Chapter 2
In the early spring of 1953, a big noise from Winnetka dominated the diplomatic tennis circuit in Havana. That was what they called him, after the famous hit tune from the '30s. It summed him up: big, powerful, American, unbeatable. And it didn't matter that he actually came from Kenilworth, a whole swank town down the North Shore from Winnetka. He was close enough to Winnetka. His name was Roger St. John Evans, and to make him all the more glamorous, it was rumored he was a spy.
He was in demand that season. He played at least three or four times a week, on his own courts or at some other embassy out in leafy Vedado or, even more frequently, at the Havana Country Club, or even occasionally on the private courts of the big Miramar houses out La Quinta owned by Domino Sugar executives or United Fruit Company bigwigs. In all those venues, the embassies, the big northward-facing houses in Miramar and Buena Vista, the courts behind the Vedado embassies, out as far as La Playa and the Yacht Club, the country club, his beauty, power and smoothness made him many a wealthy young lady's dreamboat, a sought-after dinner guest, a real catch.
So on a certain late spring day-the sky was so blue, the summer heat had yet not attacked the Pearl of the Antilles, a breeze floated across Havana, just enough to lift flags and palms and young girls' hearts-Roger tossed the ball upward for service, felt his long body coil as pure instinct took over, and the strength traveled like a wave up and through his body and the complex computations of hand/eye circuitry functioned at a rate far more efficient than most men's. As the ball was released he tightened, then unleashed and his arm ripped through an arc, bringing the racket loosely with it in the backhand grip for a bit of English. He caught the ball full swat at its apogee-the nearly musical pong! signifying solid contact was so satisfying! — hit through it at a slight cant, and nailed a bending screamer that seemed to spiral toward the chalked line on the other side of the net. It hit that target square, blasting up a sheet of white mist, and spun away, far beyond his poor opponent's lunge.
Game, set, match.
His two opponents, a Bill and a Ted, executives for United Fruit, accepted the inevitable.
'That's it, boys,' sang Roger, allowing himself a taste of raptor's glee.
'Well done, old man,' said Bill, who though not an Ivy had picked up certain Eastern affectations from the many who dominated the island's American business culture.
Roger's doubles partner, his eager young assistant Walter, who played a spunky if uninspired game of tennis and always seemed a bit behind, gave a little leap and clapped a hand against the base of his racket face, in salute to his partner's brilliance and victory.
'Way to go, Big Winnetka! Boola-boola!' he chanted, in a voice clotted with affection and admiration.
The players gathered at the net, to shake hands, exchange respects and towel off.
'A drink, I think,' said Ted. 'Pedro, mojitos please. At the pool. And tell Manuelo not to spare the rum. I think we can afford it.' He winked at Roger. 'I have an in at Bacardi.'
'Si, senor,' said Ted's senior servant, who trotted off to fetch.
'Walter, help him, will you,' said Roger.
'Sure,' said Walter cheerily.
'No, no,' said Ted, 'it seems compassionate, but you spoil them and there's problems later. Let's go to the pool.'
They walked through the garden to the shimmering blue reservoir behind the great house. The men sat at a table under an ancient pruned palm, close to flowers, hedges, tropical bouquets and recently turned earth, in the shade of a vast umbrella, and Pedro brought the drinks. They were expertly made, the rum soaked in dense sugar, the mint sprigs crushed to loosen that herb's magic, the gassy water aboil with bubbles, all mixed to swirl and the ice cubes giving the whole an intense chill. The pleasing ritual of men drinking: the booze took the sting from the losers' loss and spread the glow of the winners' win. Cigars, Havana Perfectos in fact, came out, were lit and sucked and a warm fog settled upon the four.
Blah blah blah and more blah blah blah, all pleasant if pointless: a little embassy gossip, a little business climate analysis, a little on current politics and what a good job the new president Batista was doing, he was really on the team, and on and on?
But then it seemed a shadow passed over the sun. No, it was Pedro. He whispered something to Ted, who nodded.
'Well,' he said, 'this is so pleasant I wish it would never end. But now it must. There's someone you have to see. Will you follow me please? He's just arrived.'
Roger shot Walter a look. What's this? it seemed to say. Who are these boys to be playing so mysterioso? Being mysterioso: that was Roger and Walter's profession. And the locution was so strange: someone you have to see, as if it were a professional situation, not a post-match social obligation.
But, of course, they both rose with their host and followed him into the big house with its gleaming floors and up marble stairs. United Fruit knew how to impress. Not even El Presidente, as Batista was mocked by the Americans behind his back, lived quite so grandly as United Fruit's most important executive.
'That way. The library. I'd hurry. He's expecting you.'
Roger led the way through French doors and into a vast room, lined with books that had never been opened, and furniture from somebody's empire, and silk and damask and the usual gewgaws of conquest, a bronze telescope on a tripod, a Brown Bess hung on the wall, lancers pennants tripoded in the corner. Both men blinked, for the doors to the balcony were open and the light of day blazed in unrepentant and powerful.
'Well hello, boys. My, aren't you a sight? Sweaty but unbowed, athletes of the moment.'
Roger recognized the voice, thought no, no, it can't be, and squinted as from a dark corner a man came into the light. He was not remarkable in any way and wore a simple khaki suit and a white shirt and black tie. He wore black plastic-framed glasses, was quite bald, if a little tall and rangy. No charisma, no attraction, no drama. The face so regular as to instantly vanish from memory. He looked like a salesman or possibly a minor attorney. His name was known but to a few, though to those few it had acquired legendary status. Roger was one of the few. That name, however, was not spoken, and had never appeared in print. Instead he was called Plans, for he ran the Directorate of Plans, on the Agency's clandestine side. He didn't fight the Cold War, he was the Cold War. To his face he was called…well, nothing. It was awkward, but nothing could be done about it. Sir, uttered by the subjects of his attention, clumsily facilitated his face-to-face transactions.
This was a highly unlikely situation. Plans normally functioned out of the station, as the slang had it, in the embassy. He never just, er, showed up like this, in some private house miles from the embassy, unless something really interesting was about to happen.
'Sir, do you know my assistant, Walter Short?'
Walter bowed nervously; he could not have known himself who this fellow was, but as a quick study had intuited from pal and supervisor's gravity that he was important.
'Hello, sir, I?'
'Yes, yes, Short. China, no? Some military stuff, advising Chiang. Is that right?'
'Yes, sir, I?'
'Well, Roger, and, uh, Short, sit down, we must have a chat.'
And so they sat.
'How are your parents, Roger? Is your father still prospering?'
'Sir, Dad's fine. The heart attack slowed him down, but Mom says he's back at work now. Nothing can stop that man.'
'Yes, I know. I crewed with him at Harvard. But I was never an athlete like him. I wonder if he remembers me. He was a fine athlete.'
'Yes, sir. Dad was. He still has a three handicap.'
'That's remarkable. Now, anyway, Roger, I am here?'
'Roger, should I take notes?' whispered Walter.
'No, no, we don't want any of this on paper,' said Plans.
'Yes, sir, I?'
'That's all right. Now, Roger, I just looked through your OSS record. Very impressive. Then there's your medal citation. Silver Star. Very impressive. You were part of a team that hunted down a German sniper in Switzerland. You killed him. I like the finality in that. No ambiguity to it at all. You blew the bastard out of his boots, you
