Without Honor (8 page)
Authors: David Hagberg
The rain had finally stopped, and the sun had begun to peek out from under the clouds. From where he sat, McGarvey could look out the window, across the road at the trees growing up along the wall of the valley. The branches were dripping, the leaves glistening in the light. Marta would be at the apartment, worried about him. Or perhaps she had gone shopping. She would stop at the odd moment to cock her head (it was a characteristic gesture of hers that he found attractive) and think about him. Or at least he hoped that was the case. He hoped she wasn't looking for him. It would make it that much more difficult when he came home this afternoon.
Trotter had gone into the kitchen to get more coffee, and Day had jumped up and was grazing among the books on the shelves, leaving Basulto and McGarvey alone for just a moment.
“You weren't too unhappy about leaving Mexico City?” McGarvey asked softly.
Basulto poured some cognac into his cold coffee. He raised his head. “No, but I wasn't overjoyed at the prospect of going to Guatemala. They're a bunch of farmers down there. They don't know anything.”
“About Mexico City. Did you ever get the feeling that someone was watching you? That someone down at the Ateneo knew what you were doing?”
Basulto smiled. “You could be Roger's twin, you know, Mr. McGarvey. He asked me the very same question. He was worried that I'd be tumbled sooner or later.”
“But you weren't?”
“Worried?” Basulto laughed harshly. “I was worried the entire time I was there. Let me tell you, they were some desperate characters.”
“How do you know that?”
Basulto's eyes narrowed. “You could see it just by looking at them. Roger told me to be very careful of this Russian. He said the man had eyes and ears everywhere.”
“Did you believe him?”
“What's this?” Day said, bounding back across the room. “Getting acquainted, are we?'”
“Just waiting for the coffee so we can get on with it,” McGarvey said.
Something flickered in Basulto's eyes. Cunning? Fear?
Day turned. “Trotter, for God's sake, let's speed it up here,” he shouted.
Moments later Trotter appeared in the doorway with another carafe of coffee. He hurried in, poured more for Day, Basulto, and himself, and then settled down.
“Helvetia,” he said, out of breath, starting them off again. “Harris was there waiting for his boy to show up. But there was no further debriefing. No words. Nothing about the Ateneo Español. It was taboo. Here was Basulto, one of Harris's experts from the Cuban days, down to help out with the big project.”
“Didn't you find that odd?” McGarvey asked, directing his question to the Cuban. “In Mexico City
he was excited. All of a sudden it's over?”
he was excited. All of a sudden it's over?”
Basulto shrugged. “There was the American working hand-in-hand with Baranov. I figured him for a double. I didn't think Roger wanted that spread around. And I didn't know who to trust.”
McGarvey was barely able to keep from making a sarcastic remark about trust coming from the lips of such a blatantly untrustworthy opportunist.
At first the remote training camp up in the Guatemalan mountains was nothing more than a collection of shacks at which a handful of Cuban radio operators were being trained. But throughout that year, and all through 1960, people kept streaming in. Eventually more than fourteen hundred recruits were in combat and infiltration training, and a big airstrip was carved out of the hillside. Basulto spent most of his time briefing the combat troops on the terrain and the waters around the
BahÃa de Cochinos
(the Bay of Pigs) southeast of Havana. In the old days he had run a number of operations in the region for Harris, so he knew the bay fairly well.
BahÃa de Cochinos
(the Bay of Pigs) southeast of Havana. In the old days he had run a number of operations in the region for Harris, so he knew the bay fairly well.
“The best place on the entire base was the pilots' quarters,” Basulto said. “Very nice, I'm telling you, at least by comparison to how the others lived. They used to call it the Hilton. They had their own showers, their own mess.”
“Harris was there the entire time?”
“No. He would come and go. Sometimes he'd stay for a few days, but never any longer than that, until the very end.”
“He was running the recruiting station in Miami at the time,” Trotter said. “They had quite a setup. Doctors, nurses, the whole nine yards. It was an open secret.”
