Manhattan 62

by Nadelson, Reggie

  “The Rishkova woman? The what you call, Letter Carrier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me finish,” said Ostalsky, who read out loud in Russian. “Hold on, please, Pat. I’m just translating,” he added.

  “What about the nukes?”

  “He talks about Moscow, and how he learned Russian and was asked to help with translations for delegations from Cuba and other errands. They trust him, they promote him, send him home to work as a pretty high-level translator, mostly at the main newspaper in Havana because he also knows English. But he’s been away for two years. He sees things have changed, he says. He fell for Susana Reyes, an upper-class girl who returned from America, and found, he says, ‘her beloved brother disappeared because he was a homosexual’. Old friends who disagreed with the government were executed.

  “‘The worm began to burrow inside my brain. I played the game, and I waited. They saw me as possible bait, as carnada, a “dangle” they call it, to offer me to the CIA who would hire me, and I would be a double agent, burrowing deep into the United States. Many CIA in Cuba are so stupid. They do not see what’s in front of their eyes, including Soviet troops arriving. They cannot believe that Cuba has a brilliant intelligence service; they assume we are a silly little people, lazy, macho and useless. But people, even including Che Guevara, a man I idolized, had become possessed. When I heard my hero say he would gladly destroy America with nuclear weapons, even if it meant destroying his own country it changed me.’”

  And James Brown sang “Hold me hold me, and your love we won’t hide.”

  “Rica and Susana, and her cousin, somebody named Jorge, joined a small group. They decided, ‘If Castro called dissenters worms, then we were glad to be worms.’ ”

  The cigarette had burned my fingers, and I tossed it in an ashtray. “What else?”

  “Let me finish the letter. He says he’s enclosing snapshots, here, look at them,” said Max and passed me four small black and white photographs. “Rica says shipments have been arriving from the Soviet Union for quite a while, and that on October 4, when the Indigirka docked at Mariel, which is Rica’s hometown, it was easy for him to visit home, and find out what was going on. Forbidden to most, but Rica had become a Party member and was trusted. Listen to this, Pat.

  “He says there are thousands of troops, Soviets, even some others, who have been arriving since August. Cuba is a Soviet military camp, he reports. ‘Missiles are taken by truck across country, through little towns, and because I have worked as a journalist, many people know me, and I go where I like.’ It is hard to hide trucks with huge metal tubes. Also, the Soviet soldiers are miserable, it’s hot, they’re sick, they would like to drink, and though the officers are quite correct, some of the men, so homesick and unwell, will tell you anything for a glass of rum, or an introduction to a nice lady, you can take a look at anything. You can give a Russian soldier a cigarette, and he says, ‘Take a photograph, if you want. So I took these pictures.’”

  “These pictures don’t look like anything to me,” I said.

  Max got up from where he had been sitting and smoking, and looked over my shoulder. “The one you’re holding is interior of some sort of bunker, with a stack of what look like rockets. This next one, look, you see, this trailer-truck has a missile launcher, with the missile, the warhead in place. It looks like a MIG, a fighter plane, you see, attached to a little hump-backed car?”

  When he pointed out the details, I could see it clearly. The missile was set in a clearing, with scrubby tropical foliage around the edges. In it was a man in a checkered shirt, his right arm cut off by a photographer who was either incompetent or in a big hurry.

  “Cuba?” I said.

  “Yes. A missile.”

  “How the hell do you know?” I said, holding the photograph close to his face.

  “I have seen similar missiles on parade in Red Square,” said Max. “Funny, as a younger man, I often admired these ranks of missiles. I was so proud of our power. I loved the great long-range intercontinental ballistic missiles. This vision of such military might gave me goose bumps. My cousin Sasha, I think he became a missile engineer because of what we used to see. They have missiles on Cuba, Pat, and aircraft that can carry them.”

  “But there aren’t any warheads, the nukes, the things that blow up the world. The President already said so; we know that. We know this.”

