Blackford said fine, he would pick up a car first thing in the morning. “Don’t be surprised, Consuelo, when you look for me. I hope you won’t see me, in fact. I’ll be the guy behind the beard.”
“Beard? Isn’t that what you call a little bit corny?”
“Not corny among the Orthodox, Consuelo. And I am very orthodox. At least on this trip.”
Ramon laughed. “Hasta luego, Bledsoe.”
It was an unusual day, a raw October day, in a city renowned for its cool and sunny fall climate. And, as Blackford drove past University City to the beginning of the old mountain road—the government was busy building a three- and four-lane highway that would shorten the hour’s drive to Cuernavaca—he felt the unusual chill. As the car began to climb toward the high point in the mountain range, ten thousand feet above the level of the sea, two thousand feet higher than Mexico City, five thousand higher than Cuernavaca, the fog and wet were dispiriting. Blackford wondered why Consuelo hadn’t chosen almost any other site, in the comfortable capital city. Oh well. An outdoor lunch in this weather would surely discourage counterintelligence; he made himself smile.
There were only two other cars parked in the Tres Marías area. Tourists, seeking a little sustenance. It was exactly 12:15 when Blackford took the key from the ignition. Wearing a black frock coat under his raincoat, his briefcase in his left hand, he crossed the road and walked toward the picnic area. There was only the one dauntless picnicker, his back to the road. Blackford approached him. The morning Excelsior rested reassuringly on top of the picnic table, secured from the wind by the bottle of beer placed on top of it. Blackford greeted Consuelo and sat down opposite. Blackford had the view of the road, Consuelo of the park.
“Any problems?” Blackford asked.
“No problems,” Consuelo answered. “Do you intend, rabbi, to bless the meal before eating it? It is good and hot, by the way.”
Blackford laughed. “I take it you have never submitted to the disciplines of the covert agent.”
“That is quite correct, Bledsoe. And I never propose to do this kind of thing again, once I have taken care of LASH. I felt embarrassed, talking to you last night, because of all things my wife entered my study while I was using my private, unlisted telephone. I didn’t see her. And there I was, with talk fit for a twelve-year-old. By a twelve-year-old. Secret assignations, disguises—the whole thing.” Both men, while conversing, were eating their enchiladas and tacos and guacamole, downing them with cold Carta Blanca beer.
“Hilarious. What did she say?”
“She is—” Consuelo began to speak but restrained himself. Privacy privacy privacy, he said to himself. Never mind the utter confidence you repose in the man you are talking to.
“You will understand, Bledsoe, I must back up. No details. She was very understanding. She said she knew ‘a certain amount about that kind of thing.’ But to return to the original subject, she too made me swear to make this my last operation. She did not need to persuade me. But—the clock is ticking. What do you have to report?”
Blackford told him that the decision had been made to push Jesús Ferrer as first President; that no one had devised any plausible means of getting any of Fidel’s old confederates out of prison. “Are you aware of that decision?”
“I am aware of it. LASH has approved the plan. It may be too late—next Saturday is the day, Bledsoe; Saturday, November ninth. The great moment. Now, if it is not too late, Jesús Ferrer should be counseled to appeal as openly as he can to Matos and Gutiérrez Menoyo—to declare them national heroes, to promise not only their immediate release from prison, but prominent portfolios in the Provisional Government. Every step in that direction discourages rampant civil war—that is what I fear most. And what about—the other things?”
“The shipment at Luyano has been made. Day before yesterday. No problem. LASH should have the material in hand. Or perhaps he elects to leave it hidden for a few days. That’s his business, provided he doesn’t get caught. The money is in my briefcase, six inches from my left foot. Take the whole briefcase. Below the magazines and paperbacks—and the Talmud—is a hidden compartment. Simple. Two plastic screws at the rear. Loosen them. With a nail file, coax the hinged folder up. It’s in hundred-dollar bills, unmarked.”
There was never any question of opening the case and counting the money.
