid rule, but got caught. When Bobby queried Harvey directly, Wild Bill sent back the following memo: “Have complied with your directive, but three of my teams are beyond recall.”
That produced an incredible set-to at the next meeting of Excom. Harvey wrote a memo for his own files after it was over, and even ended up showing it to a few of the selected troops, including myself. He was so agitated that he actually was desirous of my reaction. The memo rambles and is full of the inner disturbance with which it was written, but, considering that Harvey does not come off well, I was able to say that I respected his scrupulous reporting of the exchange with Bobby Kennedy.
KENNEDY: You are dealing with people’s lives and you go off on a half-assed operation such as this? Things were as delicate as spun glass out there. On whose authority did you send sixty men into Cuba at a time when the slightest provocation might unleash a nuclear holocaust?
HARVEY: These operations were consequential to military requests made of me for the underwriting of invasion contingencies.
KENNEDY: Are you saying the Pentagon put you up to this?
HARVEY: In the spirit of mutual underpinning of coordinated projects, affirmative.
KENNEDY: Bullshit.
At this point, Bobby polled every military presence in the room. McNamara, Maxwell Taylor, General Lemnitzer, and Curtis LeMay were among those asked whether they were witting of this. All replied: Negative.
KENNEDY: Mr. Harvey, we need a better explanation. I’ve got two minutes.
HARVEY: With all due respect to the high level of personnel in this room, and in no sense contravening input to which the gentlemen here polled have access, the disposition of military decisions does not in all cases cover the impromptu and counterdelegated, since in-practice directives often contradict antecedent decisions.
KENNEDY: Why don’t you try English?
HARVEY: You ordered an immediate halt to all operations against Cuba. I made a clear distinction between operations and agents. I initiated no operations. But I did not wish to have the United States find itself in a shooting war in need of all the intelligence it could get and lacking same. I decided to make one last attempt to send some agents in.
At this point, Harvey’s memo to himself states:
On this set of remarks, the Attorney General gathered his papers and left the room. Several others followed. John McCone, also present, departed without taking me aside to offer his customary critique of what I had presented. Later, by virtue of information relayed to me by several concerned high Agency friends and close associates, I have become privy to the knowledge that Director McCone said to Ray Cline, Deputy Director of Intelligence—the quote is as relayed to me—“Harvey has destroyed himself today. His usefulness has ended.”
Intercession by Richard Helms and Hugh Montague has delayed activation of this eventuality. I am inclined to interpolate here that Director McCone’s present esteemed position as prime detector of the medium-range missile installment in Cuba is due to my diligent efforts to illumine him as to Communist investiture of such nuclear ordnance in our adjacent waters.
Set down in a state of clear recall two hours after the National Security Council Executive Committee meeting on October 26, 1962, held in the Joint Chiefs of Staff War Room.
WKH
This morning, Harvey could rent out his office as a funeral parlor. I feel sorry for him. Doubtless, I am too tolerant to make an ideal Agency man. Contradict me, I implore you.
Devotedly,
Herrick
On rereading this letter, I decided to remove my account of Rolando Cubela. If there were to be any more attempts on Castro, Cubela might be of special use. That night, therefore, I put together a succinct version of his history, spoke of Cubela’s present high status in the Cuban government, and sent it not only to Harlot, but to Cal in Tokyo. I notified each of them that the other had received the same communication.
Harlot’s answer came first:
Good nose. We are in need of a likely fellow. Buddha, you may be interested to hear, is now dipping his enormous belly into Cal’s old swimming hole. I pass on to you for immediate consumption by the paper-shredder the following communication from J. Edgar to Robert K., dated October 29. J. Edgar didn’t even wait for the missiles to be put to bed.
An underworld informant of the FBI has stated confidentially to me that he can arrange Castro’s assassination. While I would certainly agree with the Attorney General that the CIA’s plot with the Mafia has been foolish, I now feel ready, if desired, to offer the good offices of the FBI. The informant was, of course, told that his offer is outside our jurisdiction and no commitments can be made to him. At this time we do not plan to further pursue the matter. Our relationship with this informant, however, has been most carefully guarded and we would feel obligated to handle any re-contact of him concerning the matter if such is desired.—JEH
Say nothing further, therefore, about your find. From now on, refer to him as AM/LASH. GOLIATH
P.S. Too bad about Harvey. An irreplaceable loss to me.
Repeat: Destroy this communication. OTI.
OTI meant on the instant. I did not comply. I put it in my Miami safe deposit box.
