Prologue

by Greg Ahlgren

  “Please believe me when I say we are patriots,” Amanda reiterated.

  The Senator waved one hand. “So is every other radical. Why do you want to see him?”

  “Senator,” Amanda continued, “this country is threatened. There are foreign forces that want to take over this nation and reduce its power. They want to take our resources: oil, coal, steel. They’ll divide us up into a bunch of competing regions, set us against one another based on our religion or geography, and leave us weak and exploitable.”

  The Senator nodded. “The Communists,” he said.

  “What you used to call Communism,” Paul said, leaning forward. “But it’s more than that. It’s the East against the West, it’s their way of life versus ours.”

  “Used to?” the Senator asked, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “What do you mean, ‘used to?”

  Amanda shot Paul a malevolent look. He sat back and resolved to keep quiet. He’d let her handle this.

  “What Dr. deVere means is that it is more than that. Yes, our way of life is threatened. Senator, in just over a month President Kennedy will decide to pull out of Vietnam, a huge mistake. We want the opportunity to speak with him, to convince him not to make that mistake.”

  “You say that we should increase our military support to Saigon?” Thurmond drawled. “There are two sides to that young lady. I know a little bit about war and dying. I was at Normandy. I am as concerned about Communism as you are, but war is not always the way. And not always successful.

  “Besides,” he continued, “the President may or may not be making a final decision on this in the next few months. I’m not privy to that, and you sure are not either. And even if he is thinking of pulling out, why are you sure that you’re more right than the advice he’s getting from his advisors who have a lot more information than you or I?”

  It was Amanda’s turn to lean forward, and when she spoke the force of her delivery startled Paul.

  “Senator, Paul deVere is an astrophysicist at MIT. One of the best. He and anyone else who have ever taught with him will tell you that there are an infinite number of permutations in the universe. A million things that can happen. Some are good. Some are bad. But one of the realities is that the President of the United States will decide next month to pull out of Vietnam. And as sure as we are of that,”-Amanda pointed at the envelope on the desk-“we are sure that pulling out is the wrong decision. We need to talk to him.”

  The Senator nodded. “I suppose I should ask you how you know what the President will do next month, and how you know about that.”

  Amanda reached down and lifted her pocketbook to her lap. She opened it and extracted a copy of the itinerary that she had received in the mail from Ginter.

  “Senator, this is a copy of President Kennedy’s daily log. It contains a summary of where he goes, how he gets there, and who he meets with and when, for each day from now through the end of 1964.”

  Keeping her eyes on the Senator, Amanda opened the sheaf of papers and faced them toward him.

  “On Monday, January 20, 1964 he will travel to Iowa and meet with party leaders in Des Moines. He’ll arrive on Air Force One at 10:45 a.m. and will head home at 4:50.”

  She flipped to another page. “Next June 17 he will begin a one week vacation on Cape Cod. He will meet with Dean Rusk, Robert McNamara, and his brother Bobby. All will be there at one point or another. He will devise his strategy for the fall election. In November he will narrowly defeat Barry Goldwater.”

  When the Senator said nothing she turned the sheaf toward her and flipped back a few pages. She found what she was looking for and turned it back to him. “And here, on Sunday, November 24, 1963 the President will meet with a circle of his closest advisors at a morning meeting at the White House. The topic will be Vietnam and after the meeting he will decide to pull out. By the end of 1964 the Communists will have overrun Saigon and control all of Vietnam.”

  She gently placed the sheaf on the desk next to the envelope. “We are as certain of what is on those papers as we are of what was in that envelope.”

  Senator Thurmond sat back in his chair and tilted his head forward. He picked up the plain white envelope and turned it over in his hand. He pointed it at Amanda.

  “MIT, did you say?” he asked.

  Hutch and deVere both nodded.

  “O.K., so you’re not here for personal gain,” the Senator said. “Even if you’re correct about all this, how can I get you in to see the President? I’m not that powerful. Presidential meetings are few and far between, and are usually initiated by the White House. I can’t just pick up the phone and set up an appointment for a constituent.”

  He chuckled. “Even assuming you were that.”

  “You can try,” Amanda insisted softly. “You know how important this is to us. If you don’t try-”

  He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Yes, yes, I know. To heck with this letter here and what it all says. I will make some calls. But not because of that damn letter. I will try my best; you have my word on it. But I can’t guarantee you anything.”

  Amanda stood up. Paul followed suit.

  “Dr deVere and myself are staying at the Waldorf in New York City,” Amanda said. “We are there under our own names. I’ll leave our names and the phone number with your secretary.”

  This time Strom Thurmond extended his hand to them both. “I wish you both sincere luck,” he said carefully, “in whatever it is you’re trying to do.