They had finished eating. Consuelo spoke. “You leave here first; I will wait a few minutes, read the paper, and go with your briefcase to my own car.”
“How soon will you give LASH the word?”
“What word? I told you, the operation is scheduled for Saturday.”
“I mean, the word about our meeting. Hell, confirmation about your getting the money.”
“I will not be communicating again with LASH. It was left that I would call only if—”
“Get down!” Blackford screamed, diving under the table.
The shot from the rifle hit Consuelo. Blackford drew his automatic from his coat pocket, and with the other hand yanked at Consuelo’s jacket. Consuelo slumped off the bench to the ground, giving Blackford extra cover. Blackford peered out from under the bench Consuelo had been sitting on. There, on the road in front of the tortilla stand, was a green Chevy and, in the back seat, the rifleman. A second shot exploded, ripping from Blackford’s hand his wristwatch, an inch from Blackford’s head. Blackford released the safety notch and fired four times into the car, thirty yards distant. He peered out again. The driver of the car was no longer visible. Blackford had evidently hit him. The rifleman was now out of the car, wrestling to open the door to the driver’s seat. Blackford took careful aim and fired again. The rifleman fell to the ground.
Blackford yelled out to the provisioners in the tortilla stands. “Come! Come quickly! Help!”
He ran up, crossed the road, and directed two old men and a teenage boy to Consuelo. He shouted at them in Spanish to pick him up and get him into the kitchen, sprinted then to the green Chevrolet sedan. The rifleman was dead, the driver still alive, but lying inert on the floor. He looked back. Consuelo was now being carried across the road. Blackford asked a dazed woman who had stood by her brazier where the nearest telephone was. Only one, she said, pointing to the gas station fifty meters down the road. The gas station attendant was running toward the excitement. Blackford stopped him: “Where do you call for the police?”
To Mexico City or to Cuernavaca, either one, was the answer.
He rushed back into the kitchen where Consuelo had been laid down on the large wooden table.
He needed only that one, quick look … The bullet had entered Consuelo’s head at the back, and come out just under his nose. Blackford closed his eyes, and found himself saying, “Oh my God, why?”
He slipped his hand into Consuelo’s back pocket and brought out his wallet. Empty of any identification. Consuelo carried nothing in any other pocket. There was only a Hertz Rent-a-Car voucher, dated that day, stamped a few minutes after ten in the morning. It was made out to “Carlos Gómez.” That, Blackford reflected in an odd moment, is their way of saying John Smith. He looked at the voucher for credit numbers. There were none. There had been a cash deposit of five thousand pesos. About six hundred dollars. It had clearly been an all-cash transaction. Like his own.
Blackford thought quickly. To the older man, clearly in charge of the little kiosk, he said, “My dear friend is not dead. I must take him quickly to the hospital in Mexico City. There may still be a chance. I will bring my car right here in front of the store and we will put him in the back seat.”
To the gasoline attendant who, with the others, crowded around the kitchen, he said imperatively: “Go immediately and telephone to the police in Cuernavaca. Tell them to bring an ambulance. I shall drive from the hospital, where I will leave my friend, to the police station in Mexico, and we will get to to the bottom of this terrible thing. I am Rabbi Horshowitz from America.” Blackford ran to his car and, a moment later, the engine running, stopped it directly ou
tside the stand.
Three men began tenderly lifting Consuelo into the back seat. The old man said to Blackford, “I fear he is dead, rabbi.”
“Do not say that. I have had medical training. It is wonderful what they can do in a proper hospital. We must hope—and pray.” The old man, tucking Consuelo’s legs into the back of the car, blessed himself. Blackford gave him a pat on the back, went quickly to the driver’s seat, executed a quick U-turn, and roared off through the fog.
His mind floated up through the maelstrom. The things that needed doing …
He strove to put them in order. They began to take form.
