by Greg Ahlgren
Ginter folded his newspaper, stuck it in his pocket, and followed at a discreet distance. Oswald passed directly under the neon sign with the orange “Hotel” and green “del Commercial” that hung off the side of the brick building. Ginter waited three minutes before drawing a deep breath and entering the lobby.
“It’s now or never,” he muttered, as he approached the main desk.
“Señor Lee Oswald?” he asked the mustached desk clerk.
“Room 46, fourth floor,” the desk clerk answered after checking the ledger.
Seeing no elevator, Ginter headed to the narrow carpeted stairway. He stepped past the worn marks on the landing and followed the frayed line that ran down the middle of the fourth floor carpet. The hallway light outside of Room 46 was burned out. Ginter did not pause. He had rehearsed this countless times.
He knocked twice, firm and authoritatively. He heard the chain rattle and the door opened six inches. Even from the dim hallway Ginter recognized the gaunt face. He looked older than his 23 years. Ginter estimated his height at about 5 feet 8 inches, some four inches less than that reported in the official biographies.
“Ya’?”
“Señor Oswald? I am Carlos Enrique.” Ginter paused. He hoped his feigned broken English wasn’t too obvious. “From the Cuban Embassy,” he added. “May I come in?”
Oswald gave Ginter a quick look up and down, and then slammed the door. Ginter heard the chain unlatch before the door swung open wide. Oswald stepped back.
Ah, the naiveté of 1963, Ginter thought as he entered. He closed the door behind him. The room was even smaller than Ginter’s at the Hotel d’Estes, and other than the bed there was only a small desk and one chair. Oswald sat on the bed and Ginter took the chair. Don’t let him talk.
“Your cable to Moscow from the Soviet Embassy was redirected to Havana where it came to the attention of my supervisor.” Ginter paused. “Let me be perfectly frank, Señor Oswald. We have checked your background and believe that you may be of enormous value to the people’s revolutionary movement in Cuba, and elsewhere.”
“So, I can get my visa?” Oswald asked. “Right away?”
“Señor Oswald.” Ginter cleared his throat. “I don’t think that you understand. Although I am attached to the Cuban Embassy I am not exactly . . . how you say . . . a diplomat.” Ginter smiled blandly and turned both palms upwards.
“You’re with Cuban Intelligence,” Oswald said.
Ginter cleared his throat again. “Let’s just say that my supervisor was very, very impressed with you. In the short time since your arrival in Mexico City we have done quite a bit of investigation into your past. We are all very impressed.
“But to tell you the truth your arrival in Mexico City was not the first time we had heard of you.”
Oswald looked quizzical.
“Your work in creating the Fair Play for Cuba Committee in New Orleans brought you to our attention some time ago.”
Oswald reacted, and Ginter could tell that he was about to speak. He held up his hand, palm outward.
“Oh yes,” Ginter continued. “We know all about you. But your arrival here surprised us. My supervisor included. Another example of your unpredictability and”-Ginter feigned hunting for the right word-“spontaneity. That’s important for someone who could play a pivotal role in the coming revolutionary period.”
Oswald sat back on the bed and leaned against the plastered wall. Ginter surmised that Oswald realized that this was not a courtesy visit to hand him a visa.
“A person with your talent, your American Marine Corps training, your knowledge of the Russian Language, your willingness and ability to infiltrate the American right wing, your willingness to attack the reactionaries with military force as demonstrated by your cleverness and courage in surveying General Walker’s home and your bravery in attempting to shoot him-”
Oswald shot bolt upright and opened his mouth. Ginter held up his hand again.
“Oh yes, we know all about that. And as I say, we are very impressed.”
Oswald closed his mouth and sat up straighter. Ginter saw a prideful smirk growing on the gaunt man’s face. Could he really be this dumb?
Ginter leaned forward. It was time for the kill. “A person of your talent is of immeasurable value to the revolution. We need heroic men like Lee Harvey Oswald. But not in Cuba. Now, we need you in the United States.”
Ginter knew it was working.
“If you are interested in doing important work for us, I would like you to come to the Embassy tomorrow morning. I know it is Sunday, but it is important.”
Ginter smiled again. He had to cement his legitimacy.
“If you decide to do work for us we would want you to join your wife in Dallas.
“Yes, yes we know where she is,” Ginter continued when he saw the surprised look. “We will pay your expenses. We could give you money tomorrow and field agents will coordinate your actions.”
Ginter stood up suddenly. “Do not decide now. Think it over.”
