Manhattan 62 (30 page)

“Yes. A missile.”

“How the hell do you know?” I said, holding the photograph close to his face.

“I have seen similar missiles on parade in Red Square,” said Max. “Funny, as a younger man, I often admired these ranks of missiles. I was so proud of our power. I loved the great long-range intercontinental ballistic missiles. This vision of such military might gave me goose bumps. My cousin Sasha, I think he became a missile engineer because of what we used to see. They have missiles on Cuba, Pat, and aircraft that can carry them.”

“But there aren't any warheads, the nukes, the things that blow up the world. The President already said so; we know that. We know this.”

“Not according to Rica.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Rica is sure. It's in one of these pictures, if you know what you're looking at.”

“I don't think so.”

“According to Valdes, these here are Ilyushin 28 planes, already uncrated and ready to go. Each one can carry a single warhead. I told Rica it was nothing without the warhead. He told me there were warheads, already targeted.” From my hand, Max took the final two snaps. “Officially only a Soviet officer on direct command by Khrushchev can fire a nuclear weapon. Valdes says there may be officers who ignore this order, all it takes is one rogue officer, or Cubans who work with them. These here, you see, the Americans call them Cruise Missiles. They can do great damage, they spray radioactive material everywhere. This means they can reach fifteen or twenty miles.”

“Guantanamo?”

“You guess correctly. You don't need ICBMs to start a war. I had already guessed at some of this, I had time in that warehouse, that what the Cubans want is a provocation. Some of them, a few with power.”

“And your people?”

“I'm sure there are some in my country, as well, of course. But Rica Valdes writes that the Cubans are tired of feeling like little brothers, as they were once tired of American oppression, very nice that Khrushchev hugs them like he is a papa bear, but they want weapons, and so he sends them, and now a few of them want an excuse to fire these weapons.”

“How much more is there?” I felt impatient and impotent; what could I do if the nukes were coming? I could go back and listen to James Brown.

“He goes on to say there are people who want to provoke an invasion,” says Max.

“What is it?” I can hear screams from the audience downstairs that punctuate Ostalsky's news of Armageddon.

“The provocation will be this assassination. A powerful American will be killed, the United States will retaliate, do you see, Pat, to provoke the Americans to invade Cuba, and then to fight back, it is perfect. This means everyone then starts throwing nuclear missiles around. This means, as you might say, Pat, Boom!”

“Who's the target?”

“Rica says it is scheduled for October 28, the day when Columbus discovered Cuba in 1492, and not as Americans believe, the United States. It sounds idiotic, but this is what he says. It will be in New York, for this is the great symbol. Susana knew the possible target, and another man may know the location.”

“Susana is dead. Who? We have four days.”

Max looked at his watch. “It's after midnight. It is the 25th, so three days. Three.”

“Why now? What the hell point is there anyway? We're about to go to war, why not lie back and wait if you want war. Are they connected, this so-called assassination and the missile crisis?”

“ I don't know. I really don't know, and I've been thinking and studying, what this means, trying to understand. I think the crisis is an opportunity, or a deadline. Perhaps this even, this idea for provocation was put in place years ago, to be activated when the time is, can you say, ripe?”

“At least we know something, we have a date, we know about the Cubans.”

“We know something. If Valdes is telling the truth,” said Ostalsky. “Perhaps he is a triple,” he added, half to himself.

“What?”

“Nothing. Our problem is just who will believe us?”

“Please please please …”

Backstage was jammed, singers, stagehands, someone hauling props, and I was looking for a way out, when I could have sworn James Brown turned in our direction, and saw me.

The band played, the crowd surged forward, moving, ecstatic, like people in a holy-roller church I'd once seen in a newsreel. All I see is James Brown, who on the beat falls to his knees.

“Honey, please don't I love you so

Please please please please …”

A man puts a cape on Brown's shoulders. Is he sick? Is Brown having a heart attack? No, he rises, Jesus from the tomb, or a cardinal, the pope, playing with the microphone like it's a crucifix, or a weapon, and all the time I'm thinking about nukes raining down on us, and an assassination that will take place in three days, and when I look out towards the audience, all I see are black faces, people worked up in some kind of frenzied swoon, probably thinking they're gong to die as the nukes fall, and deciding this was their only escape, this music, this ecstasy. “Please please please please.” Brown works the stage, he steps towards the wings, returns.“Honey, please don't …”

Everybody in the theater was moving around, audience on their feet, seeming ready to storm the stage, recording engineers, dancers, all pressing against us backstage, and we were trapped, stuck with no way to get in or out, no way to move, just us, me and the Russian spy.

