“I thought, is who fuckin’ thought,” Giancana said.
“…born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace…”
“To fuckin’ Jack,” Giancana said, raising his plastic glass to the TV. “Salute.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in politics, Mooney,” the Sorcerer said with a straight face.
“You’re pullin’ my fuckin’ leg,” Giancana said. “I voted for duh fucker. Uh bunch of times. You could even say I campaigned for him. If it wasn’t for me he wouldn’t be in duh fuckin’ White House.”
“…every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price…”
“You got out the vote,” the Sorcerer said.
Giancana glanced sideways at Torriti. “Fuckin’ right I got out duh vote. I got out so many votes he won Illinois.”
“…support any friend, oppose any foe, to ensure the survival and the success of liberty.”
“Enough of dis bullshit aready,” Giancana muttered.
“You want for me to turn it off, Mooney?” one of the heavies asked.
“Turn duh sound off, leave duh pitcher on.” Giancana scraped his chair around so that he was facing Torriti across the vast expanse of table. “So what brings you to duh Windy City?”
“Sightseeing.” He glanced at the four leather dog collars screwed into the wood of the table, wondering what they could be used for. “People tell me Lake Michigan is worth seeing.”
Giancana snickered. “I seen it so many times I don’t fuckin’ see it no more when I look.”
Torriti held out his glass for a refill. Giancana exploded. “For cryin’ out loud, you guys are supposed to fill his fuckin’ glass before he asks. Where were you brought up, in uh fuckin’ garbage dump?”
One of the heavies lurched over and filled the Sorcerer’s glass. Torriti drained off the Champagne as if it were water, then waved off another refill. “Do you think you could—” He tossed his head in the direction of the hoods listening to the conversation.
“Leave duh fuckin’ bottle an’ take uh powder,” Giancana ordered.
The men retreated to the other side of the warehouse floor.
“So have you made any progress in our little matter?” Torriti inquired.
“Yeah, you could say dat. I got uh guy who works in duh Libre Hotel in Havana. In duh cafeteria, as uh matter of fact, which is where Castro goes once, twice uh week for his milkshakes.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
Giancana’s eyes rolled in their sockets. “Don’t be uh fuckin’ wise guy.”
It hit Torriti that the dog collars could be used to tie down the wrists and ankles of a wise guy spread-eagled on the table. “At least tell me something about him,” he said. “Why’s he willing to take the risk…”
“He owes me uh favor.”
“That’s some favor.”
Giancana flashed a brutal smile. “Favors is what makes duh world go round.” He puffed on the cigar and blew a perfectly round circle of smoke into the air, then a second one and giggled with pleasure. “So do you got duh Alka-Seltzer?”
Torriti pulled the half-filled aspirin bottle from the pocket of his jacket. “There are three aspirins at the bottom of the bottle—any one of them can kill a horse.”
Giancana kept his eye on the bottle as he sucked thoughtfully on his cigar. “How will duh guy in Havana know which three are spiked?”
Torriti explained about the word Bayer being spelled wrong.
Giancana’s face actually creased into a smile. “Awright,” he said. “We’re in business.”
The Sorcerer pushed himself to his feet. “So when do you figure this can be taken care of?”
The Cosa Nostra boss of Chicago turned to watch Kennedy on the television screen. “I used to know uh guy who could read lips even though he wasn’t deaf,” he said. “He told me he learned how in case he went deaf. Duh moral of duh story is you got to plan ahead.” He looked back at Torriti. “Like I told you in Miami, deze things take time. I got to get deze aspirins to Havana. I got to organize duh fast boat dat’ll pick up my friend after-woods. After dat he’s got to find duh right occasion.”
“So what are we talking about?”
Giancana tittered. “You tell me what’d be convenient for your Wall Street friends.”
“We’re January twentieth,” Torriti said. “You need to make sure that the friend pays back the favor he owes anytime before, say, ten April.”
“Ten April,” Giancana repeated. “Dat ought to work out awright.”