Ginter looked at his watch. He wanted to avoid any discussion. “If you decide to help us, meet me in the Embassy at 11:00 a.m. sharp.” Ginter turned to go. He put one hand on the doorknob before turning back to his host.
“Make sure you are not followed tomorrow. Especially within the last block. Just make sure.”
Ginter dressed early Sunday morning. He was nervous, which he took as a good sign. If things didn’t go well, there was another option, he thought, as he strapped on his shoulder holster.
Ginter arrived outside the Cuban Embassy at 10:45 a.m. He had timed and re-timed the approach from the street corner to the front door. At a casual stroll it would take approximately one minute, fifteen seconds. Each stop to casually look over his shoulder added an extra five to seven seconds. If the individual lingered at the corner before heading up the boulevard, well, even better.
It was 10:52 a.m. when Oswald appeared at the far corner. Ginter watched him stop and look back. “I knew he’d be early,” Ginter muttered before turning and walking through the wrought iron fence and along the walkway that led to the main doors.
It was Ginter’s first time inside. He would have preferred to have surveyed the inside of the building, but had not wanted to draw attention to himself.
He crossed the wide tile floor and approached the reception desk. To his dismay it was unattended. Even on Sunday the embassy was open and the desk should have been staffed.
Perhaps she’s in the ladies’ room, he thought as he read the plastic nameplate propped on the desk: Sylvia Duran.
He resisted the temptation to either check his watch or turn back for Oswald. He reformulated his plan. He strolled past the desk and started down the narrow hallway. He had gone only twenty-five feet when a short, balding Cuban stepped from one of the side offices and blocked his path.
“May I help you?” the man asked in Spanish.
Ginter looked over the man’s shoulder. The man’s eyes never left Ginter’s face and he remained, feet apart, blocking the hallway.
“I am looking for Consular Azcue,” Ginter said in Spanish.
“He is not in today, may I help you?” The man’s eyes remained riveted.
“Do you speak English?” Ginter asked.
“No, I am sorry, I do not,” the Cuban responded.
Perfect, Ginter thought.
“I wanted to talk to Consular Azcue about some life insurance policies and plans which he might find interesting. A man like Consular Azcue, with a family, could always use life insurance, I believe.”
“Consular Azcue is not in. You would have to make an appointment through his secretary, Señorita Duran. She does speak English,” the man added.
“However, Consular Azcue is not interested in life insurance since he has no need for such.”
Ginter heard the main doors to the Embassy open and close behind him. He breathed an inward sigh of relief that his mark had finally arrived. It was time to play this out.
“Al
l right then,” Ginter said resignedly. “I will call tomorrow.”
Ginter turned to leave. The balding Cuban walked slightly behind him as he walked back to the foyer. When they reached the end of the hallway, Ginter stopped short. It was not Oswald who had entered the Embassy, but rather a dark skinned man who now stood just inside the main doors.
Damn! How long did the idiot spend standing at the corner making sure he was not followed? And who is this?
Ginter wheeled on the Cuban, a third plan already forming. “Perhaps a man like yourself might need life insurance.”
Ginter held out the small black briefcase. “Let me show you a policy.”
Ginter placed his briefcase on an end table and fumbled with the latch.
The Cuban picked up the briefcase and shoved it roughly into Ginter’s hands as the embassy door opened and closed again.
“I have neither time nor interest,” the Cuban said in Spanish. “You really must go. I have important business to attend.”
Ginter took the briefcase and turned back to where Lee Harvey Oswald now stood just inside the front doors next to the dark skinned man.
Good thing the weasel speaks no Spanish.
He walked across the foyer, past the first man and leaned in to Oswald. “These diplomats,” Ginter said in broken English. “You would think it was their own six thousand five hundred dollars. I could kill the man.”
Oswald looked past Ginter at the Cuban and his lips formed a tight smile. “You’re not man enough to kill him. I can do it.”
Ginter laughed and clapped Oswald on the shoulder. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk,” Ginter said.
Oswald followed Ginter’s gaze and nodded. The pair strolled out through the doors. The oppressive heat of the last week had broken. Ginter stepped into a bright sun showing through a light Mexico City smog. As Ginter proceeded along the walkway with Oswald right behind him, he thought to himself, Eat lead, Ché Guevara. History has been changed.
Chapter 23
The train ride from New York City to Washington was taking longer than expected. Something had sidelined the six coaches 45 minutes from D.C.
“Be about a 30 minute delay,” the conductor had announced, walking quickly through the car. “Something’s on the tracks up ahead and it’ll need to be cleared.”
