Spotted running away suspiciously, Avarez was captured. When Castro, face-to-face with the traitor but as yet unable to grasp what his comrade's motivation might be, demanded to know the reason why, idealistic Avarez defiantly shouted that he’d watched televised executions of confused citizens who, for one reason or another, Castro considered his enemies, in some cases rightly, with others wrong, operating as Batista had to supposed rebels. Viewing such brutality in his apartment, Avarez retched at the public spectacle, performed for a rowdy, delighted mob, French-revolution style. Onlookers cheered the flow of blood, purchasing beer and soda from street vendors who had rushed in to, in a capitalist manner, make a fast buck off the event.
Also Avarez complained that, winning over fellow students back in their university days, Castro had presented himself as an open-minded egalitarian. Now, he had revealed himself to be a Communist dictator. A communist, yes, Castro shouted at Alvarez. Not a fascist like Batista. Do you think it makes any difference if authoritarianism comes from the left rather than the right? Alvarez demanded. Yes, Castro blurted out. That is where we now disagree, came the answer, and why I wish that I’d have had the courage to shoot you. He spit on Castro and was summarily shot.
When Castro recovered from his shock and humiliation, he arranged from that moment on to be completely surrounded by hand-picked guards. While the big mustachioed man’s formidable presence, stepping out of the Hilton as Castro's human shield, might have deterred any citizen-assassin, Rosselli was no such amateur. Schooled in the art and tactics of killing while an apprentice to Al Capone in Chicago, 1922, during the golden era of the Scarface Gang, the looker with thick oily hair and a strong Roman nose drifted around and past the bodyguard like a shadow passing through quick-silver. Rosselli closed in so quickly that no one alive could have stopped him. He whipped out the Luger, slamming its barrel against Castro’s thick forehead.
“Do you want to die?” Rosselli softly said. For a moment, the Cuban leader could not form words. His bodyguards were at a loss; any movement might cause this Italian-American in a slick sharkskin suit to kill Castro. Each remained stock-still.
“No,” Castro at last managed to whimper in reply.
God ... Gold! Please don’t let me cough now!
“Then listen closely ...”
“Pull that trigger,” the lead bodyguard ventured, certain he must do something, drawing his own weapon, a .45 automatic, leveling it at Rosselli’s temple, “and you die as well.”
“A-ha,” Johnny laughed, eyes wild, “but there I have you. I don’t care if I die or not. The same cannot be said of your glorious leader. Do you grasp my meaning? What’s your name?”
“Pupo Valle.”
“You cannot win, Valle. Ipso facto, I cannot lose.”
“Remain calm, Pupo,” Castro ordered, sweating profusely yet in control of his emotions. Then, furtively glancing to Johnny, he inquired, “What is it you want of me?”
Rosselli inched forward and for thirty seconds whispered into Castro’s ear. Castro nodded in the affirmative. At that, Rosselli winked, returning his gun back to its leather shoulder-holster under his jacket, turning away from Castro, bodyguards, and a coterie of stunned onlookers. Valle continued to grip his pistol, glancing sideways to his leader for orders. Castro shook his head ‘no.’ He and Pupo stood together, watching as the man disappeared into a stunned crowd, gone like some bad dream that hauntingly seems all too real the morning after.
“I could have killed him easily as he left.”
“Yes,” Castro gulped. “And so ‘they’ would have sent another. Next time, they would finish me without a word.”
“Next time, I would have been prepared—”
“No, Pupo. From those like Avarez, I have no doubt you can always protect me. From such as this? It’s not your capabilities I question. Much as I hate to admit this, we must learn to live with the Mafia."
Pupo Valle wondered for the first time since the revolution if his exalted leader really was the absolute idealist he and so many other loyalists believed. Would a truly great man speak so? But Valle would keep his own counsel, for to speak such a thing to anyone would be construed as treason. At least for now.
