“Double it and you’ll be in the ball-park.”
“Is Castro gonna make any difference?”
Trafficante smiled a grim smile. “He’s been in Havana a couple of weeks now and I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. OK, maybe he’ll stick us for more than Batista did, but they all want something. Whatever it is we’ll give it to ’em. I’d better get back to the office, Jack.”
“I’ll come with you, pal.”
There was a man sitting at Trafficante’s big desk. A young man in torn and stained battle camouflage. His hand was resting on a Kalashnikov lying on the desk top. As Trafficante stood in the open doorway the soldier looked at a photograph lying on the desk in front of him. He smiled at the American.
“Is time to go, Señor Trafficante.”
“It’s time for you to get out of my goddamn chair, little boy.” He reached for the phone and went to dial a number before he realized there was no dialling tone. He slowly replaced the receiver and looked at the soldier.
“What’s going on, soldier boy?”
“You’re under arrest, Mr. Trafficante.”
“Who says so?”
“Fidel says so. Who’s your friend?” The soldier nodded towards the bald man.
“I’ve no idea. He’s not a friend. He’s just a customer who I brought back for a drink.”
“What’s your name, señor?”
“Jack Rubinstein. I’m an American citizen.”
“OK. Where are you staying?”
“At the Hilton.”
“OK. You go back to Hilton. We see if you OK.”
The bald man backed out of the door looking for some indication of what he should do from Trafficante. But Trafficante was busy taking a thick roll of dollars from his inside pocket as Rubinstein closed the door and headed for the exit doors. It was eleven-thirty and the stage was strangely silent and empty. A few stragglers were still queueing to get out of the club. A dozen scruffy-looking soldiers were wandering around aimlessly, trying to look as if they knew what they were doing.
Outside there was an armoured car and half a dozen battered jeeps, with weary-looking soldiers standing around, smoking cigarettes, their free hands touching the guns in their canvas holsters as if to check that they were still there. They shook their fists at him as he walked by.
The next time that Debbie met the piano-playing army captain was in Honolulu. She had given four performances that day and as she walked off the stage in the evening she knew there was something wrong. Her throat felt as if it were on fire, and there was a bitter taste on her tongue. She found swallowing painful. Her escort insisted on sending for the medical officer. And when the doctor came to her quarters she couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t even realized that her piano-playing captain was an army doctor.
He checked her throat and then switched off the torch putting his hand gently on hers.
“Did it come on suddenly?”
“My throat felt a bit sore yesterday. Like I might be starting a cold. The real pain only started when I was playing my last number tonight.”
“And the bitter taste?”
“I didn’t notice that until I was walking off-stage.”
“Well, my sweet Debbie, you’ve got an abscess at the back of your throat. A fair-sized one. And it’s burst. The bitter taste is the pus. I’m going to give you some antibiotics. A shot in your arm right now, and tablets for ten days. You’ve got to stay in bed for at least two days, then we’ll see how you’re doing. If the pus doesn’t come out I might have to help it on its way. But I’m hoping the penicillin will be enough.”
“But I’ve got engagements I’ve got to keep.”
“Forget them, honey. You couldn’t sing anyway, and if you don’t stay in bed you’ll have a temperature like a furnace and your throat won’t heal at all.”
He bent down, opening his black case, checking through the phials until he found what he wanted. He turned to look at her.
“Go and get into your night-things and into bed. The injection will make you sleepy.”
When she was out of the room he filled the syringe from the phial. The label on the phial said “MKULTRA” in capitals, handwritten in black ink. He knew that it was too good an opportunity to miss. They could work out how to use her later.
As he swabbed her arm and pressed up the pale blue vein he said, “It’ll only be a slight prick.” And as he was saying it he slid the needle smoothly into her arm and pressed the plunger as he smiled at her.
“Are you feeling sleepy yet?”
Her eyes were closed and she nodded her head. When he could see from her breathing that she was almost asleep he said softly, “Can you hear me, Debbie?”
She sighed and her lips said “yes” without speaking.
“I’m going to count to ten, Debbie, and you’re going to go deep asleep. One, two … nice and relaxed … three, four … deeper and deeper … five, six … seven, eight … soft and warm … nine … ten. Now you’re asleep. Can you still hear me?”
She nodded.
“When you wake up you won’t remember anything. Just that you were asleep. Is Debbie Shaw your real name?”
“No.”
“Tell me your real name.”
“Debbie Rawlins.”
“Is Debbie short for Deborah?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been into drugs? Heroin or cocaine or LSD?”
“No.”
“What about grass, marijuana?”
“No.”
“Have you had drugs for illnesses?”
“No.”
“Do you trust me, Debbie?”
“Yes.”
“Will you do anything I tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Will you let me have sex with you?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your favourite girl’s name?”
“Nancy.”
“When I talk to you like this your name is Nancy. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Nancy.”
“Nancy Rawlins.”
“Yes. Nancy Rawlins.”
“You’ll never use that name unless I tell you to. And you never talk about what we’re saying to each other now.”
“OK.”
“If I ever say Nancy Rawlins to you, you’ll go to sleep like this and do everything I say.”
“Yes.”
“And you never go to any other doctor but me. If you want me for anything, wherever you are you phone Washington 547–9077 and ask for Joe Spellman. If I’m
