30

ON NOVEMBER 2, A CABLE ARRIVED FROM CAL ON ZENITH/OPEN. IT read: THANK YOU FOR A GOOD CLEAR ASSESSMENT.

That was the last communication from my father for a period, and it was just as well. My work for Hunt was increasing by the day. Rumors had swept Miami that there would be an invasion of Cuba in advance of the election on November 8, and a fever undulated in from Havana. The traffic in agents had never been higher. In a memo sent to my father at Quarters Eye, Howard wrote, “Zenith is bogged down with a small army of amateur spies who assume that espionage needs no more for technique than a little nepotism they can call on in Cuba. Of course, once we dispatch them back to the homeland, they seem to contact no one but friends and relatives. It should not take a classical education to realize that not every friend is, in troubled times, a true friend. Nor does the history of el Mar Caribe allow one to forget that Latin families in these tropical climes do manifest loyalty and treachery in equally balanced Shakespearean proportions.”

Hunt was pleased enough with this memo to show it to me. I gave him literary praise without too much of an undue tug on my taste. After all, he was right. We were losing a lot of our young spies. Local networks in provincial Cuban towns were being rolled up every week and the agents who were successful in reporting to us were in conformity with Hunt’s oft-repeated axiom that a spy, left to himself, will tell you what he believes you want to hear. I was obliged to put a grade of credibility on reports going up to Quarters Eye; 10 and 20 percent became the marks I issued most often. I was dealing with such statements as “Camaguey is ready to revolt,” “Havana is seething,” “Guantánamo Bay has become a shrine for Cubans,” “Castro is in deep depression,” “the militia is ready to revolt.” Little of it was specific; nearly all was operatic.

I had to deal, however, with a couple of gung-ho paramilitaries at Quarters Eye, unknown to me except as VIKING and CUTTER. They were always dissatisfied with my evaluations. “How do you know you’re not crimping the intake?” they would ask by phone. I could only assure them that at Zenith we were panning tons of sludge, and anything that looked remotely like gold went north.

While Howard never encountered a day without trouble among the Frente, his difficulties were intensifying. Manuel Artime was now training with the Brigade, and that sent a signal. Artime was a devout Catholic and perhaps the most conservative of the five leaders. The rumor at Zenith was that the Agency planned to make him the next President of Cuba. In reaction, the older leaders of the Frente were demanding to be sent to TRAX as well. Meanwhile, Toto Barbaro kept screaming, “Just give us twenty million dollars. Repayable after victory. We will get our own boats to Havana.”

“How,” asked Howard, “do you plan to get those boats past our Coast Guard? Be patient,” he would add, “trust the clout of my backers. Former Ambassador to Cuba William Pawley and other wealthy businessmen like Howard Hughes and H. G. Hunt are very close to the next President of the United States.”

“What if Nixon does not win?” one of the Frente members might ask. “I can only hope that our situation will remain the same under Kennedy,” Howard would reply.

A few days before the election, Barbaro asked me out for a drink. “You must tell your father,” he said, “that the entire Frente leadership, all five of us, are endangered.”

“By whom?”

Barbaro would never answer a serious question too quickly for fear one might not appreciate the cost to him of an honest response. “There is good reason,” he said after sipping on his añejo, “to be afraid of Mario García Kohly.”

“You have spoken of him before.”

“In Kohly you can find a Cuban millionaire who is truly of the extreme right wing. He even thinks that Artime is a soldier of Satan. As soon as the Frente lands in Cuba and declares itself the provisional government, Kohly is ready to assassinate each and every one of us five leaders. He has independent funds, and he will use Rolando Masferrer’s men from No Name Key.”

“This is nonsense,” I said. “Your safety will be defended by the Brigade.”

“The Brigade.” He made a face. “Members of Kohly’s army have infiltrated the Brigade. I tell you, we leaders will be executed a few days after the landing. You cannot conceive of the danger. For many years, Kohly’s father was Cuban Ambassador to Spain. Kohly is a follower of General Franco. Now we have heard that Nixon will give support to Kohly.” He laid a hand on my arm. “You will tell your father?” he asked.

I nodded. I knew I would not. The story was too wild. I gave it a grade of 20 percent. I knew, however, that I would speak to Hunt about it.

Hunt was furious. “A rumor like this can demoralize the Frente. You had better talk to Bernie Barker. He knows Faustino Barbaro inside out. He’ll tell you that if Barbaro is afraid of being assassinated, it is because he damn well ought to be.”

“Can I talk to Barker?” I asked. “I want to get to the bottom of Barbaro’s story.”

“I would just as soon,” said Howard, “dig out a latrine.”

It was agreed that on election night Hunt, Barker, and I would watch the returns together. A divorcée who lived next door to Howard on Poinciana Avenue in Coconut Grove was going to have a party.

“Can you bring a girl?” asked Howard. He poked me with a finger. “Or don’t you know any?”

“Oh, yes,” I told him, “I have a girlfriend.”

“Well, good for you,” said Howard.

“Ed, do me a favor,” I answered. “My girl is kind of friendly with the Kennedy family. I would appreciate it if you didn’t noise your opinion of Jack too loudly.”

“Well,” said Howard, “that is a piece of news. I promise, under the circumstances, Roberto, to muffle my more strident feelings.”