Philip Swett came away from the luncheon with Jack Kennedy feeling mighty pleased with himself. It had been a private affair in a small dining room off the President’s living quarters on the second floor. Dean Rusk, Kennedy’s Secretary of State, and McGeorge Bundy, the President’s special assistant for national security, had joined them. CIA Director Allen Dulles, who had been conferring with Bundy and his staff in the basement of the White House all morning, was invited at the last minute when Kennedy discovered he was still in the building. Presiding over a light lunch of cold Virginia ham, cucumber salad, and white wine, Kennedy had gone out of his way to publicly thank Swett for his fund-raising efforts. “My father always said he was willing to buy me the election,” Kennedy had joked, “but he flat-out refused to pay for a landslide, which is why the vote was so close. Kidding aside, you made a big difference, Phil.”
“Believe me, Mr. President,” Swett had responded, “a lot of people, me included, sleep better at night knowing it’s your hand that’s on the helm, and not Nixon’s.”
Over coffee and mints the talk had turned to Cuba. Rusk had filled in the President on the contents of an overnight cable from Moscow: the American embassy’s political officer had been told by a Soviet journalist with close ties to the Politburo that Khrushchev would respond to any overt American attack on Cuba by closing off access routes into Berlin and constructing a great wall separating East and West Germany. Kennedy had pulled a long face and, paraphrasing the opening line from T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” had remarked, “April is going to be the cruelest month after all.” To which Dulles had remarked, in a booming voice, “Assuming he’s still around to see it, the Bay of Pigs will go down in history as Fidel Castro’s Waterloo, Mr. President. I can promise you that.”
Kennedy had favored Dulles with a wintry smile. “You and Bissell have countersigned the check, Allen.”
McGeorge Bundy had caught the President’s eye and had gestured imperceptibly with his head in Swett’s direction. Kennedy had gotten the message and had changed the subject. “Anyone here had a chance to read the Heller novel, Catch-22? I think it may be the best damn book to come out of the war. He has this character named Yossarian who decides to live forever or die in the attempt.”
Speeding away from the White House in the limousine, Swett sat back and lit up the fat cigar that Kennedy had slipped into his breast pocket after the lunch. He had noticed Bundy warning the President off the subject of Cuba. Even without the gesture, Swett would have understood he had overheard things that were not common knowledge in the nation’s capitol; his own son-in-law, for Christ’s sake, worked for the CIA and still didn’t have the foggiest idea what Bissell and Dulles were cooking up. But Swett had put two and two together: at some point in the cruelest month, April, Cubans trained and armed by the CIA would land at a place known as the Bay of Pigs. Assuming he’s still around to see it! Swett chuckled into the haze of cigar smoke swirling through the back of the car. Of course! How could he have missed it? Dulles and his people would have to be horses’ asses not to get rid of Castro before the fireworks started.
By golly, the people over at the Pickle Factory were many things, Swett reflected. But his son-in-law aside, they were certainly not horses’ asses.
4
WASHINGTON, DC, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1961
EUGENE, WHO HAD BEEN DELIVERING LIQUOR SINCE LATE AFTERNOON, decided to go straight t
o Bernice’s without touching base at his studio apartment over the store. He parked Max’s station wagon on a side street in Georgetown, locked the doors and started down Wisconsin toward his girlfriend’s. He sensed something was different as soon as he turned the corner into Whitehaven. It was nine-twenty, a time when the residential street was normally deserted. Now it seemed to crawl with activity. A man and a woman, both dressed in duffel coats, stood talking on a brownstone stoop diagonally across from Bernice’s building; from a distance they could have been lovers making up after a quarrel. A middle-aged man Eugene had never seen before in all the years he’d been sleeping with Bernice was walking a dog he’d never seen before either. Further along, Eugene passed a white panel truck with “Slater & Slater Radio-TV” printed on its side parked in front of a fire hydrant. Why would the Messrs. Slater leave their vehicle in front of a hydrant for the entire night when there were parking spaces to be had on the side streets off Wisconsin? Up ahead, near the intersection with 37th Street, he spotted a gray four-door Ford backed into a driveway; the area was well-lit and Eugene could make out two figures in the front seat and a long antenna protruding from the rear bumper. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bay windows of Bernice’s third-floor walkup across the street. They were awash with light, which was curious; when Bernice was expecting him she made a fetish of switching off the electric lights and illuminating the room with candles.
