Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy

by L. D. C. Fitzgerald

  The VP swung his feet off the desk. What in tarnation was Kennedy thinking? Fidel Castro would not take kindly to being called a pawn of Russia. He read on:

  They have made Cuba a victim of foreign imperialism, an instrument of the policy of others, a weapon in an effort dictated by external powers to subvert the other American Republics. This, and this alone, divides us. As long as this is true, nothing is possible. Without it, everything is possible.

  LBJ leaned forward, seized a pen, and started underscoring the inflammatory passages. The newspapers had gotten it right for once. The president had virtually incited a coup to overthrow Castro’s regime. No wonder Fidel had vilified the US and its policies earlier in the day. Hadn’t JFK bungled the Cuban situation enough already? The speech elaborated:

  Once this barrier is removed, we will be ready and anxious to work with the Cuban people in pursuit of those progressive goals which a few short years ago stirred their hopes and the sympathy of many people throughout the hemisphere.

  Johnson gouged the document in frustration as he continued reading:

  No Cuban need feel trapped between dependence on the broken promises of foreign communism and the hostility of the rest of the hemisphere. For once Cuban sovereignty has been restored, we will extend the hand of friendship and assistance to a Cuba whose political and economic institutions have been shaped by the will of the Cuban people.

  Without even glancing at the last paragraph, the VP crumpled the pages into a ball and fired it at the wastebasket.

  What a set of false promises. Offering aid only after the citizens revolt and neutralize Castro? It would never happen. All Kennedy had accomplished was to enrage the Cuban leader and his communist ally—the Soviet Union.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1963

  5:10 PM – CST

  After transporting Oswald three-quarters of a mile from his rooming house to the team’s headquarters, J.D. invited him to sit in the living room. He introduced Iggy, Dee, and Jay.

  Oswald demanded an explanation for their attendance.

  “Settle down. You’re here to answer questions, not ask them.” Officer Tippit’s broad, uniformed shoulders, combined with his commanding tone, made for an imposing presence. However, this seemed lost on their guest. “How do you know the Russians who frequent the Carousel Club?”

  The subject rolled his eyes. “What makes you think I do?”

  “You wouldn’t have agreed to come with me if you didn’t, so stop the nonsense.”

  “Fine.” Oswald scowled. “But they came to me.”

  “Why would they approach you?”

  “Everyone wants to know what I’m up to. The Russians, the Cubans, the FBI, the CIA, you name it.” He crossed his arms.

  Iggy gazed questioningly at Dee. Puzzled, Dee shook her head.

  “I’m different.” Oswald squinted at each woman in turn. “I lived in Russia. That makes important people take notice of a guy like me.”

  Dee took the bait. “Okay. Why would a guy like you choose to live in the Soviet Union during the height of the Cold War?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. I moved for political reasons.”

  “Ah.” Jay pretended to be fascinated. “What are your politics then?”

  “I subscribe to Marxist philosophy. I began my studies at the age of fifteen, from an ideological viewpoint.” He tapped his index finger on his temple. “I and my fellow workers and communists would like to see the present capitalist government of the US fall. The government supports an economic system which exploits all its workers. Under that system, art, culture, and the spirit of man are subjected to commercial enterpray-zing, and religion and education are used as a tool to sur-press what would otherwise be a population questioning their government’s unfair economic system and plans for war.”

  Jay’s mouth hung open as he tried to digest Oswald’s outlandish commentary, his pathetic malapropisms, and his erroneous pronunciations. This barnyard animal sounded like he’d memorized a propaganda leaflet. Incorrectly.

  “You’ll see. In the future, people will look in the history books and say, ‘Well, this man was ahead of his time.’” Oswald smirked.

  History books? Dee wished her reference materials contained more information on this horse’s ass. Unfortunately, mentions of him were brief.

  Iggy observed Jay clamping his mouth shut and realized she’d been gaping as well. “And what’s wrong with capitalism? Our society is viewed as one of the most stable and productive in the world.”

