by Jack Freeman
Just then, a call came through from Reception to say that Commandante Kidd had arrived and he would be up to Max’s suite in a few minutes.
Max answered the knocks at the door and opening the door saw Billy Kidd in combat clothes with a straggly beard and long hair. He would not have looked out of place in a Greenwich Village coffee house.
“Mr Kidd, it’s a great pleasure to meet you. Come on in.”
“Mr Brown, good to meet you too. I really like your stuff. Our press people sent me your cuttings. I hope I can get you to spread the good word about our work here. Oh, and call me Billy. That’s what everyone does.”
“Ok, Billy. Call me Mike. Now let’s go over to the balcony. I’ve got some cold rum and some Cuban cigars awaiting our session.”
As they walked through the suite towards the balcony, Max passed a piece of paper to Billy and held a finger over his mouth. On the paper Billy read “I will put sensitive questions to you on paper for a written reply. Walls have ears.” Billy grinned and nodded, whispering “Sure, buddy, you’re right there.”
On the balcony were two director’s chairs and a low glass table on which were a Dictaphone, a bottle of Cuban rum, ice bucket, glasses, a box of cigars, paper and pencils. Billy took an offered cigar and lit up, blowing thick clouds of blue smoke into the humid tropical air. Max poured large measures of the vintage rum and the interview began.
The official interview went over Billy’s early life which was confirmed to be as colourful as Kingman had said. Billy went on to outline his time with the Escambray rebels.
“When my gun running buddies were taken and basically tortured to death by Batista’s goons, that’s when I decided to join the rebels to get revenge. Pretty soon I got accepted by the rebels, as my military background gave me useful know how. At first, they were suspicious of me as a Yankee, a Gringo. America had been interfering in Cuba for years and they weren’t as welcoming as I had expected. But they soon found that I was useful. The rebels generally had no military background .They were students, lawyers, doctors, peasants and such like, so as far as being a fighting force, well, they were just picking it up by trial and error. That’s really not the best way. I have to say that they were impressed too by my knife throwing! I was with the Second Front group in the Escambray mountains. These had started up later than Fidel’s 26 July Movement down in the Sierra Maestra and the Escambray group were definitely not Commie oriented. We really just wanted to get rid of Batista and have proper freedoms like, you know, we had in the good old United States. I still think it is working out well.”
Max wrote a note and passed it to Billy. The note read “What do you really think? This is just for my eyes. It won’t get into print.”
Billy wrote his answer “Ok, I know you’re Company. The Commies are taking over. I’m going to stop them. You can help.”
Max wrote “How can we help?”
Billy replied in writing “We need 1 million US dollars to recruit more bodies to the cause. I’ve got plenty weapons up at the farm and a starting cadre of about 100 solid guys.”
“Ok,” said Max “That will be no problem. I’ll let you know soon about another meeting.”
“Next time, come up to the frog farm. Newspaper guys make fun of it but it is a real successful business that’s helping the locals a lot.
“That will be fine. I would like to see this famous frog business and I am sure that the NF readers would like to hear all about it too.”
After Billy left, Max called Jack Johnson to arrange the delivery of a million dollars in cash. It might be a scam on Billy’s part but the risk seemed worth taking. Jack agreed and indicated he could get the money sent over in diplomatic bags from Miami in the next few days.
Two days later Max went up to the frog farm in the green hills inland from Havana. It was a large and surprisingly well guarded facility. As Billy had indicated there seemed to be about 100 fatigue clad and heavily armed guerrillas patrolling the grounds. On the wide porch, Billy went into more detail of the frog business than Max really wanted to hear. In the course of the interview, using the note passing system, it was also agreed that the money would be left at dusk in two days time in 2 suitcases placed in bushes just behind the 7th grave on the left from the entrance by the wall of the main cemetery in Havana. Max would phone Billy and drop the word “beatitude” into the conversation as a signal that the cash was in place. Billy indicated that then things would get under way soon after the cash infusion. Billy was able to say out loud that there were already some bandits, that is, counter-revolutionaries, operating in the hills whom the government were keen to eliminate. The idea was that these so-called bandits would be part of his uprising as well as the 100 men at the farm who were personally loyal to Billy and had served with him for years in the Escambray group.
