That had surprised Tedder, and George had seen clearly that Tedder wished he could withdraw the offer. But now he, too, had been challenged. It was what Greg Peshkov would call a pissing contest. And Tedder, too, had felt unable to back down; although he had said, as an afterthought: ‘Of course, we can’t tell Bobby you came.’
So here they were. It was a pity, George reflected, that President Kennedy was so fond of the spy novels of the British writer Ian Fleming. The President seemed to think the world could be saved by James Bond in reality as well as in thrillers. Bond was ‘licensed to kill’. That was crap. No one was licensed to kill.
Their target was a small town called La Isabela. It lay along a narrow peninsula that stuck like a finger out of Cuba’s north coast. It was a port, and had no business other than trade. Their aim was to damage the harbour facilities.
Their arrival was timed for first light. The sky to the east was turning grey when the skipper, Sanchez, throttled back the powerful engine, and its roar faded to a low burble. Sanchez knew this stretch of coast well: his father had owned a sugar plantation in the neighbourhood, before the revolution. The silhouette of a town began to emerge on the dim horizon, and he killed the engine and unshipped a pair of oars.
The tide took them towards the town; the oars were mainly for steering. Sanchez had judged his approach perfectly. A line of concrete piers came into view. Behind the piers, George could dimly see large warehouses with pitched roofs. There were no big ships in port: farther along the coast, a few small fishing boats were moored. A low surf whispered on the beach; otherwise the world was hushed. The silent speedboat bumped against a pier.
The hatch was opened and the men armed themselves. Tedder offered George a pistol. George shook his head. ‘Take it,’ Tedder said. ‘This is dangerous.’
George knew what Tedder was up to. Tedder wanted him to get blood on his hands. That way he would lose the ability to criticize Mongoose. But George was not so easy to manipulate. ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m strictly an observer.’
‘I’m in charge of this mission, and I’m ordering you.’
‘And I’m telling you to fuck off.’
Tedder gave in.
Sanchez tied up the boat and they all disembarked. No one spoke. Sanchez pointed to the nearest warehouse, which also seemed to be the largest. They all ran towards it. George brought up the rear.
No one else was in sight. George could see a row of houses that looked little more than timber shacks. A tethered ass was cropping the sparse grass at the side of the dirt road. The only vehicle in sight was a rusty pickup truck of 1940s vintage. This was a very poor place, he realized. Clearly, it had once been a busy port. George guessed it had been ruined by President Eisenhower, who had imposed an embargo on trade between the US and Cuba in 1960.
Somewhere, a dog started barking.
The warehouse had timber sides and a corrugated-iron roof, but no windows. Sanchez found a small door and kicked it in. They all ran inside. The place was empty but for packaging litter: broken packing cases, cardboard boxes, short lengths of rope and string, discarded sacks and torn netting.
‘Perfect,’ said Sanchez.
The four Cubans threw incendiary bombs around the floor. A moment later they flamed up. The litter caught fire immediately. The timber walls would light in moments. They all ran outside again.
A voice said in Spanish: ‘Hey! What’s this?’
George turned to see a white-haired Cuban man in some kind of uniform. He was too old to be a cop or a soldier, so George guessed he was the nightwatchman. He wore sandals. However, he had a handgun on his belt, and he was fumbling to open the holster.
Before he could get his gun out, Sanchez shot him. Blood bloomed from the breast of his white uniform shirt and he fell backwards.
‘Let’s go!’ Sanchez said, and the five men ran towards the speedboat.
George knelt over the old man. The eyes stared up at the brightening sky, seeing nothing.
Behind him, Tedder yelled: ‘George! Let’s go!’
Blood pumped from the chest wound for a few moments, then slowed to a trickle. George felt for a pulse, but there was none. At least the man had died fast.
The blaze in the warehouse was spreading rapidly, and George could feel its heat.
Tedder said: ‘George! We’ll leave you behind!’
The speedboat’s engine started with a roar.
George closed the dead man’s eyes. He stood up. For a few seconds he remained standing, head bowed. Then he ran for the speedboat.
As soon as he was aboard the boat veered away from the dock and headed across the bay. George strapped himself in.
Tedder yelled in his ear: ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’
‘We killed an innocent man,’ George said. ‘I thought he deserved a moment of respect.’
