“These pilots, and other crew members, have apparently defected from Cuba in defiance of Fidel Castro.”
Damn it! Why stick ’apparently’ in there? Either they did or they didn’t. Come on, Adlai. You promised!
Hands waved all across the hall. Ambassadors shouted out questions until hoarse. Stevenson addressed them one by one.
“No United States personnel participated. No United States Government airplanes of any kind participated.”
Better. ‘No’ means no, at least when Stevenson says so. Whatever, of course, the truth may be. But if people believe that Adlai speaks only the truth, now this is ‘true.’
Even if happens to be the opposite of what had actually occurred.
“These two planes, to the best of our knowledge, were Castro’s own air force planes. According to the pilots, they took off from Castro’s own air-force fields.”
“To the best of our knowledge?’ But that leaves room for doubt. ‘According to the pilots’? You’re giving them just what we did not want them to hear—that we still only have their word to go on as to the escalating situation ... Fuck it, Adlai!
Apparently, as all listening gathered close to see, Adlai raised a photograph high for members of the Assembly. “I have here a picture of one of these planes. It has the markings of the Castro air force on its tail, which everyone can see for himself. The Cuban star and initials FAR are clearly visible.”
Proof positive; seeing is believing. Okay, okay. We might just survive this God-forsaken ordeal. Stick to your guns ...
“Steps have been taken to impound the Cuban planes and they will not be permitted to take off.”
With that, Stevenson waved off all further questions and, appearing faint, retired from the podium.
*
By the end of the third week in April, 1961, everyone in the world who followed the news was well aware not only that Honest Adlai had lied bold-faced but that everything Fidel Castro claimed was absolutely true. There had been no organic, spontaneous attempt at revolution in Cuba. All that occurred—the bombing of the country’s airports, the invasion from sea—had been carried out, as Rosa had announced in the U.N., by the United States.
The most observant journalists, including some in the U.S., pointed out that the nine planes which had composed the squadron were not precisely the same model and make as those currently owned and operated by Cubans. Small details such as windshield shape and tail-size attested that these were similar but not identical. No question, the CIA had overseen everything.
The big issue now: How high up did all of this reach?
Previous to the pro-American Cubans landing, only to be massacred on the beaches before they could move up off the sand and into bushes on the rim, a new organization had been formed in the most clandestine quarters of Washington by men who knew they would shortly be held responsible for this fiasco. It would be known, in secret, as ‘The 54/12 Group.’ The ‘club’ cut across all pre-existing lines and venues; they hailed from the key information gathering communities, the military, and politics.
From day one, they believed that John Fitzgerald Kennedy, initially a wild card, now qualified as something more dangerous still: a loose cannon. That he could and likely would destroy all their careers was not, to men holding such values, the most horrific part. Far worse was his power, as president, to cripple the work they did, through strategy backed by force, to maintain world peace. Ultimately, though, what most motivated each was a commonly held belief that JFK posed a far greater danger to the country and the world than either Castro or Khrushchev.
JFK would do anything, they were now certain, say anything to further his own cause: The Kennedy Legacy. Which meant that not only they and their work were expendable. So too were the best interests of the U.S. That, they could not accept. This, for members of The 54/12 Group, constituted the final straw.
They knew J. Edgar gloated when JFK self-servingly went on TV and radio to damn the CIA for daring to try and pull off such an absurd mission without his say-so. And that, as a result, the president must now re-evaluate his support of The Company, decide whether it ought to be shut down. The FBI's old bulldog might, in the end, yet have the last laugh.
History provided JFK with his opportunity to redeem America’s reputation and cement his own living-legend status a year and a half later, between October 8 and 14, 1962. Castro, nobody’s fool, assumed that Bay of Pigs had merely been wave one; next time, the entire American military would come at him.
Until then Castro had been wary about accepting Russia as an ally, fearing they were no better than the U.S. He continued to accept weapons and rubles. Still: Let them, as Khrushchev tried to persuade Castro, move men and machinery onto Cuban soil?
