Pilar approached our table. “My father is on the phone for you, Jack.”
“Señor Armstrong, this is Chavez.”
“Yes, Mr. Chavez.”
“There is the new man that is looking for you.”
“Is it a small man?”
“Si, Señor. A very small man. He is midget man. He has hired me with money to tell him when you are in my cantina (I wondered how many CIA payrolls the ever-watchful Mr. Chavez was currently on) and I told him okay. But I am telling you that it will cost you next to nothing, a few pesos, to notify you when he is asking for you.”
“Consider it paid, Mr. Chavez, and thanks for calling.” I started to hang up, but I heard Mr. Chavez say something else. “What was that, Mr. Chavez?”
“This small man is a killer, Señor. You should watch the back.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chavez.” I sat at Pilar’s desk for a moment. There was a good chance that the Pygmy was the hit man in town that was gunning for me. The fact that it made no sense—as Gearheardt was the one who engaged me and he supposedly worked for the Pygmy—put me in no less danger.
In Pilar’s car Marta directed me to the place of our first date, the Club Tristiza. I wasn’t surprised when she informed me that Victor Ramirez was one of the owners. We met him in an office in the back of the club. It was small, smelled of cigar smoke, and completely barren of personality. This was not Victor’s normal place of business.
“Mucho gusto,” Victor said as we entered. His smile told me he was mocking the last introduction I had to him.
“Sure, Victor. It is a great pleasure to meet you.” Marta and I sat down in two wooden chairs in front of his cheap desk.
“Marta tells me that you have a proposition for me, Señor. I am always open to propositions.”
“I think you know my friend Gearheardt, Victor. Is that right?”
Victor’s face was expressionless. Finally he gave a small Latin nod. “Si, I know Señor Gearheardt. I have met him. He is a friend of yours?”
“A very good friend. I’ve known him a long time. And you?” I was still searching for a read on Victor.
“As I said, I have met him. Why do you ask me about Señor Gearheardt? He is not here with us.”
“He is a friend of Cuba. He believes that Cuba can be a partner of the United States in South America.”
“That would not seem to be possible. The Americans are fearful of uba. It is hard to be friends when one is fearful. Perhaps you are mistaken.”
“The Americans are fearful that Cuba will make a big mistake, doing business for their friends the Russians.”
Victor’s face changed just a bit, harder if that was possible. “Cuba has many friends. The Russians do not tell Cuba what business to do.”
Marta cleared her throat delicately. I knew that she was anxious that Victor and I did not start sparring again. I didn’t look at her.
“In America we like to look at possibilities. In possibilities there is sometimes opportunity, Victor. So let’s assume that Gearheardt is a friend of Cuba and I am a friend of Gearheardt. Let’s assume that and think of the possibilities.” Victor nodded and I went on. “There is a possibility that America is not pleased with the way that the Mexican government is moving. Maybe not all Americans, but some Americans that work within the government. The Mexican government is not honest with its people. The people are poor and getting poorer. The Mexican country is rich in assets, oil and minerals, that the Americans would like to help exploit, to the benefit of both countries. But the Mexican government does not want to share, because that would mean that the people would share. Does what I am saying make sense, Victor?” I was making it up as I went along, but it sounded good to me.
“In Cuba, we share all of our assets with the people. The people own the assets. Not a few rich businessmen.”
I wanted very badly to answer that statement differently than I knew I should. But I had a mission.
“You have a great leader also. That is why I am talking about possibilities.” I read into Victor’s expression that I was beginning to win him over. Appealing to his patriotism and admiration for Castro was a sure starter. “We are not diplomats, Victor. They always beat around the bush without getting to the point. Shouldn’t we just say what we have in mind?”
“And who do you speak for, Señor Armstrong? Certainly you are not a diplomat. And you are only, what did you say, an economic development officer. Do economic development officers make the foreign policy now?”
