Artime inclined his head. “We compromised. We made a duplicate flag. It was the forgery that was given to President Kennedy. I am not happy about such a deception. Some of the strength we put into our flag may now drain out of it.”
Hunt looked curiously pleased. Writing this, I think I now understand why. Since he was not told the story in confidence, but with myself present, I believe he now feels more free to divulge this item to others. Kittredge, my sentiments about Jack Kennedy are hardly clear-cut, but Hunt’s animus makes me frankly uneasy.
Later that night, I had an extraordinary dream in which Fidel Castro and Manuel Artime entered a debate. Artime said: “You, Castro, do not comprehend the character of faith. I am not here to defend the rich. But I must feel compassion for them since God will not be charitable toward their greed. God saves His special mercy for the poor. In Heaven, all injustice is reversed. You, Fidel, claim to work for the poor, but you commit murders in their name. You seal your revolution with blood. You blind the poor with materialism, and thereby remove their vision of God.”
“Chico,” answered Castro, “it is obvious that we have opposing points of view. One of us has to be wrong. Let me deal with your proposition, therefore, on such a basis. If I am in error, then any human beings that I have injured in this life will most certainly be well received in heaven.
“If, on the other hand, Artime, no God exists to punish the rich and the unjust in the afterlife, what can you say about all of our poor peasants whom your soldiers slaughtered? You killed them on the road to Girón because of your fear that Communism might succeed in Cuba. In that case, your forces will have wasted not only their lives but ours.
“So, Manuel,” said Castro, “choose my way. Then, logically speaking, no matter which one of us is correct, you come out better.”
Kittredge, that dream concluded in a most curious fashion. Bill Harvey’s voice boomed out suddenly: “You are both in error,” he shouted. “There is no justice. There is only The Game.” Those last two words kept echoing until I woke up.
Have you had any news concerning Wild Bill? The rumor down here is that he’s being shunted—or is it demoted?—over to Italy as Chief of Station.
Ever yours,
Harry
25
February 15, 1963
Dearest Harry,
I am not surprised that you dreamed about Bill Harvey, for much has been going on with his situation. Director McCone, as you know, was prepared to cut him out of the Agency until Dick Helms saved the day. Helms may be the coldest man I know, but he is loyal to his troops, and that, in practice, does serve as a working substitute for compassion. At any rate, he played on many a theme to restrain McCone from firing Harvey outright—spoke of the pleasure to be taken by KGB and DGI if Harvey had to resign, plus discouragement of initiative in Junior Officers. To satisfy McCone’s heart as well as his mind, Helms did go on about the inner tensions that hardworking Senior Officers accumulate through a career of ongoing crises and personal financial sacrifice. McCone, who I’m sure is as wealthy as Midas from his years at the Bechtel Corporation, finally softened the sentence to a leave of absence. Dick then told Harvey to go to ground for a month and enjoy the clear understanding that he will be reinstalled into an appropriate slot just as soon as McCone is out of the country. Our new Director of Intelligence does love to take long trips with his brand-new spouse to far-off Stations. There he is received in maharajah-plus fashion. Set up in a suite at the best hotel, he puts in a seven-day week of golf, hears what he wants to hear from the Station hands (now that he can ride on his high missile laurels), and leaves the little details to Helms. Talk about Reynard in a chicken coop! Helms is running the Agency (with wonderful assists from Hugh), but so quietly, I’m certain word has not yet reached you and the other juniors. Harvey, per Helms’ promise, was back at Langley before Christmas and nicely installed in an obscure corner of the Italian Desk. There he will stay long enough to pick up the rudiments of his new post, which (as soon as McCone departs again for Africa, Asia, or Australia) will be Chief of Station in Rome. It is hardly equal to Chief of Soviet Russia Division, but, under the circumstances, there ought to be no complaint.