/> Next day, a brief letter came from Cal by Tokyo pouch:
Hugh and I are in accord for once. We will contact AM/LASH. (A damned awkward saddlebag, but then we have a collateral agent called AM/BLOOD. We just do the best we can.)
It may interest you to know that McCone has already told me to get ready to replace Wild Bill, albeit I will receive a reduced and highly discreet version of Task Force W. Believe me, it will soon be renamed. I would feel elated to get back in the trenches again were it not for Bill Harvey. What a tragic lapse. That poor hardworking man.
Your own HALIFAX
22
November 15, 1962
Dear Kittredge,
You complain that you felt an odd “air” to my last letter. It left you “truncated.” I would offer a reminder that your promised account of the missile business remains nonexistent. The longer you wait, the more all that is bound to become nothing but history.
I will say that my brief sojourn in Cuba left me with intense animus against Castro. I would expect the worst from Khrushchev no matter how he has mellowed (if turnips, that is, can mellow), but by Castro I feel betrayed. How could he have jeopardized his country and mine by accepting such an adventure?
The other night I received a little illumination on this matter that I would like to pass on to you. Since our expedition, Butler and I have been getting along fairly well and now eat and drink together a good bit. Much of the old mutual tension—about as easy to live with as the edge of a razor blade—has abated. So I went so far as to attempt a reclamation project. You see, Harvey assigned Chevi Fuertes to him a few months ago, and they don’t get along. Fuertes, by my lights, is brilliant, and I’m trying to get Butler to recognize as much, for Chevi will give more of his best when he can thrive on applause. The other night I invited him to join us for dinner at an expensive restaurant in Fort Lauderdale where no Cuban any of us know is likely to pop his head in. I foresaw it as a treat for Chevi to dine out with his old case officer and his new one, but to give an idea of how crude Butler can be, the first thing he said as Chevi joined us was, “Get it straight, you are taking care of your end tonight. We pay enough for you to afford it.”
“I will treat you both,” replied Chevi, just a bit too grand in style, and so succeeded merely in irritating Butler further. Chevi, by Dix’s view of things, was competing, and Dix is so prodigiously competitive that I would wonder at his sanity if I did not understand his rationale. He is monumental enough in his own eyes to be President of the U.S. If he is contemptuous of Kennedy, it is because Jack, by Butler’s lights, is a rich pretender. Whereas if Dix ever gets into politics, he will go all the way on his own.
At any rate, it was no good beginning. I wanted to receive Fuertes’ analysis of the missile crisis, for he has an insight into Khrushchev’s and Castro’s motives that we do not get from Agency folk or exiles, but Dix has only one ear at best. It fires him up that Fuertes knows more about Latin America than he does. Butler has his own critical powers, but hates to encounter superior insight on any subject. Chevi, in turn, having to stomach a good deal of hectoring from Butler over the jobs he performs for him, was not at all unhappy to stretch his intellectual wings.
With my aid and Butler’s grudged interest, Fuertes managed to give an exposition that I will summarize together with occasional interruptions by Butler.
The key to the entire episode, Fuertes told us, is that, in the beginning, Castro did not want the missiles. He argued with Khrushchev that they made no military sense. The U.S. would always have overwhelming superiority. No, said Castro, give us sophisticated instructors and up-to-date ordnance. Let the Americans be obliged to recognize that a land war could cause them many casualties.
“How do you know all this?” asked Butler.
“You are aware of the nature of my sources.”
Fuertes was referring to his Miami contacts in the DGI. Butler, however, shook his head. “There is no way they could keen in on this stuff authoritatively.”
“Culture offers its own authority,” said Fuertes. “I have pondered the nature of Castro for years. I comprehend Communist psychology. I have natural powers of synthesis.”
“I never met a man with natural powers of synthesis,” said Butler, dicing the words, “who was not ready to abuse them.”
“Let us say,” I interrupted, “that Chevi will offer us a hypothesis.”
There were further interruptions of this nature, but the above is exemplary. Let me give you the notion as it finally emerged. According to Fuertes, Khrushchev convinced Castro to accept the missiles, but only by appealing to his honor. “That is the secret to manipulating Fidel,” said Chevi. “Castro likes to perceive himself as a phenomenally generous person.”
Up to this point, Khrushchev suggested, he had been helping Castro. Now, Fidel could help him. His own Politburo had become critical of the Soviet Premier’s middle course with the United States. As they saw it, a mockery existed in world balance when the United States could maintain missiles just across the border from the U.S.S.R. in Turkey, and the Soviets could offer nothing comparable. So Khrushchev was looking to make a dramatic shift in the way that the world perceived the two superpowers. Be assured, dear Fidel, the United States would never go to war over missiles in Cuba. He, Khrushchev, knew this. After all, the Soviets had seen the impracticality of a showdown on Turkey. Together, therefore, said Khrushchev, Fidel and he could steal the imperialists’ lightning.