  “Not according to Rica.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Rica is sure. It’s in one of these pictures, if you know what you’re looking at.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “According to Valdes, these here are Ilyushin 28 planes, already uncrated and ready to go. Each one can carry a single warhead. I told Rica it was nothing without the warhead. He told me there were warheads, already targeted.” From my hand, Max took the final two snaps. “Officially only a Soviet officer on direct command by Khrushchev can fire a nuclear weapon. Valdes says there may be officers who ignore this order, all it takes is one rogue officer, or Cubans who work with them. These here, you see, the Americans call them Cruise Missiles. They can do great damage, they spray radioactive material everywhere. This means they can reach fifteen or twenty miles.”

  “Guantanamo?”

  “You guess correctly. You don’t need ICBMs to start a war. I had already guessed at some of this, I had time in that warehouse, that what the Cubans want is a provocation. Some of them, a few with power.”

  “And your people?”

  “I’m sure there are some in my country, as well, of course. But Rica Valdes writes that the Cubans are tired of feeling like little brothers, as they were once tired of American oppression, very nice that Khrushchev hugs them like he is a papa bear, but they want weapons, and so he sends them, and now a few of them want an excuse to fire these weapons.”

  “How much more is there?” I felt impatient and impotent; what could I do if the nukes were coming? I could go back and listen to James Brown.

  “He goes on to say there are people who want to provoke an invasion,” says Max.

  “What is it?” I can hear screams from the audience downstairs that punctuate Ostalsky’s news of Armageddon.

  “The provocation will be this assassination. A powerful American will be killed, the United States will retaliate, do you see, Pat, to provoke the Americans to invade Cuba, and then to fight back, it is perfect. This means everyone then starts throwing nuclear missiles around. This means, as you might say, Pat, Boom!”

  “Who’s the target?”

  “Rica says it is scheduled for October 28, the day when Columbus discovered Cuba in 1492, and not as Americans believe, the United States. It sounds idiotic, but this is what he says. It will be in New York, for this is the great symbol. Susana knew the possible target, and another man may know the location.”

  “Susana is dead. Who? We have four days.”

  Max looked at his watch. “It’s after midnight. It is the 25th, so three days. Three.”

  “Why now? What the hell point is there anyway? We’re about to go to war, why not lie back and wait if you want war. Are they connected, this so-called assassination and the missile crisis?”

  “ I don’t know. I really don’t know, and I’ve been thinking and studying, what this means, trying to understand. I think the crisis is an opportunity, or a deadline. Perhaps this even, this idea for provocation was put in place years ago, to be activated when the time is, can you say, ripe?”

  “At least we know something, we have a date, we know about the Cubans.”

  “We know something. If Valdes is telling the truth,” said Ostalsky. “Perhaps he is a triple,” he added, half to himself.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Our problem is just who will believe us?”

  “Please please please …”

  Backstage was jammed, singers, stagehands, someone hauling props, and I was looking for a way out, when I could have sworn James Brown turned in our direction, and saw me. />
  The band played, the crowd surged forward, moving, ecstatic, like people in a holy-roller church I’d once seen in a newsreel. All I see is James Brown, who on the beat falls to his knees.

  “Honey, please don’t I love you so

  Please please please please …”

  A man puts a cape on Brown’s shoulders. Is he sick? Is Brown having a heart attack? No, he rises, Jesus from the tomb, or a cardinal, the pope, playing with the microphone like it’s a crucifix, or a weapon, and all the time I’m thinking about nukes raining down on us, and an assassination that will take place in three days, and when I look out towards the audience, all I see are black faces, people worked up in some kind of frenzied swoon, probably thinking they’re gong to die as the nukes fall, and deciding this was their only escape, this music, this ecstasy. “Please please please please.” Brown works the stage, he steps towards the wings, returns.“Honey, please don’t …”

  Everybody in the theater was moving around, audience on their feet, seeming ready to storm the stage, recording engineers, dancers, all pressing against us backstage, and we were trapped, stuck with no way to get in or out, no way to move, just us, me and the Russian spy.

  Who will believe us?