Who will believe us?

CHAPTER TWO

October 25, '62

T
HANK
G
OD FOR
C
LAY
Briscoe's old Buick. I had offered him a temporary trade when I told him the
truth. I told him somebody was watching me; I laid it out for him because Briscoe had done me plenty of favors and I trusted him.

“No trouble, Patrick. I always loved your little car,” he said. “Also, man, I am taking my new lady away for a few days, and she will be so down with that Corvette. You just let me know when you want it back. Also, figuring the Russkis might be going to drop that bomb on us all, I might as well enjoy myself, you know? But, listen, Sam Cooke's coming to the Apollo in a couple weeks, I'll get you some tickets if you want.”

Even in Briscoe's car, I was uneasy about parking in front of my building, so I let Ostalsky off, told him to get upstairs, watched him duck into the door, and drove a couple of blocks in case somebody was following me, to make sure I had lost the tail.

It was already early morning, around 3 a.m., and I needed sleep bad. I didn't like it that Ostalsky was at my place, but where else could I stash him for now? I was so tired, I was hallucinating, figured there were agents on my back, theirs, ours; I parked a few blocks from home, near the White Horse. All I could think about was getting home, getting a few hours sleep, see if there was anything to wake up to, or if we'd been blown to hell, and get out of there and find out what was happening. Christ. Nukes on Cuba, already targeted. Jesus Christ. I was plenty scared, and having Max Ostalsky at my place made it worse. Fatigue and fear made me cold. I had started coughing again.

Standing near the White Horse I could see a few diehards still inside the bar, including a man in a snappy tan raincoat who peeled away, came out to the street and approached me. He doffed his hat as if by way of a friendly gesture, put out his hand and said “Rush O'Neill”. At first I thought he was just a well-dressed drunk.

“No kidding, what's Rush stand for, you in a hurry?”

“Ha ha, very nice, but no, it's for Rushton, it's a family name.” He took out his FBI badge. Rushton P. O'Neill. “Don't ask about the P.” He was very pleasant except for the cold gray eyes, very round, very cold, like marbles set in his eye sockets that, when he talked, he fixed on my face, without blinking.

“Then I have to ask, don't I?”

“It's for Providence.” He laughed, and fumbled in his pocket for a pipe and a leather pouch of tobacco.

Then it came to me. The Hip Bagel, I had seen him wearing a natty blue blazer, talking to Nancy one morning while she got her breakfast; the minute I saw him I had recalled the face, the silvery hair worn in a modified pompadour, the look of a vain man.

He was forty-five, possibly fifty, but trim; good bearing, square shoulders, that English raincoat was belted, the collar turned up like an officer in the movies—David Niven, that kind of guy.

Now I saw O'Neill close up, I made him for possibly ex-military, a man who had led other men and let you know it with his big firm handshake and the way he looked you in the eyes. His nails had been manicured. The only men I knew who were vain enough for manicures were mobsters and politicians.

“Pat Wynne,” I said. “But you know that, don't you? Glad to know you.”

“Would you care to join me in a drink?”

“Agent O'Neill, you weren't waiting here for me so we could pass the time. Why don't you tell me what you need.”

“Shall we take a little ride? I've got my car nearby.”

“I'd rather walk. If you don't mind.” I was polite as could be, thinking it would get me away faster, and out of the line of fire if O'Neill had anyone else tailing me.

“Of course. I phoned your apartment, I went by, but there was no answer when I rang the buzzer.” He had no accent, the kind of man who has been raised on military bases. He turned to look at the few people on the street, out late, walking off the tension, one man whistling tunelessly as he went.

“Cuba,” said Rush O'Neill. “People are scared out of their wits. We may soon be under attack. The Soviets are completely capable of a first strike.”

