Havana Page 31

  But Plans didn’t say a thing. He looked at the photo, read the accompanying report, then looked back to Frenchy.

  “This meet took place at the Salon Miami restaurant on the Malecon, July 28,” Frenchy said. “It can be verified easily enough. On that day at 1400 hours, Roger sent an eyes-only hot flash to 8th Fleet Intel at Guantanamo, requesting urgent interception of a Jamaican vessel named Day’s End, code-named ‘Billy,’ off Siboney, east of Santiago. The two closest vessels were Coast Guard cutters that in fact blocked the vessel but made no attempt to board after they heard that a certain revolutionary had been captured by Cuban police. Day’s End was the Sovbloc escape engine. So Roger got a big chunk of info from Pashin and acted on it very quickly. He almost became a hero—that is, if Earl Swagger hadn’t outfoxed him and managed to get the target arrested. But Roger never reported his contact with Pashin to counterintelligence and never divulged the source of his information. Discreet? Possibly. But possibly he also knew that the Russians just don’t give information away. So if he got something, he had to give something. What would that be? Very curious.”

  He sat back.

  “Really, Dick,” said Roger, “it doesn’t mean a damned thing. The Russian had some kind of internal situation he was dealing with and this was his solution. I didn’t give up a thing. You have to trust me on this one. My record is perfect, you’ve known my dad for years, I was in the war, I’m one of the—”

  “All right, Roger.” He turned to Frenchy. “Short, I don’t want you to send this.”

  “Frankly, ‘Dick,’ I don’t give a fuck what you want.”

  Plans turned back to Roger.

  “You moron. You idiot. You fool.”

  “Dick, what possible difference could it make? I will simply explain—”

  “Don’t you see? When this hits CI, they will be on me like cats on a bleeding mouse. This gives them license to pore through every operation I’ve got running. It in essence screws me to the wall and sets me back years. And they’ll leak to Congress, to the press, to some red-hunting senator.”

  “Roge, I think what Dick is saying is that CI is run by someone who doesn’t like him and wants to thwart him. Someone with ambitions as big as Dick’s. And you’ve played into this august gentleman’s hand. A few leaks, a few phone calls, a few indiscreet Washington cocktail party comments, and Dick will no longer have the ear of the Director and the president and our kind of senator. Isn’t that right, ‘Dick’? Oh, may I call you ‘Dick,’ because you know Dad and I rowed crew at Hah vahd with your nephew Teddy or Skip or Butch and your sister Biffy fucked your son Tad on the front porch of Dad’s cottage in Naragansett one night after the crew finals.”

  “All right, Short, that’s enough. Roger, I’m going to ask you to leave now.”

  “Sure, I—Dick, just a second. I don’t think I should leave. He’s going to fill your head with—”

  “Roger, I said get out. You run along now.”

  It was astonishing. Walter Short! How incredible! Why, the gall of the man. And after all Roger had tried to do for him. It’s odd, isn’t it, how some people just have no sense of obligation or appreciation.

  He thought—in fact he wanted—to linger outside the ambassador’s office and catch Dick after he dismissed Short. That way it would be settled, and it seemed clear to him that Short would have to be moved somewhere—that is, if he didn’t Take the Hint (people like him never did) and offer his resignation. Some people just can’t fit in, even when you bend over backward to accommodate them. They just don’t get it. They haven’t a clue.

  Roger glanced at his watch and saw that it was now 5 P.M. Dan Benning was coming in from Gitmo that night and Roger had hoped to set up a meet between him and Plans over drinks. Dan, now there was a fellow who got it! Dan would certainly impress Plans, what with his background, his family, his Naval Intelligence experience, his Harvard degree, and Roger saw how he and Dan could make a team that he and Short never could have. Dan lacked Short’s deviousness, his narrow hunger for self-advancement, his crudity. That had always upset Roger about Walter, but one did the best one could with what one was granted.

