Authors: Topaz
Fidel Castro personally interceded in behalf of Juanita and arranged a large and admirable settlement on the de Córdoba holdings. The Little Dove of Cuba was that kind of aristocrat who could transfer from one regime to another and become an aristocrat of the Revolution.
When the time for weeping was done, Juanita emerged from her villa and continued the good works that had been part of her training and heritage from childhood. She walked among the impoverished and battled for the orphan.
She was swept into the swirl of state functions.
She was a woman who made a man feel good. To pour his liquor, to light his cigar. To dance with him till dawn.
She campaigned for greater sanitation in the villages.
The disenchantment with Fidel and his Revolution set in almost at once.
Lifelong friends were rounded up in a terror that soon filled the dungeons of Morro Castle and the moats of La Cabaña.
And many ended up in the Green House of G-2 on Avenida Quinta, to be doled the cruel mercy of Castro’s chief inquisitor, Muñoz.
Juanita de Córdoba’s reaction to the rape of Cuba and the murder of her friends filled her with unbounded hate of Castro. And she set out to do something about it.
Many years before his death, Héctor de Córdoba had attended a conference in Washington as an adviser on the sugar quota.
André Devereaux had also attended in behalf of France, both because he was knowledgeable in matters of the sugar quota, and because it was a good place to obtain intelligence information.
In the course of their daily contact, a friendship was struck up between Devereaux and Héctor de Córdoba, and also between their wives.
In his subsequent visits to Cuba, André continued his friendship with the de Córdobas and never failed to visit them at Marianao. Through his sources in Havana, André learned that Héctor was secretly working for the Castro band, which was then still in the Camaguey Mountains.
“I must warn you, Héctor,” André told him over sunset drinks on the veranda, “that you will be disillusioned with this Castro. I know you detest the present regime, but those boys up in the mountains smell like Communists.”
“André ... ugh! ... what will I do with you? You smell Communists behind every tree, under every leaf. It is a mania with you. I have known Raul and Fidel since we were children together in Santiago. Fidel is radical, yes. But a Communist, never. And, my friend, after this bastard Batista is thrown out, Cuba needs radical thinking.”
“So the Castro brothers are pure Cuban. How about that South American devil, Che? And what about Rico Parra? Parra is straight out of the Soviet system.”
“Yes, André, and how about the Americans? The damn Yankees do business with the Peróns, Trujillos, Batistas and Jiménezes, but let anything smack of desperately needed reform and you denounce it as Communist.”
Juanita listened to it all quietly, attending to the level of their glasses and saying little.
“Mark it down, Héctor. Fidel Castro will become a menace. Even the Americans refuse to listen to me now, but they’ll learn.”
“Nonsense. The Cuban people will never choose Communism.”
“They won’t have to. The choice will be made for them.”
Héctor died before the prophecy was fulfilled. Juanita had marked the Frenchman’s words.
On André’s first visit after Héctor’s death, he went to the villa to pay his condolences. The Little Dove had already begun having her misgivings on the Revolution.
Old friends were gone. Of those who were left, one had to be suspicious. André was one of the few with whom she could share her feelings of sorrow and disgust over what was happening in Cuba.
Each visit thereafter, Juanita’s feelings against Castro had grown darker and darker.
André sensed an opening upon which to build an important contact. She was a woman of prominence, above suspicion, and highly placed in the inner circles. He held back at first. Then, as the American intelligence organization in Cuba was broken, he proceeded to feel her out with caution, for as the Cuban government drifted toward the Soviet Union, new sources of information would be desperately needed.
André became a frequent visitor. At first he was looked upon from the outside as a good friend, and later rumor had it that there was a romance.
What André was romancing was the careful buildup of an espionage ring, and its heart was Juanita de Córdoba, the Little Dove.
He trained her expertly and sent her out on a mission. Since she was free to travel throughout Cuba at will, Juanita’s appearances were considered good for the image of the Revolution. In trips around that country she recontacted some of those friends who had escaped the Castro terror and banded together a small, select group of patriots placed in every part of the Island.
André guided her in establishing communications through dead-letter drops in hidden places around the country.
