by Greg Ahlgren
“Don’t worry about it, boy,” Ginter said encouragingly, “baseball’s a better game anyway.”
Lewis Ginter sat alone in his two-room motel unit and studied the drawings spread across the kitchen table. It was Tuesday, November 12, 1963 and everything was on track. Oswald was working at the Book Depository. Ginter’s shopping trip to a local gun shop had been successful. Being black had not been a problem. The color the proprietor was most interested in was inside his wallet.
With everything now in place, Ginter had taken a job at the same warehouse as Oswald.
Ginter still hadn’t told Oswald the plan, even when pressed to do so at their meeting the day before. Ginter by-passed Oswald’s angry questions and pressed for new information about the Russian who thought Oswald already in Cuba.
“I didn’t see the student this weekend,” had been Oswald’s unconcerned reply.
Ginter pushed the diagrams away and emptied his pockets onto the kitchen table. He had been weighing this option since learning of the Russian. Now, with his plan just ten days away, he had to act. He scooped up the pile of change, grabbed a light jacket, and headed out the door.
Paul deVere lunged across the hotel bed and grabbed the receiver before the telephone had completed its second ring. It had been almost two weeks since he had last heard from Lewis, and he knew no one else would be calling him at this hour.
“Hello,” he said eagerly as he lay sprawled across the bed.
There was a pause before the voice at the other end began with a drawl.
“Dr. deVere? This is Senator Strom Thurmond.”
It took a moment for the name to register.
“Yes, Senator,” deVere said cautiously.
The Senator cleared his throat. “Dr. deVere, I’ll get right to the point. I called my White House contact, and asked when I could get two very important constituents who teach at MIT”-Thurmond let out a chuckle-“to meet with the President. I said you had information and some very good advice on national security matters that the President should hear.”
There was a pause and deVere detected a sigh.
Thurmond continued, “I was spectacularly unsuccessful. You must understand, Dr. deVere, getting in to see the President is not easy. There are many, many people who want to see him. A United States Senator is powerful, but sir, we are not as powerful as you may think. Getting past even his outer circle of bureaucratic protection is difficult.”
The Senator paused again, and when he resumed he lowered his voice and spoke slower.
“Dr. deVere, I know what you and Dr. Hutch intend to do now that I can’t get you in to see the President. But believe me, sir, I did try. I want you to know that personally, and it wasn’t just one call that I made.”
Paul deVere paused. “I understand, Senator, thank you for trying. I’ll talk to Dr. Hutch. We don’t want to cause problems. We are trying to make a better world and we were hoping that you could help.”
After Paul hung up he stared down at the telephone. He would have to call Amanda. As he reached for the phone, it rang again. Thinking that it was the Senator calling back, he answered with an almost annoyed tone. This time the accent was different.
“Dr. deVere? This is Harrison Salisbury.”
When deVere didn’t respond Salisbury continued.
“I have been thinking a lot about our meeting in Syracuse. I hope you and Dr. Hutch”-Salisbury pronounced her name slowly-“do not think that I was too rude. I know you feel strongly about what you told me.”
DeVere had the impression that Salisbury was hunting for the right words.
Salisbury changed his tact. “I’m not calling too early, am I?” he asked.
The abrupt question brought deVere back to the present. “No, certainly not. This is important to us.”
“Well, Dr. deVere, you may want to know that Pierre Salinger will be giving a talk here in New York next Monday. He’ll be at the Reuben House talking to journalists on contemporary journalism and politics. There will be some academics there as well as a few prominent New York politicians. I can leave your name at the door so that you and Dr. Hutch can get in. You could approach him. That is, if you are interested,” he added quickly.
DeVere was uncertain how to respond. He didn’t want to sound stupid. Finally, however, the pause became embarrassing.
“Mr. Salisbury, who is Pierre Salinger?”
DeVere heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end and he continued on hurriedly. “Please understand, I’m a physicist. Dr. Hutch is the history professor. I really don’t know very much political history,” he added lamely.
“Pierre Salinger is the President’s press secretary. He has the President’s ear and if anyone can get you in to see him it would be Salinger. He also has a reputation of being somewhat, eh, avant-garde,” Salisbury added in what Paul deVere perceived as a diplomatic tone.
“I see,” deVere said, reaching for a pen. “What time is his talk?”
“Seven o’clock,” Salisbury added with more confidence. “I’ll leave your names at the door.”
There was another pause and deVere thought that Salisbury was groping for a way to ask something.
“Dr. deVere, I was wondering. How did you know that the Dodgers would sweep the World Series?”
With all the attention they had given their letter writing campaign, the World Series had slipped past deVere’s attention. He vaguely remembered it from the newspapers, but to him it was old news. He let the question hang.
