Things were dovetailing tight and cozy. His feelers started perkperk-perking.

Pete buzzed the receptionist. “Donna, get me long distance person-to-person. I want to talk to a man named Kemper Boyd at the McClellan Committee office in Washington, D.C. Tell the operator to try the Senate Office Building, and if you get through, say I’m the caller.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pete hung up and waited. The call was a longshot-Boyd was probably out somewhere, conniving.

His intercom light flashed. Pete picked up the phone.

“Boyd?”

“Speaking. And surprised.”

“Well, I owe you one, so I thought I’d deliver.”

“Keep going.”

“I was in Miami last week. I ran into two men named John Stanton and Guy Banister, and they seemed real interested in you.”

“Mr. Stanton and I have already spoken. But thanks. It’s nice to know they’re still interested.”

“I gave you a good reference.”

“You’re a sport. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You can find me a new dirt digger for Hush-Hush.”

Boyd hung up, laughing.

17

The Committee booked him into a Howard Johnson’s. Kemper upgraded to a two-room suite at the Fontainebleau.

He made up the difference out of his own pocket. He was closing in on three salaries-it wasn’t that big an extravagance.

Bobby sent him back to Miami. He instigated the trip himself- and promised to return with some key Sun Valley depositions. He didn’t tell Bobby that the CIA was thinking about recruiting him.

The trip was a little vacation. If Stanton was good, they’d connect.

Kemper carried a chair out to the balcony. Ward Littell had mailed him a report-he needed to edit it before sending it on to Bobby.

The report was twelve typed pages. Ward included a longhand preface.

K.B.,

Since we’re partners in this gentle subterfuge, I’m giving you a verbatim account of my activities. Of course, you’ll want to omit mention of my more flagrant illegalities, given Mr. Kennedy’s proviso. As you’ll note, I have made substantial progress. And believe me, given the extreme circumstances, I have been very careful.

Kemper read the report. “Extreme circumstances” didn’t quite cover it.

Littell witnessed a homosexual murder. The victim was a Chicago Mob underboss. The killer was a Mob fringe dweller named Lenny Sands.

Sands was now Littell’s snitch. Sands had recently partnered up with a bookie/loan shark named “Mad Sal” D’Onofrio. D’Onofrio shepherded gambling junkets to Las Vegas and Lake Tahoe- Sands was to accompany the groups as their “traveling lounge act.” Sands had keys to mobster “fuck pads.” Littell coerced him into making duplicates and surreptitiously entered three fuck pads to look for evidence. Littell observed and left untouched: weapons, narcotics, and $14,000 in cash-hidden in a golf bag at the fuck pad of one Butch Montrose.

Littell located Tony Iannone’s fuck pad: a garage apartment littered with homosexual paraphernalia. Littell was determined to protect his informant from potential reprisals. Littell disclosed the fuck pad’s location to Chicago Mob members and staked it out to see if they followed up on his anonymous tip. They did: Sam Giancana and two other men broke down the fuck pad door an hour later. They undoubtedly saw Iannone’s homosexual contraband.

Amazing. Fully emblematic of the Ward Littell Trinity: luck, instinct, naive courage.

Littell concluded:

My ultimate goal is to facilitate a loan seeker “up the ladder” to the Teamsters’ Central States Pension Fund. This loan seeker will be, ideally, my own legally compromised informant. Lenny Sands (and potentially “Mad Sal” D’Onofrio) may prove to be valuable allies in recruiting such an informant. My ideal loan seeker would be a crooked businessman with Organized Crime connections, a man susceptible to physical intimidation and threats of Federal prosecution. Such an informant could help us determine the existence of alternative Pension Fund books contaming hidden, thus illegal, assets. This avenue of approach presents Robert Kennedy with unlimited opportunities at prosecution. If such books do exist, the administrators of the hidden assets will be indictable on numerous counts of Grand Larceny and Federal Tax Fraud. I agree with Mr. Kennedy: this may pmve to be the way to link Jimmy Hoffa and the Teamsters to the Chicago Mob and break their collective power. If monetary collusion on such a rich and pervasive scale can be proven, heads will roll.

The plan was ambitious and stratospherically risky. Kemper snapped to a possible glitch straight off.

Littell exposed Icepick Tony’s sexual bent. Did he consider all the potential ramifications?

Kemper called the Miami airport and altered his D.C. flight for a Chicago stopover. The move felt sound: if his hunch proved right, he’d need to give Ward a good thrashing.

Dusk came on. Room service brought his standing order up- punctual to the minute.

He sipped Beefeater’s and picked at smoked salmon. Collins Avenue glowed; twinkling lights bracketed the beachfront.

Kemper got a mild glow on. He reprised his moments with the mink woman and thought of a dozen lines he could have used.

Chimes rang. Kemper ran a comb through his hair and opened the door.

John Stanton said, “Hello, Mr. Boyd.”

Kemper ushered him in. Stanton walked around and admired the suite.

“Robert Kennedy treats you well.”

“You’re being disingenuous, Mr. Stanton.”

“I’ll be blunt, then. You grew up wealthy and lost your family. Now you’ve adopted the Kennedys. You’re in the practice of reclaiming your wealth in small increments, and this really is quite a handsome room.”

Kemper smiled. “Would you like a martini?”

“Martinis taste like lighter fluid. I’ve always judged hotels by their wine list.”

“I can send down for whatever you like.”

“I won’t be here long enough.”

“What’s on your mind?”

Stanton pointed to the balcony. “Cuba’s out there.”

“I know that.”

“We think Castro will go Communist. He’s set to come to America in April and offer his friendship, but we think he’ll behave badly and force an official rejection. He’s going to deport some ‘politically undesirable’ Cubans soon, and they’ll be granted asylum here in Florida. We need men to train them and form them into an anti-Castro resistance. The pay is two thousand dollars a month, in cash, plus the chance to purchase discount-priced stock in Agency-backed front companies. This is a firm offer, and you have my personal assurance that we won’t let your Agency work interfere with your other affiliations.”

“‘Affiliations’? Plural?”

Stanton stepped out on the balcony. Kemper followed him up to the railing.

“You ‘retired’ from the FBI rather precipitously. You were close to Mr. Hoover, who hates and fears the Kennedy brothers. Post hoc, propter ergo hoc. You were an FBI agent on Tuesday, a prospective pimp for Jack Kennedy on Wednesday, and a McClellan Committee investigator on Thursday. I can follow logical-”

“What’s the standard pay rate for CIA contract recruits?”

“Eight-fifty a month.”

“But my ‘affiliations’ make me a special case?”

“Yes. We know you’re getting close to the Kennedys, and we think Jack Kennedy might be elected President next year. If the Castro problem extends, we’ll need someone to help influence his Cuban policy.”

“As a lobbyist?”

“No. As a very subtle agent provocateur.”

Kemper checked the view. Lights seemed to shimmer way past Cuba.