The man they chose as intermediary was Robert Maheu who had once been an FBI agent in Chicago. He had cooperated once before with the CIA, helping with an operation that produced a faked sex film that successfully compromised a foreign government minister. Maheu was now working full time for the Texan billionaire Howard Hughes. It was Maheu who had contacted Trafficante.
The talking was cautious on the Friday evening. They were sniffing round one another like strange dogs, testing and probing, uneasy, but eager to make progress. Both sides looking for proof of good faith but not finding it. Neither side had much experience in either practising or evidencing good faith. But early on the Saturday evening the dam was broken, and the declarations made. A group inside the CIA wanted Castro killed. The Mafia wanted him killed. The CIA were prepared to supply money, training, skills and facilities. Maheu shrugged as he finished saying his piece.
“You’ll have to make your minds up by tomorrow or just go it alone, gentlemen.”
Trafficante, as the CIA’s apparent sponsor, felt it incumbent upon himself to put up some resistance to show his loyalty to the mob.
“What kind of money are we talking about, Bob?”
“Whatever it takes.”
Marcello chipped in. “What kind of MO have you guys got in mind?”
Maheu shrugged his indifference. “Any way you want. Poison, explosives, a marksman maybe.”
Maheu sat patiently as the Mafia men threw various names around until he deemed it tactically sensible to push them on.
“We can supply a marksman. Somebody who can’t be identified with us or you.”
“Who is he?”
“I can’t give his name at this stage. But he’s known to one of your people.”
“Who is it knows him?”
“A guy named Rubinstein. Runs a night-club in Dallas.”
Marcello spread out his hands. “For God’s sake, Bob. He’s just a bum. He owes money everywhere.”
“He’s not doing the job, Mr. Marcello. I only mentioned him to show that the man we have in mind is known to one of your operators.”
“Who is this guy? Tell us something about him.”
Maheu smiled. “He’s a nutter. He’ll do anything we tell him to do.”
“Your people got some kind of hold on him?”
“Kind of.”
“How do we get him over there?”
“He’ll go from Mexico City.”
“Why there?”
“The Russians control visas to Cuba. Our guy’s got a Russian connection. They’ll let him through.”
“And afterwards?”
Maheu grinned. “Maybe you’ll have someone else you’d like to knock off.”
For long moments the room was silent. Maheu avoided looking directly at the Mafia men. It was Trafficante who broke the silence.
“Are we both thinking of the same guy, Bob?”
Maheu nodded, but all he said was, “Same name, anyway.”
Trafficante reckoned that was good enough. He turned to look at Marcello, who nodded. John Roselli, who had barely spoken, nodded too.
“OK, Bob. It’s a deal. When do we start?”
“How about next Monday? We’ll meet in Chicago. I’ll contact you both. We’ll meet at the Holiday Inn at Mart Plaza. When I phone I’ll just give a time and a day. I’ll bring along three, maybe four guys. I’ll introduce you with cover names and they’ll have cover names too. OK?”
The three Mafia men nodded and Marcello stood up and walked with Maheu to the door.
“OK. What happened when you got in the launch?”
“We went out to the big white boat. Up the steps and the two men came with me. We went down some steps inside the boat into a cabin.”
“What did it look like, the cabin?”
“It was big with white Formica panelling.” She screwed up her face and shivered.
“Why did you do that?”
“When they fought the blood was all over the white panels. It was like one of those modern paintings when they just splash paint on the canvas.”
“You said the key word that I gave you?”
“Yes, that’s what made them fight.”
“What was the key word?”
She frowned and then looked at his face apprehensively. “I can’t remember.”
“OK. That’s fine, Nancy. Just lie back and relax. Good girl. Now listen carefully … close your eyes … when you wake up you won’t remember anything about your trip. You won’t remember that you even went away … you won’t remember anything about the last week … it will all go completely from your mind … when you wake up you’ll forget about Nancy Rawlins … I’ll count to ten and then you’ll wake up … one, two … three … slowly … four … five … you’re feeling fine … six … seven … opening your eyes … good, good … eight, nine … ten. Now you’re Debbie Shaw, feeling nice and relaxed.”
6
On 12 November 1963 Boyd took Patsy Schultz and the two girls to the White House. He had got the invitation through the good offices of the Embassy which had been issued a quota of tickets because the Black Watch pipe band was one of the main attractions.
Mrs. John F. Kennedy was playing hostess to two thousand underprivileged children on the White House lawn and as the children devoured an estimated ten thousand cakes and drank two hundred gallons of cocoa the Black Watch pipes and drums skirled their way through “Scotland the Brave,” “I love a lassie” and a dozen well-known ballads and marches that were part of the standard repertoire of the 42nd of Foot.
There were few adults there who were not moved by the poignancy of watching the efforts of the chic and pretty hostess who only a few months before had buried her own prematurely born son, Patrick.
They were all silent on the car ride home but when Boyd turned into their drive and stopped, Patsy leaned over and kissed him on the cheek and said softly, “That was something I won’t ever forget. She’s a real doll, that Jackie. Thank you, from all three of us.”
Grabowski looked at the two men, trying to understand what went on in their