I kept my gaze steady on him until he dropped his eyes and looked down at the ash of his cigar. He tapped it gently on the edge of a ceramic ashtray until the ash fell. With the end of his cigar, he smashed the large ash flat in the ashtray. The actions of a man who was thinking.
“Victor, I work for the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States government.” Instinctively I thought that such an outright admission would elicit a response. I was right.
“So I have been told. But why are you telling me this? What is it to me?”
“I have been told that you are an important man. That you work for the intelligence agency of Cuba.” I had been told no such thing. He was a well-connected ex-Army officer according to Marta. “We would like for you to cooperate with us, and we will cooperate with you. If you are not the man that I was told about, there shouldn’t need to be any more discussion of possibilities.”
I had put Victor into a box. I had admitted, even boasted, that I was an intelligence officer. If he played the ‘I’m not an important man’ role in front of me and Marta, it was a great loss of face. Or an admission that he was not brave enough to reveal his importance to me. I didn’t think he would back down.
“If there were an opportunity for cooperation I would be able to talk to people who could make it a possibility. That is certain. But I am tired of possibilities and opportunities, what is it that you want to do?”
“The U.S. is taking a great risk if we cooperate with the Cubans. We are asking you to take a great risk also.” I paused for drama. “We want you to assassinate the President of Mexico. Together we will blame it on the Russians (I made this part up). In the chaos that follows, the U.S. will turn to Cuba to help us restore order in this country. We will kick out the Russians, and Cuba will be the savior of Mexico. For this, we want Cuba to kick the Russians out of Cuba and help us rid all South American countries of the Russians.”
“You are crazy. I do not believe that the Americans would do this.”
“Think about it, Victor. The largest country on our border is near revolution. The most organized and disciplined country near us is an outpost for the Russians. Imagine the world that I have described. Don’t you think we would want to see that world?”
Victor rose from his desk. His cigar had gone out and he searched his pockets for a light. Marta picked up the lighter which matched the ashtray on his desk, and handed it to him.
“When would this possibility occur?”
“Cinco de Mayo.”
Victor grimaced and then laughed harshly. “Again, you are crazy. That is only in a few days. How could we do such a thing in a few days?”
“The Americans have been planning for months, Victor. A plan like this is something that is difficult to keep a secret, so we told no one. It would be very dangerous to have it known. Even in the U.S. We prefer that only those Cubans actually involved will know. We don’t want to face the Cubans’ friends.”
“The Russians?”
“Would you trust everyone in the Cuban government not to inform the Russians?”
“Some people are very happy with the Russians.” He looked at Marta for confirmation. She shrugged.
“Exactly.” I hoped he did not pursue the timing much longer. I couldn’t think of any more excuses.
Victor paced around his small office. His cigar smoke was almost suffocating. Occasionally he would look at me and wrinkle his brow. I tried to look impassive and convincing.
“There is something that I don�
�t understand, Señor Armstrong.” He sat back down behind his desk. “I have heard this plan before.”
Keeping cool was getting harder. “I don’t think so, Victor.”
“There is talk that the CIA is planning to do something on their own. Just talk of course.”
“You know who I work for in the embassy, don’t you, Victor? His only boss is in Washington. Wouldn’t you think that we would know?”
“This Crenshaw, he is new to Mexico. Maybe he is too busy on his burro.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about. Crenshaw is a very experienced man.”
Victor nodded and then stared into space. He was quiet for a moment.
“You would be a hero in Cuba, Victor.”
He laughed. “There is room in Cuba for only one hero, Señor Armstrong.” He stubbed out his cigar. “And I would be a dead hero in the event I did this thing. To escape after the thing would be difficult, no?”
I used my last card, feeling very uncertain of my ground. “I am in charge of security for the Americans, Victor. The escape has been arranged. You may ask Marta.”
Victor didn’t speak but looked at Marta and raised his eyebrows. She nodded.
Victor rested his elbows on his desk and looked squarely at me. “It is okay. This possibility is a good opportunity. Of course I must know more about the plans.”
