But none had reached him in quite the same way. How would moral historians classify Cecilio Velasco, assuming the unlikely, that they even stumbled across his delible footsteps? Blackford wondered, as he sucked in air in the oppressive closeness of the closed little cabin. He wondered without much interest whether the bleeding in his shoulder had stopped. The boat’s movements were, mercifully, smooth by contrast with what it had been like when they were headed against the wind. In his depression these conditions assumed an allegorical meaning, one that grabbed at his spirit as he wondered whether they whom Whittaker Chambers had with such striking melancholy called the winning side had got hold of history’s vectors, as indeed Marx had promised they would; so that when the struggle was against the barbarians the going was choppy, while when you ran with them, the seas smiled you along on their course.
He lay down on the little bunk and, closing his eyes, promised Cecilio Velasco that he too, if there were nothing else left, would scrounge for flares with which to hold the barbarians at bay, even if only for moments—crucial moments, it had proved today; and he begged God to give Cecilio peace. And wondered how it would be tolerable in Cuba with the diminutive Cecilio “gone,” as his dear mother would unfailingly put it. He would prefer not to think about him, but could think of nothing else while conscious—that and, occasionally, the pain in his shoulder, a very different pain which Blackford eased only when he fell asleep; while asleep, he dreamed of the square at Taxco and Sally at his side, drinking margaritas. Suddenly the young man cavorting about with the bullhorns, chasing the little children and setting off all those firecrackers and Roman candles and flares, went berserk and the flares were soaring, flying up at him and Sally, and he threw himself at her and, sweating, dragged her down on the floor to the protection of the little concrete balcony. They are everywhere, those dangerous flares. Blackford was drenched when the cabin door opened and a voice shouted out at him:
“Get up. Get up! Caimán, wash your face”—a pitcher of water, a basin, and a towel had been brought in. “But there is no time to remove and replace your handcuffs. Do you wish to wash, or wait until the medical doctor attends you?”
Blackford motioned toward the towel, and so it was that he emerged with a relatively dry face from the venture that began on the Aguila. Down the little gangway of the patrol boat he came, but he stumbled and fell, and they had to lift him into the truck. This time there were two trucks, each of them with independent military escort. He caught sight of Catalina in another truck. He had no chance even to exchange a word with her.
Thirty-nine
It was, yet again, after midnight. The five Cubans were once more together, this time in the room on the top floor of INRA, the Instituto Nacional de Reforma Agraria. Fidel Castro was irritated and irritable.
“You are absolutely certain that the transmission from Caimán got through?”
“You have asked me that question eighteen times in two days, Fidel. Let me say it one final time:
“1. I ordered all radio transmissions from within the suspected arc to be monitored.
“2. The transmission to New York was picked up at 5:33: a) recorded in Havana; and b) overheard, though not recorded, on board the Frank País, where the stupid lieutenant did not think to prevent it by the simple expedient of talking into the same channel while Caimán was attempting to use it. It is true that there is static in the recording done in Havana, so that some of the replies made by the friend of Caimán, one Anthony T-r-u-s-t as far as I could make it out, were garbled. But aboard the País the radio technician said that although he does not speak English, he heard exchanges between the vessel whose line he was monitoring, obviously the Aguila, through Radio Key West, and that there followed an exchange that lasted several minutes and was not interrupted by static.
“And c)”—Che turned now to Castro’s brother—“Raúl here says that army radar picked up two light airplanes flying at 75,000 feet at slow speeds over both sides of the island on Sunday afternoon. Why our friends the Russians haven’t armed our antiaircraft missiles yet I leave it to them to explain.
“It would therefore appear obvious to me that on Sunday, shortly after dawn, Caimán got the message through to his friend in New York. That his friend then alerted the Pentagon. That the Pentagon proceeded to photograph the installations, and from what we all know of the U-2 airplanes, the United States has indubitably blown the cover on our operation.”