He would stop at a gas station, at the outskirts of Mexico City. His raincoat would conceal the body, which had slumped forward and lay now on the floor of the rear compartment. He would look in the telephone book for a mortuary. There was bound to be one on Insurgentes. He did. And indeed it was there, and called Mortuorio Insurgentes. There he would sound the alarm and deposit the corpse … He had come across the body on the rainy road, back only ten kilometers.
The two strong-armed men dispatched to the car with their stretcher were accustomed to handling inanimate hulks. They spent their days going out and collecting them. The mortician wanted to know where the señor rabbi lived. Blackford was grateful that, as a rabbi, he was accepted with uniform deference. When, consulting the yellow pages at the gas station looking for a mortuary, he had also taken care to memorize the name, address, and telephone number of what seemed, given the boldface type in the directory, a substantial synagogue. He rattled in Spanish that he was an American, assisting at the Beth Israel Synagogue on Chapultepec Avenue—“Here,” he said, “give me that piece of paper. I will write down my address and telephone number.” He did this quickly, without losing his control of the situation: “Now I leave it to you to report immediately to the police. My duty is to report this event to the chief rabbi. The police can reach me, and if I have not heard from you within the hour, I shall call you. Give me your card,” he demanded imperiously. The mortician instantly handed him one. “Thank you, Señor Rabbi.”
Blackford left.
It was out of the question—he was driving in the direction of the Hotel Geneve—to return the bloodied car to Hertz. He would call from the airport the next day to say it had been stolen, and then he would write to the Hertz agency at the Prado from America, giving the name to which his deposit should be sent after the car was found.
He drove to a garage near his hotel, entered it, drove the car into the indicated berth, locked it, took his voucher, and walked out, tipping the attendant.
In his hotel room, Blackford collapsed. He permitted himself ten minutes, sprawled out on the couch. Lying there he stared at his soiled, bloody, damp rabbinical clothes, and allowed himself to weep quietly for a man he had only twice been with. Never again, Consuelo had said, would he engage in such work. Never again, Blackford closed his eyes, would he, indeed. He prayed for his departed friend, and for his family.
He undressed now, put the soiled clothes in a laundry bag, showered, dressed in slacks and a light sweater, and sat down to think.
Only LASH knew the identity of Consuelo.
No one in Miami or Washington knew it. CIA personnel and CIA assets in Mexico had been rigorously warned against any sleuthing. Consuelo had made it clear: LASH would disengage if anyone interfered with arrangements respecting his security.
All there was was that telephone number.
And now Blackford knew that it rang in Consuelo’s house. To his private study. He could, of course, simply forget the corpse at the Mortuorio Insurgentes. At some point, he thought bitterly, the Bureau of Found Corpses would meet up with the Bureau of Missing Persons. But that might take a week. In Mexico, longer perhaps.
No. He must ring the number, and announce that—that something had happened—
To whom?
He could give no name. He would say—he found himself rehearsing the Spanish: “Su patrón está muerto. Se encuentra en el Mortuorio Insurgentes, Calle Insurgentes 1238.”
Or he could take a path a little more cowardly, a little more appealing, not say that the man was dead. He could say to whoever answered—most likely it would be his wife, Blackford thought, and probably he would need to ring insistently to draw her to the study—“El patrón quiere que Ud. le llame por teléfono, Número, etc.” The head of the house—patrón does not translate, Blackford took refuge in mechanical observations—“the head of the house desires that you should telephone him at” he looked down at the mortuary card, “327-38-88.”
But the mortician would answer the telephone, and nothing coherent would likely ensue.
“This is the Mortuorio Insurgentes, at your orders.”
“I am calling for Señor X.”
“There is no Señor X here, Señora.”
“But I was told to call this number by someone who said my husband wished me to call him here.”
“You must have the wrong telephone, señora. This is a mortuary. And there is no Mr. X here.”
Blackford began to sweat. Yes, it was always possible that the mortician might say, “Is this related to the unidentified corpse brought in here by a rabbi a couple of hours ago?” But then the—widow would need to show a complementary ingenuity before they could put two and two together, causing the anonymous message to translate to: The corpse of Mr. X is lying in the Insurgentes Mortuary.