*
The following morning, Castro called a special conference of political advisors, all aware already that their job was not to suggest varying approaches for severe problems to Castro but nod in agreement with whatever he proposed. Unexpectedly, he re-introduced the supposedly-decided issue of Cuba’s American-owned casinos. After consideration, Castro pompously announced, he now believed that their country must not entirely isolate itself from the world. Also, the economy must not be allowed to fall into disarray before he developed future plans. With this understood, tourist money remained a necessity, if only for the time being. Of course, for Americans to continue to arrive and spend, they would require that the gambling houses awaited them.
No one in the room could believe what he was hearing. Still they shook their heads in unison, grinning like idiots. On January 17, 1959, all American-owned casinos could re-open. Johnny heard the news on Radio Cuba, grinned at his own effectiveness, and waited for word from the states. Within minutes, the old fashioned ornate white telephone, left over from those decadent days of the late 1920s, rang. This time it was Gold himself, the great one choosing to speak personally (a rarity) to a mob operative, congratulating his man in Havana on a job well done.
Johnny waxed rhapsodic in reply. Clearly, this had been a major upward career-move. He could hardly be held responsible when most American with money, deeply concerned about political unrest in Cuba despite the casino re-openings, turned their backs on Havana and instead flew west to Vegas, until then a gathering place for local rubes. Overnight, that changed. Johnny Rosselli/Handsome would be one Made Man who most profited from that new order.
*
To state that Fulgencio Batista Zaldivar, recently deposed dictator of Cuba, had long despised Rafel Leonidas Trujillo, self-proclaimed president for life of the Dominican Republic, would have been to put the situation mildly. The strong-arm politicians had throughout the 1950s waged a hostile competition for money and valued commodities, including military equipment, from the U.S. Each tried to persuade the American ambassador to his country there was but one true friend on the southern tier, now that the demon threat of communism had spread like prairie fire across Latin America, and that this—he!—was that man.
More than once, Batista and Trujillo had been on the verge of open conflict, American operatives intervening. It was in the U.S.'s best interests to keep both in power, armed and ready to train those weapons at the Reds when and if they came. Batista and Trujillo continued to harbor anxieties as to one another; so far as others perceived them, these were the Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum of the Third World: self-serving bullies with no concern for the people they pretended to watch over and serve.
Now, though, the Sixties were but a stone‘s throw away, a new decade ushering in an alternative sense of values. Even as Batista’s power structure collapsed around him and on New Year‘s Eve he took flight for fear his very life was in danger, he knew from reliable sources that Trujillo suffered similar pressure from revolutionary forces in Santo Domingo. Perhaps communists in the Dominican Republican were in cahoots with the guerillas who had seized Havana two weeks ago, these part of an emergent international revolution. In this reconfigured world order, old animosities were forgotten, even as those between the United States and Germany or Japan had been when, after World War II concluded, the U.S.’s recent allies, China and the Soviet Union, waved red flags in defiance, inciting the bulls of the west.
Batista and Trujillo were dictators. If each man chose to posture and pose as a true democrat to appease the Americans, fascistic described their approach to stifling free public elections. Anything that threatened the one worried the other. This partly explains why Trujillo, upon learning of Batista’s ouster, invited him to Santo Domingo until, with Trujillo’s full support, Batista
could convince the U.S. to, by any possible means, return their Cuban 'friend' to power in his homeland.
Today, Trujillo had decked himself out in full military uniform, boasting enough gold-braid to anchor a large ship. Batista instead wore a simple white suit. The two met on this sweltering early-afternoon at the Presidential Palace. Side by side, dwarfed by epic-sized paintings from the classical era, they spoke intimately about what ought to be done to keep the world, at least their corner of it, from spinning out of orbit.
Batista had been rushed to this meeting by a chauffeured limousine from his exquisite hotel. He had registered two days earlier as a paying guest. All financing for himself and his wife’s stay, he’d been informed upon arrival, was required up front and in cash. Not a problem, as they’d carried a fortune along when the two scurried out of Havana minutes before the city fell to the rebels. The couple now enjoyed the finest accommodations available in this capital city, Batista's wife enjoying an elegant lobster salad lunch via room service.
