Free The Berlin Conspiracy by Tom Gabbay Page B

picking up the paperback and leafing through it. “Seen the movie?”
    “About three years ago,” he moaned, snatching it back.
    “I guess I’m a little behind the times.” I smiled and straddled a desk chair across from the bed. I think I just stared at him for a minute or two.
    “What’s on you mind?” he asked painfully.
    “I was wondering why we told those men that the cavalry’s gonna ride in and save the day when we know it ain’t gonna happen.”
    “Like I told you before, it was never said.”
    “Henry,” I scolded him, “You and I both know there’s no fucking way Kennedy’s gonna send in those Marines.”
    “Look, Jack.” He swung his long legs around and sat on the edge of the cot. “You’re not in the loop on this one, so just forget about it.”
    “What loop?”
    “Really. Forget it.”
    “What happens when the Cubans realize they’ve been set up?” I persisted.
    “What makes you think they’re being set up?” He pulled himself up and headed for the John.
    “The White House dispatch yesterday said—”
    “I know what the dispatch said,” he said calmly, taking aim and releasing. “I wrote the fucking thing.”
    “It says the brigade doesn’t expect help from U.S. forces.”
    “That was true yesterday.”
    “You gonna send a new dispatch?”
    “I can’t get into this with you.” He flushed.
    “Are we lying to the president of the United States?”
    He gave me a long hard look and shook his head. “I hope you’re not gonna cause trouble, Jack.”
    He stood there waiting for me to reassure him, but I just stared back at him. I guess he took my silence to mean that I might cause trouble, although I’m not sure what I would’ve done. Anyway, he must’ve figured I’d be less of a risk if I was in on it. He adjusted his Jockey shorts and poured himself a glass of water.
    “You didn’t hear what you’re about to hear. … Right?”
    I nodded and he went on.
    “We’re not just blowing smoke up the Cubans’ ass. We have reason to believe that the president will change his mind and send in the troops … once the situation on the ground becomes clear.”
    “What situation?” I asked.
    “I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he stalled.
    “What situation?” I repeated.
    “We expect an attack on Guantánamo.” He gulped the water, watched my reaction though the bottom of the glass. He was talking about Guantánamo Bay, the U.S. naval base located on the southeastern tip of Cuba. It had been in American hands for sixty years, since Teddy Roosevelt leased the land from the government of the day.
    “Castro isn’t stupid enough to attack Guantánamo—” I stopped short as the realization hit me. “Castro isn’t going to attack, is he?”
    Something that almost passed for a smile started to form on Fisher’s lips. “Not unless he’s suicidal.”
    “We are,” I completed the thought, hoping Fisher would laugh in my face. He didn’t.
    “Not us, per se.” He dropped onto the bed and stretched out, arms crossed behind his head. He was eager to talk now, so I let him.
    “We’ve been training a group of Cubans up in Louisiana for about six months. Deep-cover stuff. They’re in the Gulf now, headed for Cuba southeast, and Fidel himself would take them for Cuban army regulars, down to the buckles on their boots. All we do is point ‘em at Guantánamo twelve hours after the brigade hits the beach, Kennedy gets word that Castro’s forces have attacked the base, and presto chango, here come the Marines. Neat idea, huh?”
    Neat was an understatement. It was inspired. Also dangerous, misguided, insane, and probably treasonous.
    “What about casualties?” I asked, trying to stay cool.
    “Sometimes you have to look at the big picture,” he shrugged.
    I didn’t know what to say, so I let out a low whistle, which made Fisher a bit uneasy.
    “This doesn’t leave the room, Jack. We are clear on that, aren’t we?” I ignored him, absentmindedly went to the