Two days later, Max got a message to meet Jack at the Embassy that afternoon.
“Ok, Max, we’ve got the cash,” said Jack as Max entered his air conditioned office in an outbuilding in the Embassy grounds, “they couldn’t get it all in one suitcase. So, we’ve got a large case and a small one here.”
“Don’t make it easy. It’s going to look funny, me lugging suitcases into a cemetery.”
“Don’t worry, we have assets in unlikely places. One of our local helpers is the cemetery chief. Coffins make good stashing places and who or what is in the coffin isn’t always who it says on the headstone. Occasionally we have had to exfiltrate agents in coffins, paralysed with curare, they can breathe very shallowly and are good for a couple of days.”
“Please don’t get me out that way, if a need arises, I’m really claustrophobic.”
“Ok, but we would rather kill you than let Che get hold of you”
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic about it!”
“Ok., we’ll get you and the bags back to the hotel in one of our taxis. One of our bell boys will get them up to your room He will still expect a tip, even though he is on a retainer to the Company. Then tomorrow night the Cemetery Director will come by. Password “Dracula” and take the bags off your hands. You can then give Billy the word that he should collect pronto. We don’t want passers by helping themselves to government funds.”
Two days later, early in the morning, Max called Billy and asked him various questions about the frog farming business. Near the end Max mentioned that the NF was popular with Beats and that some argued that “Beat” came from “beatitude” rather than musical “beat” or “beat” as tired and downtrodden. Billy thanked him for the interesting information and put the phone down. Max heard suspicious clicks. The line was tapped as expected.
Later that day, Billy went alone in his armoured jeep to pick up the suitcases at the cemetery. He told his bodyguards that he was on a secret romantic mission and had to be alone to avoid possible embarrassment to the lady concerned, who he indicated was unfortunately married to a Fidelista high-up. The guards laughed and speculated about which leading cadre might be being cuckolded. Fidel was notorious for this kind of activity but his underlings could not complain. It was ok for the maximum leader to do this, reasoned the guards, but Kidd was taking a big chance.
Dusk was falling when Billy found the grave and he saw that the suitcases were in place in bushes behind the grave as arranged. As he began taking the suitcases out of their hiding places he suddenly felt the unmistakeable pressure of a rifle barrel being pressed into his lower back.
“So, Senor William Kidd, you would betray the Revolution for a suitcase full of dollars? I never trusted you, Yankee,” said the voice from behind Billy. “Che!” thought Billy. He let go of the case he had been extricating from the undergrowth and putting his hands up, turned around slowly to see Che Guevara pointing a Kalashnikov at him. Che was backed up by a dozen similarly armed and stony faced compadres.
“No. Let me explain,” Billy began, “I’m conning the CIA, this cash is all for the cause. Believe me!”
“We don’t believe that for a moment. You told us nothing abo
ut this money. We have information from high level sources that you and the Yankees are plotting counter-revolution with the other Escambray scum. Anyway, it’s been decided at the very top that you are unreliable and have long been working against the completion of the Revolution. Fidel himself has given the order. You are to be shot tonight along with the Cemetery manager who is involved. That’s merciful, believe me. If it was up to me, well it would be slow. Don’t waste your breath protesting. The decision is final. Take him away!”
Armed men surrounded Billy and led him away. He went with his head held high and a wry smile on his lips. So, he thought, this is how it ends. He would die with his boots on as he had always wanted from his boyhood days reading cowboy comics.
Max was dozing on the balcony later that evening, dreaming of future battles on the cratered surface of the moon, after several late afternoon rums, when local police suddenly appeared in his room without knocking and served him an immediate deportation notice.
“What’s this all about? I’ve got Ministry permission to be here!” complained Max.
“Revoked, Senor. You’re on the next plane to Miami. Come. Vamos.”
