Mongoose, R.I.P.

by William F. Buckley

  “Of a personal nature, Señor Bledsoe, I desire you to know only this, that I am not a Mexican intelligence agent, and that I have not traveled to Cuba since Castro took power. I am professionally engaged by my client, whom we both designate as ‘LASH,’ or ‘AM/LASH.’ I agreed to act as intermediary because I sympathize with my client’s desire to liberate the Cuban people. It is, really, that—that uncomplicated.”

  Blackford bowed his head in acknowledgment of the information, but did not reciprocate by giving Consuelo any information about his own background, or profession, or motives. He hoped that Consuelo would in due course conclude that Blackford had not risen through the ranks as a Mafia executioner. His silence prompted Consuelo to proceed.

  He told Blackford that LASH had confided to him what he expected from—he had begun to use another word, stopped, and substituted, “your Agency.” Blackford quickly concluded that Consuelo thought it vaguely wrong to use “your government” in connection with a plot to assassinate the leader of a foreign country. Before presenting Bledsoe with the details planned by LASH for the project, he would need to dwell on the reassurances, “indirect and direct,” that LASH required.

  To begin with the former, he said, LASH assumed that the assassination would be instantly followed by the designation of a new leader of the Cuban people, pending national democratic elections. LASH concluded that such a leader necessarily—he emphasized the word necessarily—would be a former associate of Castro’s in order to stress that the assassination and ascendancy of a new leader was not an act of counterrevolution sponsored by Batista.

  Blackford nodded his head. “Does he have someone in mind?”

  Consuelo said that two people would qualify. They were Huber Matos and Guillermo Morales. The first was in prison at Isla de Pinos, the other at La Cabaña.

  “Has LASH specific plans for yanking one of these from prison after the assassination?”

  Consuelo responded that much thought had been given to this, that LASH had the idea that an ultimatum delivered by radio to the commander of one or both of the prisons would have the desired effect. He detailed LASH’s thinking on the subject.

  Blackford got up, loosened his tie distractedly, and then said, “No. In my judgment it will not work. There simply won’t be time. Assume—let’s talk hypothetically—that Castro is shot at noon. Unless LASH has in mind an explosion that would simultaneously take out Raúl, Valdés, Guevara, and Dorticós, one of these is going to have the police, the army, and the reserves alerted by twelve-fifteen to batten down the hatches. Martial law will be declared. And as a matter of fact, Señor Consuelo, since my mind is roaming now on the proposal, it isn’t entirely inconceivable that Matos and Morales will be ordered executed immediately after Castro falls as putative threats to the post-Castro Communist government.” Blackford looked out the window, pausing for only a moment …

  “No. Although … we would be delighted if the train of events you describe were to take place, it simply isn’t going to happen. Either Matos or Morales has to be lifted out of the prison before the assassination, or you’re going to need to get somebody who is free, around whom what we hope will be an exuberantly increased resistance can instantly gather. And even then it’s likely there will be civil war, and it’s by no means predictable that the resistance would win it.”

  Consuelo interjected that corollary plans made by LASH would call for instant diplomatic recognition given to the deputized successor. The effect of this would legitimize the assassination, increasing the possibility of a recognizable, genuine, traditional coup.

  Blackford spoke cautiously. “We have not been idle these past six months. Highly discreet inquiries have been made, the pressure points identified. Within twenty-four hours of the death of Castro, we would anticipate diplomatic recognition of the new government by four Latin American states”—he smiled—“unhappily not including your own. And, at a discreet but by no means remote interval, diplomatic recognition by my government.”

  They dwelt on the subject of recognition at some length, but Blackford returned to the question of the deputized successor and asked whether LASH had considered “something a little more like the July 20 affair in 1944—aimed not only at Hitler, but at his entire high command.”

  He had considered it, Consuelo replied, and ruled it out as simply unworkable. LASH did not have the resources, nor would he find the opportunity to undertake tyrannicide on such a scale.

