“You can get rid of him, can’t you, Felter? Soon, quietly, and of course, outside the country?”
“I don’t believe I understand the question, Mr. President.”
“The euphemism the director used was ‘terminate.’ He thinks Guevara should be terminated, and he thinks you’re the guy to do it. You have a problem with that?”
“I have very serious problems with that, Mr. President,” Felter said.
“Really?” the President replied, as if surprised. “You’ve ‘terminated’ people before, Colonel, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“Then what’s the problem here?”
“In my judgment, Mr. President, the assassination of Che Guevara is not only unnecessary, but would be counterproductive.”
“You’re the one who came to me and said he was going to cause trouble, Felter.”
“That can be dealt with, Mr. President.”
“Do you believe in capital punishment, Felter?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“You sit a murderer in the electric chair and fry him, there’s one thing you can be sure of, he won’t murder anybody else, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there some kind of difference in your mind between a murderer who shoots his girlfriend, or a bank guard, and a guy who orders the killing of other people, but doesn’t pull the trigger himself?”
“Not much of a difference, sir.”
“That was one of the arguments the director made when he was trying to get me to authorize the elimination of Guevara. He says there’s pretty good proof that when Castro shot all those people on the baseball field in Havana, Guevara was really the man in charge. You think that’s so?”
“There doesn’t seem to be any question about it, Mr. President. ”
“Then you would agree the sonofabitch is a murderer? Just like the guy who shoots the guard when he’s robbing a bank?”
“I can only repeat, Mr. President, that in my judgment the assassination of Che Guevara is both unnecessary and would be counterproductive.”
“What you’re saying is that you could . . . what did you say? . . . deal with the trouble you say he’s going to cause?”
“I believe he can be kept from causing any serious problems, yes, sir.”
“The question was, you think you could control him?”
“With a relatively small unit, and a large amount of money, yes, sir.”
“Why would eliminating him be counterproductive?”
“He would then be a martyr, Mr. President.”
“And if I ordered you to terminate the sonofabitch, then what?”
“I would be forced to resign my commission, Mr. President.”
“Do you mean that, Felter? Or do you think you can get away with bluffing me?”
“I would be forced to resign my commission, Mr. President,” Felter repeated.
“You arrogant little sonofabitch!” the President said angrily. “You’re about to learn you cannot bluff the President of the United States.”
Felter came to attention.
“Permission to withdraw, sir? You will have my resignation within the hour.”
The President glowered at him for a long moment.
Then he walked to a telephone on a table, picked it up and said, “Get me the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs,” and hung up.
He glowered at Felter for the perhaps ninety seconds it took the White House operator to get the Chairman on the line and to ring the presidential phone.
He snatched the telephone almost angrily from its cradle.
“This is the President, Admiral,” he said, and then he winked at Felter. “I’ve just given Colonel Felter a special mission. I want you to make sure that whatever he asks for, he gets. Clear? Whatever he asks for.”
He put the telephone back in its cradle.
“Relax, Sandy,” the President said. “We just called each other’s bluff. You won.”
Felter remained at attention.
“Sit down, Sandy, and finish your drink,” the President went on.
Felter looked at him, bent down and picked up his Bloody Mary, and drained it. He held the glass up and looked at the President. “With your permission, sir?”
“And give me another little taste, too,” the President said, extending his empty glass.
As Felter was refilling their glasses, the President called his name, and Felter turned and looked at him.
“To keep the air clear between us, Sandy,” the President said, “I had already decided that shooting the sonofabitch would be about the dumbest thing we could do. And just between you and me, I knew what the Director was trying to do: He thought he had himself a win-win. You got rid of Guevara for him, and the trouble that would cause would make me get rid of you.”
Felter nodded, finished pouring the drinks, and walked to the President and handed him his. The President raised his glass and knocked it against Felter’s.
“Pick yourself a good deputy for this,” the President said. “I don’t want