“That will be taken care of. Señor Gearheardt will give you the plans personally.” That would teach that damn Gearheardt. Let him figure that out. I had no clue. “I would like you to tell me one thing, Victor, and then I need to get back to my people. Perhaps the person who told you the CIA was planning an event told you who was going to assassinate the President. And perhaps you can tell me who that is.” That was as clumsy as I could make it.
Victor smiled. “You, Señor Armstrong.”
Marta made arrangements for us to meet Victor again the next day. She also offered to drive Pilar’s car, sensing that arranging for the President of Mexico to be assassinated by the Cubans had thrown me off balance just a bit. I didn’t protest, nor was I particularly embarrassed that she saw my hands shaking when I handed her the keys.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IN THE HOUSE OF EMPEROR GEARHEARDT
“You were very brilliant, Jack,” Marta said. We were screaming along on the Periferico laying a cloud of exhaust only equaled by the trucks which sprayed for mosquitoes in low-lying parts of Florida. Screaming because Pilar’s ’49 Chevrolet only had first gear.
It was truly a James Bond moment. A beautiful woman peering over the steering wheel, an angst-ridden man holding his forehead, a Chevrolet that needed a ring job ten years ago, and two chickens in the back seat. (Pilar had neglected to tell us they roosted in the car). The engine noise was incredibly irritating and so was the occasional backfire which not only startled us and the chickens, but decelerated the car momentarily, throwing us into the dash, before catching again and wrapping back up to seven or eight thousand rpm. My head was throbbing and thinking about my next move was impossible.
When Marta missed the turnoff to Chapultepec Park, I began to hate her. I shouted new directions to her and had closed my eyes when the chickens in the back seat started fighting, cackling and pecking. Something blew. Grabbing one, then the other (no small feat) I threw the chickens out onto the freeway. Then I stared at Marta, challenging her to say something, but she kept her eyes fixed on the road.
At the next exit, Marta turned off. She took a side street for a block, then pulled to the curb and shut off the engine. For a moment the silence was deafening. I let out a breath I had been holding for the past five miles.
Finally Marta spoke. “Ees why they don’t let economic development officers make the foreign policy. Ees too much pressure.”
She started laughing. Then I joined in and we let the tension go, to the amusement of the Mexican women in the neighborhood who walked by the car, herding small children and carrying groceries for their families’ dinners.
When we calmed down, Marta and I looked at one another for a long moment. I moved toward her and probably would have given the neighborhood women something else to think about except my slacks and thigh took a one inch rip from a spring that was poking through the woven paper seat covers.
“Damn it,” I said. Marta began laughing again as I tried to regain dignity while holding my handkerchief tightly against the side of my leg. “We need to find Gearheardt. See if you can get a taxi for us, Marta.”
By five o’clock Marta and I were in the coffee shop of the El Camino Real hotel, not far from the Park, and also close to the National Museum of Anthropology, one of the finest in the world. “Sometimes, I will meet Gearheardt at the Museum,” Marta was saying, “sometimes in the Park. But I do not go there until near the time. Gearheardt does not want to allow time for people to notice me.”
“That makes sense. Where are you to meet him today?”
“In front of the Museum. Just as they close the doors and the people are coming out.”
“We have about an hour. What else can you tell me about Gearheardt’s plan? What about the escape to Havana? Is that truly arranged, or just part of the story?”
“It is arranged. I think it is arranged. So many things seem to be changed.” She sipped her drink. She looked beautiful.
“How can we find out? I’m not sure this plan is going to go forward. But it would be nice to know.”
“The Cubans of Miami, the good Cubans you call them, have the arrangements. They do not know the reason, but they know that they must help a CIA man out of Mexico and into Cuba on the fifth of May. This, they say they can do. And they can hide him there to work with other people in Havana.”
“How do we reach these Cubans? Are you in contact with them?”
