Mongoose, R.I.P.

by William F. Buckley

  Four such incidents, designed to consummate Mongoose—the elimination of Castro—in 1962. Sure, any one of them might have worked. Larry wondered if the world would ever know about Wild Bill’s idea of staging the Second Coming of Christ, causing a great religious upheaval and the consequent overthrow of the anti-Christ Castro. And then there was the sea-shell that was going to explode where Castro went swimming.

  He shook his head. WB was a bright guy. Certainly he was inventive—and his instructions were very plain: whatever happened to Castro, it mustn’t be traceable to the United States. But this new idea of the wet suit … All Larry Fillmore could do was to shake his head, again, though to do so interfered with his upstream concentration, at the traffic light, on the one-way traffic.

  The next morning WB called Larry and Elihu and Conchita into his office. They sat down on folding chairs. WB was smoking a cigar.

  “It’s done,” he announced to his little staff. “Got a call from TSD”—TSD was the CIA’s Technical Services Division “—you remember, they said they’d try to come up with that wet suit according to my specifications? They’ve done it. It exists. What we have to do now is some thinking about how to manage Jim Donovan. Elihu, do you have the details on Donovan’s trip?”

  “Yes,” Elihu said. Elihu wore tie and jacket and glasses. Clean-cut and clerical in manner, he spoke from notes, but notes that would mean nothing even if the chief cryptographer of the KGB happened on them—that was a part of the covert agent activities’ training. When notes are necessary, devise a means of making them unintelligible save to yourself.

  “Mr. Donovan is scheduled to leave on Saturday morning. He’ll fly out of Andrews Air Force Base in a DC-4. The aircraft has Red Cross markings and its identification number is Z-997703—”

  “Elihu, might we save a little time if you just said it was the same plane as on Donovan’s other two trips?”

  “Yes sir. Yes, WB.”

  WB did not like to be sirred. (“Wrong for this kind of unit. No chickenshit in Mongoose. We’re not at Parris Island or administering a Marine division.”)

  “It’s the same plane, it is scheduled to lift off at nine A.M. One hundred miles north of Havana, it will radio on 124 MHz, and will give out the code ‘Donovan Z-997.’ The signal will be met with ‘Proceed on course blank’—probably about 194 degrees. Ten minutes later, the pilot will expect to see two Cuban fighter jets. They’ll U-turn in front of Donovan’s plane, and escort him into José Martí Airport.”

  “Where will Castro first see him?”

  (Wild Bill wants to get on with this, Larry mused.)

  “The Swiss consul didn’t have that detail. All he said of any interest was that the Prime Minister has planned ‘a little lunch’ for Donovan, to ‘commemorate the successful conclusion of their business.’”

  “Good!” WB clapped his hands together with great force, and Larry imagined what little would be left of a small, thin Japanese soldier if he had mistakenly been standing between Wild Bill Hicock’s hands.

  “That’s what we need, a little festivity. Makes gift giving appropriate. Now. The Bay of Pigs prisoners are of course back, and most of the $53 million of drugs went down there with Donovan on trip number two. He is taking with him the balance, some of the stuff we couldn’t put our hands on in December. We have all studied Castro’s habits at these social affairs, and even though we are the enemy, he and Donovan have always got along just fine. Hell, Donovan is used to trading with the enemy. After all, he got our U-2 pilot back, trading with Khrushchev. Anybody here ever met him?”

  No hand was raised.

  “Well, I managed to have a little talk with Mr. Donovan, Negotiator, U.S.–Cuba. Told him I was from Protocol, had instructions to check on the operation, and that Protocol thought that Castro might make a gift to Donovan. As you know”—he pointed to Larry—“I already told this to Larry—I planted the seed. The rest of you can now know that I told him that Castro has been observed scuba-diving regularly. He’s taken a real shine to it. Swims usually off the beach at Jaimanitas over the reefs. I told Donovan that the only kind of wet suits the Soviet Union has are those made for KGB types. Frogman stuff. The suits left over from the pre-Castro tourist trade are pretty creaky. Nothing like the new sports models you pick up at Abercrombie and Fitch. I was going to suggest it if he didn’t, but he did: ‘Why don’t we give him a wet suit?’ So I said I would see to it that Mr. Donovan had a wet suit, nicely wrapped for Castro, and he said thanks. How you like that for planning!” WB beamed.