Before you know it the Soviets will run the place! Castro turned down one offer after another from the Soviet Premiere.
That was then; this, now. After Bay of Pigs, that request took on new merit in terms of Castro’s own survival. The fiasco of mid-April 1961, carried out as a means to keep any Russian nuclear warheads out of Cuba, proved a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Before that, Castro mis-trusted the Americans. Now? He came to openly loathe and secretly fear them. As for the Soviets? Fidel Castro expressed the same basic political philosophy as so many of his opponents: any enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Hey, Nikita: Come on down! With nuclear weapons for a deterrence, there will be no further attempts at invasion.
Only Castro underestimated JFK. Or, more correctly, failed to grasp how delicate JFK’s position had become following the previous year’s debacle. If the president hoped to regain his image as an intellectual warrior prince and win re-election in 1964, he had to talk tough. Stand firm. Be strong.
This time around he did just that. Dismissing the CIA, in his mind responsible for his current problems, JFK decided that now he would handle things himself, brother Bobby his only back-up.
If the missiles were not removed immediately JFK would, under auspices of the old but abiding Monroe Doctrine, assume Khrushchev declared war. Someone had to give; Nikita blinked.
The missiles were removed. JFK renewed his image as our young hero-president. Also redeemed, at least somewhat, was Adlai Stevenson. Armed with evidence of the missiles that the U.S.S.R. hoped to deny, he faced off with Valerian Zorin in what became one of the most memorable of all U.N. confrontations.
First, the supremely logical Adlai: “You, the Soviet Union, has sent these weapons to Cuba. You, the Soviet Union, has upset the balance of power in the world. You, the Soviet Union, has created this new danger ...”
Then, after Zorin attempted to imply that the U.S. hoped to manufacture a false crisis, an emotional Adlai expressed anger: “Do you deny that the U.S.S.R. has placed, and is placing, medium to intermediate range missiles at sites in Cuba? Yes or no? Don’t wait for the translation. Yes or no?”
Nobody had ever seen Stevenson like this before! Finally, when Zorin, rather than lie, tried to remain mum: “I am prepared to wait for the answer until hell freezes over.”
“God, almighty,” JFK said to Bobby as they watched the confrontation on TV, loving every minute of it. “If only he had shown such spark while running for president, he would’ve won!”
*
No sooner was the crisis over than JFK and Bobby, basking in their success, asked each other: What the hell do we need the CIA for? Besides, now that we’ve shown Castro who’s boss, maybe we can normalize relations. Obviously he’s there to stay.
Why cut off our nose to spite our face? Let’s learn to live with the guy, open a discussion. He sure isn’t going to rely on the Russians wholeheartedly, as before, now that Nikita blinked and pulled out his technology.
Jack, I think you’re right. Things change. This could be the beginning of a new era. Now, if we can only convince Castro it was the CIA, working on their own, that tried to assassinate him, and not the two of us, there’s no reason why ...
The Company, to put it mildly, did not a
ppreciate that.
Angrier still were the anti-Castro Cubans in Florida. Until then, JFK had been perceived as their savior. Overnight he transformed into Satan on earth.
Not the CIA. The Cubans in Miami were aware that Kennedy’s decision to not only abort Bay of Pigs but allow their friends and relatives to unnecessarily die has been his, not theirs.
Throughout the Cuban community in the southeastern U.S., the word spread: though we love the United States dearly and consider the CIA our friends, we have been betrayed by the man we trusted most of all. This cannot go unpunished.
They did not stand alone as to this strong sentiment.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
DEJA VU
“CIA, FBI? We’re all swimming around in the
same alphabet soup these days.”
—Leo G. Carroll as “Head of Security” in
Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Northwest (1959)
Eclectic, Frank Sturgis, aka ‘George’, decided while considering the dozen people seated around an ovular oak table. When was the last time he had come to such a conclusion ...?
Oh, of course. Cuba; November 30, 1960. My God! Was that less than three years ago? Seems like centuries.
