By coincidence part of the general’s inheritance had been a stud farm. For generations the family had had a reputation for producing some of the most perfect horse flesh in the United States. In the fifties, attending a large Washington fund-raiser for the Democrats, Mo and his wife met the Kennedys and Jackie, who immediately recognized the Dodsworth name, and struck up a friendship with the couple based on equine excellence.
From then on Jackie and the general maintained an epistolary friendship. In their letters they discussed horse flesh. He was always
sure to tell her if he was going to be visiting New Jersey during the hunt season. He liked seeing the many horses that had come from his stables. When Caroline needed to replace her first pony, Macaroni, Jackie had turned to the Dodworths.
As soon as he was summoned, the “general” dropped everything and came to Washington, but by the time he arrived the president was caught up in another Vietnam crisis.
LBJ was left with no option; he simply didn’t have time to explain the whole darn mad, possibly ill-begotten scheme to his friend.
“Mo, you know I have always trusted you implicitly,” said Lyndon.
Before there was time for a reply the president continued.
“I need you now to do something for me. You have special insights, ones which you will understand when it is explained to you, into something that I need handling, that for various reasons I should not be directly involved in. You’ll realize why in due course.
“There’s a proposal, a mad one, born out of real need that could help us score against the Russians in the Med, and possibly save many lives. It could also help stabilize the Greek government against the Communists. The genius behind this idea is a man called Harry Blackstone, a good man, a senior man in the CIA. I know that for years I have tried my ideas out on you, but now, admittedly at the last minute, out of the clear blue sky, I am asking you to do something for me.
“Do you think you could meet up with Blackstone in New York tomorrow, listen to his scheme, evaluate it, and let me know if you think it could work?”
The general was pleased to see the relief on his friend’s face when he nodded vigorously.
“As importantly, if you feel that it has promise could you confirm that you will see it through on my behalf?”
Twenty-four hours later, the general strode across a wet and windy Park Avenue.
Even though he felt out of place entering the club at five in the
afternoon the general figured that this was the least he could do for his leader.
He had been here before on his occasional visits to New York. It had an attractive air of calmness, never appearing too crowded, and its members were serious, decent sorts. The library was a good place to do some quiet work and the restaurant always served remarkably simple, wholesome food. He approved of its smoky masculinity, a perfect foil for the mildly raucous, successful, and often famous members. It could always be relied upon to entertain both eyes and stomach.
Before he reached the door it was opened and he was ushered into new territory, upstairs.
The large room was empty, refined yet windowless. All of the sounds of New York were blotted out, and although his briefcase was stuffed with papers that he needed to read, he couldn’t bring himself to settle into one of the leather club chairs provided.
He simply paced and wondered just what it was that Lyndon had selected him for.
Minutes later he was grateful to see the door open.
Leonard Hobson or Hugh Mitchell, or Alain Lachaise as he was sometimes known, or alternatively Klaus Feldmann or possibly Lars Svensen (he had passports for them all), entered the room. The surprise that showed on his square, tanned face made it clear to the general that here was another who had no idea where this was going.
Covering up his surprise, the younger man introduced himself as Leonard Hobson, and as they shook hands the older man thought he saw a flicker of recognition hurtle across the newcomer’s eyes.
They were just about to run out of meaningless things to say when the third member of their party came in.
Harry Blackstone had been working for the CIA for seventeen years. Unlike the general, who was six feet two inches of sleek grayness, hair, suit, and tie, Harry was in a regulatory navy suit, white shirt, and pale blue tie.
“Glad you could make it,” he said as if the general had really had the choice.
He then stretched out his hand to “Leonard,” whom he warmly addressed as Hugh.
At that moment the first two arrivals understood that there was going to be no further subterfuge.
Hugh apologized to the general and said he had just been following procedure.
Giving them no time to take stock, Blackstone explained that they had better begin, they had much to discuss. He also added that within this group there was no hierarchy, they were all equal and about to enter uncharted territory.
“You should both know that this meeting is unofficial,” said Blackstone.
“As far as the rest of the world is concerned it never happened, ever. Not only would we have to deny that it had ever taken place, so would everyone else up to and including the president. Furthermore, President Johnson insists that none of what we three discuss should ever be annotated in any way or stored in any archive, so please put away your note pad, General, no notes at all.
“I apologize to you, General, for bringing you all the way to New York. Because our discussions are top secret it was agreed that we shouldn’t use any of our safe houses, and General”—he bowed low—“we wanted you out of Washington where you just might be recognized. As Hugh flew here from Europe just a few hours ago it was thought New York was the best option.
“As for selecting this place, I chose it because, as you see, it has no windows, and I can arrange that it is swept for bugs; in fact our man left only about five minutes before you arrived.
“Thank you so much for being very punctual.” He smiled and gave another little bow. “Using that entrance allowed you to remain unseen, and there are two completely secure exits.
“To be fair, even at this stage I do not know if we will ever need to meet again or if we will ever act on the suggestion that I have to
admit was thought up by Hugh and initiated to the president by me. When I explain it later you’ll understand that it isn’t false modesty that makes us say that we have to admit that this was all our idea. We are still a tad shame-faced about it.
“If we do go ahead it is up to us to plan what the next part of the strategy should be.”
While the general was given a swift résumé of Hugh’s background, filling him in on Hugh’s current role as the most senior man on the ground in the area, Hugh went to his briefcase and removed a large map of the Mediterranean. This was placed on the central mahogany table. He then invited the general to view the three crosses on it, marked in bloodred.