  CHAPTER TWO

  October 25, ’62

  THANK GOD FOR CLAY Briscoe’s old Buick. I had offered him a temporary trade when I told him the truth. I told him somebody was watching me; I laid it out for him because Briscoe had done me plenty of favors and I trusted him.

  “No trouble, Patrick. I always loved your little car,” he said. “Also, man, I am taking my new lady away for a few days, and she will be so down with that Corvette. You just let me know when you want it back. Also, figuring the Russkis might be going to drop that bomb on us all, I might as well enjoy myself, you know? But, listen, Sam Cooke’s coming to the Apollo in a couple weeks, I’ll get you some tickets if you want.”

  Even in Briscoe’s car, I was uneasy about parking in front of my building, so I let Ostalsky off, told him to get upstairs, watched him duck into the door, and drove a couple of blocks in case somebody was following me, to make sure I had lost the tail.

  It was already early morning, around 3 a.m., and I needed sleep bad. I didn’t like it that Ostalsky was at my place, but where else could I stash him for now? I was so tired, I was hallucinating, figured there were agents on my back, theirs, ours; I parked a few blocks from home, near the White Horse. All I could think about was getting home, getting a few hours sleep, see if there was anything to wake up to, or if we’d been blown to hell, and get out of there and find out what was happening. Christ. Nukes on Cuba, already targeted. Jesus Christ. I was plenty scared, and having Max Ostalsky at my place made it worse. Fatigue and fear made me cold. I had started coughing again.

  Standing near the White Horse I could see a few diehards still inside the bar, including a man in a snappy tan raincoat who peeled away, came out to the street and approached me. He doffed his hat as if by way of a friendly gesture, put out his hand and said “Rush O’Neill”. At first I thought he was just a well-dressed drunk.

  “No kidding, what’s Rush stand for, you in a hurry?”

  “Ha ha, very nice, but no, it’s for Rushton, it’s a family name.” He took out his FBI badge. Rushton P. O’Neill. “Don’t ask about the P.” He was very pleasant except for the cold gray eyes, very round, very cold, like marbles set in his eye sockets that, when he talked, he fixed on my face, without blinking.

  “Then I have to ask, don’t I?”

  “It’s for Providence.” He laughed, and fumbled in his pocket for a pipe and a leather pouch of tobacco.

  Then it came to me. The Hip Bagel, I had seen him wearing a natty blue blazer, talking to Nancy one morning while she got her breakfast; the minute I saw him I had recalled the face, the silvery hair worn in a modified pompadour, the look of a vain man.

  He was forty-five, possibly fifty, but trim; good bearing, square shoulders, that English raincoat was belted, the collar turned up like an officer in the movies—David Niven, that kind of guy.

  Now I saw O’Neill close up, I made him for possibly ex-military, a man who had led other men and let you know it with his big firm handshake and the way he looked you in the eyes. His nails had been manicured. The only men I knew who were vain enough for manicures were mobsters and politicians.

  “Pat Wynne,” I said. “But you know that, don’t you? Glad to know you.”

  “Would you care to join me in a drink?”

  “Agent O’Neill, you weren’t waiting here for me so we could pass the time. Why don’t you tell me what you need.”

  “Shall we take a little ride? I’ve got my car nearby.”

  “I’d rather walk. If you don’t mind.” I was polite as could be, thinking it would get me away faster, and out of the line of fire if O’Neill had anyone else tailing me.

  “Of course. I phoned your apartment, I went by, but there was no answer when I rang the buzzer.” He had no accent, the kind of man who has been raised on military bases. He turned to look at the few people on the street, out late, walking off the tension, one man whistling tunelessly as he went.

  “Cuba,” said Rush O’Neill. “People are scared out of their wits. We may soon be under attack. The Soviets are completely capable of a first strike.”

  I lit a fresh smoke, and walked alongside O’Neill. Normally, I would have told him to shove it and gone home, but, given I was supposed to be off the job, and also with the war coming, it was not a good time to cross the FBI unless you had to. Also, he had my phone number and my address.