  “Take off your blinders and look around at what you’ve got. Segregation. Unemployment. Automation.” He paused between each word, as if expecting agreement with ideas considered to be common knowledge. “And don’t forget the use of military forces to sur-press other populations.”

  “And you really believe”—Dee struggled to keep the incredulity out of her voice—“Marxism is the answer?”

  “To quote Karl Marx, ‘from each according to his ability, to each according to his need.’ What he meant was that every man should contribute to society the best he could, and take from society as much he needs, irregardless of how much he contributes.”

  “Actually, his sentiment entailed consuming only in proportion to one’s needs rather than as much as one might desire. Irrespective of that”—Jay emphasized the proper word—“the quotation didn’t originate with Marx. Although he popularized the phrase, the socialist movement commonly used the slogan. It was first attributed to Louis Blanc in 1840 in his famous essay, “The Organization of Work.” He in turn stole the core idea from utopian socialist Henri de Saint Simon, who purported that each should be rewarded according to how much he works. So you see, Blanc bastardized Saint Simon’s more capitalist-centric quote into the one that many today erroneously to ascribe Marx.” Noticing everyone peering at him with peculiar expressions, he abruptly halted.

  Oswald’s face, however, radiated venom.

  Jay cleared his throat. “Anyway, why did you leave the Soviet Union if their system is superior?”

  “You think you’re smarter than me? With your encyclopedia books and fancy words? Well let me tell you something. You don’t know nothing. Their system is better. It just hasn’t been perfected yet.”

  “And the problem is . . . ?”

  “I went to live in a Marxist society where everyone works and everyone is treated equal. But there were state officials who had better pay, larger apartments, and more benefits than me!” Oswald’s voice shrilled, “The problem is they have fat, stinking politicians over there, same like we have here.”

  “Enough!” J.D. hollered. “We are not debating the merits of different political doctrines. We need to understand some key points of relevant information. Oswald, what business did you have with the Russians at the Carousel Club?”

  “My business with them is none of your business.”

  “Fine, if that’s the way you want it.” J.D. pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “How about we take a ride down to the station house? A couple of nights in the lockup should change your mind.”

  Oswald sneered. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Don’t tempt me. And I’m sure those Soviets wouldn’t be too pleased to find out you’d been arrested and interrogated.”

  Oswald blanched at the mention of the Russians. “Look, all they did was tell me about a job.”

  J.D. began a rapid-fire succession of questions. “Would that be your current job at the Book Depository?”

  Pause. “Yeah.”

  “Why did they want you to work at that particular warehouse?”

  “Maybe they wanted to help a like-minded comrade.” Oswald draped his arm lazily across the back of the couch. Beads of sweat on his forehead revealed his nervousness.

  “Come on! There has to be more to it. They must want something in return.”

  Oswald shrugged.

  “I ask you again. What do they want you to do?”

  “They haven’t axed me t
o do anything.”

  J.D. considered Oswald. He seemed sincere—almost wishful that he would be called upon by the KGB. He was also hiding something. “Circumstances indicate the Russians are going to commit a heinous crime. Innocent people might be murdered. Men and women with children, just like you. I know you don’t want that to happen. Will you help us? Be a hero to your family?”

  Oswald wiped his sweaty brow with his sleeve.

  “Think. Have they said anything suspicious?” The policeman jangled his handcuffs for emphasis.

  Oswald stared at the floor. “They’re planning some kind of maneuvers. Tonight. Two am.” He mumbled the last two words: “Dealey Plaza.”

  6:00 PM – CST

  Team Orbis, J.D. Tippit, and Mrs. Ruth Paine watched President Kennedy’s limousine speed up as it fled Dealey Plaza through the Triple Underpass.

  The eight-millimeter film flickered to an end, and Sam turned it off, thrusting them into semi-darkness. After guarding Mrs. Paine’s house most of the day, he and Bick had brought the mother of two back to their home base in Oak Cliff for a meeting.