There was no need for the CIA staffer to describe the worldwide intelligence battle that the submarines of the American navy were having with their Soviet counterparts. Anyone with any interest in politics knew that there were constant reviews and discussions about the costs of constantly enlarging and updating the nuclear-armed submarine fleet, to leave no one in any doubt of the deadly Cold War games being calibrated out in the deep waters of the Black Sea, the North Atlantic, and the Mediterranean. It was a subject superceded only by the U.S.A.’s most pressing problem, the war in Vietnam.
Harry pointed to the crosses and explained that they marked the recovery places of three experienced CIA officers, murdered since the start of the year.
“We’ve done full inquiries on these men. All of them were working on separate, independent covert operations in the area. They were well trained and experienced, fluent in several languages.”
Hugh, as he sat down by the table, counted them off on his fingers, Russian, Greek, Turkish, French, Italian, maybe even a bit of Albanian.
“We looked into their deaths. Two of them simply vanished without trace…only to reappear, drowned.
“Local fishermen found them. One, in mid-January off the coast of Greece, here”—his finger pointed to Levkas—“the other, just weeks later turned up closer to Athens.”
Harry took up the narrative.
“One of them had assumed the job of assistant to the harbormaster in Piraeus, one other was working as a barman, fisherman, odd-job man on boats, in the ports.
“We quietly arranged to fly their bodies back. One of them had been tortured before he drowned.
“Two weeks later a third man was supposed to have died after he got into a drunken fight, apparently over a girl, in a small village on Corfu at Kassiopi.” Harry moved the map round. “Right opposite Albania.
“Now, not only would our man have never let that happen, we could find no one who had seen the alleged fight.
“It was only after diligent questioning that we found a witness, the woman who helps the village doctor, who had not seen the fracas but said that he was dead when she and the local sawbones saw him.
“They gave him a pauper’s burial. Our man was supposed to be a penniless idler, slightly mad and weak in the head. It gave him the cover to do little or no work and to vanish and return at leisure.
“You can’t imagine how many people we had to bribe to dig him up and bring him home,” interjected Harry, cost the U.S. taxpayer a fortune.
“Once again we carried out a full autopsy on the body and it was not helpful, one way or the other.
“So we went back to ask more questions and both the local doctor and our witness and their families have clammed up. The whole place has given us the silent treatment.”
The Texan gave a heavy sigh.
Harry continued: “The agency has replaced the men but we cannot afford to lose anyone else. What we keep picking up is that the Russians, thinking our attention is totally focused on Southeast Asia, are not only more determined to keep us at bay in Europe, they are trying to extend their influence.
“The Russians think this area should be their preserve. Italy has always had a worrying interest in Communism and who knows what the Greeks really want?
“The Colonels are in power now but we all know that the Commies have their secret supporters right up at senior level among the politicians, the unions, and the civil service. Remember, unlike the rest of Europe, which settled down to some well-earned peace in forty-five, they started a four-year civil war. The Greek Communists didn’t win in the end but the Russians would love to get control of Greece. From the geographical point of view it is perfectly positioned. President Truman knew it, which is why he poured in millions of dollars back in forty-seven, but the civil war split the nation so there are too many factions, too many political parties.
“The trouble is,” Harry continued, “the right-wing military Junta has been very heavy-handed, and even while the average Greek in the street may be doing better, the ruling elite wouldn’t win many popularity contests. Their argument is that they have no choice because the Commies are constantly stirring up trouble and that if we don’t support them they’ll be kaput. So we put more men and munitions in and the Commies fight back harder.
“Our thinking is that either the Russians have got something big planned in the Med so they are taking no chances and are determined to eliminate as many of our people as possible, or they have another secret, lying on the ocean floor.”
With a sigh Harry pulled his spectacles off and looked straight at the man the president had told him he would trust with his life.
“I am bound to tell you, General, that this too is classified.
“Just recently, we discovered a Golf II missile-carrying Soviet submarine at the bottom of the ocean floor. The Russians have not admitted that they’ve lost it partly because they can’t find it—so that makes us wonder what the sub was doing, she’s in the Pacific not that far from Hawaii—and partly because she may have been carrying special equipment more advanced than their other subs and they don’t want us to discover it.
“We don’t want anyone to know that we’ve found it because our deep-diving submarines have been modified to contain special cameras capable of spotting debris on the ocean floor. They can locate the wreckage of Soviet long-range missile tests.”
“Or a sub full of dead sailors,” muttered Hugh.
“Because we want to extract every bit of data from that vessel, a joint CIA-Navy office is planned. We are working out a way that we can lift it out of the water.”
The two CIA officers could see the general’s surprise.
“Two of these men knew about this, so you can see, quite apart from our concern over the loss of life, we are very worried that we may have a spy in the camp. Because for the life of us none of us can figure how the Russians found these three very separate guys out,” added Hugh.
“Since the beginning of the year, it is true, there has been an upswing in the number of violent deaths and drownings in the area—the world is getting to be that way—but the others, as far as we know, were locals. Maybe the Soviets just got lucky, but we have to put a stop to it.”
The ex-military man kept his counsel and waited for Blackstone to continue.
“We need to keep tabs on what the Russians are up to, especially with their nuclear subs, and—again, it’s classified—we’ve heard that another sub might be missing in Greek waters. We’ve picked up some radio chat about this. More urgently, we have also uncovered some of their plans to assassinate one or more of the Junta. We have warned the Colonels but it means that we have more men going in. This sort of work needs men who know the Med, so we are planning to draft some of our staff who have been based in Egypt, Jordan, Israel, and Turkey. We have to find a place where one or two can find safe haven.”
“That’s right,” echoed the younger man, “we need somewhere to experiment with some new equipment of our own that is supposed to improve our ability to pick up more data on the movement of ships and subs. No point in spending millions of dollars and making technical progress if you can’t put it to work.”
“Needless to say, we are very worried about the safety of some of our other operatives too,” said Blackstone.