Yes sir,' explained O'Connell. The trouble was that Armas was a man of considerable probity. He wanted to get rid of the casinos in Guatemala, and place our man, Ted Lewin, in jail. So we agreed to let the mob kill Armas, and put up someone else to replace him. Miguel Ydigoras Fuentes.'
If I may continue sir,' said Edwards. Suppose that when the communists took over Cuba and we started planning Operation Pluto, Tom Jefferson's masters decide to use him as another dangle, to penetrate American- backed opposition to Castro. He wouldn't be the first one of those we've had, either. Now suppose that he hears the tape-'
But why would Rosselli be dumb enough to let him hear it?' demanded Bissell.
Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Rosselli didn't actually think that it was Tom Jefferson's wife who was on the tape, but Marilyn Monroe. Could be that Rosselli had been bragging about how he had something that was going to give the mob a stranglehold on the White House. And the tapes got switched. Or the Marilyn tape wasn't available. It might be that Tom Jefferson heard that tape and realised that, sooner or later, someone in the Pickle Factory might get to hear that tape, and wonder why Mary Jefferson liked to talk politics instead of pussy. Imagine it. He'd know right away that she had been compromised. And that she had to be silenced before we caught up with her and started asking questions.'
Why not just take the tape?' asked Barnes.
Because he knew it was just a copy. Same as ours.'
There was a longish silence.
Sheff? You've got a whole gutful of supposition there,' said Bissell. I'm not saying I don't think there's anything to it. But have you got any evidence to support what you've been talking about?'
Well sir, I don't have any U-2 overflight reconnaissance photographs from seventy thousand feet above Miami, if that's what you mean,' he said pointedly.
TouchE,' chuckled Bissell. But?'
But I do believe I have some circumstantial evidence to support what I've been talking about.'
Sheffield Edwards paused to light a cigarette and savour the moment. It made a very pleasant change for the P Source to be on the back foot like this, and hanging on to his every word. He knew the kind of jokes they made about the Security Office at their Alibi Club cocktail parties - the how-no-one-in-the-Security-Office-could-read-a- report-without-moving-their-lips kind. Let them think that if they wanted, but so far he had not needed to read anything to get their attention. Maybe it was mostly conjecture, but that was the cornerstone of good intelligence.
Come on, Sheff,' Bissell said impatiently. What I want is facts.' He was quoting Charles Dickens now, not that he thought anyone would notice. Teach these boys nothing but facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else.'
Very well sir. It's like this. Just a few days after collecting the AMTHUG contract from Giancana, Jefferson met several members of a WH/4 group in Miami. Cuban exiles who were part of the big Operation Pluto picture. One of them, a guy by the name of HA1/4ber Lanz, was murdered the very same day. He was found strangled with a length of wire, in a Miami Beach movie theatre. Now Lanz had worked for G2, until the Cubans worked out that he was on our side, and tried to arrest him. Lanz barely escaped with his life. My guess is that Jefferson recognised him and killed Lanz before he could remember Jefferson and inform the other members of the group. Since then, two other members of the group have been arrested in Cuba. No one knows who betrayed them to G2. One of them is dead, and the other, an American woman, Genevieve Suarez, was sentenced to ten years in prison just a few days ago. How am I doing?'
Bissell nodded. I think you're right, Sheff,' he acknowledged. We need to speak to this Tom Jefferson.'
The mob has someone co-ordinating their efforts to find him,' said Edwards. An ex-FBI Miami policeman named James Nimmo. I think they have high expectations of him.'
And if he finds Jefferson? What are his orders?'
The mob doesn't like to be crossed, sir,' said O'Connell. They'll kill him for sure.'
That would be a pity,' said Barnes. I'm sure Jefferson could tell us a lot.'
Any ideas, Sheff?'
Edwards looked meaningfully at O'Connell. He said, Big Jim?'
O'Connell shifted forward uncomfortably on his creaking chair. Bissell's departmental budget was rumoured to be in the region of a hundred million dollars. It seemed almost absurd that a few hundred dollars of it was not being spent on some new office furniture.
As you probably know, sir,' he said, the Office of Security has a lot of guys who used to work for Hoover.'
Or were fired by him,' snorted Barnes.
O'Connell smiled thinly. I was FBI myself for a quite a while. It so happens that the Miami COINTELPRO is run by an old friend of mine. A SAC by the name of Alex Goldman. Goldman has used Jefferson to do some wet work in the past. Now I'm more or less certain that neither the mob, nor this Jimmy Nimmo guy they've got trying to find Jefferson, know about COINTELPRO, or Goldman. So, I was thinking, maybe I could have a word with Goldman. See if he has any better idea than Nimmo about where we might catch up with Jefferson. Maybe even go after him for us himself. That would help to keep us at arm's length, and make any search for him that we initiate more or less legitimate.'
Have the feds do our dirty work for us?' Bissell nodded. It would certainly avoid any more blowback than we already have here now. I like the sound of that, Jim.'
Of course, I'll have to offer him something in return.'
A sedulous John Bross said to Bissell, Sir, we have some active lines of credit with the Teamsters' bank in Miami. The Miami National. We could use one of those to compensate him.'
Goldman operates right on the edge of his remit, sir. And he likes to be creative with his operations. Innovative. I was thinking more along the lines of having the Technical Services Staff give him something for Christmas, sir.'
A toy?' Bissell nodded. Good idea, Jim. But let him ask for it. Don't suggest anything. Maybe there's something electronic he wants from Santa Claus. If he's heard of it, then the chances are it's not the family silver.'
O'Connell nodded, and then leaned back in his chair, trying to second-guess what someone as well informed as Alex Goldman would ask for. He thought of some of the things that TSS came up with. Eavesdropping devices, poisoned cigars, handkerchiefs treated with deadly bacteria like the one they had sent to Colonel Mahdawi of Iraq, but which got lost in the mail. Now that using a gunman to kill Castro was more or less defunct, the chances are that it would be down to TSS to come up with a way of assassinating AMTHUG.
Barnes looked at his watch. Christmas,' he muttered. I haven't bought one damn thing.'
Me, I'm tired of it already,' said Bross.
You know it's finally Christmas when you see the Easter eggs in the stores,' laughed Barnes.
Bissell gave a loud snort, like the sound of a heavy table leg being dragged across a wooden floor. All storekeepers,' he declared sourly, should be hanged.'
A couple of days after Christmas, Jim O'Connell was collected from Miami Airport by Ted Shackley, the Miami station chief who was running the local JMARC programme. Bissell had telephoned Shackley from Washington and told him to put O'Connell in touch with Alex Goldman.
That's easy enough,' said Shackley, driving O'Connell to the FBI building on Biscayne Boulevard. Normally Goldman's a little more difficult to track down, but I believe he's been ill.'
You sound like you know him,' observed O'Connell.
Shackley shrugged. Enough to know that Goldman's behind most of the red baiting and subterfuge that goes on in this town. I think he must have invented the concept of the agent provocateur. That guy would use his own grandmother to screw the communists. If I can give you some advice? Watch your step with him. Guy's a real slim customer, you know? Anyway, he is expecting you. Be sure to let me know if there's anything else I can do for you while you're in Miami. I wouldn't want the Barons to think that we didn't know how to run things down here.'
The FBI building was just north of the Julia Turtle Causeway, and Goldman's office was on the fourth floor, overlooking a Biscayne Bay that was as blue as the blue on the CIA roundel. It was an otherwise unremarkable room with a desk that was handsomely set up for smoking: a leather pipe rack with a series of Kaywoodie matched-grain pipes lay between a miniature ship's binnacle made of heavy brass, which held cigarettes, and a