Hugh, however, is most upset over Harvey’s departure. I am being egregiously indiscreet, but am holding a fierce piece of scoop I must pass on to you. Ever since the missile crisis, I’ve been attempting to divine why Hugh was so eager to defend Harvey. Wild Bill has always been difficult for Hugh to stomach. The Fat Man persists, for instance, in addressing Hugh at open conference meetings as Monty, and that is but a modest clue to how they chafe each other. I don’t possess the specifics, I only know that Hugh has some sort of grip on Harvey. In a showdown, Bill always gives way. The root factor still remains unknown to me, but I did learn recently that Wild Bill is truly invaluable to my Montague. As part of the pay-as-we-go plan between Hugh and myself, which calls for divulging something new and special to unhappy Kittredge once a season (in much the manner that another kind of woman gets a fur coat on her birthday), Hugh, from time to time, feeds me a royal tidbit. This last was a lollapalooza. Harry, do you know that the man who furnished Hugh with all those exceptional FBI transcripts on Modene & Co. was none other than Bill Harvey? It seems an old and well-placed acquaintance in the Bureau was willing to feed prime stuff to the Fat Man. Who then passed it on exclusively to Hugh. Naturally, the news that Wild Bill is going to Rome put Hugh in a dither, but knowing my husband, I am certain he has already worked out the route for a new underground railway.
Isn’t that a stunner? Bill has been feeding Hugh for some years now with the most special FBI product. Harry, take this disclosure seriously. I am just beginning to feel the shock of putting it on paper.
Do you know, I have to ask myself: Why do I betray Hugh? The answer must be: in order not to act in even more treacherous fashion. I feel kin to the convicted killer who gave as answer to the question of why he murdered two nice old ladies who lived next door, “I didn’t want to slice up the three little girls who lived on the other side.” Don’t you agree that a dreadful act is often performed in order not to commit a greater wrong? “My religion forbids suicide,” the alcoholic declares, “so I will only drink a quart tonight.” All the same, I feel as if my act encourages wrath in places I cannot even name.
All right, now that Harvey is going to Rome—would you believe it?—he kicked up the traces. He had a farewell dinner with Johnny Roselli in a public place, and the Bureau taped it. How do we know? Because the transcript came back immediately to Bill Harvey from his still active Bureau source. The Fat Man was so shaken that he took it to Hugh for advice. How he must have hated that! Hugh told him to have a meeting immediately with his well-placed source. In the next twenty-four hours, therefore, Harvey took a trip down the eastern shore of Maryland to join his FBI man in some out-of-the-way bait-and-row-boat shack, from which they rowed out far enough from shore to assume the confidence that they were not overheard. Out there in one of the coves of the Chesapeake, Harvey convinced his Bureau buddy that this transcript had to be killed. The source finally agreed that he would not release it into the FBI mill, a potentially perilous move for source, but if not done, Bill Harvey’s doom would have been on McCone’s desk last week. This, of course, assumes J. Edgar would have played the card rather than hold it. But then, who can sleep when Buddha has your card?
Are you curious about the transcript? I’m going to satisfy your itch pronto. The Roselli dinner took place in Miami at a restaurant called Joe’s Stone Crabs. The tape, however, happens to be wobbly not only from restaurant clatter and Bill Harvey’s damnably low voice, but some electronic glitch in the second half. Critical fragments are not clear. You know Bill so well by now that I am going to ask you to try to reconstruct the few missing comments. Odds are, Hugh says, Harvey and Roselli are merely venting mutual wind, but the Oberhofmeister would like a better sense of the whole, and I tell you frankly I’m not up to doing it myself.
Don’t send back a t
reatise. No footnotes to the alternative possibilities. I can do that myself. Rather, provide me with your best clear presentation of what you think was said. I just want to be certain this is drunken blow-off, and not building toward a rogue op. It’s fifty-fifty that Harvey has slipped his center.
Helms, nonetheless, is readying him for Rome. “It is no longer a critical Station,” says Helms to Hugh. Yes, let us all say damn to Italian sensibilities. Hugh, if reluctantly, will support Harvey, but give me your reconstructed version first.
Love,
Kittredge
March 2, 1963
Dearest Kittredge,
I trimmed the irrelevant stuff, all the ordering of drinks, natterings, drunken trail-offs. I also added brackets around those portions where gaps had to be filled in the transcript. Most of them pile up toward the end. I must say I feel that the greater part of my insertions have to be close to what was said. In fact, I am amazed at how familiar I have become with Wild Bill’s syntax.
ROSELLI: Can the Bureau pick us up in this joint?
HARVEY: If they have a long-range sniper-mike, yes.
ROSELLI: How do you know they don’t?