When a message came back to Juanita de Córdoba, she would then pass it on to the French Ambassador, Alain Adam. Usually the messages were passed at cocktail parties or formal dinners and, at times, in broad daylight at public rallies right under the very beards of Fidel and Che and Raul and Rico.
André Devereaux had an excellent eye on Cuba, indeed.
M
ICHAEL
N
ORDSTROM LINED UP
the shot, drew the billiard stick back and tapped the cue ball. It slid off the six ball with a trace of side English. The six ball dangled, then dropped reluctantly into an end pocket.
“Eight ball in the side pocket.” Mike chalked, made his shot, straightened up and beamed at his son, Jim. “Your old man didn’t get a reputation as a good pool hustler for nothing. Earned all my spending money at Stanford doing this.”
Jim was glad his dad finally won for his dad was down three games. Mike tousled his son’s hair, replaced the stick in the rack, rolled down his sleeves, and walked up from the recreation room to the kitchen.
Liz had come in from her sunbath. She still looked great in a bikini. He watched her as she flitted about the kitchen setting a light under the pot of stew. As she passed, Mike grabbed her, reached under her robe and rubbed her warm flesh. Liz stopped long enough to lean back against him and purr.
“Hon, I’d like to take in the movie tonight with the Bowmans.”
“What’s playing?”
“
Lolita
with that deliciously decadent James Mason.”
“Sure.”
Liz put a tall iced tea before him as he thumbed through the Sunday papers, stopping at “Peanuts.” He laughed and commented that Snoopy fractured him.
“The stationwagon is on the blink again,” Liz said.
“Well, get it fixed.”
“It spends half the time in the garage. Hon, do you think we’ll be able to trade it in by the end of the year?”
“Huh?”
“I said I’d like to trade it in.”
“Well, maybe. This Koufax is something. Struck out ten again last night.”
Liz tasted the stew testily, adding a pinch of onion salt and replacing the lid. Mike was in earnest in the sports page.
“Put the paper down, hon.”
“Liz, don’t talk about the car now.”
“How are things with the Devereaux?”
“So-so.”
“I dropped in to see Nicole this morning. I guess André had just left the house on his trip. She didn’t take him to the airport.”
“That’s not a federal offense.”
“It is with them. She was a little tight. Not drunk, just tight. A lot of tears and babbling. I’ve never seen her that way. I spent quite a bit of time with her ... that’s why lunch was late.”
“You know how it is. He’s under pressure, she folds.”
“What about his women? I understand he has a lot of them.”
“Not a lot, just enough. When he travels he gets down, tired, lonely. You know, like a human being. Hasn’t got a damn thing to do with loving your wife.”
“She’s at an age where she’s very uncertain about herself.”
“For Christ’s sake, Liz, what does Nicole want? André hasn’t let any women give her a moment’s worry or challenge her position. He’s discreet and he hasn’t dumped it on the doorstep. Nicole writes much more into this than she should.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“Right for Nicole’s husband, not yours. Come on, Liz, we’ve played out the same damn scene. She’s got him feeling guilty about things he hasn’t done wrong.”
“Are they going to make it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Lord, I wish there was something I could do.”
“People don’t change, Liz. One by one the reasons to remain married fade. Most families hang together out of economic necessity. Then there’s the children. Or the dread of loneliness. But there comes a saturation point where none of the fears equals the torture of a deteriorated marriage. I think she’s pushed him over the edge.”
“Nicole said something very strange. She said that she was getting the feeling more and more that he wants her to have a lover.”
“We all go through that,” he answered.
“Mike, it scares me to see this. Are we all right?”
“We’re all right.”
“It’s not easy to learn, but I came to know that all the rest of it means nothing if you don’t deliberately hurt me. I’ve really tried to make things more comfortable for you.”
“You have, Liz.”
The dreaded sound of the phone ringing stiffened Liz, then she answered and handed the receiver to him and saw his face grow tense and heard him say he’d be right down. Oh,
damnit
! Why can’t they leave him alone just one Sunday?
“Something came up. I’m not sure when I’ll get in.”