Everything is so different. The thought that these people could come together then would have seemed madness. Now? Common sense. For here I am, representing the CIA, while ...
To George’s immediate right sat a middle-aged man who, only a few years previous, had been a member of the FBI. After that, he’d gone into business for himself, occasionally employed by the Company, today representing the Bureau. Just beyond him, a State Department official: gray hair and matching suit, deeply concerned, profoundly quiet.
Continuing on and around: a beautiful brunette, the sort that you expected to see as window-dressing in Hollywood movies though she’d never appeared in one; the Russian consul, known to be a KGB operative; a member of the Miami anti-Castro Cubans; a representative from Castro; the best-looking man in the Mob; a former vice-president; a slender blonde; an admiral, a five-star general. And, finally, a much revered showbiz celebrity.
“So here we all are,” George sighed. The others laughed uneasily in this safe-house, the one room in Washington, D.C. absolutely guaranteed to be 100 % free of internal wiretaps.
“Where’s Lee?” the FBI representative asked.
“That’s our first point of business. Two days ago, I approached him with our proposal.”
“Did he turn you down?” the anti-Castro representative wanted to know. “But you said that—”
“I know what I said. He did not turn me down. Not yet.”
“What precisely did he do?” the FBI man wanted to know.
“He visibly recoiled in horror.”
“Lee’s been so loyal—” the Mafioso mused.
“Lee was loyal to an idea he has in his head. His notion of patriotism turns out to be different from our own. At any rate, he’s supposed to call me today with his final decision.”
“If not Lee, who will ...” The State Department man couldn’t finish his question so George performed that function.
“Get the job done? Deciding that is our major concern. But I must say, I don’t anticipate it will be Lee Harvey Oswald.”
*
One day before the original 54/12 Group met, the subject of their current discussion strolled along Bourbon Street. Like his mentor, Lee experienced a sense of déjà vu. The last time he’d taken this route had been in late April, 1954.
I was fifteen years old then. I arrived feeling like a sick bird, pirouetting to the ground. Only to soar Phoenix-like back up into fresh skies after watching Suddenly.
A warm drizzle descended, even as it had that now long ago day. Lee glanced around at the drops landing on neon between Canal Street and Esplanade Avenue, the fabled eight blocks which constituted upper Bourbon. He passed Jean Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, a vestige of that noble pirate who, at a crucial moment in our history, chose to do the right thing and help Andrew Jackson defeat the British. Nearby stood the Old Absinthe House, once a place of shame for those not strong enough to resist its lurid temptations, today a tourist-trap like most other artifacts.
Even the streetcar named Desire awaited world-travelers anxious to pose on its façade for the cameras of friends.
Not everything appeared the same. The recently elected District Attorney Jim Garrison had, on paper at least, closed down houses of prostitution, hoping to create a family-friendly atmosphere. Still, at hot-spots like Beyond the Green Door and Nightmare Alley, a visitor could still seek out girls of the night.
Even in broad daylight, no pun intended.
Not Lee. For one thing, he loved-—sincerely, truly, even devotedly loved—his wife, now that they had come to terms with each other’s true identities. Besides, pleasure of any sort—drinking, gambling, whatever—was not now a preoccupation.
The time to decide had come. He must reach a conclusion today that would determine the rest of his life. And far more. The fate of his country—the world!—was at stake here.
“Your next assignment,” George had whispered when they met two days earlier in the safest of all the Big Easy safe-houses, “will be the most important of your life.” This occurred in the office of Guy Bansila, an FBI agent and private-eye. Located in the Newman Building, this enclave featured an entrance on 531 Lafayette Street and, around the corner, another at 544 Camp.
George employed the former. Lee, following instructions from eccentric airline pilot George Ferrie, opted for the latter.
“Stop talking in circles and—”
“Brace yourself. On November 22, President Kennedy is scheduled to arrive in Dallas. A motorcade will whisk him through the downtown area, on his way to deliver several speeches. He will never arrive at those destinations.”