HARVEY: Fuck them. I’m drinking and I am relaxing.
ROSELLI: That’s when it happens.
HARVEY: In this din, who can record us? You got something to say, say it.
ROSELLI: You are a cop. You could be setting me up.
HARVEY: Want to get your teeth cleaned?
ROSELLI: Hey, I like you. I could love you, Bill O’Brien, if you had an agreeable personality. Only, let us look into it. You are not in shape to clean my teeth.
HARVEY: I could shoot you between the eyes.
ROSELLI: Well, we are all waiting for you to shoot somebody.
HARVEY: I’m biding my time. You know how much I carry in my head?
ROSELLI: No.
HARVEY: Meyer Lansky. I carry as much as Meyer Lansky.
ROSELLI: You don’t. Einstein don’t have a head equals Meyer.
HARVEY: Shit. I carry half the U.S. government on my brain pan.
ROSELLI: Yeah. The half that Uncle Sam sits on.
HARVEY: You are right for once.
ROSELLI: Thank you.
HARVEY: You got guts.
ROSELLI: I stand up.
HARVEY: You do, huh? Why couldn’t you carry out our little assignment?
ROSELLI: If I tell you, you won’t believe me.
HARVEY: I’d hate to think [you lost your nerve.]
ROSELLI: You say that to me? Take it back, or [we don’t eat a meal] together.
HARVEY: Let’s have a little dinner, I say.
ROSELLI: I will have to accept that as your crappy way of taking it back.
HARVEY: How is Sammy G. these days?
ROSELLI: He is fucking what used to be a sweet classy broad named Modene Murphy and he is also running around with Phyllis McGuire who he is asking to marry him.
HARVEY: Is the Murphy broad involved in any other way with Sam?
ROSELLI: She is just quietly going crazy.
HARVEY: That is all you can pan out on Giancana?
ROSELLI: Other than a few details.
HARVEY: Details?
ROSELLI: He is miserable these days.
HARVEY: Miserable?
ROSELLI: Well, the FBI got to Sammy. On the golf course. I got to hand it to them. They are evil motherfuckers. [They put one foursome] ahead of him, and a foursome behind. I’ll feed you a secret that is no secret. Sammy G. can’t play golf for shit. He takes a couple of heavies along with him who are guaranteed to lose no matter how bad Sam plays. [He never gets on the course with real people.] So Sammy forgets that he is no golfer. But yesterday, the Feds stand around the green waiting for him to putt. And he keeps missing the hole. They fall on the ground laughing. “Hey, Sammy,” they say, “we hear the spooks gave you a badge. Show us your little badge. Show us yours, and we’ll show you ours. Come on, Momo,” they say, “flash your CIA thing. We will salute.” He goes crazy. He’s going to die of a stroke.
HARVEY: How do you know this took place?
ROSELLI: Just because his heavies are heavies, you think they can’t talk?
HARVEY: Are you telling me that even his flunkies don’t like the guy?
ROSELLI: He’s a spoiler. He is a sick fucking individual. There was a casino man cheating big on Sam in one of the Vegas clubs. An executive who should know better. Okay, that’s the death penalty. But Sam said, “Make it an example nobody forgets. Kill the son of a bitch and his wife.” Which is what they did. Sam is no good. He is what I call treacherous. I say he tipped off the house detective on that bum phone tap business.
HARVEY: You can’t prove it.
ROSELLI: Listen, I wanted Nixon to get in. Sam wanted Kennedy. If he had had a brain instead of an ego, he would have gone for Nixon. But, no, Sam wanted to get screwed by the Kennedys.
HARVEY: I always thought you and Sam [were in on the Vegas] stunt together.
ROSELLI: Why would I chop my own dick off? [Do you know what I] lost that day in Vegas? A U.S. citizenship. Since I’m nine years old I have never had one morning where my identity was legit.
HARVEY: I hear violins.
ROSELLI: You are closed off to decent feelings. You look at me as a hood, so you don’t understand. I am a guy who is ready to die for his patriotism. I am a patriot.
HARVEY: Calm down. [I don’t care what] you are. [I might have] criminal tendencies myself.
ROSELLI: You are crazy. You are incorruptible.
