36

CUBELA, WEARING A TAN SPORT JACKET AND BROWN PANTS, CAME INTO THE Bistro de la Mairie accompanied by a man in a blue yachting jacket, gray flannels, and horn-rimmed glasses—LYME—who nodded to us and walked out. But for three workingmen standing at the bar by the entrance, we had the place to ourselves, all of the dark floor, dark walls, round bar tables, and one disinterested waiter.

Cubela walked toward us like a heavyweight coming into the ring. My father had described him as tall, but he was heavier than I had expected and his mustache was full, powerful, and pessimistic. He would have been a good-looking man if his face had not been puffy from drink.

“Mr. Scott,” said Cubela to my father, who promptly replied, “Señor General, this is Mr. Edgar.” I nodded.

Cubela sat down with solemn grace. He would have an Armagnac, he decided. We said no more until the waiter brought it, whereupon Cubela took a taste and asked in a heavy Spanish accent, “Il n’y a rien de mieux?” to which our waiter allowed that it was the brand of Armagnac the café served. Cubela nodded in displeasure, and waved him away.

“You have brought the letter?” he asked. Cal nodded. “I would like to see it, Mr. Scott.” His English was superior to his French.

The letter was brief, but composed by us with no small care. One of the experts at GHOUL had forged the handwriting on stationery that carried the embossed seal of the Attorney General’s office.

November 20, 1963

This is to assure the bearer that in recognition of his successful efforts to bring about a noteworthy and irreversible change in the present government of Cuba, the powers of this office, and all collateral loyalties attendant thereto, will be brought to bear in full support of his high political aims.

Robert F. Kennedy

Cubela read it over, took out a pocket English dictionary, looked up the definition of several words, and frowned. “This letter does not fulfill the understanding arrived at in our last meeting, Mr. Scott.”

“I would say it takes care of your specific requests completely, Señor General. You need only contemplate the meaning of ‘irreversible change.’”

“Yes,” said Cubela, “that addresses half of the fundamental understanding, but where does it say that the older brother of the signatory is well disposed toward me?”

Cal took back the letter and read aloud, “‘The power of this office and all collateral loyalties attendant thereto .  .  .’ I think you will find that is a clear reference to the sibling.”

“Sibling? Sibling?”

“El hermano,” I said.

“It is very abstract. In effect, you ask me to accept your promise on faith.”

“Even as we accept your promises,” said Cal.

Cubela showed small pleasure in being overtaken. “Whether you trust me or not, you will go back to your home in Washington. For me to trust you, however, means that I must risk my life.” He withdrew a magnifying glass from his jacket pocket, and a clipping from a magazine. I could see that it was a printed sample of Robert Kennedy’s handwriting.

For several minutes, Cubela compared the script in the letter to the sample in his clipping. “Good,” he said at last, and stared carefully at both of us. “I would ask you a question, Mr. Scott. As you know, I once shot a man in a nightclub. In fact, I assassinated him.”

“I thought you detest the word.”

“I do. And now,” he said in Spanish, “I will explain why. It is not because of some fracture of my nervous system that is unable to bear the enunciation of such syllables because that might recall to me the expression on a dying man’s face—no, that is what my detractors would claim, but no truth is there. I am a calm man possessed of pundonor. I have depth of resolve. I see myself as the future comandante of the tragic island that is my nation. For these reasons, I detest the word. The assassin, you see, not only destroys his victim but the part of himself that contains his larger ambitions. Can you ask me to believe that the President of the United States and his brother are ready to help the political career of a man whom they must talk about during the privacy of their own councils as a half-crazy hired thug?”

“In a time of turmoil,” said Cal, “your past will matter less than your heroism. It is your heroic actions in the next few months that will bring you to public view.”

“Are you saying that your sponsors will accept me in such circumstances?”

“That is exactly what I am saying.”

He sighed heavily. “No,” he said, “you are saying that at the summit of the mountain, there are no guarantees.”

Cal was silent. After a while, he said, “As a man of intelligence, you know that one cannot control political weather absolutely.”

“Yes,” said Cubela, “I must be prepared to take all chances. Of necessity. Yes, I am prepared,” he said, and let out his breath with such a burst that I realized he was ready to perform the assassination today. “Let us concern ourselves with equipment,” he said.

“The telescope is ready,” stated my father.

“You are speaking, I presume, of the rifle I have described that has a range of accuracy up to five hundred yards, equipped with a Bausch and Lomb telescopic sight of two and one-half times magnification?”

My father, in reflex, tapped on his glass through the length of this speech. Then he reached forward across the table, put his hand on Cubela’s arm, and nodded profoundly, although he did not say a word.

“I will accept your concern for precautions,” said Cubela. “Forgive me. Now, may I inquire into delivery?”

“Mr. Lyme will service your location.”

