“You’re not on the team for this project,” said Wilson. “So just forget about it, okay?”

“Hell, no. I’m going straight to Bobby with this.”

Wilson laughed. “You asshole. Don’t you realize? Bobby’s in charge of it!”

George was flattened.

All the same, he had gone to Bobby, who had said calmly: “Go down to Miami and take a look at the operation, George. Have Tedder show you around. Come back and tell me what you think.”

So George had visited the large new CIA camp in Florida where Cuban exiles were trained for their infiltration missions. Then Tedder had said: “Maybe you should come on a mission. See for yourself.”

It was a dare, and Tedder had not expected George to accept it. But George felt that if he refused he would be putting himself in a weak position. Right now he had the high ground: he was against Mongoose on moral and political grounds. If he refused to go on a raid, he would be seen as timid. And perhaps there was a part of him that could not resist the challenge of proving his courage. So, foolishly, he had said: “Yes. Will you be coming along?”

That had surprised Tedder, and George had seen clearly that Tedder wished he could withdraw the offer. But now he, too, had been challenged. It was what Greg Peshkov would call a pissing contest. And Tedder, too, had felt unable to back down; although he had said, as an afterthought: “Of course, we can’t tell Bobby you came.”

So here they were. It was a pity, George reflected, that President Kennedy was so fond of the spy novels of the British writer Ian Fleming. The president seemed to think the world could be saved by James Bond in reality as well as in thrillers. Bond was “licensed to kill.” That was crap. No one was licensed to kill.

Their target was a small town called La Isabela. It lay along a narrow peninsula that stuck like a finger out of Cuba’s north coast. It was a port, and had no business other than trade. Their aim was to damage the harbor facilities.

Their arrival was timed for first light. The sky to the east was turning gray when the skipper, Sanchez, throttled back the powerful engine, and its roar faded to a low burble. Sanchez knew this stretch of coast well: his father had owned a sugar plantation in the neighborhood, before the revolution. The silhouette of a town began to emerge on the dim horizon, and he killed the engine and unshipped a pair of oars.

The tide took them toward the town; the oars were mainly for steering. Sanchez had judged his approach perfectly. A line of concrete piers came into view. Behind the piers, George could dimly see large warehouses with pitched roofs. There were no big ships in port: farther along the coast, a few small fishing boats were moored. A low surf whispered on the beach; otherwise the world was hushed. The silent speedboat bumped against a pier.