  So he was at loose ends. He thought he ought to go upstairs to his office and see if anything new had shown up in the in-basket, plus he had a batch of reports to file and a few phone calls to make. None of this was particularly important, but nevertheless it had to be done, and he assumed moreover that he was coming up now on a period when he’d be working alone in Havana station, until a suitable replacement for Walter Short could be located. So he didn’t want to get behind, with so much responsibility resting on him in the weeks and months ahead.

  He walked upstairs to his office, nodding at people who nodded back gravely at him. They could sense the blood in the air too, he knew; they knew that the destruction of Walter Short was proceeding, and although so necessary, it made them all a little nervous. That is why they looked at him with such an odd sense of disturbance on their faces.

  He reached his office, turned the doorknob and—

  Say, what the hell?

  He must have locked it before he left. Yes, that’s it, probably subconsciously he’d sealed up, so as to impress Plans with his security arrangements. Of course. He’d locked it.

  He got out his keys and—

  Say, what the hell?

  For some damned reason or another, his key didn’t fit. He tried to force it, but then worried that he’d break it off. Damnedest thing! What on earth was going on? Locked out of his own office! Well, doesn’t that take the cake! What a joke! And what a time to have it happen, with Plans in the building!

  “All right, Short,” said Plans. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “What I have is: I win. If I don’t win, you lose. It’s pretty straightforward.”

  He smiled.

  Plans glowered at him. And then he laughed.

  “Not bad. I could see three other ways to have played it, but I like your instinct for the jugular and your decision not to go against Roger, but to come at me. Pretty good. I like it.”

  “Roger is—”

  “Forget Roger. Roger is finished. Roger is on his way to an associate professorship at Iowa State. This was never about Roger. This was always about you. Always.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know all about China, Short. I know how well you did there. I know you were disappointed to be dumped here, working for a moron. But you had been discovered, Short. You know why? You shot three prisoners in China. I like that in a man and I’ve been watching you ever since. Do you know how rare that is, what a treasure that is? Handsome and adorable, well-schooled, polite, and an ice-cold killer, all in the same package? Amazing.”

  “You didn’t care about Castro?”

  “Oh, a little. It doesn’t matter. He’ll be taken care of, eventually. He’s not going anywhere. No, it was about Walter H. Short, of Williamsport, Pa., who was kicked out of seven prep schools for cheating or drinking, who was kicked out of Princeton for cheating, who became a nothing cop and scared everybody in his department so much they sent him to Hot Springs, Arkansas, to get rid of him. There, he shot and killed at least three people, found a mysterious and not-yet-understood way into the Agency, impressed his trainers and ended up in China, where he did better than anybody before or since.”

  Frenchy said nothing.

  “You had talent, Short. But did you have discipline, character, steel? Could you work with a Harvard idiot who got all the glory, whom everybody loved because he had a great serve? Could you be his little buddy? Could you play along, secure that you were the real thing and he never could be? Could you flourish in Cuba with gangsters, secret policemen, torturers? How tough were you, under the veneer?”

  “I can do it,” said Frenchy. “I think I’ve proven that.”

  “Almost. Maybe more than almost. I loved the way when you were cornered, you fought back balls to the wall, and Roger never knew what hit him. He’s wandering around now, wonder
ing why his office keys don’t fit the lock. It’ll be a week before he has a clue. Feel good, Short? Triumph, revenge, justification?”

  “It feels okay.”

  “Don’t give me that, Short. I’ve been there. It feels great.”

  Frenchy had to admit. It felt great.

  “You’re almost there, Short. In Plans, full-time. No more embassy shit. The hard work of empire: clandestine guerilla work, extortion, hard dark ops, the odd arranged accident here or there. Only the cream get in, but my kind of cream, nobody else’s kind of cream. Hard dark boys, for hard dark work. You’re in the elite. They’ll whisper your name at cocktail parties, the women will flock like hens, men will somehow know that you’re special, you’re an elect, and they’ll defer to the man who’s actually fighting the Cold War. Everybody respects the warrior, Short. We’re wired up that way, deep in the snake part of our brains. Do you want it, Short?”

  Frenchy knew the answer: yes.