No, Blackford.
Still, perhaps he could say—
Impulsively, he grabbed the telephone and dialed the number.
It rang—and rang and rang. Eight, ten, twelve times, fourteen—someone picked it up. He heard a woman’s clear, lilting voice. “¿Bueno?”
He said in Spanish, “¿Está la señora?”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. She had detected the accent. She spoke now in English. “This is Mrs. Morales,” she said. “Sally Morales. Who is it?”
Blackford held the telephone in his hand, paralyzed. He could not put it down, and could not speak. He heard her say, “Hello? Hello? Hello?” And then here was a pause. “Blacky? It’s you. Oh—oh, Blacky, has something happened? To Tony?”
He could not go through with it. He managed to hang up the phone. He rang for the bellman, who came quickly. Blackford pulled out a one-hundred-peso bill and said to him brusquely: “I am going to dial a telephone number. A lady will answer. Tell her you have been instructed to say that the gentleman she is looking for can be found at the”—he shoved the card at him—“this address.”
The message was transmitted.
27
Rolando Cubela doubted if more thought had ever been given to planning an assassination. During the six months since his return from Pinos he had contemplated what he saw as the four generic situations in which Castro became exposed. The first he called The Public Castro.
He gave very serious thought to these, including speeches and such, concluding that it would require him to pose as a photographer with a very long telephoto lens. His advantage, in these as in other situations, was that there was no pass he was not in a position to secure: He was, in the eyes of Castro’s headquarters, quite simply an integral part of the headquarters; that, together with the advantage of being one of Fidel’s confidants. But even if he used the most sensitive, effective silencer, eyes immediately surrounding would turn to the photographer, never mind the large, distracting photographer’s protective hood that would give him a few moments’ camouflage. He could probably time his shot to coincide with a wild burst of applause, since these were frequent at Castro rallies. That would help. And he could situate the camera, and might plausibly choose to do so for purely professional reasons, near one of the exits to those huge stadiums Castro preferred for his speeches. He would pull the trigger, and then bound down the concrete stairway to the stadium’s approaches, walk slowly to the exit at the wire fence, and there his confederate from the resistance forces could speed him off. He went several times to the stadium
where Fidel spoke most frequently, located himself near one of the entrances—there were such at intervals of about twenty yards. The most appropriate one, approximately one hundred yards from where the stage was traditionally set up, was ideal.
And although he calculated that he could disassemble and then reassemble the rifle under the protection of the photographer’s hood, bringing in the units in one of those photographer’s carryalls, still, there was something about it he did not like. One never knew, just for instance, the exact location of individual security guards. What if one stationed himself in the identical aperture Cubela wished to occupy? What if a general alarm caused the closing of all the exits at the surrounding gates?
Then there was what Cubela called Castro At Play. This meant Castro on horseback (infrequent), Castro eating (unpredictable locations), Castro having sex (frequent, but not readily accessible), and Castro scuba-diving. This last was the most attractive of the At Play possibilities. Castro liked it when his intimates joined him in exploring the multifarious reefs around Cuba, and there was one reef in nearby Havana, off the Rosita de Hornedo Hotel, that he returned to frequently enough to make it possible to explore just how an assassin might do his work on or around that reef. Six months ago it would have been gratifyingly easy to nab Castro underwater. Swim up behind him, which Rolando Cubela and others in the entourage often did, wait for an occasion when it was just him and Castro; approach the madman, plunge his ocean knife into the back of his neck—exactly where, Dr. Cubela knew confidently—swim away underwater, and surface a kilometer or two down the beach, as far as his tank and the current would take him.
But ever since April, when Castro charged that he was the ongoing target of U.S. assassination attempts, he was never in the water without two Cuban frogmen armed with dynamite spear guns at his side; and the launch that hovered over him had two guards, one with a machine gun.
Mongoose, R.I.P. Page 23