“But then,” Fidel rose and began to stride the length of the room, “how is it that nothing has happened? What about the American invasion? How is that that has not been launched?”
“Isn’t it time, Fidel, that we acknowledge that Adzhubei and Khrushchev have put one over on us in the matter of an American invasion? An invasion they said would come in the spring or in the summer.”
Raúl interjected. “Of what use to the Soviets was it to suggest an invasion was coming if it was merely a fiction, Che? You have a tendency to downgrade our most faithful friends, the godfathers of international socialism.”
“What they stood to get, it seems to me, is obvious: the possibility of advanced nuclear missiles in a forward base, under their command.”
Fidel huffed, and chomped on his cigar. “They are under my command.”
“Not exactly, Fidel.”
Fidel snapped at him. “It is as I say it is, Comandante.”
Che said nothing.
Fidel resumed his line of inquiry. “Never mind an invasion, what about an air strike? When will that come?”
“I don’t know,” Che said. “But now something will happen. Perhaps at any moment.”
They then, each in turn, opined on what was likeliest to happen. Fidel, on hearing from Che Guevara on Sunday morning, instantly communicated with Khrushchev, asking that Moscow publicly declare that any strike by the United States against Cuba would bring instant nuclear retaliatory action from the Soviet Union. But although it was now Wednesday night—Thursday morning, in fact—the Soviet Union had made no direct response to Castro’s request. Meanwhile Cuban sources in the United States had picked up nothing. Truly it was as if nothing had happened—as if Caimán’s message had disappeared. The Russians had given instant orders to their Cuban military to assign top priority to manning their antiaircraft installations, but the missiles were still ten days away from receiving their nuclear warheads.
“They will of course strike,” Raúl said. “They will strike the installations. And a great many people will be killed. Though in fact, most of them will be Russian and that is good, because that will arouse the Russians.”
“Are you quite certain,” Dorticós came in, “that Cuba has a great deal to gain from a nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union, part of it waged here on this island?”
“It would serve the gringos right.”
“Serve them right if Russia were to cease to exist, Raúl?”
“Who then would pay our bills?” Ramiro Valdés commented, in disgust.
Fidel was chewing on his cigar and he began to mutter quietly. He then cleared his throat. “One thing we must take elementary precautions about, and that is to guard the—structure of government. Of course I shall need to take extraordinary precautions, but so must you all. Which means most specifically, Raúl, that you are not to go near San Cristóbal, or Sagua la Grande, or Remedios. The strike, when it comes, will be in those three areas.” To Raúl: “Is it likely to be a nuclear strike?”
“I would very much doubt it. It would not only offend the Soviet Union and offend world opinion, it is not necessary. Conventional weapons alone would serve.”
“Now comrades,” Fidel sat down again, “the big question before us … before me, is how extensive shall our defense be? There are two possibilities. One is a targeted strike against the missiles. The second is a general strike against Cuba. As far as the second is concerned, we would of course defend ourselves to our utmost, inflicting as much loss of life as possible on the Americans. As to the first, we n
eed to deliberate.”
“Doesn’t everything depend on the attitude of the Soviet Union?” Valdés asked. “If the Soviet Union stays with us, then we must adopt an appropriate position.”
“Which would be?” Fidel raised his eyes at Valdés.
“To fire every bloody thing we have at the Americans. Antiaircraft missiles, the MIG fighters, the works.”
“You recognize that these are mostly manned by Russians?”
“Of course. But we are sitting here, are we not, trying to decide what shall be the Cuban response? Surely Cuban authority extends, if not to the firing of the nuclear missiles, to the deployment of the MIGs and the antiaircraft missiles?”
“That is my understanding,” Fidel said. “But now: If the Soviet Union does not act? Do we resist the strike at our—at their—missiles?”
“I don’t see why we should,” Raúl said. “They are Soviet missiles, commanded by Soviet troops, receiving orders from Moscow. What is the point in engaging the United States if to engage them might mean to spread the war beyond the missiles, to an attack on Havana and the loss of much Cuban life?”