  “In that case, Consuelo”—both men were now dropping the “Señor” when using each other’s name—“there is no way to avoid a civil-war phase in this operation. But the leader of the anti-Castro forces has got to be free and mobile. What’s the matter with Jesús Ferrer? God knows he was never associated with Batista. He’s only twenty-eight, although well prepared, and during the last two years of Batista’s government he was a graduate student at Oxford.”

  Yes, Consuelo agreed, but Ferrer did not have the advantage of having worked with Castro, though their families had ties—and this advantage LASH set high store by. Blackford countered that Ferrer could proceed to name to a new council recognized leaders who had been betrayed by Castro, including the imprisoned persons. “But obviously, for the sake of their safety, a direct assault would need to be planned on the prisons. I am going to have to ask a very direct question, Consuelo: Is LASH in touch with the resistance? I mean, in touch with Ferrer?”

  Yes, Consuelo said; but only through a trusted intermediary. “Ferrer has no idea of the identity of LASH.”

  “Well, has LASH asked the obvious question: How much firepower could Ferrer bring to bear immediately on the situation? For instance, could he take Pinos? That’s quite a fortress there.”

  Consuelo replied that LASH was counting heavily on a sense of liberation that would be experienced by the Cuban people. “That, plus the electrical effect of the death of someone whose invincibility is now taken almost for granted by the Cuban people. The fact that Castro proved mortal would have convulsive effects on Cuba.”

  “God, you don’t have to convince me of that, Consuelo. I mean, we’re willing to go with just the elimination of Castro, on the grounds that his successor isn’t going to come in with the special charisma of that bastard. But since you asked to talk about succeeding events, we have to have plausible answers to the kind of questions I’m asking.”

  Consuelo paused to light another cigarette, inhaled it deeply, and said with a look of concern on his face that clearly reflected his own misgivings about the enterprise: “LASH does not believe that he can engineer what you call so aptly a ‘July 20’ assassination attempt. But this does not mean that he has necessarily neglected the possibility of other … events quickly succeeding the … main event.”

  Blackford nodded. He did not need to ask for more specific details. It could be that LASH knew that, with Castro dead, others would rise quickly against Castro’s closest associates.

  Consuelo raised his hand. “I have ordered our lunch. Are you ready for it?” Blackford nodded. Consuelo picked up the telephone and, in authoritative, direct, but genial Spanish, relayed his instructions.

  Blackford picked up the conversation. “It comes down to this. We will come through with the diplomatic business, but there has got to be a plausible government to recognize. And until you free one of those birdies from prison, I can’t see that you can do better than Jesús Ferrer. But you and LASH can ponder that one, only for God’s sake do it quickly.”

  “It is not impossible to communicate with LASH, but it is not easy, and communications are not in the form of free discussions of the kind we are now having.”

  “Okay, do it with reference to your own schedule. But let me tell you about my Agency’s schedule. It is: Get on with this. It is getting harder all the time. I don’t know whether you have seen or spoken with LASH since Castro’s speech Saturday about how we are all trying to assassinate him. But that speech has got to suggest heightened security—”

  Concerning the problem of height
ened security, Consuelo had up-to-date information. He relayed it to Blackford, describing some of the added precautions that had been taken to guard above all Castro himself, but also others …

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door. A trolley of hot food was wheeled in. Both men were silent until the waiters had left. Consuelo broke in: “Please. We have been talking over two hours. Let us take thirty minutes to eat.”

  Blackford said, sure, his mind exploring the ramifications of what Consuelo had said.

  During the meal, Consuelo engaged in general conversation having to do with the plight of Cuba, the “incredible” crisis involving the missiles of the preceding October. “I assume,” Consuelo smiled, slicing the chicken breast, “that you will not take offense if I give you my own view of the matter, which is that your government should have taken the initiative in October to—blast the hell out of Castro’s government?”

  “There would have been a lot of dead people.”

  “How many dead people are there going to be if there is civil war? I will give you a figure you are perhaps not acquainted with. Our own civil war in Mexico began with the overthrow of Porfirio Díaz in 1910, and it did not really end until Obregón. During that ten-year interval, two million Mexicans were killed.”