Police stuffed his belongings into his well travelled and battered old Samsonite case and led him out of the hotel and into the humid night air. On the way to the airport, the police chief made it clear that if he was the dictator running the show Max would be shot along with the home-grown traitors they had rounded up that day. Max protested he was but a humble journalist. The chief laughed that nobody believed that bullshit and soon all gringos would be kicked out.
At Miami airport, Jack Johnson was waiting for him and took him into the cocktail lounge of an airport hotel for much needed vodka Martinis and a shared plate of conch fritters and fries.
“Ok, Jack. What happened back there? Somebody sold us out and ratted to Fidel’s bunch about what was going down.”
“So, Blue, another screw up? It’s getting to be a habit, eh? Well, this time you were not to blame. Don’t worry about your bonus. The thing is, higher levels in the Agency decided to sell out Kidd to keep Trujillo sweet for later and as part of a deal with Fidel. Trujillo wanted Kidd’s head for betraying Trujillo’s attempt at a counter-revolution in Cuba and we are happy to keep him on side for the time being anyway. We stop operations against Fidel and so he gets to stay in power a bit longer and in return he gets rid of Che and the commies. With the commies out of the way, Fidel can play ball with us again and just be a normal strong man type leader and a good friend of the US. He’ll send Che and his crew off on fatal missions to Africa, Columbia or somewhere. This whole deal meant you were used as a bit of a dupe on this one. Sorry, but in return you’ll get promotion and some easy missions for a while. Kidd has been executed by now. That’s a pity, but he really was unreliable and , in the end, dispensable.”
Max felt ill at this explanation and said, “Holy shit, this little game could have got me killed or thrown into Castro’s jails for years. I thought maybe Kidd had blabbed too much to his own guys and one of them had ratted. I never guessed my own side would do something like this and betray a guy who was actually fighting for American ideals to be applied in a country not his own. The whole thing stinks. I bet he wouldn’t have been treated this way if he had been an Ivy Leaguer rather than a blue collar boy from the wrong side of the tracks. This is a real shock, even although I’ve been around the game for years. I’m definitely going to need a break after this. In fact, maybe I should just quit.”
“Yeah? Don’t be hasty. Think on it pal. Remember, once a Company man always a Company man. In case you are wondering, I didn’t know anything about the sell-out of Billy until just after he was picked up. The whole deal was done at the highest possible level and peons like us weren’t to be let in on it. The deciders as usual were Ivy League but I don’t think that was too relevant. Careful what you say, walls have ears and spouting class war talk could be to your disadvantage if it was recorded. I won’t say anything but just keep quiet even if you do feel mad about this. We follow our masters and sometimes they do know the bigger picture which we can’t see down on the ground here. ”
“Ok, I believe you. You are probably right and I’ll button it about this. Maybe it all makes sense in the big picture, though as of now, to me, it stinks. I’m going to take some leave time I’m due, right now, and think I’ll vacation in Miami Beach. Tell Kingman I’ll check back with him in a couple of days, when I’ve had some R&R to blot this all out. After a few days of booze and broads I’ll have got over this and be ready for whatever orders come down.”
“Ok, buddy. We’ve got rooms at this dump for tonight, then you’re on your own for a couple of days. Enjoy.”
Max and Jack then went to their separate rooms. Max fell asleep on top of the bed in his clothes while Jack prepared a brief report on his meeting with Max and organised some staffers to keep Max under observation. He was concerned that Max may be becoming unreliable under the strains of the job and might breach confidentiality, especially under the influence of drink and drugs.
Chapter 15 Rest, Recreation & Re-think
The day after his unwelcome and unexpected expulsion from Cuba, Max checked in to a small, faded Art Deco pastel coloured Miami Beach hotel. He thought it was best to stay away from the newer, flashier, Mob run hotels up the coast with their huge pools, soaring atria, and massive grand staircases. Such hotels were favoured by Havana’s new power elite, who may rant against the US but liked to come over to play and shop for luxuries now running low in Cuba, and he didn’t want to bump into any Fidelistas for a while.