  He nodded. “What do I have to do?” he asked. “What else is there?”

  “You’ve shown one weakness throughout this. Only one, but it’s significant. A sentimental indulgence.”

  “Tell me what it is, and I’ll correct it.”

  “Earl Swagger.”

  Frenchy sat back. It was true. He loved Earl. He could never say that, but Earl was the best, the strongest, the truest. Nobody was like Earl and being with Earl was a privilege.

  “He’s your ideal man. He’s very attractive. Incredibly brave, sublimely competent, utterly capable. What a player for our side he’d make.”

  “You want me to recruit him? I don’t think he’s comfortable with the indirection that—”

  But then he saw where this was going. It wasn’t going to recruitment, or to some cozy little world where he and Earl would be buddies, neighbors, they’d live in MacLean and go to the Agency every day and laugh and joke and watch their kids get older and older and in some far-off Valhalla they’d have a drink and a smoke and look back on fabulous, adventurous lives.

  “He’s a loose end,” said Plans.

  “He’s Earl Swagger, a Medal of Honor winner.”

  “We can’t have a man who’s not under discipline or influence running around. He knows too much. If he’s one of us, that’s fine; if he’s from a world where we’re important and can bring influence, that’s fine, too. But he’s none of those things. He’s out of our reach and he knows too much. He was the triggerman on Big Noise. He’s fine now, you say, but what if he changes in the next few years, grows bitter, feels ignored, has a political or a psychological change of heart? Maybe he’s pissed at the marines for kicking him out or at the VA for not sending his pension and medical benefits. It could be anything. You have to think of these things, Short. They’re part of the game, too.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “You brought us Earl Swagger. You made Earl Swagger. He’s your creation. Now you must deal with it.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Don’t curse. I don’t like cursing. Can you handle it?”

  And the terrible thing, of course, is that not only could he handle it in the abstract, but he knew how, exactly, whom to speak to, what buttons to push, what leverage to employ, how it would all work out, so perfectly.

  Chapter 51

  Again with the secrecy. It was so tedious. He thought all this nonsense was over. But the signal came, and when it came it had to be obeyed, by certain protocols.

  And so: again. The elegant businessman in tropical worsted, the sort of man who’d look comfy with a doll on one hand and a satchel with $200,000 in the other, this man gets into his air-conditioned limo. It ducks this way and that, up streets and down them, through alleyways, up hills, around garbage dumps, and finally it deposits another man, not so elegant. Instead the shlump. Bermudas, striped, a panama with too broad a brim, a Hawaiian shirt, cheap big sunglasses, and gym shoes. Any low-rent tourist, a low-roller in the lowest houses, the kind of visiting Jew who came to Havana not for action but for the illusion of action.

  That man wandered the streets for a bit, until he was convinced that no one could have stayed with him, then took the bus, the no. 4, until only the shvartzers were still aboard, finally getting off far from the glories of Centro, way west in Santo Saurez, the tough black place, and finding the hotel.

  Up he went, the fourth floor, and found the door to a new room slightly ajar.

  The important boy was there. He too was undercover. With him it was Bermuda shorts lime green, high socks, those white shoes the British wore, and kind of shirt you rode ponies on. He looked so college boy it was a joke. Not that he wouldn’t be noticed; he would. But he’d be dismissed instantly by anybody watching as a dumb kid searching for poontang who took the wrong bus.

  “So what now, genius? We’re done, no? That bad boy, he’s finished.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience. I set this up because I thought there should be some thanks. Your people may have almost gummed it up, but in the end, they kept discipline and let us work it out. You cooperated. That’s a great start.”

  “You were there? Give me a break, you guys were lucky that old cop came along when he did. Otherwise our boy is fat and happy in Mexico, setting up his next run.”

  “No, Mr. Lansky, let me inform you. We did what we said we would; we were there, we pulled strings, we made sure the guy was caught and he’ll be convicted and he’ll disappear.”

  “Maybe so. You’re happy, I’m happy, now let’s go our separate ways and hope nothing like this ever happens again.”

