The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  He went to the wardrobe, chose one of Greene’s clean shirts and carefully put it on. Then he went to Greene’s body and removed his wallet and wristwatch.

  He found Greene’s briefcase on top of the wardrobe and pulled it down. He searched inside. There was a selection of ID cards, three different passports and business cards. Rafferty glanced through them. One ID was for a Los Angeles police officer. There were others, including the FBI.

  Rafferty put Greene’s wallet and watch in the case together with his own bloodied shirt and snapped it shut.

  Before he left the suite, he stopped and stared at Greene’s dead body. He hadn’t intended to take his life but he realised it didn’t trouble him that he had. He thought of Marilyn and wondered if it really was her voice he had heard in his ear.

  The DC-8 landed smoothly back at Los Angeles International and taxied up to the terminal building. The air was muggy and Rafferty smelt aviation fuel as he walked into the terminal building.

  While he collected his suitcase, he spoke to the baggage handler.

  ‘Where’s the first aid station?’ he asked.

  The baggage handler looked surprised and Rafferty wondered if it was because of the question or just that someone was asking him a question at all. The man pointed towards the far corner.

  ‘Over there, on the right,’ he said.

  Rafferty thanked him and walked towards the ticket desks. He passed colourful signs and young women who all looked the same. He spotted the medical sign. The door was wedged open and he went in. There was a woman in her late twenties standing beside a counter. She was dressed in white and her badge identified her as Carolyn Ward, Nurse. Rafferty put his bags down and smiled.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of cuts,’ he said, by way of explanation.

  He pulled off his jacket.

  Nurse Ward saw the blood on his shirt and looked concerned.

  ‘You better come this way,’ she said.

  Rafferty followed her into the examination room.

  ‘Take off your shirt,’ she said.

  Rafferty pulled off his shirt and she removed the makeshift bandages and examined the two wounds.

  ‘These are both going to need stitches,’ she told him.

  ‘Can you do it now?’

  She looked at his face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘How did this happen?’

  ‘Fighting a sea lion,’ he said.

  Nurse Ward looked at him again and then she laughed.

  29 September 15, 1962, Washington D.C.

  The slim woman bent elegantly at the waist and placed the silver tray on the corner of the solid table. Her brunette hair swayed, held by something black, and she wore a pencil skirt and silk blouse. No trace of underwear was visible through either. She neither spoke nor smiled. She was Gallic and, to anyone who had visited France, it was obvious to see.

  ‘Thank you, Francesca,’ McGrath said.

  She left with her heels tapping. Rafferty caught a hint of scent from her body as she passed. Both men resisted the desire to watch her leave.

  Tricolor was McGrath’s favourite restaurant and Francesca, the owner, always brought McGrath’s coffee to his table personally, although they rarely spoke. She once told Rafferty he had come to the restaurant on her opening night and had spoken such beautiful French to her that she had fallen in love.

  Rafferty took the offered coffee cup from McGrath’s hand and watched him take a chocolate mint from the white dish and put it in his mouth. He sucked while he offered over the dish.

  McGrath rarely conducted business in the restaurant, preferring mostly to eat alone. He relished the authentic French cuisine and wines from Bordeaux and Alsace. Even so, with the consent of Francesca, McGrath had the restaurant swept regularly and he knew it was secure. In the corner, a piano player wearing a white jacket tinkled the ivories and Rafferty recognised the music as La Marseillaise.

  ‘As you know already, Shetland Greene turned up dead in his Four Seasons hotel room. There had been a struggle and he’d been killed with his own knife,’ McGrath said. ‘His wallet was taken. So were his wristwatch and briefcase. Did you see him before he died?’

  Rafferty placed his coffee cup in the saucer and hoped McGrath wouldn’t notice his bruised knuckles.

  ‘Yes. I met with him and two Cubans. He was working on a plot, as you know, using Cuban double agents, to get to Castro. He gave the two Cubans an initial payment and arranged to meet them again the following day,’ Rafferty said.

  McGrath nodded and took a second chocolate mint.

  ‘It seems, instead of us getting Castro, Castro got Greene,’ McGrath said.

  Rafferty remained silent.

  ‘The two Cubans, or others unknown, must have gone to his hotel room, perhaps to ask for more money…,’ McGrath said and then paused, ‘…or, perhaps, to take it; either way, a fight ensued and Greene…well, we know what happened to Greene. They will be long gone by now. It’s a bad business. It’s not like Greene to get it so wrong. What did you make of the two Cubans?’

  ‘I thought it seemed a big gap between them and Castro. I wasn’t convinced by them,’ Rafferty said.

  McGrath nodded.

  ‘…and they’ve helped themselves to his ID badges, passports and everything else in his briefcase.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rafferty said.

  Francesca returned with a second small white dish of chocolate mints. She bent close to McGrath’s ear and spoke quietly to him in French. He nodded without looking at her but he didn’t speak.

  30 September 27, 1963, Mexico City

  ‘Castro’s got it buttoned down tighter than my great-aunt Gloria’s nightdress,’ Smithy said.