“And, conceivably, our government,” Che added.
Fidel looked up at Che. “You are responsible for this, you know.” He spoke grandly, censoriously.
Che answered, “I made a mistake, Comandante.”
There was silence in the room. The other three Cubans had never seen it quite so: a thoroughly chastened Ernesto Che Guevara. If at that moment Fidel had said, “And I am placing you under arrest,” and had pushed the buzzer under his table, summoning his guards, Raúl Castro, Ramiro Valdés, and Osvaldo Dorticós would have been shocked but not surprised. Shocked that it should have come to a break between the two towering figures. Unsurprised that the supreme commander should be taking appropriate action against a subordinate whose carelessness had resulted in the possibility that the entire missile operation would be aborted. Indeed, an act of carelessness that conceivably would lead the United States to interpret the importation of those missiles—as Dorticós had argued—as a casus belli, and prompt the Americans to go through, finally, with the invasion Cuba had been told by Aleksei Adzhubei almost a year ago the Kennedy government had decided upon.
The suspense was great. Fidel Castro both knew the moment’s gravity and enjoyed it.
To Guevara he said, finally, “Others have made mistakes. You, Raúl, by letting that infernal girl go to San Cristóbal.”
Raúl was silent.
“And you, Che, by botching their execution. I warned you explicitly against putting off the executions.”
Che did not remind the Comandante that he had specifically approved the delay.
“By the way, have they now been executed?”
“No, Comandante.”
“Why in the name of God not? Has Caimán told you he has more government secrets he is willing to give you?”
“There is that primarily, Comandante. But also Caimán has been in high fever, delirious since early on Sunday evening. You will remember he was shot in the shoulder. All in due course.”
“And the girl?”
“You will recall, Fidel, that his willingness to give us the secrets depended on her being alive.”
“What secrets is he in a position to give us now that matter?”
“I think, Fidel, he might have extremely useful information. Contingency arrangements in particular. He might know the striking plans, the principal targets—that kind of thing.”
“Well can’t the doctors bring him out of the—delirium?”
“They say his temperature is receding and that by tomorrow morning he should be able to talk.”
“Well whether he talks or doesn’t talk, I want them both executed.”
“Yes, Comandante. But you agree it is worthwhile to wait?”
Castro said nothing, but turned back to the agenda in front of him. That was his way of acquiescing, once again without exactly going on the record.
Forty
For the sake of appearance the President’s public schedule was studiedly uninterrupted. It was critical that no one should suspect that the President’s Executive Committee, as it had termed itself, was meeting day and night over the crisis. And this included going through with a scheduled meeting on Thursday afternoon with Soviet Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko. The President had even smiled as they shook hands and Gromyko was ushered out of the Oval Office.
The President went to his rocking chair. No other appointments had been listed for that day, and soon he would be rejoining the Executive Committee downstairs in the Situation Room. Now he wanted to think …
What a creep. First, practically all he wants to talk about is Berlin. Berlin is as close to my mind, and as close to his right now, as the Peloponnesian War. But easy does it. I had to be careful not to appear uninterested in Berlin, so we talk about that for a while. Then he—not I—brings up the subject of Cuba. Just wanted to say yet again, he said, what Premier Khrushchev said last month, that Soviet aid has “solely the purpose of contributing to the defense capabilities of Cuba.” So that was bad enough, a straight lie. But he wanted to embellish it, so he says, “If it were otherwise, the Soviet Government would never become involved in rendering such assistance.” What he does not know, the little creep, is that we’ve had those photographs since last Sunday.
Speaking of which. My gang has gone on and on about the remarkable speed with which the Soviet Union has got at the business of installing missiles. Not a sign of any missiles or missile sites in the U-2 photos taken on—I can memorize the dates, I’ve heard them so often—August 29, September 5, 17, 24, 28, 29, October 5. So I said, why not any flights since October 5? And McNamara says there was a flight scheduled for October 9, but the weather was bad. So I said how come we didn’t fly on the 10th, and he said that was bad too, bad right up until Sunday. Huh.