I lit a fresh smoke, and walked alongside O'Neill. Normally, I would have told him to shove it and gone home, but, given I was supposed to be off the job, and also with the war coming, it was not a good time to cross the FBI unless you had to. Also, he had my phone number and my address.

“Unless we take immediate action, it will get worse, you know that. We've got to make damn sure the Reds understand that we will never permit them to install nuclear weapons so close to us. In my view, we ought to strike now, hit their ships, take out the goddamn lot, while public opinion is on our side. We must never ever allow Soviet nukes ninety miles off our shores.” For an instant, his face tightened in anger, but then he relaxed and produced the genial smile. “I apologize for the lecture. I'm a bit worked up.”

“You're telling me you want a pre-emptive strike?”

“I think our country will do whatever's right,” he said, and set off towards the river. I was sure we were heading to Pier 46. “Detective Wynne, I have a favor to ask. I know you're a patriot, you served in Korea, it was rough, not much glory, plenty of guts. I got lucky. Everybody wanted to fight the damn Nazis. Me, I flew those B-17s with the 305th out of England. Terrific commander, a fellow we would have died for, he was tough, but he took care of his own. Called him ‘Old Iron Pants'. The kind of man we need in charge right now.”

“I thought Bobby Kennedy was your boss now, isn't that right, he's Attorney General. Isn't he tough enough for you?”

“He was. He does only the President's bidding now.”

I was sick of the rhetoric. “How can I help you?”

“You know this pier, of course, just across the West Side Highway. You had a case out here, isn't that right?”

O'Neill stopped, fussed with his pipe, loaded it up with tobacco, lit it, blew out smoke, looked at me. “I need your help, Wynne.”

“I'm always happy to do your august organization a favor, Agent O'Neill. But I've had a long day.” I was on edge. “I'm happy to go to the pier, if you want, but it's cold and if you tell me what you need, we can save some time.” My willingness worked. He said, “Forget it.” Abruptly he turned, and started back downtown.

I didn't want this man, whoever he was, anywhere near my building, or me. He was slick. His warm, clear, sharp voice—like a radio announcer—was intended to seduce if he wanted your help, or induce fear if he failed to get it. I was betting he didn't often fail.

“Could you use some coffee? We could grab a cup of Joe and then you could go home,” he said. “It is cold tonight, it seems to me, so early too, still October.”

At the corner of Christopher Street, he gestured to a coffee shop, and I knew he had already picked it out. Everything had been planned; I knew this could easily be a trap. Did he have his men waiting, their weapons hidden behind the cistern in the bathroom?

The place was almost empty, except for a tall thin man in a cheap dark suit, crouched on one of the stools, dunking a donut in his coffee. He didn't look up, not at me, or O'Neill; Rush O'Neill never looked at him. I knew they were both Feds. A waitress in a hairnet was wiping down the counter with a dirty rag, a cigarette in her mouth.

O'Neill slid into a booth at the back. I sat opposite him, put my smoke out in the ashtray and stretched my arms back along the back of the green leatherette booth, and tried to get the attention of the waitress. O'Neill was waiting for me to make the first move, I realized. Show my hand. A large clock on the wall ticked loud. The man with the donut put a nickel into the jukebox on the counter. “Green Onions” played.

“I might as well ask this, but you've had someone on my tail, isn't that right? Somebody with a big flashy Impala, not your usual FBI vehicle?”

He looked at me straight on. “Yes.”

“Your fellow over there is on his second donut.”

“Very sharp of you. We have a liberal budget for donuts.”

“Do you think he's hungry?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Maybe he comes here for the music.”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you want to tell me why you're following me? Aren't we on the same side, Agent O'Neill. That's Irish, isn't it? Makes you a Mick just like the rest of us, so why don't we stop the horse shit.”

“On my father's side.”

“What, you're saying your ma's descended from the Mayflower?”

“Something like that. It's for your protection, Detective. The tail.”

“Why would I need protection?” I called out, fed up now, “Can I get a cup of coffee here?”

The waitress in the hairnet trudged over to where we sat and I asked for coffee and a tuna sandwich.

“Why would I need protection?” I said again.

“You're friends with a Maxim Ostalsky?”

“Yeah, so what? I know him a little from around, is that a problem?”

