Pete slid next to the machine gun. The spics turned away and went for their waistbands.
Pete fired. One tight swivel at their backs cut them down. The ack-ack sent a flock of birds up squawking.
Gordean hit the ground and curled himself up fetal-tight. The bullet spread missed him by inches.
The spics died screaming. Pete strafed their bodies into pulp. Cordite and muzzle-scorched entrails formed one putrid smell combination.
Pete poured gas on the stiffs and the Volkswagen and torched them. A box of.50-caliber ammo exploded.
Seсor Tom Gordean was passed out cold.
Pete tossed him in the backseat of the Caddy. The mink coats made a cozy little bed.
He checked the luggage. He saw a shitload of money and stock certificates.
Their flight left at dawn. Pete found a road map in the glove compartment and marked a route back to Havana.
He got in the Caddy and punched it. French-fried palm trees provided a glow to drive by.
o o o
He made the airport before first light. Friendly militiamen swamped El Seсor Mitchum.
Tom Gordean woke up with the shakes. Pete fed him rum-and-Cokes to keep him docile. The spics nationalized the money and furs-no big surprise.
Pete signed Robert Mitchum autographs. Some Comnue commissar escorted them to the plane.
The pilot said, “You’re not Robert Mitchum.”
Pete said, “No shit, Sherlock.”
Gordean dozed off. The other passengers eyeballed them-they reeked of gasoline and liquor.
The plane landed at 7:00 a.m. Kemper Boyd met them. He handed Pete an envelope containing five thousand dollars.
Boyd was juuuuust a tad nervous. Boyd was more than just a tad dismissive.
He said, “Thanks, Pete. Take that jitney into town with the other people, all right? I’ll call you in L.A. in a few days.”
He got five grand. Boyd got Gordean and a suitcase full of stock shares. Gordean looked bewildered. Boyd looked quintessentially un-Boyd.
Pete hopped on the jitney. He saw Boyd steer Gordean to a storage hut.
Here’s this deserted hick-town airfield. Here’s this CIA man and this drunk, alone.
His feelers started twitching in high fucking gear.
25
The hut was matchbook-size. He had to cram the table and two chairs in.
Kemper handled Gordean with kid gloves. The interrogation dragged-his subject had the DTs.
“Does your family know that you possess this United Fruit stock?”
“What ‘family’? I’ve been married and divorced more than Artie Shaw and Mickey Rooney. I’ve got a few cousins in Seattle, but all they know is the way to the bar at the Woodhaven Country Club.”
“Who else in Cuba knows that you own this stock?”
“My bodyguards know. But one minute we’re drinking and getting ready to expunge a few imperialist cane fields, and the next thing I know I’m in the backseat of my car with that buddy of yours at the wheel. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve been on a toot, and things are pretty dim. That buddy of yours, does he carry a machine gun?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about a Volkswagen?”
“Mr. Gordean…”
“Mr. Boyce, or whatever your name is, what’s going on? You sit me down in this shack and ransack my suitcase. You ask me these questions. You think because I’m a rich American businessman that I’m on your side. You think I don’t know how you CIA fuckers rigged the elections in Guatemala? I was on my way to cocktails with Premier Castro when your buddy shanghaied me. That’s Fidel Castro. He’s the liberator of Cuba. He’s a nice man and a wonderful basketball player.”
Kemper laid down his stock release forms. They were superbly forged-a counterfeiter friend did the job.
“Sign these please, Mr. Gordean. They’re reimbursement vouchers for your airfare.”
Gordean signed in triplicate. Kemper signed the notary statement and seal-stamped all three signatures.
His friend rigged the seal, at no extra charge.
Gordean laughed. “CIA man/notary public. What a combo.”
Kemper pulled his.45 and shot him in the head.
Gordean flew off his chair. Blood sprayed out one ear. Kemper stepped on his head to stanch the spritz.
Something rustled outside. Kemper pushed the door open with his gun.
It was Pete Bondurant, standing there with his hands in his pockets.
They both smiled.
Pete drew “50/50” in the air.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 6/11/69. Summary Report: Kemper Boyd to John Stanton. Marked: CONFIDENTIAL/HAND POUCH DELIVER.
John:
I delayed the writing of this communique for two reasons. One, I wanted to seea botched incident through to its conclusion before contacting you. Two, this note details a mission that I (quite frankly) blew.
You had asked me to use my own discretion and send Pete Bondurant on a trial run to help determine his suitability for Agency contract employment. I did this, and sent Bondurant into Cuba to pull out a United Fruit executive named Thomas Gordean, a man whom Teoffflo Paez described as “volatile” and “espousing the Communist line.” Bondurant succeeded in the first part of his mission. We installed Mr. Gordean at the Rusty Soupper Motel in Key West for debriefing, and made the mistake of leaving him alone to rest. Gordean committed suicide with a.45 automatic he had secreted on his person. I summoned the Key West Police, and Bondurant and I debriefed them. A coroner’s jury ruled Gordean’s death a suicide. Bondurant testified as to Gordean’s apparent alcoholism and depressive behavior. An autopsy confirmed that Gordean showed signs of advanced liver damage. His body was shipped to a distant cousin in Seattle (Gordean had no immediate family).
Should you require verification, please contact Captain Hildreth of the Key West Police. Of course, I apologize for this boondoggle. And I assure you that nothing like this will happen again.
Sincerely,
Kemper Boyd
DOCUMENT INSERT: 6/19/89. Personal note: John Stanton to Kemper Boyd.
Dear Kemper,
Of course, I am furious. And of course you should have informed me of this snafu immediately. Thank God Gordean had no immediate family capable of causing trouble for the Agency. That expressed, I’ll state that most likely you were to some degree a victim ot mitigating circumstances. After all, as you once said, you are an attorney and a cop, not a spy.
You’ll be pleased to kaow that Deputy Director Bissell is quite taken with your idea of creating an elite cadre to run the Blessington campsite. The campsite is currently under construction; your four personally selected recruits (Paez, Obregon, Delsol, Gutierrez) are undergoing further training at Langley and doing quite well. As previously stated, the Deputy Director has approved the hiring of Pete Bondurant to run the campsite. That, of course, was before the Gordean snafu. Eight now, I want to wait and reconsider Bondurant.
In conclusion, the Gordean incident sits poorly with me, but my enthusiasm for you as a contract agent remains strong. Until I tell you otherwise, undertake no more missions on your own authority.
John Stanton
DOCUMENT INSERT: 6/28/59. Personal note: Ward J. Littell to Kemper Boyd. “For editing and forwarding to Robert F. Kennedy.”
Kemper,
My anti-Mob intelligence gathering continues apace. I now have several independently gleaned indications that alternative (most likely coded) Teamster Pension Fund books do exist. Lenny Sands believes they exist. Sal D’Onofrio has heard rumors to that effect. Other sources have supplied rumors: a retired Chicago Mob man administers the books; Sam Giancana serves as the Pension Fund’s “Chief Loan Approval Officer.” As pervasive as these rumors are, I have nothing resembling corroboration. And of oourse I won’t, until I can suborn a cosmetic borrower and gain some kind of literal access to the Fund itself.