  “An excellent idea. But our cooperation with each other would be very helpful in that eventuality.”

  “So it would.”

  “So I want to give you a gift. A gift of appreciation. For Meyer Lansky personally, that only Meyer Lansky would appreciate.”

  The older man’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward. Then he reached into his pocket, took out an elegant Cuban already trimmed, made a show of licking it just so, fired it up, and exhaled a pile of smoke.

  “What could you possibly have for me? A bag of money? An idea of who’s tapped and who’s not? Inside dope on who’s ratting us out while drinking our booze, screwing our women and spending our money under our protection?”

  “Can’t help you with any of that. It’s new business. I can only help with old business.”

  The older man regarded the chutzpa of this youngster with considerable scorn. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t like this a bit. Was there some tap going? Was this some plot against him and the old men? He looked the boy up and down and saw only a fraternity boy, guileless and silly.

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t want a thing. I just want you to get what you want.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Justice. Revenge. Old scores settled. Retribution. Order in your world.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know the story. It’s said there was a boy who was a son to you. He was a visionary. He got things done. But when he got greedy out in the desert, you had him dealt out of the game.”

  “What the fuck!” said Meyer, who hated cursing. “Who the fuck are you, sonny? That’s libel, blood libel. You can’t talk to me that way. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “I only say what’s said.”

  “I loved Bennie Siegel like a son. Never, never, never would I have him hit. I am not a hitter. I don’t kill people. I think, I figure, I see angles. I’m proud that I don’t have to kill. I’m too smart to kill.”

  “The man who killed Bennie Siegel is here, in Havana.”

  Old Meyer sat back, regarding the bland youngster in the ridiculous outfit sitting across from him. His eyes narrowed. Up and down he looked, hunting for some sign of weakness. He studied the pleasant, unmemorable face, the clear eyes, the close-cut hair. He looked for the lick of lips, the swallow, the involuntary look off into make-up land where lies are invented. Nothing. The boy just looked back, completely cal
m.

  “Let’s say you have my attention.”

  “We brought him in. He was our triggerman, and he’s the best in the world at that kind of work. You don’t have a man who can touch him.”

  “It would take someone highly skilled to slab Ben.”

  “He’s that, in aces and spades. You’ve seen him. Your crazy New York torpedo smelled it on him, and nearly went after him twice. Good thing you held him back, because if he went man to man with Earl, he’d have been crushed like an insect.”

  “I don’t like this,” said Meyer Lansky. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I want you to know how much we appreciate what you did, how you held back, how you let us operate. In return, I give you this. Earl Swagger, that cowboy, he killed Bennie Siegel. Shot him eight times in the head in 1947 in Beverly Hills. Blew his face off with a carbine and walked away laughing. Bennie’d said he’d get him for a sucker punch Earl threw in Hot Springs in 1946. Earl worried that Bennie would do what he said, so he struck first. Earl is a killer. Ask the Japs. He killed a bucket of them.”

  “Says you. How do I tell if this is some thing you’re spinning like a web. It’s what you guys do.”

  “True enough. But Earl told me in the mountains, when we were alone. You doubt it? Then I’ll tell you what Earl told me, what nobody could know except the man who killed Bugsy Siegel, and the cops. Only the shooter would know. A little tidbit that was never publicized, that never got out. You check it out, and you will see that I am telling the truth.”

  Meyer stared at him hard, trying to see inside.

  “It’s this,” the important boy said. “After he’d shot him seven times, he walked up close to the window. Ben Siegel is already dead, his head punched full of holes. He’s on the sofa. Blood is everywhere on his nice Glenn plaid suit. His legs are crossed, the L.A. Times is in his lap. But that wasn’t enough for Earl. Earl takes his time, aims perfectly—” the young man mimicked the aiming of a light rifle as if he had done so himself, the closing of one eye, the steady press on a trigger, “—and pow! drills the last carbine slug into the eye. He aims, blows the eye out. He could do it, he’s such a good shot. The eye sails across the room and lands on the carpet. Right? Do you know that?”