36

IN MONTEVIDEO, AFTER KITTREDGE DISCONTINUED OUR CORRESPONDENCE, I used to see a good deal more of Hunt, and now, bereft of Modene, I began once more to have dinner with him a couple of nights a week. History was repeating itself. Howard’s mood was not far from mine. Dorothy was in Washington, and the news received each night by telephone was often of her mother who was hospitalized with an inoperable cancer. In addition, his social life, so important to him, was hardly thriving. He might keep up with Palm Beach parties in the society columns, but he was driving through no gates these days in white dinner jacket; the royal palms and poinciana trees on the great estates, the tiled fountains, stone urns, and balustrades of the Palm Beach palaces were remote; he walked no paths between jasmine and bougainvillea, and danced with panache on no marble floor. Nor did he spend his afternoons at Hialeah watching pink flamingos cross a green lawn, no, Howard was in Miami to work, and the scent of oleander and azalea did not reach the cubicles of Zenith. Howard was at that place in his career where success could raise him to the level of a Senior Officer, and failure might put a stop to his ambition.

He certainly pushed himself. If his own politics were, as he put it, “to the right of Richard Nixon,” he swallowed the polemical contumely of dealing with Cubans whose social views were to the left of him. When asked for his own ideological position by Barbaro or Aranjo, he would reply, “I’m here to oil the gears.”

He served. If Manuel Artime was the only member of the Frente with whom Hunt could feel some philosophical kinship, Howard worked nonetheless to hold the Frente together. Watching him operate, I came to understand that politics was not ideology, but property. The Frente was in Hunt’s portfolio and that, as I was soon to discover, was of determining significance. I was soon to discover that Howard had not only learned to bear up with Toto Barbaro, but was ready to protect him. Be it said, I had not needed my father’s prod to keep Chevi Fuertes working on Barbaro’s bank accounts, and he was producing results. Chevi had succeeded in tracking large movements of money through Barbaro’s separate checking accounts, and Cal’s instinct was confirmed—the trail of deposits and withdrawals began to point to the Miami lottery whose winning number was pegged on the circulation figures of the Cuban peso. One rumor prevalent in the exile community was that these figures were rigged by Havana so that Trafficante could be given the winning numbers in advance, and a portion of his profits even went to paying off the operations of the DGI in Florida. If this rumor was valid, then Trafficante was not only the Agency’s most important asset in the proposed assassination of Fidel Castro, but might be Castro’s most important agent in America, and Toto, in his turn, could be serving as Trafficante’s paymaster to the DGI in Miami. The more he kept screaming for money to liberate Cuba, the more he was working for Castro.

Armed by what seemed better than half a case, I spoke to Cal via secure phone. He promptly returned me to Hunt. “I could come in from above,” said Cal, “but I won’t. Not this shot. Howard has been holding an impossible situation together, and I won’t smash into it. Bring your findings to him.”

Hunt, to my surprise, showed little response. He would, he said, peruse the summaries of cash flow in Barbaro’s accounts. When I did not hear any more after a few days and I pressed him, he was noncommittal. “I don’t know that we have enough to hang the guy,” he said at last.

“Does Bernie Barker agree with you? He said Toto was a shit.”

“There’s a measurable distinction between a shit and a double agent.”

Fuertes was not surprised at Hunt’s lack of reaction. “The next act is commencing,” was his conclusion. “To avoid any imputation that the exiles who replace Castro are related to Batista, your new President Kennedy is going to insist that new leftist groups be taken in. It is a comedy. Barbaro, a wholly corrupt politician, once represented some species of left-wing camouflage for your Frente. But now that Kennedy is bringing in serious figures like Manuel Ray who is far to the left of Barbaro, Toto has become the new center. You do not remove the center of a coalition. Without Barbaro, do you think Manuel Artime would be able to speak to Manuel Ray? No, Toto is crucial. He can hold hands with Manuel of the left and carry messages to Manuel of the right.”

“But what if Barbaro is working for Castro?” I asked.

“Toto,” said Fuertes, “would not know how to function if he did not have a finger in every hole. Of course, his fingers are filthy, but Toto sees nothing but visions.” Fuertes looked at me then with something close to intense dislike, and added, “It is a common feeling in our work.”

I considered writing an anonymous letter to Mario García Kohly exposing Barbaro as a Castro agent. I soon heard, however, via Fuertes again, that Trafficante, ringmaster of every intrigue, was also in close contact with Kohly. How, then, could Kohly and Masferrer decide whether to eliminate Toto or do business with him? Profiteers, murderers, patriots, turncoats, informers, drug dealers, and double agents all swam in the same soup, and I became depressed once more over my competence to deal with such people.

Now came word from TRAX that there was open dissension in the Brigade. Pepe San Román, the commander, had graduated from Cuba’s military academy while the country was under Batista, and then served with distinction in the United States Army. That, probably, was why Quarters Eye had selected him. Men who had carried arms for Batista were, however, hardly going to be trusted by men who had fought with Castro in the Sierra Maestra, and neither group was congenial to the younger troops. Given these factions, there had been a strike in the Brigade; training had ceased; Pepe San Román had resigned. He could not lead men into battle, he said, who did not trust him. He was, however, reinstated by the American officer who was on liaison to the Brigade. The striking troops now threatened to mutiny. Before training could recommence, sixty men were dismissed. The other malcontents would only agree to go back to duty if Faustino Barbaro were allowed to visit the camp. I was beginning to see why my father did not rush to get rid of Toto.

The long-standing request of the Frente to be given a trip to TRAX was finally accepted, therefore, by Quarters Eye. Artime would fly over with Barbaro, Hunt would accompany them, and I was dispatched as well, “on orders,” said Hunt, “issued by HALIFAX.”

“Well,” I said to Howard, “a little ability and a lot of nepotism do go a long way.”

I think he liked the remark. I was frankly excited. Nepotism be damned. This was the first serious excursion I had gone on for the Agency, and it came at a good time, for it underlined the virtues of living without a woman. If I had still been seeing Modene, my false explanations would have elicited her distrust. Now I did not have to suffer being in a place where I would not be able to phone her. I could pack a bag, buy mosquito repellent, pick up a pair of jungle boots, and be off.