by Glen Carter
Braithwaite looked defiant. Denton, sheepish. Ortega shrugged. “You have a way with women,” he said, staring down at Braithwaite, who seemed oblivious to what had just happened. “The tall blonde has an uncle at the CIA. I think she was trying to recruit me.My life as an imperialist spy is over before beginning.”
“Whatever,” Braithwaite murmured.
Denton held out his hand. “Frederick Denton. And my accomplice is Paul Braithwaite who whole heartedly apologizes for screwing up your career in the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“No matter,” replied Ortega as he shook Denton’s hand. “Too many clandestine meetings in cold, dark places.”
Both men looked to Braithwaite who was squinty eyed and lopsided as he sought out other targets. None in sight. A pizza place caught his attention down the street, so he stumbled off in that direction.
Denton started after his drunken friend and turned. “Can we recruit you to an extra large double pepperoni?”
Ortega rubbed his stomach. “Revolution is hungry work,” he said. “One can subsist on ideology for only so long.” With that, Ortega hurried after the two of them.
Denton and Ortega became good friends. Even Braithwaite held no grudges when it came to Ortega’s looks. In fact he benefited, collaterally, from the Cuban’smagnetism.
In the summer of 1965, when Ortega had a degree with honours tucked snuggly under his belt, he told Denton he was going home.
At first Denton considered it a piss-poor decision and told him so. “Your future’s here.”
“I’mafraid it isn’t.”
Denton eventually understood.He said goodbye and wished him well.
Braithwaite told him. “Good riddance. Say hello to Che forme.”
It was years later when Senator Frederick Denton heard the name Pilious Ortega again. A Senate Foreign Relations hearing. Some Cuban exile decrying the human rights abuses by Fidel Castro and his cronies, including one up and comer named Pilious Ortega. At the time, Denton doubted Ortega’s background in economics predisposed him as an executioner of old men and children.
The CIA had confirmed Denton’s belief. Pilious Ortega was a moderate in Castro’s regime who, while still adverse to the pitiless code of capitalism, quietly believed that the unyielding economic dogma of his communist republic had been a failure. Ortega had become a power broker, with an ability to reshape what was so intrinsic to Fidel’s revolution. The stripe of Cuba’s economy. The engine that fired the Marxist-Leninist fantasy. Denton was not at all surprised by his old chum’s early rise within Castro’s dictatorship. He was a Yale man who’d demonstrated an intensity and drive that Denton had identified early in their friendship. Denton didn’t agree with Ortega’s politics, but ambition was a force common to both of them. Frederick Denton had an impressive resume of his own. Denton the pit bull federal prosecutor. Denton the respected law professor, and eventually, Denton the senator and then governor. That’s when his life had spiralled into blackness. First there was the passing of his loving wife to cancer, then the tragic death of his drug-addicted son. Denton could have easily been destroyed by his grief since no man should have to suffer what had been inflicted on him. Instead a rage consumed him. When he was finally able to tame it, he gave it purpose, and from that purpose came a cause. His anti-drug platform resonated in rural America, where poisons like crystal meth had laid waste to thousands of once proud families. His promises to eradicate crime rang true among America’s urban villagers who were sick and tired of living in the shadows of decay and drug-induced violence.
The fact that Frederick Denton had suffered the loss of his only son to heroin steeped his message in an authenticity that his political opponents dared not assail, and Denton won the White House with such a glut of electoral votes that election night pundits were slack-jawed over the tectonic shift in America’s political landscape. The Democrats now owned the Oval Office and both Houses of Congress, and Frederick Denton was a slam-dunk for a second term in office.
At that moment in Aspen Lodge, however, the President was feeling vulnerable. A fair amount of political capital was on the line with his desire to make a friend of Cuba, a state that had once pointed Soviet nuclear weapons and as a consequence had brought the world to the precipice of nuclear annihilation. America could forgive Libya and Vietnam for its transgressions; embargoes against both had been lifted long ago. But Cuba was different.