‘He was working for the Communists!’
‘He was the nightwatchman – he probably didn’t know Communism from cheesecake.’
‘You’re a goddamn pussy.’
George looked back. The warehouse was now a giant bonfire. People were swarming around it, presumably trying to put out the blaze. He returned his gaze to the sea in front, and did not look back again.
When at last they reached Miami and stood on solid ground again, George said to Tedder: ‘While we were at sea, you called me a pussy.’ He knew this was stupid, almost as stupid as going on the raid, but he was too proud to let it pass. ‘We’re on dry land, now, with no safety issues. Why don’t you say it again, here?’
Tedder stared at him. Tedder was taller than George, but not so broad. He must have had some kind of training in unarmed combat, and George could see him weighing the odds, while the Cubans looked on with neutral interest.
Tedder’s gaze flicked to George’s cauliflower ear and back again and he said: ‘I think we’ll just forget it.’
‘I thought so,’ said George.
On the plane back to Washington he drafted a short report for Bobby, saying that in his opinion Operation Mongoose was ineffective, as there was no sign that people in Cuba (as opposed to exiles) wanted to overthrow Castro. It was also a threat to the global prestige of the United States, as it would cause anti-American hostility if it ever became public. When he handed Bobby the report, he said succinctly: ‘Mongoose is useless, and it’s dangerous.’
‘I know,’ Bobby said. ‘But we have to do something.’
* * *
Dimka was seeing all women differently.
He and Valentin spent most weekends with Nina and Anna at the girls’ apartment, the couples taking turns to sleep in the bed or on the floor of the living room. In the course of a night he and Nina would have sex twice and even three times. He knew, in more detail than he had ever dreamed of, how a woman’s body looked and smelled and tasted.
Consequently, he looked at other women in a new, more knowing way. He could imagine them naked, speculate how their breasts curved, visualize their body hair, imagine their faces when they made love. In a way he knew all women, knowing one.
He felt a little disloyal to Nina when he admired Natalya Smotrov on the beach at Pitsunda, wearing a canary-yellow swimsuit, with wet hair and sandy feet. Her trim figure was not as curvy as Nina’s, but it was no less delightful. Perhaps his interest was pardonable: he had been here on the Black Sea coast for two weeks with Khrushchev, living the life of a monk. Anyway, he was not seriously courting temptation, for Natalya wore a wedding ring.
She was reading a typed report while he took a midday swim, and then she slipped a dress on over her swimsuit at the same time as he changed into his home-made shorts, so they walked together from the beach up to what they called the Barracks.
It was an ugly new building with bedrooms for relatively low-status visitors such as themselves. They met with the other aides in the empty dining room, which smelled of boiled pork and cabbage.
This was a jockeying-for-position meeting ahead of next week’s Politburo. The purpose, as always, was to identify controversial issues and assess the support for one side or another. Then an aide could save his boss from the embarrassment of arguing in favour of a proposal that was subsequently rejected.
Dimka went on the attack right away. ‘Why is the Defence Ministry so slow in sending arms to our comrades in Cuba?’ he said. ‘Cuba is the only revolutionary state in the American continent. It is proof that Marxism applies all over the world, not just in the east.’
Dimka’s fondness for the Cuban revolution was more than ideological. He was thrilled by the bearded heroes with their combat fatigues and their cigars – such a contrast to the grim-faced Soviet leaders in their grey suits. Communism was supposed to be a joyous crusade to make a better world. Sometimes the Soviet Union was more like a medieval monastery where everyone had taken vows of poverty and obedience.
Yevgeny Filipov was aide to the defence minister, and he bristled. ‘Castro is not a true Marxist,’ he said. ‘He ignores the correct line laid down by the Popular Socialist Party of Cuba.’ The PSP was the pro-Moscow party. ‘He goes his own revisionist way.’
Communism was badly in need of revision, in Dimka’s opinion, but he did not say that. ‘The Cuban revolution is a massive blow to capitalist imperialism. We should support it if only because the Kennedy brothers so hate Castro!’
‘Do they?’ said Filipov. ‘I don’t know so much. The Bay of Pigs invasion happened a year ago. What have the Americans done since?’
‘They have spurned Castro’s peace feelers.’