  “So, really, it’s just that simple. I’ll do it myself. I’ll be at Andrews on Saturday an hour before flight time, and I’ll personally stow the wet suit package, neatly labeled, alongside Donovan’s personal gear before he even boards the plane.”

  Larry felt he had to interrupt. “WB, these toxic materials the suit is impregnated with—”

  “Don’t ask me what they are. I didn’t study chemistry. But they will work, that’s the point.”

  “Yes. Well, when Castro puts his wet suit on, and a couple of hours later, back from swimming, begins to develop this strange fever which heads him straight into a coma and then—death—what makes you think that nobody is going to get around to examining the wet suit?”

  “Larry, you made that point, as you obviously have forgotten, three weeks ago when I first had the idea. I told you then, and I repeat now, the TSD people I talked to said if the wet suit was in salt water long enough—and they have washed it out in salt water—there will be nothing that makes the suit look any different, smell different, nothing. So someone goes out diving, comes back. And not less than two hours later—remember that, not any sooner: at least two hours—the diver begins to feel sick. Vomits, fever, the whole bit. Now who in his right mind is going to think he got a disease from a lousy wet suit? I mean, the medical team at autopsy time will know he was poisoned, but they’ll think in terms of what he ate, and what he ate is the responsibility of the cook at the luncheon, and if they want to question the hell out of him, that’s their business.”

  Elihu cleared his throat. “Suppose, WB, that after Castro is dead, buried, etc., people start looking around at what he, well, left behind. Somebody’s going to say, ‘Gee, that’s a nice wet suit. I think I’ll pick that up for my son. He really likes to dive.’ And then the next day the son dies of the same poison.”

  “Because,” WB explained, conspicuously slowing the tempo of his speech, as if speaking to a slightly retarded student, “because, Elihu, the people over at TSD tell me the toxicity of the chemicals will last only five or six days. The biggest risk we run is that Castro won’t want to go swimming for a week or so, but I doubt that, because the suit will look real inviting by comparison with the stuff he’s been using. So anyway, by the time your friend’s son gets that suit, it will be safe as Johnson’s baby powder.”

  Elihu nodded.

  “Okay? Larry, you pick up the suit from TSD, you know the contact. Meet me here at seven, and we’ll drive to Andrews with it. Check which departure lounge, and let me know. Conchita, you check every day with Donovan’s office, in case there are any changes in plans. Elihu, keep your eye on the weather forecasts. We don’t want to find out there’s going to be a hurricane or a monsoon or whatever that will keep Castro from wanting to swim. I don’t know what we’ll do if that happens, but we’ll have to be prepared to act fast on alternatives. Okay?” he rose. “Okay, team, that’s it.”

  On Saturday morning the weather in Washington was chilly but bright, and at eight, flashing a card from State Department Protocol identifying one “William Livingston,” Hicock left his aide waiting in the officers’ boarding lounge and climbed up the gangway of Z-997703. He was shown the private cabin where Donovan would ride. Hicock plunked his parcel down right on the table, neatly marked “For James Donovan, wet suit, gift for FC.”

  He returned to the lounge, picked up Larry, and they drove off, back to Washington.

  WB was exhilarated. “Damned if I don’t fe
el like a drink. What you say? It’s Saturday.”

  “Sure,” Larry Fillmore said, though instinctively queasy at the thought of a drink at 8:30 in the morning. They stopped at a bar where, without consulting him, WB ordered two bloody Marys. “Or,” he winked at Larry, “do you think a rum and Coke would be more appropriate?”

  Larry managed a smile.

  That afternoon, Larry was playing tennis with his son at the Washington Golf and Country Club in Arlington when a club steward called out his name. Racquet in hand, he moved to the entrance of the court.

  “Wanted on the phone, sir.”

  It was WB.

  “Larry, been thinking. Donovan’s due back at seven, maybe a little after, depends a little how long the—the gift-exchange party lasts. I think I’ll just be a member of the little greeting party. I’ll say to him, Protocol wants to know, did, er, the present, was the present … appreciated? Got to be thorough, right?”