President Denton knew the chance he was taking by pursuing rapprochement. Anti-Cuba protests were becoming more and more violent,while right-wing talk radio and newspapers were unrelenting in their outrage. Republicans,who saw it as a gift horse,were snarling like jackals on a carcass and even some member’s of Denton’s own party had broken ranks.
That initiative, however, was already well underway, and while many critical details remained cloaked by the necessities of national security, the broader strokes had been fed months ago to the hounds of public discourse.Denton was weary with it by now but he also fully understood the huge challenges still ahead. After another mouthful of fine scotch, he swallowed hard and got down to business. “I can’t act unilaterally, Pilious. Congress will need something substantive on your end, a demonstration of your intentions. Even our own people will be reluctant to support me on this without a signal from you.”
Ortega nodded solemnly and glanced at his watch. “Mister President, in a matter of hours I’ll be taking the podium at the Summit of the Americas to announce a framework for true democratic elections in Cuba. This should go a long way towards convincing your Congress ofmy intentions.My free-market reforms also speak of my goals. Last month, as you know, I released two hundred fifty prisoners whose only crime was to criticize Castro’s regime. All of this should satisfy the naysayers.”
Denton nodded, trying to conceal his surprise. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy. A commitment to democratic elections was a major sticking point and it had been his intention to wrestle Ortega for that promise tonight.Without a move to free elections, Congress would never agree to end the embargo. Denton was sure of it. Hell, one Florida Republican was calling for a naval blockade to speed up the democratization of Cuba before the “murderous communist criminals” in Castro’smilitarywere able to put down the uprising for freedom.
“You’ve put your cards on the table and with what you’ve just revealed I don’t anticipate any problems with Congress.” Denton leaned forward. “As long as free elections get underway immediately. Until that happens, both our necks are on the line.”
“You have my word,Mister President.”
Denton got up and walked to the window, stared at his weathered reflection. Rapprochement.An end to the embargo.That thorn in the side of American foreign policy was about to be plucked. What good had it done but spawn a legacy of wants and needs which enabled Castro to tighten his grip on power.How many children had died from malnutrition and disease? How much misery and suffering had it caused for powerless Cubans while Castro and his cronies lived large and thumbed their noses at Washington? Denton had always understood that exposing Cubans to the riches of America’s friendship would do what the largest invasion force could never accomplish. The honey, never the stick, his mother always said. Only one president before had understood, but he was murdered in Dallas.On that very day a French journalist by the name of Jean Daniel had delivered a presidential olive branch to Fidel Castro. It was during that meeting that Castro took a telephone call.The President had been assassinated in Dallas, Castro was informed. “Now they will blame us,” he had said to the Frenchman. “Your mission here is over.”
This time, rapprochement would not fail. Denton was determined to make it happen.He turned to face Ortega. “Begin and Sadat came here in 1978. Two men separated by a millennium of hatred. In twelve days they had an accord.We are two nations separated by far less.”
“Ninety miles of water might well have been a hundred oceans,” replied Ortega, placing his glass on the table. He stood and joined Denton at the window. “Decades
of acrimony will soon be a thing of the past.”
“It’s been too long,”Denton said, placing a hand on the shoulder of his old friend.
Both men turned at the whine of a powerful turbine engine spooling up in the darkness beyond the trees.
Denton looked at his watch. “In the meantime, our little committee has been drafting the nuts and bolts of the trade and aid package,” he said.
Ortega had kept a close eye on their “little committee.” After six months of tough negotiations, a fistful of agreements were ready for presidential signatures. “Five billion dollars will silence the diehards in my country,” Ortega replied. “Not to mention the opportunities from free trade.”
Denton nodded his agreement.
There was a soft knock at the door and then light spilled into the room from the outside hallway. “It’s time, Mister President,” Soloman reported softly.