‘True: the conservatives in Congress would not let Kennedy make a pact with Castro even if he wanted to. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to war.’
Dimka looked around the room at the assembled aides in their short-sleeved shirts and sandals. They were watching him and Filipov, discreetly remaining silent until they could tell who was going to win this gladiatorial contest. Dimka said: ‘We have to make sure the Cuban revolution is not overthrown. Comrade Khrushchev believes there will be another American invasion, this one better organized and more lavishly financed.’
‘But where is your evidence?’
Dimka was defeated. He had been aggressive and done his best, but his position was weak. ‘We don’t have evidence either way,’ he admitted. ‘We have to argue from probabilities.’
‘Or we could delay arming Castro until the position becomes clearer.’
Around the table several people nodded agreement. Filipov had scored heavily against Dimka.
At that moment Natalya spoke. ‘As a matter of fact, there is some evidence,’ she said. She passed Dimka the typed pages she had been reading on the beach.
Dimka scanned the document. It was a report from the KGB station chief in the US, and it was headed: ‘Operation Mongoose’.
While he was rapidly reading the pages, Natalya said: ‘Contrary to what Comrade Filipov from the Defence Ministry argues, the KGB is sure the Americans have
not
given up on Cuba.’
Filipov was furious. ‘Why has this document not been circulated to us all?’
‘It’s only just in from Washington,’ Natalya said coolly. ‘You’ll get a copy this afternoon, I’m sure.’
Natalya always seemed to get hold of key information a little ahead of everyone else, Dimka reflected. It was a great skill for an aide. Clearly she must be very valuable to her boss, Foreign Minister Gromyko. No doubt that was why she had such a high-powered job.
Dimka was astonished by what he was reading. It meant he would win today’s argument, thanks to Natalya, but it was bad news for Cuba’s revolution. ‘This is even worse than Comrade Khrushchev feared!’ he said. ‘The CIA has sabotage teams in Cuba ready to destroy sugar mills and power stations. It’s guerrilla warfare! And they’re plotting to assassinate Castro!’
Filipov said desperately: ‘Can we rely on this information?’
Dimka looked at him. ‘What’s your opinion of the KGB, Comrade?’
Filipov shut up.
Dimka got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry to draw this meeting to a premature close,’ he said. ‘But I think the First Secretary needs to see this right away.’ He left the building.
He followed a path through the pine forest to Khrushchev’s white stucco villa. Inside, it was strikingly furnished with white curtains and furniture made of timber bleached like driftwood. He wondered who had picked such a radically contemporary style: certainly not the peasant Khrushchev who, if he noticed decor at all, would probably have preferred velvet upholstery and flower-patterned carpets.
Dimka found the leader on the upstairs balcony that looked over the bay. Khrushchev was holding a pair of powerful Komz binoculars.
Dimka was not nervous. Khrushchev had taken a liking to him, he knew. The boss was pleased with the way he stood up to the other aides. ‘I thought you would want to see this report right away,’ Dimka said. ‘Operation Mongoose—’
‘I just read it,’ Khrushchev interrupted. He handed the binoculars to Dimka. ‘Look over there,’ he said, pointing across the water towards Turkey.
Dimka put the binoculars to his eyes.
‘American nuclear missiles,’ said Khrushchev. ‘Aimed at my dacha!’
Dimka could not see any missiles. He could not see Turkey, which was 150 miles away in that direction. But he knew that this characteristically theatrical gesture by Khrushchev was essentially right. In Turkey, the US had deployed Jupiter missiles, obsolete but certainly not harmless: Dimka had this information from his Uncle Volodya in Red Army Intelligence.
Dimka was not sure what to do. Should he pretend he could see the missiles through the binoculars? But Khrushchev must know he could not.
Khrushchev solved the problem by snatching the binoculars back. ‘And do you know what I’m going to do?’ he said.
‘Please tell me.’
‘I’m going to let Kennedy know how it feels. I will deploy nuclear missiles in Cuba – aimed at
his
dacha!’
Dimka was speechless. He had not been expecting this. And he could not see it as a good idea. He agreed with his boss in wanting more military aid for Cuba, and he had been battling the Defence Ministry over that issue – but now Khrushchev was going too far. ‘Nuclear missiles?’ he repeated, trying to gain time to think.