Batista and Trujillo, no longer cautious of one another, casually exchanged information. Trujillo explained that he’d ordered Colonel Ferrando, his chief counsul in Miami, to sniff out the CIA agents there. What were The Company’s thoughts as to a counter-strike? Would the U.S. openly support such a move or continue to offer only secretive aid? If so, in how long a time might that occur?
Batista, as Trujillo could not have guessed, harbored no interest whatsoever in such a victorious return. Following two sessions as Cuba’s man with the iron fist (1933-44; 1952-59), he now only wished to slip away to Europe and live the good life in Rome, Paris, and other such exquisite cities. Certainly he and his wife had on their persons enough money to support such a high lifestyle indefinitely. Batista didn’t dare admit this at the moment for fear of his host’s wrath if Batista did not at least pretend to share the Dominican's hopes and schemes.
So Batista nodded, his gesture inhabiting some nowhere zone between affirmation and elusiveness, implying without saying so that he’d gladly serve as part of a coalition of Latin politicos opposing communism and seeking aid from the U.S. to defeat it.
Trujillo spoke at length about other countries most likely to fall in with the emerging plan, Nicaragua chief among them.
“You believe, then,” Batista wanted to know, “that Nicaragua will allow Cuban exiles to train there, then use their airstrips for a launching point?”
“I do not believe,” Trujillo answered with the supreme confidence that always characterized him. “I know.”
They exited the sumptuous room, furnished with fine antique furniture and majestic statuary, from armless Aphrodites hailing back to the Greek golden age and bold Herculean warriors, their private parts hammered away by Puritan censors, that dated to the High Renaissance in Firenze. Each man, cradling a drink, stepped onto the balcony. From there they could observe the wide green fields, handsomely cultivated, stretching as far as the eye could see. How hard to believe, in this elaborately designed escape from the real world of excruciating poverty only a short distance away, that the privileged few inhabiting this palace might soon come under a deadly state of siege.
“When might such an intervention take place?” Batista, intrigued if disinterested, asked.
“Not any time soon, I assure you. The men for such an operation must be recruited, then trained at length, finally guided step-by-step by the CIA."
"Months?"
"If only it could be accomplished in so short a time."
"Years?"
"Several.
"Still, that is better than nothing."
"Amen to that."
“And as for The Company? You believe they can be trusted?”
“Always, you say ’believe‘,” Trujillo laughed. “Yet always I reply: ’know.’"
Momentarily, Batista stood silent, taking all this in. At last he felt comfortable venturing a conclusion. “Then it is what the Americans call ’a done deal’, if in due time.”
That gave Trujillo cause to wince. “Yes and no. You see, there is a wild card in our deck. A presidential election will take place in November 1960 in the United States. Already the leading candidates are pre-planning, raising funds ...”
"My guess? Nixon will be the Republican nominee."
"Agreed. A most unpleasant fellow! Still, one we can trust. If he wins, things will proceed as I outlined for you.”
“If not?”
“A young senator named Kennedy is even now at work trying to corner the Democratic party’s eventual nod. He has some competition: Stevenson once again; the Texan Johnson. Several others too. Still, a sense of inevitability has already begun to surround this young, handsome, charismatic senator."
“If he should succeed?”
“Perhaps he will set aside all the youthful idealistic nonsense he speaks to attract the country's young liberals to him. And, once in office, learn the politics of reality from his senior advisors, then continue in the path of predecessors as to the need for containing communism.”
“Yet you imply, obviously, ’perhaps not.’”
“Well, you see, this I don’t know. Or, as you would phrase it, 'believe.'"
"So?"
"So, we must both of us remain wary yet hopeful.”
The two made eye contact, grimacing at the potential for danger, then accompanied each other back inside. In two hours, a state dinner would begin. Batista’s wife Marta was by now preparing her wardrobe, hoping to captivate all attending.