Denton looked warmly at his old friend. “It’s been good to see you, Pilious,” said the President. “Good for a lot of reasons.”
“Good to see you too, Frederick.”
Both men walked towards the door and looked at each other a final time. “I don’twant to delay your important speech this morning. We’ll be watching.”
Ortega nodded.Then a smile appeared on his tired face. “Maybe Braithwaite will get to play for that pot again.”
“Until Havana, Pilious,where we’ll be playing for the biggest pot of all. Have a good trip my old friend.”They embraced warmly and Ortega walked out.
Ninety seconds later the President of the United States headed for his warm bed, scotch in one hand, confident the nation would survive even if he did manage to sleep. For a few seconds, he listened at the door for the sound of her breathing. Satisfied, he tiptoed to the bed and began to undress.A moment later they were face to face in the darkness. Somewhere beneath her tussled hair was a gorgeous woman, the first since his wife. In the years after her death, he’d shut off that part of himself, boarded it up like a forgotten room. Still, there was talk.The tabloids made sport of the President’s love life. Denton had been romantically linked with several powerful women, most of whom he had never actually met.
M.J. Dumont was a star reporter covering the Pentagon and the White House. Hiring her as the President’s press secretary had been a masterstroke.
“She’s tough. She’s respected, and she’s got demographics to die for,” Braithwaite had declared. “The audience loves her. I’m betting it’ll rub off on you.”
It did.
Inwardly,Denton smiled at a memory.The White House Christmas party.
“Dance,Mister President?”
It was M.J., gorgeous in a red silk dress that accentuated her tight form. Eyes that refused to relinquish their hold. He could have declined presidentially, but Fred Denton wanted to dance with this woman. So he took his press secretary into his arms, and while the band belted out some Sinatra standard, the President danced for the first time in years. At first, he fought the intensity of his feelings, but over time it became a distraction.
Braithwaite was the first to notice. “I think it’s great,” he had said. “But be careful.”
The nation had not a clue, and as far as the President was concerned, that was just fine. M.J. thought so too and had told him so more than once. In fact, to Denton, the secrecy was a turn on, especially because she was now sharing his bed.
Denton was happy. Goddamnit, he was ecstatic. He could have screamed his joy. Instead the President of the United States smiled contentedly. All was well, and as he listened to the roar of the marine helicopter lifting off somewhere in the night, he silently prayed for his friend Pilious Ortega, friendship between old enemies—and for aces and queens.
17
Paul Braithwaite rubbed absently at the red spot on his bald head, nodding now and then as the President recounted in detail his secret rendezvous with Pilious Ortega.
“Democratic elections were the only roadblock. So with that out of the way, I see no reason why we can’t move forward.”
The President’s Chief of Staff nodded solemnly. For a moment he made no reply.
Denton guessed he was still a little pissed about being left out of the Ortega meeting, though Braithwaite was wise not to say so. Besides, he had said enough about Denton’s decision to boycott the summit. Cuba would be held at arm’s length, publically, until Ortega declared democratic elections. No photo ops with Pilious until then, the President had decided.
“Looks like we’re being scared away,” Braithwaite had argued.
“No, Paul. More like digging in until we get our way, and it looks like we’re going to get it.”
“Still, there’s that tiny issue of reparations for nationalized American assets,” Braithwaite added, earnestly. “It’s proving to be tougher than we thought, Mister President.”
Denton nodded his understanding. Americans had a right to reparations for the loss of their ritzy hotels, their mining and agricultural operations, and for everything else Castro had stolen from them. Decades had passed, yes, but time hadn’t lessened the righteous sense of entitlement.
“Details, Paul,” the President said. “Details that will be given fair and appropriate attention. Without rapprochement, redress on those issues is a moot point.”
“Agreed,” Braithwaite replied, massaging fatigue from his puffy eyes. “As long as an iron clad mechanism is instituted concurrently to settle those old scores.”