  Blackford was familiar with the statistic, but pretended not to be. Better manners that way. He said, “I happen to be a deeply convinced personal admirer of President Kennedy. I do not deny that he has made mistakes. Certainly we would agree that his failure to provide air cover for the 1961 invasion was a mistake. Whether he could have handled the business last October any better, I just don’t know, and you may be right. But just don’t underestimate John F. Kennedy. He’s got guts, he’s smart as a pistol, he’s a captivating human being—”

  He stopped abruptly. He had committed a cardinal sin. Consuelo now knew that Blackford had been personally exposed to Kennedy.

  Blackford both admired and appreciated the professionalism of Consuelo’s handling of the problem—as if Consuelo had not made the obvious inference.

  “Yes,” he said, “all of us feel the same way. I feel myself that I know the President, from all the exposure he has gotten, from his speeches, his wonderfully adroit press conferences …” He picked up the telephone again, and without delay the two waiters reappeared, removing the lunch and leaving a new pot of coffee.

  When they had closed the door, Blackford spoke. “Look, we have to get down to very concrete details at this point. My—group has two interests. One, the assassination must be consummated. Two, there can be no involvement traceable to our government—”

  “I know, I know, I know. LASH has made that abundantly clear to me. So let me tell you now what he has planned. Nobody knows this except LASH himself, me, and now you.”

  He outlined the details of the planned assassination.

  Blackford reflected on them. He asked, “Is LASH an expert rifleman?”

  “He is a very expert rifleman.”

  “We have, as you must know, had several transactions through his representative in Miami on the matter of the rifle. We are ready to situate, at a designated spot on an accessible part of the coast of Cuba, a Russian-made sharpshooter’s rifle with a scope sight—specifically, a Mosin-Nagant, model 93/38. The instrument has been thoroughly tested. The scope is set for one hundred meters. It is readily adjustable for the distance you have in mind. Strapped to the rifle, in Spanish, will be instructions on how to make that adjustment for each ten-meter distance. Thirty-six rounds of ammunition, obviously more than is necessary—for the primary task—will be in the same waterproof container. What else?”

  Consuelo took a draught from his cigarette.

  “LASH does not intend, so to speak, to commit a kamikaze attack. He accepts the fact that you cannot safely arrange for his escape. He has made his own arrangements, and they are satisfactory. He will direct a motor vessel to Jamaica. He will be out of Cuba—whatever happens—after the assassination. But he needs one thing more.”

  “What?”

  “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash. He requires … professional mobility after the event.”

  Blackford wondered at the figure. It was exactly the sum that had been guaranteed by Mongoose, before the October crisis, to the Mafia, in return for Castro, dead.

  “There is no point in arguing about the sum of money. Where is it to be deposited?”

  “It is to be given, in cash, to me.”

  Blackford paused. For the first time his mind returned to the opening formality, the generic question whether Consuelo’s identity would need to be probed. Consuelo instantly read his mind.

  “You must know, Bledsoe, that you have no alternative than to trust me completely. Any attempt to get between me and LASH will abort the operation.”

  “I understand,” Blackford said, slowly, deliberately. “When? The money?”

  “At our next meeting.”

  “Why can’t the money come in to you from another … agent?”

  “That arrangement will not be acceptable.” This was said with a finality Blackford did not even consider challenging.

  “When?” he repeated.

  “I will be in touch with you, through the same channel we have used. You will then return to Mexico. I will have answers to questions you have raised that can be answered. At that meeting, I will give you the date of the—execution. It will be not more than seven days after our meeting.”

  There was nothing more to discuss. Blackford found himself saying, as he got up, “If it matters to you, Consuelo, I do trust you. I am very glad that LASH selected you to represent him.”

  Consuelo had risen. He gave a tiny bow, Mexican style. “And,” he said, “I trust you. Let us pray that LASH’s mission will prove to be a July 20.”

  “With different results.”

  “With different results.”