HARVEY: That’s right. I never once indulged myself. Not on the money side. For a reason. Get it straight. I could have been on your side. I just didn’t allow it. Cause if I had, Meyer Lansky would now be small potatoes. I would be the richest man in the world.
ROSELLI: It’s never too late to get on board.
HARVEY: You are not [large enough] for my idea.
ROSELLI: I like people who swap loose talk for cold piss.
HARVEY: Wait until we get good [and drunk. Then] I’ll tell you.
ROSELLI: We are good and drunk.
HARVEY: Cheers.
ROSELLI: What would be your idea? Tell me about the big job, Uncle Bill.
HARVEY: Vegas. I want to pull off a heist in Vegas.
ROSELLI: You would be dead. Name me one joint in town that is not impregnable.
HARVEY: Impregnable to two hoods. Three cowboys. Nobody has ever put their mind to the problem. I don’t say: knock off [a joint. I say:] take the town. Give me the desert every time. Land [with a small army.] Five planes. They carry three hundred [men. A couple of ] tanks. Small artillery.
ROSELLI: You are beautiful. Fucking copper. Insane!
HARVEY: You take the airport. You move a man into the control tower. Divert all the air traffic to Prescott, to Phoenix. Commandeer the parked cars [you need.] Infiltrate [the town, cut off the] phone company, the TV, radio. Surround the police [facilities. Vegas is like] a goddamn artificial heart on a table. All you need to do is [take possession of the] wires feeding it.
ROSELLI: You have a gorgeous fucking mind. Who is in your goddamn army?
HARVEY: Cubans. Take any five hundred that are over in Nicaragua right now, train them to get ready to hit Castro, and then on the last day, tell them the mission [is shifted]—you need volunteers for something else. Three hundred volunteers. [You tell them Castro] has taken over the mob. Vegas now pays Castro. [So, we are going to rob] Castro money in Vegas. You can get a Cuban to believe anything provided he can fire a bazooka.
ROSELLI: Fighting cocks. Just pull their tail feathers.
HARVEY: Everything scouted [in advance.] In ninety [minutes, you] scoop up the preponderance of cash [in that town, back to the] airport with the wounded, load up the planes, out to the Pacific, [back to base] in Nicaragua.
ROSELLI: The Air Force would be on your ass fifteen minutes after you set down at the airport.
HARVEY: Do not believe it. The Air Force is the Government, and the Government, [w
hen it is in a state of ] confusion, needs twenty-four hours. A thousand asses [have to cover themselves before they] unzip one fly.
ROSELLI: It’s good you are an incorruptible.
HARVEY: Isn’t it?
ROSELLI: You are a maniac. Where would you get the money to fund the job?
HARVEY: [It takes just one] Carlos Marcello, one Santos Trafficante.
ROSELLI: Ha, ha. What would you do with the loot?
HARVEY: Adopt a prize kid. Groom him to be president.
ROSELLI: Your attic is on fire. I got a lot of good friends in Vegas.
HARVEY: [Tell your friends that the] security they put on each [ joint is nothing but a joke.]
ROSELLI: I have told them that much myself. The kind of security [we need is people] who can think like you. Anticipate. Foresee major operations [against the property.] Fucking incorruptibles. West Pointers. [I would sign] up an entire graduating [class.] To protect the serious [amount of money] that is out there any night.
HARVEY: Arriba.
ROSELLI: My head is on fire.
HARVEY: Go pay a visit to the Buddhist monk.
ROSELLI: The who monk?
HARVEY: The guy who poured gasoline on himself last week.
ROSELLI: The guy in robes who set himself on fire? The priest? In Asia?
HARVEY: Saigon.
ROSELLI: Right. Made himself a torch. What a party. I still don’t have the guy [out of my head.]
HARVEY: Think about it. That’s patriotism.
ROSELLI: Flaming shish-ke-bab.
HARVEY: You are one hell of a patriot.
ROSELLI: This is a farewell party. So I try to lighten the occasion. I drink to your new job.
HARVEY: Thank you.
ROSELLI: Where are you going?
HARVEY: Forget it.
ROSELLI: Right. Cloak-and-dagger. Right.
HARVEY: Rome. O’Brien is going to be king of the guineas.
ROSELLI: There is absolutely no need to talk in that manner around me.
HARVEY: I tend to forget you’re a guinea.
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