"The commandant told me," the President said. "He said the guy fought on Guadalcanal as a lieutenant, and wants to come back on duty now and go to Vietnam."

"Yes, sir."

"The commandant says he's tempted to take him; this guy is apparently a crack shot. He knew him on Guadalcanal. But there's really no place for him. He wouldn't want to come back in to push paper, and he's really not qualified to command a regiment. "

Felter didn't reply.

"I thought of you when the commandant told me about this guy," the President said. "You'd really rather be commanding a regiment, wouldn't you, than what you're doing?"

"Yes, Mr. President, I would."

"There are probably five hundred colonels in the Army qualified to command a regiment," the President said. "But you're the only one I know qualified to do what you do for me. I know that, and I want you to know I appreciate what you do."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"Would you be surprised to hear that the director and you agree about something?"

"We often agree, Mr. President," Felter said. "You only hear of our disagreements."

The President laughed.

"Okay. The director agrees with you that unless he's stopped, Che Guevara is going to cause us a lot of serious trouble in South America and Africa."

"That's my assessment, sir. It's nice to know I'm not the only one who sees the problem."

"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 is a murderer? Just like the guy who shoots the guard when he's robbing a bank?" 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 you could . . . what did you say? . . . could . . . what did you say? . . . deal with deal with the trouble you say he's going to cause?" 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 you could control him?" 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 Whatever he asks for." 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 you spending all your time 'controlling' Senor Guevara. "

"Yes, sir."

IV.

[ ONE ].

226 Providence Drive Swarthmore, Pennsylvania 1520 14 December 1964.

H. Wilson Lunsford, M.D., answered the door of his home. "Good afternoon, Doctor," Colonel Sanford T. Felter said. "It's good to see you again, sir, and I apologize for the intrusion."

"I'm sure you consider it necessary, Colonel," Dr. Lunsford said. "Won't you please come in?"

"How is he?"

"He and his buddy have been at the scotch since lunch," Dr.

Lunsford said, and then, when he saw the look on Felter's face, added: "Dr. McClintock at Walter Reed gave me tranquilizers for George to dispense as I saw fit. He said he thought there might be some depression. He and his buddy are having a good time, and the only price they're going to have to pay is a hangover. I'm a lot happier giving him scotch than some exotic chemical."

He motioned for Felter to precede him into the house, then down a corridor, and then stepped quickly ahead of him to open a door. Through it, Felter saw that it was a game room. There was an antique billiards table in the center of the room, and there were leather armchairs and a couch against one paneled wall, and there was an octagonal card table with a green felt playing surface in a corner.

"Your guest, George," Dr. Lunsford said.

When Father Lunsford saw him in the doorway, he-a Pavlovian response-came quickly out of his chair.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said, just a little thickly.

Felter waved him back into his chair and walked up and gave him his hand.

"Sorry to intrude, Father," Felter said. "It couldn't be helped, and I won't be long."

Then he turned to make his manners to Father's buddy, who had also stood up when he entered the room, and was standing now.

Felter had been mildly curious about whom Father Lunsford would have for a buddy, and mildly concerned that, in the company of some high school or college chum, the scotch might loosen Father's tongue a little too much.

"Good afternoon, sir," Father's buddy said, also a little thickly.

The last time Felter had seen Captain John S. Oliver was in the office of Major General Robert Bellmon. Oliver-whom Bellmon has described as "as good an officer as they come"-was Bellmon's aide-de-camp.

"Hello, Oliver," Felter said. "Good to see you." Then he blurted what was in his mind. "I didn't know you two knew each other."

He was genuinely surprised. Oliver was an Army aviator, a Regular Army officer out of Norwich, who had already been accepted into what Felter thought of as the establishment. He knew that Bob Bellmon would have been happy if John Oliver and Marjorie had hit it off. This was, he realized, the first time he had ever seen Oliver-and he had been with him often-looking as if he had as much as sniffed at the neck of a beer bottle.

"Captain Oliver and myself, Colonel, have been anal orifice comrades since he saved my bacon in Vietnam," Father said.

"Sit down, Johnny," Felter said.

"With the colonel's kind permission, I will adjourn to the gentlemen's facility," Oliver said, carefully pronouncing each word, and walked a little unsteadily out of the room.

Father looked at Felter.

"His lady love told him it was either her or the Army," Father said. "He chose the Army, and she wasn't bluffing."

"I had no idea," Felter said.

"And now he is sadly contemplating all those nights in the future, alone in a soldier's bed."

"What did she have against the Army?"

"She lost one husband, and decided she wasn't equipped to lose another. No problem with him, Colonel. I'll take care of him. He's one of the good guys."

"General Bellmon thinks very highly of him," Felter said, thinking out loud.

"He's Johnny's general?" Father asked, and when Felter nodded, went on: "Yeah, he got Johnny a deal-"

"'Deal' ?"

"You know he's no longer a dog-robber?"

"No, I didn't."

"Well, he's not. He was good at it, but he hated it, and he was up for reassignment, and his general got him some kind of special job-executive assistant or something-to a General Rand, who's going to have some new kind of division at Benning . . ."