“This is what you learned from your sources?” said Butler.
“It is what they have heard. They are close to people who are close to Castro.”
“I call that gossip.”
“No, Mr. Castle,” said Fuertes, “it is gossip fortified by close scrutiny. No one is of more interest to Habaneros than Fidel. His passing comments, his private disclosures, his moods, are all open to the surrounding world of his intimates.”
“And on the basis of your profound understanding of Fidel Castro and Cuban culture, are you prepared to tell me what you think, personally, of Castro’s acceptance of the missiles?”
“More than ready,” said Fuertes. “In my opinion, morally speaking, Castro had a fall from grace. Castro was correct in the first place; Cuba has no need for missiles.”
“You are saying that he acceded,” remarked Butler, “merely to return Khrushchev a favor?”
Fuertes had the opening he needed. He now delivered the lecture behind the lecture. What has to be understood, he explained, is the immensity of the glamour attached to the possession of nuclear missiles. There is not a leader in a Third World country who does not covet them. “It is equal to sex with a movie star. When Khrushchev agreed to remove the missiles in return for the United States forswearing any future invasion of Cuba, Castro was not pleased but enraged. He was losing his missiles.”
“He had been taken,” said Butler. “First Khrushchev lied to Kennedy; then he lied to Fidel. All Khrushchev wants is to get American missiles out of Turkey. We know the White House will give him that. We have a pussy for a President.”
“I hear,” said Chevi, “democracy in action.”
“You bet,” said Dix. “Now you tell me. Why do I have the impression you still cotton to Castro?”
“I may work for you, but I do not have to imbibe your prejudices. I like Fidel, yes. He is sympathetic. Yes! He is like all of us in Latin America who would change the given. There is one difference, however. He is more manly.”
Within the objective of the evening, Chevi was not being responsible. I broke in long enough to say, “If you admire Fidel, why do you not join him?”
“Because I detest the Soviets. Unlike Fidel, I spent my youth in the Communist Party. I know just what he has gotten himself into. And, may I say, that is the fault of all of you.”
Butler slapped his fist on the table loudly enough to turn a few heads in the restaurant. “Haven’t you learned, Chevi, how to talk to Americans? You put a drop of oil on a piece of flannel. Then you wipe our ass carefully. I am tired
of being told what is wrong with this country.”
My mission was now dead in the water. We drank our coffee, paid up, and left in three separate cars. Ten minutes after I reached my apartment, Chevi rang the bell.
“Is it wise for you to be seen here?” I said.
He shrugged.
I poured a brandy and he talked. He was miserable with Butler; he was afraid of him; he kept waiting for Dix to turn on him physically. “It is not a stable environment.”
“Why do you provoke it?”
“Because I would lose all respect for myself if I did not. Miami is worse than Uruguay. There, I merely double-crossed people I had grown up with. Some of them deserved it. Here, I am betraying brave men.”
“The DGI?”
He nodded. “They are in danger of their lives every day. The exiles tear them apart as fast as they discover them.”
“Do you come to visit me so that the DGI will kill you?”
He shrugged again. Now I understood the gesture. It was the saddest he could have made. A piece of paper is blowing down the street; why bestir oneself to pick it up?
I poured him more brandy and he talked for the next two hours. I was tired, but I must say, Kittredge, I was also beginning to wonder if our good double agent Fuertes was not working for the DGI more devotedly than for us. The fact that he had come to my apartment disturbed me. That could mean he was indifferent to his own welfare, or—just as likely—the DGI was well informed about his work with us. I was depressed by the knowledge that it was my duty to pass this suspicion on to Butler.
Still, I listened to Chevi. I had to. He has insight into matters I find puzzling.
Deep in brandy, Chevi’s mood improved. He talked a good deal about Cuba. It startled me how close he sounded at one moment to your husband. “What is to be said of a country,” remarked Fuertes, “that built its economy on African slavery and sugar? Consider its other products: rum, tobacco, brothels. Sexual specialty acts. Santería. When you live in a land where every day you have to ask yourself whether you are as evil as your economic roots, then, of course, you generate superhuman pride as a species of compensation. That is why Fidel is always seeking the all-but-unattainable, the gem concealed in history.”
Harlot's Ghost Page 127