  “Unless we take immediate action, it will get worse, you know that. We’ve got to make damn sure the Reds understand that we will never permit them to install nuclear weapons so close to us. In my view, we ought to strike now, hit their ships, take out the goddamn lot, while public opinion is on our side. We must never ever allow Soviet nukes ninety miles off our shores.” For an instant, his face tightened in anger, but then he relaxed and produced the genial smile. “I apologize for the lecture. I’m a bit worked up.”

  “You’re telling me you want a pre-emptive strike?”

  “I think our country will do whatever’s right,” he said, and set off towards the river. I was sure we were heading to Pier 46. “Detective Wynne, I have a favor to ask. I know you’re a patriot, you served in Korea, it was rough, not much glory, plenty of guts. I got lucky. Everybody wanted to fight the damn Nazis. Me, I flew those B-17s with the 305th out of England. Terrific commander, a fellow we would have died for, he was tough, but he took care of his own. Called him ‘Old Iron Pants’. The kind of man we need in charge right now.”

  “I thought Bobby Kennedy was your boss now, isn’t that right, he’s Attorney General. Isn’t he tough enough for you?”

  “He was. He does only the President’s bidding now.”

  I was sick of the rhetoric. “How can I help you?”

  “You know this pier, of course, just across the West Side Highway. You had a case out here, isn’t that right?”

  O’Neill stopped, fussed with his pipe, loaded it up with tobacco, lit it, blew out smoke, looked at me. “I need your help, Wynne.”

  “I’m always happy to do your august organization a favor, Agent O’Neill. But I’ve had a long day.” I was on edge. “I’m happy to go to the pier, if you want, but it’s cold and if you tell me what you need, we can save some time.” My willingness worked. He said, “Forget it.” Abruptly he turned, and started back downtown.

  I didn’t want this man, whoever he was, anywhere near my building, or me. He was slick. His warm, clear, sharp voice—like a radio announcer—was intended to seduce if he wanted your help, or induce fear if he failed to get it. I was betting he didn’t often fail.

  “Could you use some coffee? We could grab a cup of Joe and then you could go home,” he said. “It is cold tonight, it seems to me, so early too, still October.”

  At the corner of Christopher Street, he gestured to a coffee shop, a
nd I knew he had already picked it out. Everything had been planned; I knew this could easily be a trap. Did he have his men waiting, their weapons hidden behind the cistern in the bathroom?

  The place was almost empty, except for a tall thin man in a cheap dark suit, crouched on one of the stools, dunking a donut in his coffee. He didn’t look up, not at me, or O’Neill; Rush O’Neill never looked at him. I knew they were both Feds. A waitress in a hairnet was wiping down the counter with a dirty rag, a cigarette in her mouth.

  O’Neill slid into a booth at the back. I sat opposite him, put my smoke out in the ashtray and stretched my arms back along the back of the green leatherette booth, and tried to get the attention of the waitress. O’Neill was waiting for me to make the first move, I realized. Show my hand. A large clock on the wall ticked loud. The man with the donut put a nickel into the jukebox on the counter. “Green Onions” played.

  “I might as well ask this, but you’ve had someone on my tail, isn’t that right? Somebody with a big flashy Impala, not your usual FBI vehicle?”

  He looked at me straight on. “Yes.”

  “Your fellow over there is on his second donut.”

  “Very sharp of you. We have a liberal budget for donuts.”

  “Do you think he’s hungry?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Maybe he comes here for the music.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you want to tell me why you’re following me? Aren’t we on the same side, Agent O’Neill. That’s Irish, isn’t it? Makes you a Mick just like the rest of us, so why don’t we stop the horse shit.”

  “On my father’s side.”

  “What, you’re saying your ma’s descended from the Mayflower?”

  “Something like that. It’s for your protection, Detective. The tail.”

  “Why would I need protection?” I called out, fed up now, “Can I get a cup of coffee here?”

  The waitress in the hairnet trudged over to where we sat and I asked for coffee and a tuna sandwich.

  “Why would I need protection?” I said again.