  Rafferty didn’t know Smithy’s great-aunt Gloria, but he imagined that that was tight. Smithy’s analogy of Castro’s security and great-aunt Gloria’s modesty amused him.

  Smithy was explaining to Rafferty why they weren’t making any progress.

  ‘Nothing and nobody moves in or out without him knowing about it. He’s got complete control and he getting stronger with every week that passes,’ Smithy said.

  Rafferty nodded and sipped his beer. It had gone flat and warm in the midday heat. He pushed it away. The small bar was a short walk from the Four Seasons, on a tourist route and didn’t have air conditioning. All it had was two ceiling fans and one smaller fan screwed to the wall pointing at the barman. All that the fans managed to do was circulate the hot air and cigarette smoke. Rafferty felt his shirt stick to his sweaty back and reached behind to pull it free.

  ‘Did you hear about the crazy guy that turned up this week?’ Smithy asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Rafferty said, shifting in his seat to keep his shirt loose from his back.

  ‘Well, a young American guy walks into the Cuban embassy and completes a transit visa application. He claims he wants to visit Cuba on his way back to the Soviet Union,’ Smithy said, beginning his story.

  Rafferty’s interest was low. Mexico City didn’t interest him and he wanted to return to the States. Castro was too smart and his people too loyal. Nobody wanted it bad enough. Anyway, removing Castro wasn’t going to change Cuba, not now. Rafferty thought it was time to call it off. They’d just have to learn to live with it. He looked at Smithy who was eager to tell his story.

  ‘This sounds good,’ Rafferty said encouragingly.

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ Smithy replied. ‘So, the Cubans tell him he has to prove the Russians have given him permission before they’ll give him the visa. So then, he goes over to the Russian embassy to ask them, but they don’t want to co-operate. Over the next four days, this guy shuttles back and forth between the two embassies until he ends up having a shouting match with the Cubans, who politely but firmly tell him to go to hell.’

  Rafferty was amused.

  ‘Who is this guy?’ he asked.

  Smithy shifted in his sticky seat.

  ‘Well, that makes it even better. He used to be a marine, and then he went to live in Russia fo
r a couple of years. He’s married to a girl from Minsk and he speaks fluent Russian. You can imagine, everyone got very excited, lots of interest, but it turns out he’s nobody, just some crazy guy who’s shown up making a nuisance of himself.’

  ‘So, where is he now?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘Still here in Mexico City, but we’re not bothering with him,’ Smithy said.

  ‘Why not?’ Rafferty asked.

  Smithy raised his eyebrows.

  ‘He’s a crazy ex-marine with political issues. Why do you think? He’s trouble waiting to happen.’

  Rafferty signalled to the barman. The unshaven man wearing a grubby apron and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette opened two new beers and pushed them across the bar. They were cold and both Rafferty and Smithy held them to their foreheads. The action made Rafferty remember Shetland Greene rolling his cold whisky glass over his sweaty brow. He pushed the memory away.

  ‘Does McGrath know about this guy?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘We’re keeping him up to speed with everything we’re doing,’ Smithy said. ‘We sent him a full report on this joker.’

  ‘So what’s this guy’s name?’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Oswald,’ Smithy replied. ‘Lee Oswald.’

  ‘Where’s he staying?’

  ‘A small boarding house called Casa de la Barraca, down by the docks in the old area, on a street called Granadilla. It’s a real dump. He obviously hasn’t got any money,’ Smithy said.

  ‘You’ll probably find he’ll just disappear,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Yeah, let’s hope so.’

  31 September 28, 1963, Mexico City

  It was early for a tourist fare.

  The cab driver didn’t usually get his first customer until after nine and it wasn’t yet eight. He drove slowly with his arm out the window and allowed his body to sway with the bouncing suspension on the uneven road.

  His passenger sat in the back, silently watching the city pass by. Noisy scooters buzzed past them, weaving in and out, sounding their shrill horns and waving unhappy arms.

  The docks in the old area were a strange destination. The cab driver wondered why the man wanted to go there. He glanced at him in the rearview mirror. The man’s face held no clues; it was emotionless as if the ride was nothing more than a daily commute to work. The driver put it out of his mind. What did he care? The American had paid him well.

  He stopped on Granadilla and pointed across the street at a tatty three-storey building. Its white paint was peeling from the walls and the steep front steps led to a swing door beside a cracked window. The door creaked on its hinges.

  ‘Casa de la Barraca,’ said the cab driver.

  The American opened the cab door and stepped out.

  ‘Wait for me here,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay you the same to take me back.’

  The driver nodded and smiled. He had a front tooth missing.

  ‘I wait,’ he said.

  The boarding house was old and run down. The teenage girl behind the desk watched the man come in. He walked straight up to the desk and without speaking placed five dollars next to the girl’s hand. She grasped it with her ringed fingers and stared at him. He picked up the red coloured guest book, turned the pages and read the recent registrations. Finding what he wanted, he closed the book and handed it back to the girl.

  She took it without a smile.

  The man climbed two flights of stairs and found the door with the number he wanted. It was at the end of the hall, dirty with beer stains and finger marks. He banged on it with his fist. He had to bang twice more before a small man opened and peered out. He was wearing a white vest and smoking a cigarette. His hair was short but it still managed to look untidy, and he hadn’t shaved or washed for several days.

