In compliance with Presidential Memorandum to The Director, Subject: “Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara,” dated 14 December 1964, the following information is furnished:
(Reliability Scale Five) (From CIA Algiers, Algeria) SUBJECT arrived Algiers on Air Mali flight 1121 from Cotonou, Dahomey at 2005 GMT 27 January 1965, and went directly to Cuban Embassy.
Howard W. O’Connor
HOWARD W. O’CONNOR
SECRET
He handed the document to Zammoro and then unstrapped himself and went forward to kneel behind Portet.
“At the risk of revealing my monumental ignorance, where the hell is Cotonou, Dahomey?”
“On the Gulf of Guinea, between Nigeria and Togo,” de la Santiago answered. “Why?”
“Where the hell is the Gulf of Guinea?” Oliver asked. “And, for that matter, where is, or what is, Togo?”
“West coast, Atlantic. Togo is a country,” de la Santiago answered, chuckling.
“Why do you think Che Guevara went to Cotonou, Dahomey? ” Oliver asked.
“Beats the shit out of me,” Jack Portet replied. “I didn’t know anybody went there on purpose.”
De la Santiago chuckled.
“If he’s there—” Jack added, his tone now serious.
“Was there. Now he’s in Algeria,” Oliver interrupted.
“If he was in Dahomey,” Jack went on, “and is now in Algeria, I guess that proves Felter was right. He damned sure wasn’t in Cotonou to take a swim. There’s a lot of sharks in the ocean there. The sonofabitch is obviously trying to get support for what he wants to do in the Congo.”
“And we’re supposed to stop him? How?” Oliver asked.
“Hell, I thought you Green Beanies can do anything,” Jack said.
“That’s we Green Beanies, Lieutenant,” Oliver said. “Write that down.”
“I know how to stop him,” de la Santiago said. “I’d love to stop him. But blowing the bastard’s brains out is a no-no, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure you will think of something else, Mr. de la Santiago, ” Oliver said, and went back to his seat.
[ NINE ]
Apartment B-14
Foster Garden Apartments
Fayetteville, North Carolina
1545 29 January 1965
“Tank! Tank! Tank!” Master Allan Wood cried the moment Marjorie had unlocked the door to the apartment.
He had been under the grandmotherly care of Patricia Hanrahan while they had seen their husbands off from Pope.
Marjorie smiled.
“A true son of armor,” she said, and led the child to the couch, behind which the toy tanks had been parked.
“A male,” Liza said. “They like to destroy things, preferably with as much noise as possible.”
Marjorie’s smile tightened, but she didn’t say anything.
She knelt on the floor and found the switch that turned the battery on. Allan gleefully drove the tank into the leg of the coffee table, where the treads churned uselessly.
She went into the kitchen to get him a couple of plastic cups, which he could batter around with the tank.
Liza Wood was squatting before the open refrigerator door.
“There’s enough food left over to feed an army,” Liza said. “Unfortunately, our Army is on its way to sunny Florida and points farther south.”
“Well, at least we won’t have to cook,” Marjorie said.
“I knew there would be beer in here,” Liza said. “You want one, or would you prefer something stronger?”
“Beer’s fine,” Marjorie said.
She found the plastic cups she was looking for, and took them to Allan. When she returned, she saw that Liza had taken two bottles of Heineken from the refrigerator and opened them. Liza handed one to Marjorie and then took a healthy pull from the bottle’s neck.
“Don’t you want a glass?” Marjorie asked.
“Why?” Liza asked taking another swig. “When it’s only us camp followers, what’s the point in being dainty and ladylike?”
“Liza,” Marjorie said, “I’m in no mood for bitter.”
Liza looked at her and shrugged.
“Sorry,” she said. “You know what I thought on the way here?”
“I’m not sure I do,” Marjorie said.
“I asked myself, did I do the right thing?” Liza said. “And I decided, yeah, Liza, you did the right thing. You love him and he needs you, and Allan needs him, and he loves Allan, and if the price I have to pay for that is putting on a smile while I wave bye-bye, then it’s a hell of a bargain.”
“Yeah, it is,” Marjorie agreed.
“One last bitter,” Liza said, “and then I’ll quit.”
“Okay.”
“You know one thing the Army has got down pat? The better an officer is, the more they expect of him, the more they drain him.”
Marjorie didn’t reply.
“Think about it,” Liza said. “Johnny—who was pretty well drained himself by his year working your father—told me what terrible shape