“It was a big joke,” Basulto said. “We used to laugh about it.”
“Who was your boss when Harris wasn't around?” McGarvey asked.
“Pepe San Roman was the top man, but Erneido Oliva was the deputy commander. If there were any problems, he was the one we went to first.”
“But there were other Americans there, CIA people?”
“Coming and going all the time, especially after the runway was finished,” Basulto said.
He stayed at the camp for a very long time, and every few months Basulto would get so frustrated with the isolation he would slip down to Guatemala City to raise a little serious hell. Sometimes he'd go alone, sometimes he'd take a few friends from the Hilton along for the ride. They'd start at one end of the town and work their way to the other, through all the bars and whorehouses, going strong twenty-four hours a day until they couldn't take any more. Sated, they'd head back to the base where they would get back to work.
“No one ever missed us, they were so disorganized,” he said.
“Did you ever run into anyone in Guatemala City during your forays?” McGarvey asked.
“Sir?”
“Baranov or his crowd, or perhaps the American you'd seen him with in Mexico City.”
Basulto shook his head.
After a short pause, McGarvey took another sip of his drink. “Then came the invasion.”
“It got really crazy around there in the last couple of months. No one was allowed off base. They started to watch us pretty closely.”
“What was your job to be? You were expected to go with them, back to Cuba, weren't you?”
“You bet, even though I didn't want to go back. I knew damned well it was going to fail. But Roger was there. He was coming along.”
Green Beach was east, Red Beach was back up
into the bay at Playa Larga, and Blue Beach was just east of the town of Girón. Basulto came ashore at Blue Beach, along with Roger Harris and a heavy contingent of Cuban exile troops who had been trained in Helvetia. The fighting had already begun.
into the bay at Playa Larga, and Blue Beach was just east of the town of Girón. Basulto came ashore at Blue Beach, along with Roger Harris and a heavy contingent of Cuban exile troops who had been trained in Helvetia. The fighting had already begun.
“It was a mess, let me tell you,” Basulto said, lighting another thin cigar. His hand shook. “There was a lot of shooting, parachutes were coming down, aircraft buzzing all over the place. We heard later that at least two of our ships had been sunk ⦠one right off our own beach and the other up the bay somewhere. One of our planes went down too, up by Jagüey Grande. We didn't know any of that at the time, of course. We were too damned busy trying not to be killed.”
Basulto paused for a long moment. He turned and looked at the fire. His skin seemed to be stretched taut around his mouth and across his cheeks. Day had his legs crossed, his coffee cup balanced on one knee. Trotter sat forward. He was staring at Basulto.
“It was very strange, Mr. McGarvey, let me tell you,” the Cuban picked it up without turning back. “All hell was breaking loose. A lot of our paratroopers were going down north of Girón, but there was nothing but swamps up there. Christ, if I told them once, I told them a thousand times, they would have to watch the wind. They'd have to pinpoint their landing. Someone was supposed to have gone out to the airstrip to lay out the signals, but they never showed up. Roger was mad as hell, but he kept saying he had a job to do, and we'd do our part.”
They were called the brigade, and Basulto said their first operational headquarters were set up within the tiny town of Girón, several hundred yards inland from the resort cottages near the beaches. In town, but closer to the beach, a medical station was
set up for the wounded, and directly across the street was the radio post.
set up for the wounded, and directly across the street was the radio post.
“They were intercepting a lot of our traffic, but there wasn't a goddamned thing we could do about it. There wasn't a lot of time for coding and decoding. It was all happening so fast.” Basulto turned back, a strange, haunted look in his eyes. “And then I saw him.” He shook his head in wonder. “I turned around and there he was by the door of the radio shack. He was talking with Roger, just like they were long-lost friends. I mean, he was wearing battle fatigues, just like the rest of us, with a Thompson slung over his shoulder. He said he had just come down from the rotunda up on Red Beach. There was a lot of fighting going on. They were going to need some help.”