  “And that’s the footage Abraham Zapruder recorded of the motorcade. Jackie K. was pronounced dead on arrival at Parkland Memorial Hospital.” Dee took the reins as narrator, humbled to share the monumental scene. She had kept the horrific film concealed in her tote bag until now.

  Yawning, even though she’d tried to pay off her sleep debt, Sera switched on the living room lamp. The artificial light accentuated the shocked faces of J.D. and Mrs. Paine. Quin, however, was dozing on the couch, his head lolling forward. Realizing he wouldn’t want to miss the ensuing discussion, Sera discreetly bumped her hip into the armrest, waking him.

  “It’s up to us to stop the proverbial crime-of-the-century. But we need to determine a new strategy.” Iggy leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “We gleaned a few snippets of intel from that jerk Oswald. J.D., why don’t you recap for those who weren’t here?”

  The officer spent a few minutes relating the salient points.

  When J.D. had finished, Jay took off his glasses, fiddled with them, and put them back on. “According to Oswald himself, he is acquainted with the Russians, not that he necessarily knows they are KGB. Do we actually believe him? He may recognize they’re Soviets simply from hanging out at the club. After listening to him, I’d diagnose Oswald with a classic case of schizophrenia. I mean, think about it. Distorted perception of reality, delusions, paranoia, social dysfunction, inflated sense of self. It all fits. For all we know, this alliance with the KGB is completely manufactured. He could be in cahoots with the toaster, too.”

  J.D. shrugged. “For now, he’s offered our best lead. I suggest we follow it and see if it pans out.”

  “He’s right. No harm in trying. Besides, I’m through with the Carousel.” Sera blew out a breath of relief that she would nevermore have to don the dreaded barmaid costume. “No way to spy on the commies since they’ve ID’d us. None of us can go back. This is our last chance to get them until their next recorded appearance on Friday in Dealey Plaza. And then it will be too late.”

  “Dealey,” Dee echoed. “If the KGB truly did instruct Oswald to apply for a job there, it can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It seems likely they would use him as a sentry to help them sneak into the school book building during the motorcade. The situation is very different now that we’ve changed the timeline.” Bick smiled at Mrs. Paine. “Thank God.”

  “I got the impression Oswald has no clue what they’re planning.” J.D. cocked his head. “Nor is he smart enough to figure it out.”

  Mrs. Paine stifled a laugh. “That’s Lee. So, if the KGB are going to be in Dealey Plaza tonight, what does that mean?”

  “Sounds like a dress rehearsal to me.” Quin raised his palms. “Who knows? Maybe the Marxist poster-boy will prop the back door open.”

  “I doubt it. But you’re missing the point.” Sam pulled his lips in, forming a thin line. “What it means is that all three of them will be together, outside, late at night. We have the perfect opportunity for an ambush.”

  “What would we even do with the KGB if we captured them?” Iggy pondered the next step. “Suggestions?”

  “Kill the bastards.” Sam nodded emphatically.

  “Sam!” Iggy hissed his name in mortification. “We have discussed this. We are not murderers.”

  “I didn’t mean we should,” Sam backpedaled. “Just tossing out options.”

  She observed him shrewdly. “It’s not within you to kill in cold blood. I know you, Mr. Morales.”

  Sam averted his eyes. An awkward moment ensued.

  Jay broke the silence. “J.D., couldn’t you arrest them? You know, keep them in jail for a few days until this blows over. I mean, they were involved in a shoot-out.”

  “Unfortunately”—J.D. obliterated his optimism—“we shot back. I can’t let my captain hear about an episode where we used excessive force. The investigation would focus on me rather than the KGB. And I have little evidence to prove they were the aggressors.”

  “Fine. Then arrest them for something else.” Jay inadvertently raised his voice. “Anything else!”

  “Son, I don’t know about where you’re from, but around here law enforcement obeys the law. I can’t arrest someone if they haven’t committed a crime. When I threatened Oswald earlier, I was bluffing.”

  “Hell, we’re over-analyzing this.” Quin rubbed his eyes. “All we gotta do is hold ‘em until after the prez leaves. That oughta do it.”