If anyone had told Fulgencia Batista Zaldivar one year earlier that he would come to consider Rafel Leonidas Trujillo a close ally, Cuba's dictator would have laughed. Now? It was an old cliché, Batista well knew, but one proven true, over and over again in world history: any enemy of my enemy is my friend.
CHAPTER SIX:
THE TWINNING
"There are two governments in the U.S. today.
One is visible, the other invisible.”
—David Wise and T.B. Ross, 1964
"Like presents?"
"Like 'em? I love ‘em."
"Open the glove compartment and see what's inside."
Lee did as George commanded, as always. At this moment he occupied the passenger seat of a black Sedan, George behind the wheel, driving them away from Camp Pendleton, CA. Lee had been reassigned there on January 18, 1957, a year before that heady conversation between Trujillo and Batista would take place on the former's balcony. Lee began serving as a member of A Company, 1st Battalion, the 2nd Infantry training regiment, five weeks previous to this rendezvous with George. On February 27, L.H.O. left the base on an official two-week leave.
This was rare for a marine who had recently arrived and barely begun mastering the skills of Radar operation. None of the others in his company could come up with any logical reason why Oswald, or 'Ozzie' as they referred to the rabbit-like Lee, had been singled out for such sought-after special treatment. In truth, the leave had been arranged by George, he sending the word to the base's commander-in-chief, an officer who well knew that when a request arrived from some heavyweight player in the CIA, that was that. No questions asked.
"I will pick you up at the entrance to Pendleton at one p.m." George had told Lee in a furtive phone call three days previous. "You’ve been granted a two week leave. Officially, you will be going home to visit your ill mother."
As always, Lee replied affirmatively. The following morning he continued with his daily duties, pretending to be happily surprised when word reached him from headquarters about his upcoming leave. Now, George headed east along the highway.
"A book," Lee said, reaching inside the glove compartment.
"To fill your traveling hours. Recognize the author?"
Lee considered the cover: Profiles in Courage by John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Lee admitted to George that most of what he understood about the senator from Massachusetts was but common knowledge. JFK was reputed to have been a great war hero in the South Pacific. He saved his men after their PT boat was sunk by
an enemy submarine, swimming in front of the survivors, doing so with one hand as he dragged along a seaman too badly wounded too continue. In the early fifties, Kennedy entered politics, basing his campaign in Boston where his prestigious family held court.
JFK married a debutante, Jacqueline Lee Bouvier, who had recently delivered him a daughter, the newspapers were full of this event owing to the attractive movie-star quality of each parent. Other than that, all Lee knew was that Kennedy had gone after the Democratic party's vice-presidential nomination, in hopes of running with Adlai Stevenson in the upcoming election. On August 17, 1956, this distinct honor had been denied him.
"A temporary set-back," George chuckled. "Believe me. This guy is going all the way to the White House.”
"Seriously? But if his own party wouldn’t let him—“
"Jack's father, Joseph, has a saying: 'When the going gets tough, the tough get going.'"
"I’ve heard that. And this book—"
"Ghost-written by a coterie of Ivy League brain-trust intellectuals who view JFK as their Great White Hope. Adlai losing to Ike again they considered a foregone conclusion. Kennedy's clique figures after another four years, the Dems will be ready to accept their boy with open arms. Meanwhile, Jack's at work building his coming campaign machine with a team of experts. Step by step, they're creating a myth around the man: macho in combat, intelligent in repose, gorgeous to look at, particularly when accompanied by his wife. She, by the way, is part of that master-plan, though I doubt the lady realizes it yet. She will! Jack's a womanizer, she his elegant cover-wife."
"If the Kennedys are so powerful, why was that necessary?"
"Now, you're being naive. The Kennedys, understand, are nouveaux riche. Their Irish working-class origins, along with their Catholicity, will cause dumb bigots to pause. The final thing Jack needs for the Total Image is a sense of belonging to an American aristocracy. That can only be achieved by marriage into such a circle. Jackie adds the necessary touch of class."
Patsy! : The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald Page 12