“Only Gearheardt knows them I think. I cannot work with both Cuban groups and he said he needed me to work with Victor.”
I excused myself and found a payphone, hoping to catch Juanita before she left for the day.
“Ola, 34883552.” We answered our phones by repeating the number.
“Juanita, I’m glad I caught you. This is Jack.”
“The Pygmy no kill you, Jack? This is a rumor I heard.”
“No, I’m still alive, Juanita. I need you to do something for me, and then tell me if I have any messages.”
“Si, Señor Jack.”
“Go see Eric. If he’s not there, find the duty officer in the embassy. This is very important. Tell them that two American students were arrested today by the Halcones.”
“How you spell Halcones, Señor Jack?”
“Maybe I’m pronouncing it wrong. Fal-con-ees. The Mexican Secret Police.”
“Ayyeee. Poor students. What should I tell Señor Eric?”
“I just want the embassy alerted that the students have been arrested. Okay? I think their names are Fred Benson and Nick Blowden. Something like that. Now, are there any other messages?”
“Si. Señor Rodrigo called and said he is happy and wants to work with you more. Señor Chavez call and said that the small man was looking again for you. I think the small man is the Pygmy, Señor Jack.”
“Where did you hear about the Pygmy, Juanita?”
“Señor Pepe.”
“Okay, we’ll get back to that later. What else?”
Across the room I could see that Marta as getting impatient. She gave the signal for the check to the waiter and jerked her head at me.
“You have a box from Señor Major Crenshaw. I put this on your desk. There is no more message except the ambassador has said for you to see him if you come back. He personally come to my desk six times today.”
“What are you wearing, Juanita?”
“Que?
“Never mind. What about the box from Major Crenshaw? What is that? Juanita, go get the box and open it for me. It could be important.”
I held up my finger to Marta. Why would Crenshaw send me a box?
“Ay yi yi, Señor Jack. It is the tail of the burro. A
y yi yi.” She lapsed into a lilting panicky Spanish.
“Juanita! Juanita! Calm down. What is in the box? What did you say?”
“It is tail of the burro. Why would Señor Major Crenshaw send you the tail of his burro?” She sounded like she was crying.
“I don’t think he did, Juanita. I imagine that is a message sent by other people. Perhaps he is in trouble. I take it that you have not heard from him.” I wanted to calm her down, so I spoke less upset than I felt.
“No, Señor. Eets okay now. I have closed the box. Eet surprise me, that’s all. I do not like him but I am worry about Señor Major Crenshaw. What should we do, Señor Jack?”
“You should go home, Juanita. After you tell the duty officer about the American students. Forget Eric.”
“He in church still.”
“Yes. But you should go home. Don’t tell anyone about the burro tail. I will look into it tonight. And I’ll call you tomorrow. Do you remember who you can call to try and find me?”
“Señor Chavez at El Caballo, and Jorge in the driving pool.”
“That’s exactly right, Juanita. And Juanita, thank you for staying at your post.”
“De nada, Señor Jack. I am CIA.”
“Well, I wouldn’t let that get around outside, but yes we are all on the same team. Goodnight, Juanita.”
Marta was beginning to get nervous by the time I sat back down.
“Jack, we must be at the Museum in ten minutes. If we miss Pepe, I will not know how to find him until tomorrow evening.”
“Let’s go. I just had business that had to be taken care of. I am afraid that Major Crenshaw has gotten himself into a bit of trouble.”
“But he is working with the good Cubans, no?”
“That’s true. Maybe he just irritated the hell out of them so they cut off the tail of his burro.”
We were almost out the door to the taxi stand. “They do what?” Marta asked.
“I’ll tell you later. We need to find that damn Pepe.”
Who showed up almost as soon as Marta and I sat down on the wall around the fountain. The Museum was closing and scores of people were making their way out of the building. Gearheardt approached through the crowd, grinning broadly. It nearly always made me feel better just being around the optimistic jerk.
Goodbye Mexico Page 11