  “And,” he added, nodding at the itinerary, “why don’t you take that bunch of papers with you? I really don’t want a copy.”

  Without a word Amanda turned, grabbed the sheaf from the desk, and shoved it into her pocketbook.

  Chapter 24

  “Are you sure no one has been tailing you?”

  A waitress brought two coffees and set them on the diner table. Oswald waited until she had left.

  “Of course not. I know what I’m doing.”

  Ginter didn’t respond. It was difficult to hold his temper in the face of Oswald’s conceit.

  Keep your eyes on the ball, Ginter reminded himself. It had been rather easy convincing Oswald to return to Dallas. His pregnant wife, Marina, was living in nearby Irving, and Oswald wanted to be with her.

  Ginter had instructed Oswald to live normally, and not tell anyone, including Marina, of his new role. Ginter would be his sole contact, but the two would meet sparingly. Oswald accepted the conditions without protest.

  The Soviet histories had portrayed Oswald as a brilliant strategist and intellectual party ideologue, a man ahead of his time. Even in Ginter’s anti-Soviet military training Oswald had come across as a generally capable, if not spectacular, military tactician. The blunder that had saved Guevara had been the only hint of incompetence.

  On the first day back from Mexico City, Ginter had asked Oswald not to contact Marina, and to register at a YMCA to minimize his visibility. Oswald had registered as an active duty serviceman to avoid paying the fifty-cent registration fee. Ginter was furious. Registering as a serviceman invited conversation about his service, and risked exposure. This could lead to embarrassing questions. Oswald now had over six thousand dollars, supposedly from the Cuban Government, and he was trying to save fifty cents.

  Ginter visited Oswald frequently at the Y, and advised him carefully on how to act. He told Oswald not to stay long in any one place. From the YMCA, Oswald had moved to a boarding house in the Oak Cliff section of Dallas, at 621 Marsalis Street. He warned Oswald to avoid political talk with anyone, including his wife.

  “You are just trying to find a job to support your family,” Ginter said to him in his feigned Spanish accent as he loaded his coffee with two creams and a sugar.

  “I don’t need the money,” Oswald snarled. “And I am ready to act now. The Directorate should know that.”

  “I know you’re good, Lee,” Ginter said in a kinder tone, “but it is important to maintain the cover.”

  Ginter glanced
casually around the diner before leaning closer. “Take that job at the depository. Havana says it is imperative.”

  Oswald looked insulted. “I’m ready now to help the cause. That’s just a crap job.”

  “You ready to order?” The waitress had returned.

  “Just coffee, thank you,” Ginter said. The waitress threw him a disgusted look and stomped away. Ginter pretended not to notice.

  “You must have patience,” Ginter continued in a low, flat voice. “We need you working in Dealey Plaza all next month.”

  Oswald grunted. “Why? I could kill Walker now. Next week he’s having another one of his rallies. There could be three thousand people there.”

  “Forget Walker!” Ginter hissed. “The Directorate has bigger things in mind.”

  Ginter lowered his voice even further. “There are those in the American Government who are sympathetic to our cause, and ready to act. They are arranging a certain event. We need you and your sharpshooter skills there,” he added with a knowing nod.

  “Walker?” Oswald asked.

  “This is bigger. Much bigger than Walker. You will be the hero of the century.”

  Oswald accepted the accolade without reaction.

  “If I’m going to shoot someone,” he said, “I’ll need a better rifle than the Mannlicher. Maybe a Mauser.”

  Ginter shook his head forcefully. “No, no. The Mannlicher is perfect. Six point five millimeter? Perfect.”

  “But with a Mauser . . .”

  “Forget the Mauser. The Directorate wants you to use the Mannlicher.”

  Oswald hesitated. “Sometimes I miss with the Mannlicher,” he pouted. “It’s not my fault. The sight is off and it’s not accurate over one hundred yards.”

  “Believe me, we’ve got it all figured out. The Mannlicher will be perfect for our purposes.”

  “So you want me to accept the job at the Texas School Depository?”

  Ginter nodded and sipped his coffee.

  On Monday morning, November 4, 1963 Lewis Ginter walked down North Beckley Street in Dallas’ Oak Cliff neighborhood. As he passed the boarding house at 1026 he noticed that a second floor window, third from the doorway, had been left open and a book placed on the windowsill. Oswald needed to speak with him. But when Ginter joined him early that evening for a walk, he was unprepared for the latter’s agitation.

  “The FBI has been around?” Ginter repeated. He thrust his hands deep into his pants and trudged on.

  “Agent Hosty,” Oswald said. “He was out at the house asking Marina a bunch of questions last Friday. She told me when I got there.”