“Of course, dear.”
“You go on to the show. I’ll heat up the stew.”
“No, I’ll wait for you, Mike.” She put her arms about him and rested her head on his chest. “Try not to be too tired when you come home,” she said.
S
ANDERSON
H
OOPER ARRIVED AT
the Bethesda Naval Hospital simultaneously with Nordstrom and they proceeded together quickly down the corridor toward the guarded wing housing the Kuznetov family.
Boris Kuznetov was propped up with pillows. He smiled wanly as they entered. The Russian appeared much better. Some of the chalk had faded from his cheeks. “I regret to inform you I am making excellent progress,” he said, “although American television is no help. It’s quite bad.”
Nordstrom pulled a chair close to the bed so Boris would not have to labor while speaking. Sanderson Hooper fingered his pipe in his pocket but remembered not to light it.
Kuznetov looked at both of them seriously. “I’ve come to a decision,” he said. “That terrible pain hit my chest and darkness overcame me. Then I awoke under that oxygen tent. As the days passed with nothing to do but think, many things became very clear for the first time. I realized that if I could live, above everything else I had to live for my family. But I did not want to die .... I just didn’t want to die.... I still love Russia.”
He stopped and tears came down his cheek at the mention of his mother country.
“It’s also unjust to take this country as my home and betray it from the beginning. Well, Nordstrom, you should be proud. I’m going to tell you everything.”
He blinked a moment and waited to reinforce his meager strength. “You can start your Americanization program with Olga and Tamara.”
“I keep posted about your condition every day,” Michael said. “We’ll have to take it very slowly. Soon as the doctor gives the green light, we’ll start.”
“Yes, take care. I’m a valuable piece of merchandise.... I insist that Devereaux be present.”
“He’s on a trip. Will you agree to the preliminary interrogation without him?”
“Yes, that should be all right.”
“Try not to brood,” Nordstrom said.
Nordstrom drove back to Washington, taking small consolation in the victory over the Russian.
“I suppose things do become clear inside an oxygen tent,” Sanderson Hooper said. “Mike, you haven’t spoken a word.”
“Just thinking.”
“About Boris Kuznetov?”
“About him ... mostly about Devereaux. What’s the connection? Why does Kuznetov demand André?”
“Points to the fact that Kuznetov has been on a mission against France.”
“Or maybe he is deliberately using Devereaux.”
“We all seem to use Devereaux,” Hooper said.
“He’s in a lot of hot water, wife and country. Hoop, I got a line on his health. Maybe we shouldn’t have asked him to go to Cuba.”
“Sorry about all his bad luck,” Hooper answered coldly, “but we have to think of ourselves.”
J
UANITA
D
E
CÓ
RDOBA PULLED
her car to a halt before the carved wooden door of the villa. In a quick, graceful movement she spun out of the driver’s seat, gathered up her packages, and shut the door with a push of the heel.
Emilio, the houseman, rushed out and took her packages. The instant she walked into the foyer the odor of potent cigar smoke was present.
“Rico Parra, señora,” Emilio said, “he has been waiting for over an hour.”
She hid her displeasure, lowering her eyes. “Very well.”
At the end of the foyer she could see past the French doors to the veranda which hovered above the sea. Rico Parra, boots propped on the rail, sat munching a large mouthful of banana from a fruit bowl. He flipped the peeling over the rail, swallowed the load, and lit another cigar.
She studied him. The green dungarees were new and pressed, his boots polished to a high sheen, and even the unruly mop of hair and beard had been put into order for the occasion. As she approached she could smell a second odor. He reeked of cologne as though he had bathed in it in a clumsy attempt to make himself presentable.
Rico heard her dartlike footsteps, dropped his boots to the tile floor with a thud, and came to his feet. Juanita moved through the French doors without a word and his eyes followed her with obvious longing.
“I happened to be in the neighborhood,” he blurted. “I ... uh ... there are a number of public events coming up next month and I thought I could be your escort.”
There was no answer from her.
“Well, for Christ’s sake, I could have more of a welcome. I’ve been gone a long time. Did you get my letters?”