“I like Mr. Lyme,” said Cubela.

“I am pleased to hear that he is likeable,” said Cal.

“The telescope will fit into an attaché case?”

“No,” said Cal, but added “do you play pool?”

“Billiards.”

“The case we will hand over to you looks like the kind that is used to carry a billiard cue. The kind of cue, of course, that comes in two pieces.”

“Excellent,” said Cubela. “And the other detail?”

“Yes,” said Cal. “The piece of sophisticated equipment. The surprise. I have it on my person.”

“May I see it?”

Cal removed a ballpoint pen from his tweed jacket and clicked the button. A hypodermic needle sprang forth. He clicked the button a second time and a thread of liquid darted from the needle like a wall lizard’s tongue. “It’s only water,” said Cal, “but this pen has been designed for use with the common reagent .  .  .” He removed an index card from his pocket and held it up. It read: BLACKLEAF 40.

“Where do I find such as that?” asked Cubela.

“In any chemical supply house. It is a common reagent employed for insects.”

“Of all sizes?”

Cal nodded again. “Most effective.”

Cubela took the ballpoint pen and pressed the button several times until all the water had been ejected. “It is a toy,” he said with some petulance.

“No,” answered Cal, “it is a sophisticated instrument. The needle is so fine that one does not feel it entering the skin.”

“You are asking me to walk up to the subject and inject him?”

“The needle is so fine that it causes no pain. It attracts no attention whatsoever.”

Cubela looked at both of us with contempt. “Your gift is a device for a woman. She sticks her tongue in the man’s mouth and puts the needle in his back. I am not about to use such tactics. It is shameful to eliminate one’s enemy in that manner. One does not attack a serious Cuban with a hat pin. I would be subject to ridicule. And rightly so.”

He stood up. “I will accept the carrying case with the billiard cue from Mr. Lyme. But this I reject.” He was about to depart, then stopped. “No,” he said, “I will take reception of it after all,” and he put it in his breast pocket.

My father surprised me by his next remark. “For yourself?” he asked.

He nodded. “If the large effort fails, I have no wish to live through the immediate consequences.”

“Cómo no,” said Cal.

Cubela shook his hand, then mine. His hands were cold. “Salud!” he said, and walked out.

“We’ll get the billiard cue to him in Veradero,” said Cal. “He has a little villa on the beach, three hundred yards away from the beach house that the subject—as he calls him—inhabits on vacation. I hate to say it, but I am getting my hopes up for this fellow. He could deliver a present before Christmas.” Cal let out his breath. “Do you mind paying the bill? I need to take a walk.” He paused. “We should leave separately in any event.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll follow you back to the hotel.”

Through the café window, I could see the lights on the street. The November evening had long passed, and at 7:00 P.M. it was now dark enough for midnight.

I did not know exactly how I felt, but then I was not in a situation where it was automatic to comprehend one’s reactions. In truth, I wanted Rolando Cubela to kill Fidel Castro; I hoped that Helms, Harlot, and Cal were not merely sending out a provocation to the DGI. No, I wanted an execution to be there at the end of the road. I did not begin to have the profound hatred for the Maximum Leader that Hunt or Harlot or Harvey or Helms or Allen Dulles, or Richard Bissell, or Richard Nixon, or, for that matter, my father or Bobby Kennedy contained; no, there was a part of me that kept thinking of Castro as Fidel, yet I was looking for the death of Fidel. I would mourn Fidel if we succeeded, mourn him in just the way a hunter is saddened by the vanished immanence of the slain beast. Yes, one fired a bullet into beautiful animals in order to feel nearer to God: To the extent that we were criminal, we could approach the cosmos only by stealing a piece of the Creation—yes, I understood all of this and wanted Cubela to be an effective assassin rather than a ploy of the DGI whom we, in turn, would use in a superior ploy. A successful assassin was worth a hundred provocations.

I sat at my table alone, finishing the cognac I had not touched during the interview. Then I began to notice that the few workingmen standing at the bar had gathered around the café radio. It had been playing bal musette dance music for the last hour, but now a commentator’s voice could be heard. I could not discern what was being said. The tone of voice, however, was urgent.

In another minute, the waiter came up to me. “Monsieur,” he said, “vous-êtes Américain?”

“Mais oui.”

He was a tired, weary, gray-faced waiter, well over fifty, and wholly unremarkable in appearance, but his eyes looked at me with profound compassion.

“Monsieur, il y a des mauvaises nouvelles. Des nouvelles étonnants.” Now, he put his hand gently on mine. “Votre President Kennedy a été frappé par un assassin à Dallas, Texas.”

“Is he alive?” I asked, and then repeated, “Est-il vivant?”

The waiter said, “On ne sait rien de plus, monsieur, sauf qu’il y avait une grande bouleversement.”