  “Right, WB.”

  “Well, I thought you might want to come along.”

  Larry knew WB’s ways. He wanted company.

  “Sure.”

  “Where do you want me to pick you up?”

  WB could be that way. Others Larry had worked for would tell Larry where to be at what time.

  “You talking about—six?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’ll be home. That convenient?”

  “You bet. I’ll honk twice. Honk honk.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  WB was full of talk on the way out. He was describing the consequences of their very long mission. “Needless to say, we’re hardly going to get a parade in our honor. Maybe fifty years from now the historians will dig it out. But it makes you—well, kind of proud, doesn’t it?”

  “It sure does, WB. It was quite an idea you had.”

  “Don’t count your chickens until they’re hatched. Wonder who invented that expression? Useful. Wonder who did invent that?”

  “Mother Goose, maybe.”

  WB laughed, almost cackled. They drove in, parked, and walked into the Operations Building. WB flashed his card. “We’re here to meet Mr. Donovan on Z-997703. Any word from the aircraft?”

  The lieutenant turned to the radio operator. “Any word from 703?”

  Lifting the earphone from his right ear: “Expect to land seven one four,” the young radio man said.

  “Good. Thanks, Lieutenant. We’ll go down to the lounge. Same one—Lounge C, right? There’ll be a few other people there.”

  “They’ve already checked in, sir. Yes, Lounge C.”

  One of the three men was from the State Department, a second from Defense, a third probably CIA. WB nodded. “Protocol,” he said, and sat down, picking up a copy of Life magazine. “Hmm.” He turned to Larry. “Last week’s. Typical.”

  “Typical of what, WB?”

  “Typical of bureaucracy. All the same. Last week’s Life mag, last week’s everything. No forward thinking. Typical.” WB fell silent. The only things he wanted to talk about he couldn’t, not in a small lounge with outsiders.

  Fifteen minutes later the little loudspeaker in the corner of the lounge wheezed on. There was static, then the voice from Operations.

  “Z-997703, Mr. Donovan, coming in, taxi to Gate 6 in a couple of minutes.”

  The official greeters went out to the apron, and in two minutes the DC-4 wheeled up and the propellers stopped. The gangway was rolled up, the door opened, and Donovan walked out, a briefcase in his left hand, a large shopping bag in his right.

  The State Department official greeted him. “Everything go all right, sir?”

  “Fine,” Donovan smiled briskly. “Nothing unanticipated.” Donovan spotted WB. “Oh—Mr. Livingston. I have this wet suit back for you. Had dinner a couple of nights ago with a friend, big diver. I told him about our plans, and he gave me the absolutely latest model, not in the stores yet. Castro was tickled to death.”

  7

  More often than not Fidel Castro was indulgent quite beyond the understanding of his closest colleagues whenever it was his brother, Raúl, who went off the deep end. But not that night. When Raúl made his impulsive suggestion, Fidel Castro denounced it as “ridiculous.”

  He then added, “Stupid!”

  He followed this by “Asinine!”

  And yet, his companions could tell, he had been strangely fetched up by it. The energetic suggestion had affected Fidel perhaps in part because of the sheer fatigue of listening for so long to so long and so depressing an account of what the imperialists and counterrevolutionaries were up to in Miami. Moreover, Alejandro, their informant, was not a specialist in the brisk intelligence summary, though it was hardly his fault. Everyone, Fidel included, kept interrupting him, asking for more details about this operation, that agent. Alejandro, as he was called—“I don’t give a damn what his real name is,” Castro had told his brother, who had gone to rather melodramatic lengths, in presenting him to the inner council, to explain why he would be called merely “Alejandro” during the afternoon’s session—was hardly in a position to compress his answers, when he was being questioned by Fidel Castro, Raúl Castro, Ramíro Valdés, and Osvaldo Dorticós.

  The news was dismaying. Station JM WAVE in Miami (Alejandro told them) was by now the largest CIA station in the entire world. There were no fewer than “hundreds—I would say between four and five hundred” operatives attached to Station JM WAVE, Alejandro reported. “One third of them are trained CIA agents. The others are Cuban traitors.”