That’s when I pinned McCone down and finally got the story. I think I was not supposed to know that Blackford Oakes was the guy who got the message through, that he had managed actually to see the goddam missiles, and he triggered our Sunday U-2 flight, even though they were—“regularly flying”—and, I might add, regularly not seeing what they were supposed to see. Makes me mad that, the business of nobody telling me about Oakes.
And knowing about his message makes a difference, too, because the chances are that the pursuing vessel monitored Oakes’s phone call to his friend in New York, the way I see it. Which means the Cubans, from last Sunday on, know that we know. It isn’t obvious what, knowing, they’re in a position to do. Presumably they’re working full speed anyway to arm those missiles, but Bob and McCone agree it’s a couple of weeks off. Well, anyway, I can’t go to bat for Oakes until the whole thing goes public. But I’m not going to forget him—
The President pushed a buzzer under the little side table by the rocking chair. Mrs. Lincoln walked in.
“Evelyn, until I tell you to stop, every morning when you and I are alone I want you to say one thing to me.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Say to me: ‘Don’t forget about Oakes.’ That’s all. I will know what all that means.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Evelyn. Maybe you should also say to me every morning: ‘Mr. President, you are surrounded by idiots.’”
“I couldn’t do that, Mr. President.”
“And why not?”
“Because,” said Mrs. Lincoln, smiling, “I surround you the most.”
The President laughed, rose from his rocker with a difficulty he’d have taken the trouble to conceal from other than his intimate family, and headed down to resume participation in that conference that never seemed to end.
On Monday, back from his two-day political trip to Ohio and Illinois, fastidiously left on the presidential schedule so as not to arouse suspicion, he found the situation at the White House now quite openly hectic. The announcement had been made that the President would make an important television address that evening,
and the congressional leadership having been summoned to come to the White House for a briefing at 5 P.M., Sorensen and others were weaving in and out of the Oval Office with drafts of the speech and of Adlai Stevenson’s speech at the UN for the next day. But at exactly 12:08, Mrs. Lincoln found herself quite alone with her dictation pad in front of the President, sitting at his desk editing.
“Mr. President?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t see you on Saturday or on Sunday, so I wasn’t able to remind you.”
“To remind me of what?”
“To remind you not to forget about Oakes.”
The President leaned back, his mind departed, for the moment, from the manuscript he had been revising. He lifted the telephone. “Get me the Attorney General,” he said to the operator.
“Bobby. You remember Oakes? Blackford Oakes I told you about? The agent we sent to Cuba to talk to Che Guevara? Did you know he was the guy who triggered the search for the missiles? Did I remember to tell you that?
“Well never mind, I’ll catch you up later. But now listen. I want a cable drafted to Castro over my signature. No, make it over your signature, come to think of it. Send it via the Swiss in Havana, but not before my speech. Right after. Make it sound as legal as you can. What it ought to say is something like—What? Oh sure, I’ll wait. You want to record it or you want Angie to take it on your other phone? You all set? Now? Okay. Something like this: ‘The President of the United States wishes the Premier of the Republic of Cuba to know that he holds the Premier personally responsible for the well-being of the American citizen Blackford Oakes who was kidnapped on the high seas on Sunday morning while headed for Key West in Florida. Antecedent circumstances involving Mr. Oakes’s visits in Cuba, first under U.S.–Cuban understanding, later at the express invitation of Minister Guevara, have no legal bearing’—Bobby, guff this up as much as you can on the legal front, freedom of the seas, etc. etc. etc.—‘on the breach in international law committed by your agents on Sunday. The President desires the safe return of Mr. Oakes to Guantánamo Bay and repeats that he will hold the Prime Minister personally responsible for the well-being of said Oakes.’ How’s that?”
See You Later, Alligator Page 27