“What time’s our appointment again?” deVere asked nervously.
Amanda shrugged. “I told you. We don’t have one. All we know is that he’s in D.C. and is supposed to be in his office.”
Paul deVere reached to retrieve the New York Times from the seat pocket in front of him before deciding otherwise. He craned around to confirm that their only company was still the older gentlemen dozing in the last row of the car.
He lowered his voice. “What Lewis said about being careful makes some sense. Are you sure that, you know, blackmail is the way to do this?”
Amanda dropped the copy of Cosmopolitan on her lap and turned. “All we’re doing is using information we have to try to get in to see the President.”
“What if we get arrested for blackmail?” deVere asked.
“I don’t believe you!” She frowned at him. “Before we left, you said this might be a suicide mission, that we could all end up floating around in space somewhere. Yet you were willing to risk that to undo Soviet America. Now you’re afraid of getting nabbed for blackmail?”
DeVere took a deep breath. “How sure are you of the facts?”
“Well, this is not something that was important. We’re talking about historical footnote stuff, so I didn’t commit any of this to memory. If I had my computer I could look this up and get exact dates and names. But I’m pretty sure it’s true.”
“And what do we say to Kennedy if we get in to see him?” deVere persisted. “We know you have a girlfriend and you better not pull out of Southeast Asia or else we’ll go to, to”-Paul pointed at Amanda’s magazine-“Cosmopolitan?”
“No, we say that we’re time travelers and use the girlfriend fact to prove our credentials.”
Paul deVere put his head in his hands and sighed. He shook his head, and looked at her begrudgingly with a grin.
“Just out of curiosity, Amanda, what ever happened to your marriage?”
“Which one?” she asked.
“Well, start with the first. Not to be nosy or anything.”
“You’re not being nosy. The weird thing is that I probably married Will because he was so unlike you.”
“Was I that bad?” Paul asked, aghast.
Amanda laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that. In Ithaca you were focused on your work, not on what was going on around you. You were aware that I was there, but that was it. When we talked about your field, it was your work that was important, not sharing it with me. With Will it was just the opposite. He was very much into me, which is what I thought I wanted. Later I realized that he had no real interest, no drive. Do you know what I mean?”
“I guess so,” Paul answered uncertainly. “Maybe you needed a cross between the two of us.”
“Maybe I’m insatiable.”
Paul didn’t make the obvious joke. He had thought of Amanda often over the years. Still, he was amazed that so much had happened in the short time since she had reappeared.
“What about you?” she asked. “What happened?”
“Me? I’m still married,” he protested.
“Not so happily,” she countered, tilting her head to the side.
“Why do you say that? I am very content,” he argued.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.” She waved her arm indicating the interior of the coach. “You’re here. If you were so happy why put so much energy into changing history?”
“That’s different,” he retorted. He reddened and knew he sounded angry. He lowered his voice.
“History is not just my personal life,” he said. “Just because I’m happy personally doesn’t mean I’m happy with the way things are politically. The whole country got messed up. I can be happy in one area of my life and still want to change another.”
She gazed at him intently. He focused on the outside scenery.
“Things change in every married couple’s life,” he added to break the silence.
“What changed in yours?” she asked kindly. “And I’m not being critical. God knows I’ve been the architect of zillions of my own mistakes.”
Paul shifted in his seat. In all the years of friendship with Lewis, they had never discussed his marriage, nor had he with anyone else. With a start he realized that he really didn’t have any friends outside the department. He had never been to a psychologist or counselor, not that he would have put any stock in what they might have said. To Paul they were just people with failed lives taking money from others who believed they were failing in their own. He was sitting next to the last true friend in whom he would have confided.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “When I met Val, well, she also was different than you.”
He looked to see if she had taken offense but Amanda’s eyes revealed only the same soft sympathy.
He returned his gaze to the back of the seat in front of him and cleared his throat. “You were always so, so interested in politics. Maybe that was good, who knows. At first Valerie just loved doing stuff with me. Her focus was always on me, or rather, on us. You know how much I love sports. Valerie and I got Sox and Patriots tickets for a few years. Geez, we had fun. We used to laugh a lot.”
“That must have been nice. Those are great memories,” Amanda said simply.
He searched her face for sarcasm but found none. He thought of the year that Grace had arrived. He thought how happy he had been. That was also the last year the Sox had made the World Series. He and Valerie had a babysitter for game seven and they had been there, starting to stand up when...