  Castro interrupted him. “Alejandro, you know they are traitors, I know they are traitors, Raúl knows they are traitors, Valdés knows they are traitors, Dorticós knows they are traitors. It would perhaps save time if from now on you simply refer to them as Cubans. We will know that you are talking about Cuban traitors.”

  “Yes, Comandante.”

  “You may proceed.”

  Alejandro did so. He said that Station JM WAVE, the CIA’s code name for their Miami station, was planning, coordinating, and preparing to execute, direct assaults “of every kind, Comandante” against the Castro regime. Such operations, described in startling detail by Alejandro, included commando raids on Cuba itself; the smuggling of arms to be used inside Cuba by agents in place; the infiltration by Cubans in Miami into Cuba to fortify the rebel resistance. There were plans to commit acts of sabotage against critical facilities in Cuba, “including our power plants, our radio stations, our refinery, and even some of our sugar plants. And as you know, Comandante”—Alejandro turned to Fidel, who leaned back, cigar in mouth, in the huge easy chair—“there have been clumsy attempts on your life during the past two years. The missile crisis of October caused the CIA to suspend its dealings with the Mafia group—Rosselli, Trafficante, and others. They have been discharged. But the CIA has not withdrawn its offer of $150,000 as a reward to the underworld for your assassination.”

  How did he know this? Dorticós wanted to know.

  Alejandro replied just a little stiffly that all his informants were subject to checks by his superior, Comandante Raúl …

  “And though I cannot put my finger on it, I have the distinct impression that a separate echelon of CIA is now in charge of a direct assassination attempt. I have established that the agent Blackford Oakes, prominently involved with what they called Operation Caimán and with Che Guevara all last year, and whom you”—Alejandro paused for a moment, turning to Valdés for safe conduct—“whom Comandante Castro ordered executed last October, is a central figure.”

  “It’s all right, Alejandro. Fidel knows that I gave you a full briefing on the events of October. Go ahead.”

  “The agent Oakes is in Miami. He is staying at the Fontainebleau Hotel. He has been there, in Suite 1202, for two weeks, and I would suppose he is there for the duration of the current operation. He does not travel ever—we have traced his movements—to the University of Miami South Campus, where Station JM WAVE is situated. It is possible that the people at WAVE do not even know that
Oakes is in Miami. Or, for that matter, it is possible that they do not even know who he is. But it is not likely that he is in Miami on a mission unconnected with the mission of station JM WAVE. His exact mission we have not been able to ascertain.”

  Alejandro was able to identify some of the Cuban principals involved with WAVE—everyone in the room asked about one or more Cubans, in many cases sometime companions-in-arms, but hardly all. He had given his information in detail earlier in the day to Raúl. Efforts were being made to penetrate the inner council of WAVE. “I think we will be successful, but we don’t know when the raids will begin, or which targets will come first. We do know that the agenda is as comprehensive as I have described.”

  Castro had listened, and his mood had blackened. Toward the end of the second hour, Raúl and Valdés were questioning Alejandro on details while Castro sat, silent. But after a while he picked up a book from his desk, slammed it down and complained that the conference had degenerated into sheer speculation. “Basta!”

  Alejandro froze at attention. Exercising great self-control, Fidel modified the tone of his voice, addressing Alejandro. “Yes, enough. You are doing good work, Alejandro, and you will be rewarded. You may go now. You will receive instructions tomorrow from Comandante Valdés.”

  The four men remained in Castro’s office, scattered about the large oak table in the windowless room. It was one of the four offices Castro used, its address unknown to the diplomatic community, unknown, even, to the broader echelon of Castro’s administration. Castro was not talking. After Alejandro left, he walked over to the shortwave radio, looked at his huge wrist-watch, and played with the dial, in search of a station. “Mexico,” he muttered. “Don’t get any news of any interest from our stations.” He was sitting almost absentmindedly by the radio when supper was brought in, separate trays on stands placed in front of Raúl, Valdés, and Dorticós. Fidel’s own tray was placed directly on his desk, in obedience to his hand signal.