Eugene could hear his own footsteps echoing in the wintry night as he made his way along Whitehaven. With an effort he mastered the riot of panic rising to his gorge. Bits and pieces of basic training at the First Chief Directorate’s compound in the woods at Balashikha came back to him: innocent people act innocently, which was to say they didn’t break into a sprint at the first whiff of peril. It was lucky he’d taken the precaution of parking the car before he got to Whitehaven; if the FBI had staked out Bernice’s apartment, they would surely be looking for him to arrive in Max’s station wagon. He was lucky, too, to be walking down the wrong side of the street—it would raise doubts in their minds. They would be wary of stopping the wrong person for fear the right person might round the corner, spot the stakeout and be frightened off. Willing himself to remain calm, Eugene pulled his woolen cap down across his forehead, buried his chin in his turned-up collar and continued on his way—past the man walking the dog, past Bernice’s bay windows, past the two lovers making up after a quarrel, past the four-door Ford with the two men in the front seat and the whip antenna on the back. He could feel the eyes of the men in the Ford following him down the street; he thought he heard the quick burst of static a radio produces when you switch it on. At the corner he turned right and made his way down 37th. Where it met Calvert, he walked back up Wisconsin until he came to the Peoples Drugstore that he and Bernice often went to when they became famished after making love.
Pushing through the door, Eugene waved to the Greek behind the lunch counter. “Hey, Loukas, how’s tricks?”
“Not bad, considering. Where’s your lady friend?”
“Sleeping it off.”
The Greek smiled knowingly. “You want I should maybe cook you up something?”
Eugene hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch. “How about sunnysides over easy with bacon and a cup of coffee.”
Loukas said, “Over easy, with, coming up.”
Eugene went around the side to the phone on the wall opposite the rest room. He fed a dime into the slot and dialed Bernice’s number. Maybe he was jumping at shadows. Philby’s nerves had been shot toward the end, he remembered. On the other hand, the last thing he wanted was to finish up like the Russian colonel he’d met in the Brooklyn Botanical Garden when he first arrived in America in 1951. Rudolf Abel’s arrest by the FBI six years later had made headlines across the country and sent a shiver up Eugene’s spine; unless he were lucky enough to be exchanged for an American spy caught by the Soviets, Colonel Abel would probably spend the rest of his life in prison.
Eugene could hear the phone ringing in Bernice’s floor-through. This, too, was bizarre; when she knew he would be coming over and he didn’t turn up on time, she always answered on the first or second ring. After the seventh ring he heard her pick up the phone.
“Hello,” she said.
“Bernice?”
“That you, Eugene?” Her voice seemed strained. There was a long pause, which Eugene didn’t try to fill. “Where are you?” she finally asked.
“I stopped for gas. Everything all right?”
She laughed a little hysterically. “Sure everything’s all right. It’s all right as rain.” Then she yelled into the mouthpiece, “Run for it, baby! They pinched Max. They found the stuff in your closet—“
There was the scrape of scuffling. Bernice shrieked in pain. Then a man’s voice came through the earpiece. He spoke quickly, trying to get his message across before the line went dead. “For your own good, Eugene, don’t hang up. We can cut a deal. We know who you are. You can’t run far. We won’t prosecute if you cooperate, if you change sides. We can give you a new iden—“
Eugene slammed his finger down on the button, cutting off the speaker in mid-word. Then he said “Fuck you, mac,” to the dead line that surely had a tracer on it. Back at the cash register, he pulled out two dollar bills from his wallet and a quarter from his pocket and put them on the counter. “Something’s come up, Loukas,” he muttered.
“At my counter you don’t pay for what you don’t eat,” Loukas said, but Eugene left the money next to the cash register anyway. “Next time your over easy is on the house,” the Greek called after him.
“I’ll remember that,” Eugene called just before the heavy door closed behind him.