  “Not possible.” Bick shifted uncomfortably. “Where would we imprison them for the next few days? Moreover, kidnapping is a federal offense. Ultimately, they would try again. We need a more permanent solution.”

  Mrs. Paine perched on the edge of her seat. “They’re Russian spies, aren’t they? Why don’t we expose their false identities and get them deported? Send them back to the USSR.”

  “That’s a great idea. In fact, we kicked it around previously. But they have authentic papers.” Dee sighed. “Flawless. They even have phony birth certificates filed in Houston. Only a federal agent could determine the difference.”

  “In that case,” Mrs. Paine confidently continued, “I propose we go directly to the authorities. The FBI or Secret Service or whoever’s in charge and tell them the whole story.”

  “Lady”—Sera blurted the term acidly—“you had to almost get yourself bumped off before you believed us. What makes you think the Feds will?”

  Mrs. Paine’s features contorted in anger.

  “Sera! It’s easy to say that now.” Iggy attempted to smooth over the rift. “In hindsight, we have found it difficult to persuade others of our fantastic tale. Be that as it may, we need to come up with an appropriate plan soon. We’re running out of time.”

  “Time.” J.D. paused and scratched his head as if thinking aloud. “Y’all have a time machine. Why not send the KGB through time?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1963

  7:00 PM – CST

  Dmitriy stomped back to the Carousel meeting room in a fury, slamming the door behind him. “Kon, I had my hands around his scrawny neck. You should have let me snap it in two.”

  “You nearly did. Sit down. Now.”

  The swarthy KGB yanked out a chair, almost clipping comrade Viktor. “Who does Oswald think he is?”

  Kon kept a bland face. “He’s an idiot.”

  “You got that right.” Dmitriy grabbed a pack of Lucky Strikes. “How dare he stick his nose into our business?”

  “Outstanding question.” Kon glared at Dmitriy. “I suppose the answer would be, you recruited him. Care to explain that judgment call?”

  Boldly ignoring the no-smoking rule, Dmitriy lit a cigarette. He inhaled and locked eyes on his superior as he blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “Now, I’m left to contend with him.”

  Viktor gazed from one compatriot to the other, garnering the courage to speak. “Do you
think he was telling the truth? About the Americans?”

  “He better be.” Dmitriy casually flicked ashes into an empty pilsner glass. “Otherwise I will kill him.”

  “The waitress has more friends than we thought.” Viktor ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair. “First the guys who tried to protect the babushka lady, and now . . .”

  “I know.” Kon wanted to berate them for speaking Russian in public yesterday, but the issue was moot.

  “And one of them is a cop!” Dmitriy slammed his palm against the wooden table.

  “Again, I know.” Kon tipped back in his chair as he visualized the pieces of this jigsaw slotting together.

  11:30 PM – CST

  Dee ground the gears of the Hertz rent-a-car as she shifted into third and entered the acceleration lane. “We’re making excellent time. It’s eleven thirty and we’re almost through San Antonio. We should arrive at Padre Island right on schedule.” She smiled and hummed absentmindedly, exhilarated to have a new plan.

  Clenching the armrest, Jay was experiencing considerably less euphoria as she mishandled the vehicle. Regrettably, the Ford Coupe and the newly repaired Chevy Impala were being used by the remainder of Team Orbis. And the only choice for a rental at that late hour had been a manual transmission. Dee claimed she was skilled, but frankly the ride was harrowing. “At least try to stay in one lane, would ya?” Jay cracked the window to get some cool air. “I hope our scuba gear is still buried where we left it.”

  “No worries.” Dee waved her hand flippantly. “Nobody ever goes there; it’s a cattle ranch for heaven’s sake.”

  “Okay, but then there’s the issue of the night dive.”

  “You brought underwater flashlights, didn’t you?” Dee glanced at him in confusion. “Besides, night dives are no big deal. I’ve done tons of them. All you have to do is relax and remember which way is up. You’ll be fine as long as you don’t panic.”

  “Uh, well, yeah.” Jay fidgeted. Not panicking was the problem.