  Ginter nodded absently. Despite Ginter’s protest, Oswald had insisted on returning to Marina on weekends. Ginter was uncomfortable with the arrangement. It meant he had no contact with Oswald for three days and he feared that Oswald would talk.

  But now he was more than uncomfortable. He had no idea who Hosty was, or even if there were an FBI agent by that name. Since deterring Oswald from the Mexico City defection he was operating in virgin history.

  “How’d he communicate with Marina?” Ginter finally asked. “Did this Hosty speak Russian?”

  Oswald shook his head. “No, Ruth Paine translated.”

  “The Russian language student?” Ginter asked. “Is Marina still living with her and her husband?”

  Oswald nodded.

  “What did this Hosty want, did he say?” Ginter asked.

  “Harassment.” Oswald curled his lip and spat on the roadway.

  “Harassment about what?” Ginter asked blandly.

  “The usual. He wanted to know about my attempt to defect to Cuba.”

  Ginter stopped and turned to his companion. Oswald also paused and the two men stared at each other.

  “How’d he know about Cuba?” Ginter asked, keeping his voice even.

  Oswald shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Ginter turned and resumed walking at what he hoped was a nonchalant pace.

  “No one else knows about Mexico City, do they?” Ginter asked casually.

  “I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “It may be nothing,” Ginter said with voiced confidence. “The CIA must have our Embassy in Mexico City under surveillance. Your visit was reported back to Washington. Perhaps the FBI is doing a routine check. I’ll have to report this breach of security to my superiors.”

  “If they know about me they probably know about you,” Oswald said.

  Ginter nodded and swallowed. “It’s possible,” he said.

  The pair walked on in silence. Ginter’s stomach was churning. If the CIA had also picked up Ginter at the Embassy they might approach Oswald or his wife with questions. What would happen then?

  “Did Hosty come back?” Ginter asked.

  Oswald shook his head. “Not over the weekend.”

  “Call your wife every night,” Ginter advised quietly. “Ask her every night if Hosty returns. Would she tell you if he did?”

  Oswald nodded.

  “Tell her to find out what he wants,” Ginter said. “He may be trying to compromise me. Someone may approach you and try to give you disinformation about me. If they do, don’t be fooled. They may have bugs planted in our Embassy.”

  “If they do they’re wasting them,” Oswald sneered.

  The pair had come to a worn city park covered in weeds. In the gathering dust a group of boys were playing football. Ginter estimated their average age at about ten.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Some CIA agent posing as a Russian émigré was asking about me in Ruth’s class.”

  Ginter was confused. “Russian émigré? What do you mean?”

  “This weekend when I was visiting Marina some guy from one of Ruth’s classes told me there was a newly arrived Russian asking about other Russians in the Dallas area. Did he know of any other Russians who were political? Wanted to meet them.”

  “So?” Ginter asked, unconcerned as he watched a kid take a pitch-out and promptly fumble it to the other team.

  “Ah c’mon, Billy,” his teammates heckled as the fumbler slowly picked himself up.

  “Well, the guy said that this new Russian was told about Marina and said, ‘Oh, her. Yes, I know all about her. Her husband’s in Cuba.”

  Ginter didn’t take his eyes off the football field. The boys picked themselves up and resumed playing. The other team began marching down the field with a succession of running plays. As Ginter kept his eyes riveted on them, he found that his hands had tightened on the top bar of the chain link fence in front of him. He could feel the extended strand of chain link digging into his palms.

  “This new Russian,” Ginter said evenly, “did anyone say what he looked like?”

  Oswald snorted. “He probably wasn’t even a Russian. He was probably FBI following me. The thing about meeting other Russians was just a way to get to Marina.”

  “Could be,” Ginter answered. “But why would anyone think you were in Cuba? Wouldn’t the FBI know you hadn’t gone to Cuba? Isn’t that why Hosty is snooping around?”

  “That’s why the capitalists will fail,” Oswald sneered. “The right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing. Too much bureaucracy.”

  “The fellow who met this Russian, did he say what he looked like?” Ginter asked before remembering that he had already asked the same question. Keep it together, Lewis.

  “No, just said it was a Russian who had arrived within the last few months.”

  I’ll bet he arrived within the last few months, Ginter thought. He toyed with the idea of approaching the classmate, but rejected it as too risky.

  “If he mentions this Russian fellow again let me know. And if you see him ask him what this Russian looks like. Is he tall, short, bald, heavyset or whatever? I know a lot of Russians and I just might know who he is. And keep on Marina about Hosty. I want to know what he’s after.”

  The game in the field broke up and the players trudged out of the gate past the pair. The boy who had fumbled walke
d past with his head down.