  Suddenly Blackford broke out into a wide smile. “Better watch our metaphors, Consuelo, or we may end up talking about Nuremberg.”

  Consuelo returned the smile. And said, “‘Sic semper tyrannis’ aren’t the words—or the deeds—of war criminals.”

  They shook hands, and Blackford left the Calero Suite.

  24

  María Arguilla received an answer to her letter, and it was written in Castro’s own hand. He was “mad with desire” to have her return. She must do so “prontísimo.” Merely fly to Mexico City, go to the Cuban Embassy, ask for a visa (the Embassy would be instructed to expedite her travel), and before the end of the week “we will lie together, and perhaps be entertained by a first-rate movie!”

  María looked into the mirror on the dressing table of her apartment on Fifteenth Avenue. Trafficante had consented to her continuing to occupy the restaurant’s apartment during the two or three months required to find and train her successor.

  She took a deep breath. This was her final opportunity to pull out. She closed her eyes: but what she saw, her eyes once closed, she read as nothing less than a mandate. What she always saw was the face of Doña Leonarda on the morning María had walked across the little lawn to give her the news of her son’s execution. María opened her eyes, and her resolution was now set. She reached out for the jar of cold cream, unscrewed the lid, and inserted her thumb and second finger an inch below the surface.

  They closed on the two capsules. She pulled them out and stared at them. Would these little concentrates, each not much larger than an aspirin, actually prove to be the instruments by which the Cuban people would be liberated? And—she found herself saying the words out loud—serve a small, but critical subsidiary purpose: Doña Leonarda avenged?

  Her meeting on Monday with Mr. Hicock and his aide had, really, taught her nothing she had not already been advised of. On all points, Mr. Hicock was wonderfully, cheerfully reassuring. No, there was no possibility of the pills’ decomposing in the face cream. No, there was no possibility, once melted in hot water, that they would not instantly diffuse through any surrounding
liquid, hot or cold, that Castro might choose to drink. No, there was no possibility that he would feel any pain whatever for three hours. No, there was no possibility, after he did feel pain, that the poison could be extruded from his system in time to save his life. No, there was no doubt that, if such an emergency arose as to require María herself to swallow the pills, the neutralizer she now had would work (she passed her eye over the conventional-sized bottle with the yellow liquid labeled “Mild laxative. As required, two ounces at bedtime”—signed by a doctor in Miami, dated two months earlier). No, an autopsy would not identify the poison as available only in the United States.

  She was given a telephone number and an address in Havana where she could get emergency help. The slip of paper with the information was held in front of her until she had memorized it; then Mr. Hicock ceremoniously burned it. If she telephoned that number, she must ask for “Fidelito.” (“I like that,” Mr. Hicock had laughed joyously.) She would need to be guided by her own judgment: If she decided to hide, “Fidelito” could easily arrange to bring her back to Miami. “As you know, there are more than a hundred escapees every day by boat. And U.S. naval vessels are patrolling the waters more rigorously than ever, so that it is only a question of getting twelve miles out from Cuba, and ‘Freedom of the Seas takes over!’” Wild Bill Hicock said excitedly, with the same pride he’d have shown if Freedom of the Seas had been his firstborn son.

  María Arguilla was careful to pack commodiously. It would not do to return “permanently” to Havana after an entire year in Miami without a considerable wardrobe, especially now that she was formally affluent. Accordingly, she bought six large suitcases, had them stenciled with her initials, stuffed them full with everything she owned, plus some secondhand clothes bought cheaply, and bought a first-class ticket to Mexico City on the following morning’s Eastern Airlines flight.

  She was surprised when, at the airport in Mexico, a middle-aged man, portly and officious (he bellowed out instructions to the porter who accompanied him), approached her at the gate of her flight, his diplomatic badge, pinned conspicuously above his breast pocket, permitting him into the inspection compound. María had spotted a large cardboard rectangular sign on which was written, “ARGUILLA.” She approached him and he bowed, asking if he had the honor of addressing Señorita María Arguilla.