When there was no response Salisbury continued, “I know that a Dodgers-Yankees World Series was kind of obvious when we spoke but I was wondering how you knew it was going to be a sweep? And, more importantly, how did you know Sandy Koufax would be the World Series MVP?”
“I think we’ve already discussed this,” deVere said evenly, “and I am not going to try to convince you about what Dr. Hutch and I were saying. The facts speak for themselves.”
“I quite agree,” Salisbury said hurriedly. “In any event, don’t forget this Monday at the Reuben House and,” he added with a chuckle, “I’ll certainly be watching for those ‘69 Mets. Might even make a friendly wager or two.”
Chapter 25
Lewis Ginter stepped out of the front door of Cazzie’s Motel, turned right and strode quickly along the crumbling sidewalk. Across the street Pamela Rhodes huddled in the doorway of a closed delicatessen and waited until Ginter had gone 200 feet without turning back before she stepped from her shelter and began tailing him.
Pamela had been keeping Ginter’s motel under intermittent surveillance for the last three weeks. So far, she had learned little. She had no car and no identification with which to rent one. On three occasions she saw Ginter get into his Corvette, now sporting Texas license plates, and drive off. Each time Ginter had returned within 90 minutes. Other times, she followed him as he walked two blocks to a telephone booth outside a bowling alley. She had even phoned Cazzie’s herself to ask for Lewis Ginter, only to confirm that guest rooms didn’t have telephones. Lewis’ use of a public pay telephone was more than a precaution.
When Ginter reached the phone booth he stepped inside and closed the door. Pamela, head down, continued past on the opposite side of the street. At the far corner, she turned and studied a display of used washing machines in a storefront window.
Despite their one night tryst, their relationship had changed dramatically following Lewis’ return from Mexico City. He still called her at the Dew Drop Inn every day, and he would stop by in his car for a chat two or three times per week, but they never went out in public together. She feared that he no longer trusted her. And, try as she might, she could not figure out why.
She watched Lewis dig coins out of his jacket pocket and place three telephone calls. When he was done he jerked back the door and started back to his motel. She wished she knew how to bug the phone booth. Lewis always used the same one, and she assumed that if she knew what she was doing that bugging it would be fairly simple. But electron
ic surveillance was not one of the skills she had acquired in Portland.
She knew too well that her efforts were useless. She was on the outside of whatever was going on, and if she was going to make a difference she would have to do more than follow Lewis Ginter on walks. She had to get into his motel room.
Paul deVere flung open his door at the Waldorf and came face to face with Amanda, fist upraised, ready to knock.
“I was on the way to your room,” he said, standing aside as she strode in. He furtively checked the hallway before closing the door.
“I’ve been on the phone,” he added.
“So have I,” she said matter-of-factly. “Lewis called.”
“Lewis?” deVere asked. Amanda clutched a sheaf of papers in her left hand.
“Why didn’t he call me?”
She looked at him sharply. “He said he did. Your phone’s been busy.”
“What did he say?” Paul asked anxiously.
“He wants us to come to Texas.”
“Texas? Why?”
Amanda lifted both arms and dropped them. “He’s still trying to run an op with some Russian defector. He wouldn’t say much. But he’s planning something in Texas that involves the President and he needs our help.”
“Kennedy?” deVere asked. “Does he have a way to see Kennedy?”
Amanda shrugged. “I don’t know. He said stuff has happened and his whole plan has fallen apart and he needs us there.”
“When?” deVere asked.
Amanda consulted the itinerary in her hand and shook her head. “He said next week. Kennedy’s only trip to Texas before next February is a political trip to Fort Worth and Dallas on the 22nd. He was, eh, is, trying to shore up political support. He and his Vice-President will visit the two cities in a one-day visit. He’ll motorcade in and out, give a speech at the Trade Mart in Dallas, and be back in Washington by night.”
DeVere grabbed a calendar off the desk. “The 22nd is on a Friday,” he said, turning back to Amanda. “That’s only two days before the meeting.”
Amanda nodded. “That’s next week. I have no idea why Lewis needs us there now.
“By the way,” she asked, “what was your call?”
“What? Oh.” He told her about the calls from Thurmond and Salisbury. Sitting on the edge of Paul’s bed, Amanda listened intently.
“Well, Thurmond’s out,” she said. “But Salinger, that’s a real possibility. He could get us in to see Kennedy.”
“But what are we going to tell him?” Paul asked. “He’ll have the same reaction as Thurmond and Salisbury.”
Maybe,” Amanda mused. She snatched the calendar from Paul’s hand. “If we see Salinger on the 18th we can still get to Dallas on Tuesday.”
She stood up and began pacing. She consulted the itinerary again. “Lewis said he’d call back tomorrow. We’ll tell him we’re seeing Salinger on the 18th and we’ll get a plane to Dallas the next day.”