“Just a minute,” McGarvey said. “Who are you talking about here?”
“The American ⦠the one from Mexico City who was pals with Baranov. Who the hell did you think I was talking about? What the hell do you think I've been talking about all fucking morning?”
“Easy now,” Trotter cautioned.
“Harris knew him?” McGarvey asked.
“Presumably,” Trotter replied.
“Did he know it was the one from Mexico City?”
“No, goddamnit,” Basulto shouted. Then he shrugged. “At least I don't think so. He didn't act as if he knew it was the same one. But I was goddamned scared. Here he was, the double agent. It was real.”
“You're sure it was the same one?”
“Damned sure, Mr. McGarvey. It's a face I'd never forget.”
“Who was he?”
“I didn't know. I didn't know that until six months ago.”
“Havana?” McGarvey asked, holding himself in check. It was coming now. The part they had brought him here to listen to was coming.
“Miami,” Basulto said, looking at his hands.
“Wait up,” Day interjected. “We're getting ahead of ourselves again.”
“He killed Roger,” Basulto said defiantly. “And there wasn't a thing I could do about it. Roger just took off with the bastard before I could say jack shit. Bam! He was gone.”
“What happened then?” McGarvey asked carefully. “Did you follow them?”
“You're goddamned right I followed them, but it was too late,” Basulto said, and in this it seemed as if he were appealing for their belief and support. “It was less than five minutes from the time Roger left with him until I found a jeep and took off. But it was too late.”
Roger Harris was shot to death. At close range, two soft-nosed bullets into his face. Basulto found his body lying beside the jeep about ten miles north of Girón alongside the beach road.
“There was a lot of traffic all up and down the road. Aircraft overhead. It was a zoo, but no one stopped. No one gave a damn.”
“You're sure it was Harris?” McGarvey asked. “You said his face was shot away. Could you be sure?”
Basulto threw up his hands. “What kind of a question is that? I knew it was Roger. I just knew it!”
“No sign of the other one?”
Basulto shook his head. “I was really scared then, you know. I figured if Roger could be taken in by the bastard, I wouldn't have a chance. There was no one I could trust. I mean, who was I supposed to take my story to? The so-called invasion was falling on its ass. And I'd be a sitting duck.”
“So he ran,” Trotter said.
“So, I got smart.”
“Where? Where did you run?”
“Up to Santa Clara that night,” Basulto said. “I took the jeep, stole some ID off a dead government soldier, and drove up there.”
“In the American jeep?”
“They all had Cuban markings. Besides, I ditched it a few miles outside of town. I just got out of there on a bus down to HolguÃn, and from there to Santiago de Cuba.”
“I thought you were dead meat in Cuba.”
“I was dead meat anywhere,” Basulto replied. “At least it was home. I knew my way around. I still had a lot of friends. Not everyone was in love with Uncle Fidel. Not then, not now.”
McGarvey shook his head. There were holes a mile wide in his story. There was a hell of a lot more to it than Basulto was telling.
“I don't give a shit if you believe me or not, see!” the Cuban cried, clenching his fists. He was shaking. “The bastard killed Roger ⦠the only good man I ever knew. And it was his own people who did it. I didn't know what to do except keep my ass down. I couldn't play their games any longer.” Basulto pulled up short.
There was a longish silence then, in which Trotter and Day seemed literally to be holding their breath. Another car passed on the road, and from out in the hall a clock chimed the hour. It was one o'clock in the afternoon already.
“That was twenty-five years ago,” McGarvey said, appealing directly to Trotter.
“Within a year he had a marijuana operation going, from what he tells us. They ran the stuff up into the Florida keys. By the time the Cuban authorities got around to himâremember, they had their
hands full at the timeâthey decided he was doing them a service and left him alone.”
hands full at the timeâthey decided he was doing them a service and left him alone.”
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