Pete and Ward called to say they’d be late. He said, Good–I have to run an errand. They rescheduled their meet for 2:30 at the Breakers.
He’d tell them Stanton’s news. He’d stress that it was strictly speculative.
The car herd crawled–both outbound lanes were jammed up bumper-to-bumper. Two black & whites drove point to keep the Cubans boxed in.
Kemper turned onto a switchback. It was the only shortcut to Blessington proper–dirt roads straight in.
Dust kicked up. A light drizzle turned it to mud spray. The Rapemobile passed him, full-throttle on a blind curve.
Kemper hit his wipers. The spray thinned out translucent. He saw exhaust fumes up ahead–and no Rapemobile.
Juan’s distracted. He didn’t recognize my car.
Kemper hit downtown Blessington. He cruised by the Breakers, Al’s Dixie Diner and every exile hangout on both sides of the highway.
No Rapemobile.
He grid-searched side streets. He made systematic circuits– three blocks left, three blocks right. Seven-come-eleven–where’s that candy-apple-red T-Bird?
There–
The Rapemobile was parked outside the Larkhaven Motel. Kemper recognized the two cars parked beside it.
Guy Banister’s Buick. Carlos Marcello’s Lincoln.
o o o
The Breakers Motel faced the highway. Kemper’s window faced a just-rigged State Police checkpoint.
He saw cops divert cars down an off-ramp. He saw cops force male Latins out at gunpoint.
The cops ran ID checks and INS checks. The cops impounded vehicles and arrested male Latins wholesale.
Kemper watched for one straight hour. The Staties busted thirty-nine male Latins.
They herded the men into jail trucks. They dumped confiscated weapons into one big pile.
He searched Juan’s room an hour ago.
He found no sash cords. He found no perverted keepsakes. He saw absolutely nothing incriminating.
Somebody leaned on the doorbell. Kemper opened up quick to stop the noise.
Pete walked in. “Have you seen what’s going on out there?”
Kemper nodded. “They were trying to break in to the camp a few hours ago. The head training officer called the Staties.”
Pete checked the window. “Those are some pissed-off Cubans.”
Kemper pulled the drapes. “Where’s Ward?”
“He’s coming. And I hope you didn’t call us all the way down here to show us some fucking roadblocks.”
Kemper walked to the bar and poured Pete a short bourbon. “John Stanton called me. He said Jack Kennedy told Hoover to turn up the heat. The FBI has raided twenty-nine non-Agency campsites within the past forty-eight hours. Every non-Agency exile in captivity is out looking for Agency asylum.”
Pete downed his shot. Kemper poured him a refill.
“Stanton said Carlos put up a bail fund. Guy Banister tried to bail out some of his pet exiles, but the INS has put a deportation hold on every Cuban National in custody.”
Pete threw his glass at the wall. Kemper plugged the bottle.
“Stanton said the entire exile community is going crazy. He said there’s lots of talk about a Kennedy hit. He said there’s a good deal of specific talk about a motorcade hit in Miami.”
Pete punched the wall. His fist smashed through to the baseboard. Kemper stood back and talked slow and easy.
“Nobody on our team has broken cover, so the rumors couldn’t have originated from there. And Stanton said he didn’t inform the Secret Service, which implies that he wouldn’t mind seeing Jack dead.”
Pete gouged his knuckles bone-deep. He threw a left hook at the wall–plaster chunks flew.
Kemper stood way back. “Ward said Hoover sensed it was coming. He was right, because Hoover would have stalled the raids and sent out warnings to the old-boy network just to screw Bobby–unless he wanted to fuel the hatred against Jack.”
Pete grabbed the bottle. Pete doused his hands and wiped them on the drapes.
The fabric seeped beige to red. The wall was half-demolished.
“Pete, listen. There’s ways we can–”
Pete shoved him against the window. “No. This is the one we can’t get out of. We either kill him or we don’t, and they’ll probably kill us even if we get him.”
Kemper slid free. Pete slid the drapes back.
Exiles were jumping off the highway abutment. Cops were going at them with electric cattle prods.
“Look at that, Kemper. Look at that and tell me we can contain this fucking thing.”