“We think he's dangerous.”

“Why didn't you talk to me in the first place, instead of wasting some poor slob of an agent?”

He looked pissed off, possibly at the way I had described one of his men, but I didn't care. I ate my sandwich when it came and gulped down the black coffee, followed by a Coke.

When I made to get up, O'Neill said, “I think you should hear me out. Some of our younger agents are not subtle, and I apologize, but one of them had this idea that he could find Ostalsky by following you. Where were you coming from?”

“Jesus, Rush, the Impala was on me, he must have known where I was. Just stop blowing smoke up my ass. I'm going to level with you, because I admire you people.”

“Good.”

“I was working on finding Ostalsky myself. I had intended to pass on anything I learned to your people. In fact, maybe you heard, I already called my brother-in-law who works at your New York Office. Brennan? Seamus Brennan. I knew exactly what Ostalsky was from the beginning. He wanted a friend in New York, and made friends, it seemed a good idea since I was attending NYU.”

“You spent a lot of time with him.”

“What does that mean? I fought those dirty Reds in Korea, you think I don't want to stop them? Jesus Christ, man. I got a purple heart, and my best friend was blown to pieces. Do you think I could really be friends with one of them? Dammit, Rush.”

O'Neill was confused because I had grown testy; after all, I was a cop, a vet, a patriot.

“I understand,” he said. “I'll let the bureau know they can leave you in peace. By the way, have you seen Ostalsky lately? Probably not because, as I heard it, you're on leave, isn't that right?”

Slowly, he put away the pipe and opened a box of Viceroys, a fussy sliding box made for women.

What did he want? What was he waiting for? When I looked over at the counter the other agent had gone; the waitress was nowhere in sight; the big clock on the wall ticked the minutes. Tick. Tick. Tick. From next to the clock, the President smiled, handsome, strong, assured. O'Neill followed my gaze.

“Thank God for JFK,” I said.

O'Neill was silent. “Excuse me a moment, won't you?” he said finally. “I have to use the head.”

“Sure.” I thought about leaving. It would make O'Neill suspicious. He might put a car on me again. The first place any agent would show up was my apartment where Max Ostalsky was waiting. I hoped to God he was waiting.

Outside the city was dead quiet. At five minutes past three, O'Neill emerged from the bathroom.

I got up and put a dollar on the table. “What do you want?”

“I want to believe you'll contact me the next time you see Ostalsky.” He handed me my dollar. “This is on me. We're at war, Wynne. We've been at war with the Reds a long time now.”

“You don't need to say it. Just one question. In your law enforcement career, I'm wondering if you've come across a Captain Homer Logan?”

O'Neill‘s expression remained exactly the same. Only a tiny, almost invisible muscle twitched at the edge of his mouth, a womanly mouth with heavy, pinkish lips.

“Can't say I have. Sorry about that, Pat, shall we go?”

I picked up a matchbook. Inside was an ad for an art school. Maybe I should learn to draw. I could quit being a cop and go in for art. I tossed it down again.

“Why don't you walk with me to my car,” said O'Neill, as he put on the English raincoat, buttoned and belted it, replaced his hat, and went out to the street. I followed him.

“Where?”

“What?”

“Where did you leave your car?”

“Charles Street.”

Near my precinct, I thought. Had he been talking to Murphy? The streets were empty, silent, dark, as we walked east on Christopher and across Bleecker Street.

“Pat, there's a girl I believe you know, name of Nancy Rudnick. Father's a committed Communist, a Party member, did time for it.”

I inserted a toothpick between my teeth. Easy does it, I said to myself; Nancy was in trouble, and me getting riled up at some Fed wasn't going to help. “Sure, I know Nancy. She's a grad student at NYU. Nice enough girl.”

“We worry about the likes of Rudnick. It threatens our country when these so-called peace-loving radicals are in every Communist-front organization. My God, they have Pete Seeger at their house, they support Fidel Castro and give money to Martin Luther King. We have files on him you wouldn't believe. The boss has a bug up his ass about King.”

“I'm listening.”

“Some people think we keep files on people out of malice, but we're only protecting the American way of life.”

“I thought Rudnick did time when he refused to testify.”

“It didn't change the bastard one bit.”