The President nodded. “You have one of the best legal minds in the country, my old friend. I expect you to come up with a plan for that.”
“Thanks a bunch,” Braithwaite replied, and leaning his portly frame forward, he lifted a silver pot from the glass table between them. It was his third cup of coffee in less than half an hour. “Top up?”
Denton declined.
Braithwaite had been a fiend for caffeine since their days together at Yale.Though it was the lesser of his addictions.The other was work. As “gatekeeper” for the WhiteHouse, the demands on his time were enormous. Denton tended to be a hands-off president, so that meant Braithwaite wielded power on the scale of a head of state. Almost prime ministerial in style and substance. In return, the Chief of Staff managed the President’s mental and physical resources, much like a coach who cajoles from the sidelines to get the most out his star player without breaking him. There was a rhythm and cadence to the Presidency and it resonated in Braithwaite’s bones. In fact, the press pool affectionately referred to Braithwaite as the President’s “marrow.”
“And speaking of old scores,” Braithwaite continued, leaning back, “Ortega say anything about a poker rematch?”
Both men chuckled, and after allowing the moment to spend itself, Denton turned serious. “Pilious is throwing us a pass we’d be stupid to fumble.” Neither of them felt savvy with football metaphors, but Denton could think of no better way to describe the opportunity that had been tossed at the White House. “Turn Cuba our way and it pulls the rug out from under left wingers all over Central and South America. You and I both know what’s been happening in Nicaragua and Venezuela. Then there’s that bloodthirsty gang of Marxist-Leninist idiots in Bolivia. It’s time we took the steam out of these communist insurgencies on our doorstep. I want it to happen on my watch. It will be part of my legacy, Paul. That and my initiatives on the drug front.”
Braithwaite nodded his agreement. “And by the way, Brocklehurst requires some face time with you about that issue in Nicaragua, as quickly as possible.”
“My door’s always open to the director of the CIA,” Denton replied, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Carve out an hour for tomorrow. Need to bring him up to speed on Cuba, anyway.”
“Done.”
“In the meantime, I want final drafts on my desk before I leave for Miami.”
“State is coordinating. They’ve a team working round the clock. Shrewbridge is burning up secure lines to Ortega’s people in Havana, and he’s guaranteed the paperwork will be ready when we are.�
��
“Good,” Denton declared. “And what about ‘the five’?”
“The four,” Braithwaite corrected, smiling. “Soon to be jailbirds. No more.”
“Good riddance,” the President added.
Braithwaite got up to leave.
“And, Paul.”
Braithwaite turned. “Yes, sir.”
“Why don’t you stay a few days in Havana after it’s all over? Get some colour in those cheeks. Some sand between your toes.”
“I might just do that, Mister President,” Braithwaite said, and walked out.
18
NEW YORK CITY
The headquarters for CNS Television was a forty-five-storey building, which consumed an entire city block. Jack Doyle climbed out of a cab at precisely ten in the morning and wound his way through a rabble of street vendors who were already tending steamed franks and other delights.
Jack’s ears popped as he pushed through the revolving door. Once inside he removed his jacket and made a beeline for a bank of elevators.
He stepped off on the top floor.
The receptionist greeted him with a warm smile and said good morning. She was forty-something, dressed meticulously in a short black skirt and a black silk blouse. Her name was Sophie. She had shoulder-length raven hair sliced at angles that might have been the work of a mathematician instead of a stylist. Thick-rimmed burgundy glasses and blood-red lipstick were her only indulgence in colour.
She was seated behind a wide chrome and glass desk beneath a row of large framed headshots of the network’s on-air news talent. The portrait of Frank Simmons was the largest. Staffers joked it was because Simmons’s colossal ego needed more space. Next to the receptionist was a giant flat-screen television.
“Carmichael has called twice,” Sophie said, as Jack stepped off the elevator and lifted a stack of newspapers from her desk. “He says he’d appreciate a moment of your time this morning. If that’s ok.”