“Why?” Lee, growing anxious, asked.
“Because,” George continued, eyeballing Lee, “before he can, you will assassinate the president of the United States.”
*
Lee had arrived in New Orleans by bus from Dallas on April 25, carrying precious little along with him: a few clothes and books he’d hastily shoved into a pair of duffel bags, his secret papers, and the dismantled Mannlicher-Carcano rifle, along with its telescopic sight. The moment he disembarked, Lee headed for a pay phone and called Lillian Murret, she happily surprised to hear from her relative.
“My God. Lee? I’d know that voice anywhere!”
Lee had not contacted his aunt since mid-October, 1956, when he called to say he’d joined the Marines and would stay in touch though he failed to do so. Recovering from her surprise, Lillian inquired as to whether Lee had a place to stay. When he admitted he did not, and was likely headed for the Y.M.C.A, she invited Lee to her home over on French Street. Each morning, he rose early and, after a breakfast prepared by Lillian or her daughter Marilyn Dorothea Murret, a schoolteacher, headed off job-hunting.
“It’s so wonderful for me to rediscover my family.”
Both women were fascinated that after returning from a long day’s fruitless search, he would not, like any ordinary person, plop down in front of the TV after supper. Instead, Lee hurried up to his room, where he read late into the late night. “I didn’t have the benefit of higher education,” Lee told them. “I hope that, after the Revolution comes, all Americans, no matter how humble their origins, will be able to attend college...”
“What revolution?” Lillian, confused, asked.
“Why, the worldwide revolution, of course.”
Lee had spent a great deal of time thinking during his bus trip eastward, alternating quiet meditation with reading. The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoevsky’s final work, struck Lee as greater even than Crime and Punishment. How artfully the master spun what initially seemed little more than a domestic squabble in Staraya, Russia, as an absent father left his lonely sons to fend for themselves, into tragedy worthy of the Bard.
An absent father? Domestic squabbles? I can relate to that!
As one after another of the brothers were introduced, Lee related in turn to each: Dimitri, the hedonist, who wallowed in diversions of female flesh; Vanya, the man of logic, observing human suffering and as a result questioning the concept of a benign God; Aloysha, the boy whose faith could not be shaken by anything worldly, offering Vanya one extreme pole, if only his Existential questions could be set aside; and Smerdyakov, a dark nihilist who had given up not only faith but even the ability to care for humanity, the other extreme that also drew Vanya.
Ultimately, Vanya served as Doestoevsky’s central figure. For it was he who must decide whether to abandon all hope and enter the abyss from which there was no return, or be born-again, somehow accepting that life still had meaning.
Alternately, Lee read, transported into this land of long ago and far away, and slept. When he did, Lee dreamed, fiction by Dostoevsky mingling with facts of the contemporary world. His unconscious mind returned to “The Grand Inquisitor”: a Spanish nobleman who embodied Satan on earth, rejecting Jesus on his Second Coming, yet embraced, even kissed, by the innocent one.
What did this metaphoric episode finally mean? Should Lee too strive to love rather hate? If so, then he must reject the words George had passed on to him as a mantra, replaced by a code of his own: Any enemy of my friend is my brother.
This is the person who had met with George, he unaware of the sea-change within Lee, shortly after arrival. Yesterday, Lee had been told he would have the honor of killing Kennedy.
This appears vaguely familiar ... I feel as if I’ve been here before ... Oh, wow! ... Yes, I do remember ...
Lee found himself on a side-street, standing in front of the same run-down theatre he’d entered in 1954. Could history repeat itself? Might he once more find himself at the movies?
Lee glanced up at the marquee, which read: THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE starring Frank Sinatra. Holy! Accident or destiny?
*
From the moment this film began, Lee sensed that he was watching something other than a conventional Hollywood movie, despite Sinatra’s star-power and big-scale production values. For one thing, there were no opening credits, not even a logo to identify the studio.
Patsy! : The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald Page 37