  ‘Yeah, what d’you want?’ he asked crudely.

  ‘Are you Oswald?’ the man asked.

  Oswald looked him up and down, leaning on the door with his arm up.

  ‘Yeah. Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I work for the American government and we need your help,’ he told him, pushing the door open and walking in. Oswald backed off and allowed the man to move past him. The room smelt of unwashed clothes, stale food and cigarettes. Oswald closed the door, took a deep drag on his Marlboro and faced his visitor.

  ‘What d’you want?’ he asked.

  ‘Your help. Is it true you were a marine?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yeah, I was a marine,’ Oswald said.

  ‘Where did you train?’

  ‘Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’ the man asked.

  ‘They released me from active duty,’ Oswald said.

  ‘Why?’ the man asked.

  ‘The army didn’t like me, they thought I was a communist,’ Oswald said.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you shoot a rifle?’ the man asked.

  Oswald paused and dragged on his cigarette. His brow swooped down over his dark eyes. He exhaled in a solid rush.

  ‘What’s this about? You got any ID or something?’ Oswald asked.

  All the questions had made him curious.

  The man’s face softened.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied and pulled an ID badge from his jacket pocket. He held it up so Oswald could read it.

  ‘Agent Shetland Greene, Federal Bureau of Investigation,’ he read out loud. ‘Wow, important,’ he said with sarcasm. The man ignored him. Oswald checked the photograph and it matched.

  ‘All right?’ the man asked.

  Oswald didn’t answer. He pulled on his cigarette.

  ‘Can you shoot a rifle?’ the man asked again.

  Oswald seemed to cheer up. Perhaps it was the possibility of something new happening to him.

  ‘Sure, I can shoot a rifle. I’ve got my own Italian Carcano,’ he said boastfully.

  ‘What were your marine scores for rifle shooting?’ the man asked.

  ‘My first one, during training, was two-twelve. The other was just before I left, I wasn’t so bothered. That one was one ninety-one,’ he replied honestly, assuming the FBI could check.

  The man knew the first score was high. It was a sharpshooter score. The second was the marksman score. Following training and practice, every marine achieved the marksman score, but not many managed a high sharpshooter score. Oswald was good.

  ‘Where do you live?’ the man asked.

  Oswald hesitated.

  ‘I’m kinda stuck at the moment. I was going to Cuba, to visit, and then on to the Soviet Union. There’s nothing for me in the States. Only, the Cubans won’t give me a visa and the Russians don’t want me back either,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you’re not stuck any longer. You’ve got a very important job to do,’ the man told him.

  ‘Yeah,’ Oswald said, smiling as though he had just won a prize.

  ‘Have you ever been to Dallas?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yeah, of course, I lived there for six months last year, my mother and brother live there,’ Oswald said.

  ‘Good. What’s the address?’ the man asked.

  Oswald told him the address and the man committed it to memory.

  ‘Right, I want you to return to Dallas and lay low. Don’t do anything. Stay out of trouble and keep away from the cops, understand?’ the man told him.

  ‘Sure, but what’s going on? What do you want me to do?’ Oswald asked.

  The man produced a billfold from his inside jacket pocket and counted out five hundred dollars. He handed the money to Oswald.

  ‘This is a down payment. There’ll be more. Go back to Dallas today and wait. I’ll be in touch,’ the man said.

  Oswald stared at the money. He looked up and smiled.

  ‘Okay, sure,’ he replied.

  The man turned and left.

  Oswald watched him go. Then with a big grin on his face, he kissed the five hundred bucks.

  The cab driver watched the man walk down the steps and across the dusty road. He w
as pleased. The American hadn’t taken long and he would soon have his second fare of the day. The Mexican wondered what it was the prostitute did that was so special that it would bring such a man to such a place. He cast it from his mind and started the engine. He wasn’t going to ask.

  32 November 2, 1963, Dallas, Texas

  Oswald finished one cigarette and then lit another.

  He couldn’t keep still, moving from one foot to the other, and playing with the Marlboro. He was anxious and wanted to know more.

  The man was relaxed and confident. He ignored Oswald’s erratic behaviour and simply gazed at him calmly.

  ‘Why?’ Oswald said.

  The man ignored the question and continued as if Oswald hadn’t asked it.

  ‘This current Democratic Party administration is actively pursuing policies to remove Castro from power,’ he said. ‘They are becoming more and more frustrated with their failures and may soon do something unwise such as undertake a full-blown invasion.’

  Oswald was quickly interested and his agitated movements slowed as his attention grew. He listened closely.

  ‘There are powerful men in Washington D.C. who are determined this must not happen,’ the man said. ‘The reason is one of national security. These people are prepared to do whatever is necessary to safeguard the security of the United States.’

  ‘What’s the reason, the real reason, and don’t say national security,’ Oswald said.

  ‘It is national security. These people fear a nuclear attack by the Russians if America were to invade Cuba. They would rather have a Cuba with Castro, controlled by diplomacy and deal-making than risk a war with the Russians neither side could win,’ the man said. His words sounded convincing.