“Will the 19th be too late?” deVere asked. “If Kennedy is going to meet with his advisors on the 24th . . .”
“Maybe,” Amanda answered pensively. “Maybe not. Maybe his decision on the 24th won’t be the final one this time.”
When Pierre Salinger finished his remarks the audience broke out in polite applause. A tall, thin man in his mid-forties wearing a tuxedo and horn-rimmed glasses stepped to the podium.
“Please join us in the next room for refreshments,” he announced.
Amanda was already out of her seat and edging forward. Salinger shook the hand of one of his hosts and was turning toward the hors d’oeuvre table when Amanda reached out with her arm.
“Mr. Salinger,” she gushed. “That was a great talk.”
Pierre Salinger turned. Upon seeing Dr. Hutch he broke into a broad smile.
“Thank you, Mrs. . .?” he asked.
Amanda let go of his arm and extended her right hand. Pierre Salinger shook it.
“Hutch, Dr. Amanda Hutch. From MIT. And this is Dr. Paul deVere,” she said, indicating her companion.
“I know this is unorthodox but we wanted to talk to you for one minute about President Kennedy’s meeting this Sunday,” she continued.
“Meeting?” Salinger asked cautiously, his brow furrowing.
“Yes,” Hutch continued glibly. “We understand the President is going to meet with his advisors this Sunday and that the issue of keeping troops in Vietnam will be decided, eh, discussed,” she added, flashing a smile. “You see, I’m a history professor and I’d like the President to know how dangerous pulling out of Vietnam will be.”
All traces of a smile disappeared from Salinger’s face. His features hardened and he looked over Hutch’s shoulder at deVere who stood impassively.
“I’m sorry,” Salinger said, turning to look at her squarely. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Hutch,” she said pleasantly. “Dr. Amanda Hutch.”
“From MIT?” Salinger asked.
Hutch nodded.
“Well, Dr. Hutch, the topics of presidential meetings are not something I discuss in public. What makes you think that there is one this Sunday? I mean, Sunday, of all days, and that the agenda includes the topic you mentioned?”
The others had moved off toward the food table. DeVere could see Harrison Salisbury hovering about ten feet behind Salinger.
“I’m a history professor, Mr. Salinger,” Amanda answered unflinchingly. “This is my field of study.”
“It’s not history yet, is it?” Salinger asked with a bland smile, and turned to go.
For the second time Amanda reached out and grabbed Pierre Salinger’s arm.
“Mr. Salinger, President Kennedy can not be allowed to pull out of Vietnam,” she whispered urgently. “This country is six days away from making the biggest mistake in its history, and President Kennedy must understand that.”
Salinger’s face turned to cold fury. He firmly removed Amanda’s grip from his arm and placed it at her side.
“With all due respect, Dr. Hutch, the President will keep his own counsel on his decisions. Thank you.” With that, Salinger turned and walked away.
Amanda wheeled and faced Paul. There was a tear in her eye.
“Forget about it,” he soothed. “Maybe history is just that. History. Maybe nothing can be changed.”
“That can’t be true!” she hissed.
Amanda reached over and grabbed her coat off the chair. “It can be done. I know it.” She pushed toward the rear door. “C’mon, we’ve got a plane to catch.”
Chapter 26
“Please deposit 65 cents.”
Pamela Rhodes picked the coins off the shelf and dropped them into the pay phone. After a brief silence, she heard ringing at the other end.
“Good morning. Waldorf Astoria, New York. How may I help you?”
Pamela shifted the receiver to her right hand. “Yes, could you please connect me to the room of Dr. Paul deVere?” she asked.
There was a pause before the voice answered, “I’m sorry, Dr. deVere is not in. He left the hotel this morning.”
Pamela frowned. “Could you connect me to the room of Dr. Amanda Hutch, please?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Dr. Hutch and Dr. deVere both checked out this morning.”
“Checked out?” Pamela asked. She swore to herself.
From the other end Pamela detected a muffled conversation. The original voice returned.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I misspoke. Dr. deVere and Dr. Hutch did not check out. They both left this morning with their suitcases and indicated that they would be back in a few days.”
“Did they say where they were going? I’m a friend of theirs and I really need to reach them,” she added desperately.
“I’m sorry. They didn’t say where they were going or when they’d be back. We are, of course, holding their rooms,” the clerk added in a haughty tone. “Is there a message I can take for either of them?”
“No, no thank you,” Pamela said dejectedly.
“I’ll try them later.”
She hung up and stood holding the receiver before slamming it down on its cradle. Where had they gone? And why? She had been hoping that deVere or Hutch would know what was going on and give her some guidance. There was no one else to turn to, no one who could provide her direction.