Two one-quart bottles of Seagram’s Canadian Whiskey, and an ice bucket were delivered to his room. After a twenty minute high pressure hot shower followed by a five minute sharp cold shower, Max sat out on the balcony and sipped his way through a half a quart of Seagram’s, while musing on the events of the day before. Max couldn’t suppress the thought that he had been put at extreme risk by his own side and that an idealistic United States citizen, albeit a wayward one, from the bad side of town, Billy Kidd, had been sold to Trujillo and Castro in a Devil’s pact. Max was sure that Castro wouldn’t honour his side of the deal. From everything he had seen and heard while in Cuba, he could see that, pretty soon, Cuba would be Commie through and through. It would be a Soviet outpost right off Miami, Florida. Goddam it to hell. Still, he thought, we take an oath to serve and follow orders and this sort of double crossing goes on all the time. Yeah, but I don’t have to be part of it, especially the part that can be chucked to the wolves. They set me up as a patsy. My own side. Jesus. Just lucky they didn’t sweeten the deal even more by letting Castro’s goons bump me off too. Bet that was considered, at least. Maybe being Ivy League helped me on that. And what happened to the million bucks? No doubt goes into Castro’s back pocket to spend on whatever. They say he is quite a swinger and has no shortage of willing chicks. Yep, being a dictator has a lot going for it. Try to forget the whole business for a while. Maybe things would look better tomorrow. Meantime, he called up a much needed room service dinner of picadillo, a dish of ground beef with olives, peppers, garlic , onions, tomato sauce and rice, washed down with ice cold Coors beers.
Max went out that night and hit the bars down Collins Avenue. Pretty soon, he found himself in a back room – a room just for special guests of the management. The management seemed to know he was an important guy and whisked him in to the special room. There were about twelve other revellers in the room plus some serving people. Joints were being passed round. Things began to look better. Now, his beef with the high ups did not seem to matter so much anymore. In fact, it was quite funny. Apart from the business with Billy, poor schmuck. But even that maybe had some black humour about it. That guy was a huge risk taker and nobody’s luck lasts forever. It’s probably how he wanted to go. Can’t imagine Billy Kidd just dying of old age. Maybe he should have tried to rescue Billy. But, there was no way, in the time available. It would have taken a large team and there was just him
. Plus, remember, it was a sell out sanctioned from on high. Attempting a rescue would have been against policy, insubordination, in fact. He would be booted out at best if not banged up. No. Forget about it.
He started scanning the crowd more closely. The folk in the back room all seemed safe enough to relax amongst. They were all civilians, well to do hedonists on vacation, thought Max, could be fun. After more drinks and joints, somebody put a record on and music started up. People began to pair off for dancing. A full figured girl with long black hair, a tight red T shirt and a short skirt, pulled Max up and over to the dance area, saying, “C’mon gorgeous let’s bop!”
“Sure, babe, I’m Mike, and you?”
“I’m Lola. Now, c’mon, its dancin’ time.”
The sounds of Dion, the Drifters, Fabian, Neil Sedaka and Paul Anka came over the speakers. Max kept up his Mike Brown, radical journalist cover, enjoying the music, the dancing and Lola’s close proximity. His troubles were receding. Eventually the sound of Elvis was heard coming through the warm and smoky air, needing his baby’s love that night. Max squeezed Lola tightly into his chest and nuzzled her ear while whispering agreement with Elvis’s lyrics. Lola responded by pressing her crotch into Max. Drawing back from him slightly she grabbed his arm firmly and led him out of the back room and through the lobby.
In the street, Max held her and whispered. “My place? Its just round the corner.” Within minutes they were in his room, entwined, with Max underneath, on the leather couch by the open glass doors to the balcony from which a deliciously gentle cool breeze was flowing.
Max eased up Lola’s tight red t-shirt, pushing it over her under-wired bra, which he then undid in a practised movement. Lola quickly pulled down her underpants and moved her whole body swiftly upwards, kissing Max hard on the lips and mounting him forcefully.
“Wow,” said Max, ruffling her hair, after climax, “That was something else, babe. Mmmmm. Lets sleep on it for a while now…”