Outside, the night seemed suddenly icier than before and Eugene shivered. There would be no next time, he realized. Everything that was part of his old life—Max, Bernice, his delivery job, his studio apartment over Kahn’s Wine and Beverage, his identity as Eugene Dodgson—had slipped into a fault; the various crusts of his life were moving in different directions now. Even Max’s station wagon was of no use to him anymore.
He started walking rapidly. He needed to think things through, to get them right; there would be no margin for errors. A bus passed him and pulled up at the next corner. Eugene broke into a sprint. The driver must have seen him in the sideview mirror because he held the door open and Eugene swung on board. Out of breath, Eugene nodded his thanks, paid for the ticket and lurched to the back of the nearly empty bus.
He looked up at the ads. One of them, featuring the Doublemint twins, reminded Eugene of the twin sisters at Yasenovo, Serafima and Agrippina, drilling him day after day on his two legends: the first one, Eugene Dodgson, he would be using; the second, Gene Lutwidge, he would fall back on if the first identity was compromised. “You must shed your identity the way a snake sheds its skin,” Serafima had warned him. “You must settle into each legend as if it were a new skin.”
Only a new skin could save him from Colonel Abel’s fate.
But how had the FBI stumbled across Eugene Dodgson? Max Kahn had severed his ties with his Communist Party friends when he went underground. Still, Max might have run into someone he knew by chance, or telephoned one of them for old time’s sake. The person he contacted might have become an informer for the FBI or the line may have been tapped. Once the FBI agents latched onto Max they would have become curious about his two employees, Bernice and Eugene; would have taken photographs of them from their panel truck through a small hole in the O of the word “Radio.” They would have searched Bernice’s floor-through and his studio over the liquor store the first chance they got.
“They found the stuff in your closet,” Bernice had cried before being dragged away from the phone. Discovery of Eugene’s espionage paraphernalia— the Motorola antenna (and, eventually, the short-wave capabilities of the Motorola itself), the microdot viewer, the ciphers, the carefully wrapped wads of cash—would have set off alarm bells. The FBI would have realized that it had stum
bled across a Soviet agent living under deep cover in the nation’s capitol. They would have assumed that Max and Bernice and Eugene were all part of a larger spy ring. The Feds had probably decided not to arrest them immediately in the hope of identifying other members of the ring. J. Edgar Hoover himself would have supervised the operation, if only to be able to take the credit when the spies were finally arrested. Eventually, when the Soviet spies working out of Kahn’s Wine and Beverage didn’t lead them to anyone—Max and Bernice had no one to lead them to; Eugene hadn’t contacted SASHA in weeks—Hoover must have decided that it would be better to take them into custody and, playing one off against the other with a combination of threats and offers of immunity, break them. By sheer luck Eugene had avoided the trap. And Bernice, courageous to the end, had given him the warning he needed to run for it. Now, grainy mug shots of Eugene Dodgson, taken with one of the FBI’s telephoto lenses, would circulate in Washington. They would show an unshaven, long-haired, stoop-shouldered young man in his early thirties. The local police would be covering the train and bus stations and the airports; flashing the photograph at night clerks, they would make the rounds of motels and flophouses. If Eugene was apprehended, the FBI would compare his fingerprints to the samples lifted from the studio over Kahn’s liquor store. Eugene’s arrest, like Colonel Abel’s before him, would make headlines across America.
Eugene had long ago worked out what to do if his identity was blown. As a precaution against the proverbial rainy day he had hidden ten fifty-dollar bills, folded and refolded lengthwise and ironed flat, in the cuffs of his chinos; the $500 would tide him over until he could make contact with the rezident at the Soviet embassy. The first order of business was to go to ground for the night. In the morning, when the city was crawling with people heading for work, he would mingle with a group of tourists, take in a film in the afternoon and then retrieve the box he had squirreled away in the alley behind the theater. Only then would he make the telephone call to alert the rezident, and eventually Starik, that his identity had been discovered and his ciphers had fallen into the hands of the FBI.
The Company Page 55
