“‘Five thousand, you say. When do I get it?’
“‘Actually, I have it with me now—if you agree to the plan.’
“Tell me, Benny, how could I turn that down? So I agreed; and next thing I know, right on the spot, Kostay asks me if he can use my phone, says he needs to let his guy in the US know that I’ve agreed to the plan so he can give me my money.
“I let him use my phone to make the call. He tells the guy he found someone who will do the impersonation. And then, at the end of the call, Kostay says, ‘Thanks, Comrade,’ and hangs up.
“I said to him, ‘Comrade?’ I never heard you use that term before, Kostay. Is it a Russian you are dealing with on this?’
“‘No,’ he replies, ‘I didn’t say, “Comrade”; I said, “Conrad.” The guy’s name is “Conrad.”’”
I stopped reading for a few moments because I was startled by coming across the name Conrad here. It was the name of the person—Tristan Conrad—who’d sent me on this mission. I would have to see where this was going. But I decided to give it more thought later, after I’d finished the rest of the manifesto.
“Anyway, a few days later, Kostay returns to my apartment with the script I am to use for my call. The name of the guy I am supposed to impersonate is Lee Harvey Oswald. And when the embassy refuses me admission, as Kostay assures me it will, I am to drop Kostay’s name—say he is my friend.
“So, I did exactly as Kostay told me. I made the call, said I was Lee Harvey Oswald and wanted to visit the embassy. When they refused, I mentioned I was friends with Kostay. They still refused. I thanked them, and that was the end of the call.”
“Tell Benny what happened a couple of months later,” Rabbi Weissberg interjected, “after you found out about the Kennedy assassination.”
“Right. Well, it was obviously big news here in Mexico. I am sure it was big news everywhere. And when I heard the name of the killer—Lee Harvey Oswald—well, I almost shit in my pants—pardon me, Rabbi.
“I figured maybe because this guy Oswald got screwed out of some oil deal because of my call, maybe he went off his rocker and did something crazy, like kill the president. I felt horrible about it, like I caused the guy to do it.
“So as soon as I heard the name Oswald mentioned as Kennedy’s assassin, I tried to get in touch with Kostay—but I couldn’t find him. I tried all his usual haunts—the brothels he held an interest in, the gambling parlors—but I turned up nothing. And none of his former acquaintances could help me out either. Finally, this one prostitute—who I knew he saw pretty often—she tells me she thinks he went back to the Soviet Union. And that was it. I never saw him or heard from him again.”
Chapter 8
I thanked Ivan Brodsky for telling me his story. He had obviously carried around a lot of guilt for a lot of years. I tried to reassure him that nothing he did caused Oswald to kill Kennedy. I told him that Oswald was not himself an oilman; rather, he was someone who was groomed by some big Texas oilmen to kill the president.
By then, David, I had done a lot of research about Kennedy and the Houston oil cartel, so I know they hated him and wanted Johnson to be president.
The sole purpose of the phone call was to make it appear that Oswald had a connection with the Russians. And if Kostay had been telling the truth about being a former KGB assassin, and Oswald claimed him as a friend inside the embassy—the Russian connection to JFK’s assassination would be stronger yet, taking the heat off of the oil guys as the ones pulling Oswald’s strings.
Obviously, the conspirators were expecting the tape of this phone call to surface as evidence that the Russians were controlling Oswald. But when they realized they screwed up by using someone whose Russian was much worse than Oswald’s, they made sure the tape was destroyed.
End of Part 3
Chapter 30
May 9, 1989
I resettled myself in my seat and rested my eyes for a few moments before I went on to the next chapter.
Part 4
Chapter 9
For the longest time, David, I wasn’t sure what I should do with this information. When I got back from Guadalajara, I found a pretty cheap apartment in Albany Park, where I settled down and applied for a teaching job—with no luck. Left with a lot of time to think about the tape of the phone call and my encounter with Ivan, I finally decided to call Michael in late February of this year.
He was surprised to hear from me. He was really more your friend than he was mine. I mean, he was your debate partner, and I really only knew him through you. But he was a US Attorney, for God’s sake, so I thought I should tell him what I knew.
I gave Michael the whole story in detail in my first call. I mentioned the name Conrad as Kostay’s contact person and asked him if he had any way of checking into whether one of the Houston oilmen or one of their confederates might have that name. I also mentioned that since the people Kostay was dealing with knew that the Soviet Embassy’s phone line was tapped and that there would be a tape of the call, Conrad might be a government employee—or someone politically connected—who was working with the oil people in trying to create an Oswald–Russian connection.
I couldn’t tell whether Michael believed me or thought I was nuts, but he said he would look into it. When I didn’t hear from him at all for several weeks, I frankly started pestering him with follow-up calls. It was killing me, David—I knew that Oswald didn’t act alone—that there were people out there who knew seven weeks before it happened that Kennedy was going to be assassinated and that it was Oswald who would pull the trigger. I don’t know if Michael was humoring me when he said he would look into it or what. But he did say that he would check to see if there were any government people in the 1963 time frame with the name of Conrad.
After I didn’t hear from him again for several more weeks, I called him, and he started asking me questions about my former neighbor at the Towers, Philip Montgomery, who he thinks may have kidnapped an important government scientist. He seemed far more invested in that than he was in my concerns about the Kennedy assassination.
And then, David, just one day after that last call, he ends up dead. And here’s what I think. I don’t think Michael’s death had anything to do with the Truce of God people. In fact, I said absolutely nothing to Michael about Montgomery that would have led to his murder. I think maybe Michael had started taking my conspiracy theory seriously and started asking questions of the wrong people—and that’s what I think got him killed.
Chapter 10
You must destroy this manifesto after you read it, David. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that you know what I know. And frankly, given what’s happened to Michael, and the fact that those folks came looking for me at Lincoln Hall, I have to wonder if you were tailed when you came to see me. How else would they know?
I’m also concerned about them approaching my mother. She, of course, knows nothing other than the word backstage, which she told you. Still, I’m very worried about her and I’m afraid to call her from where I am—for her sake as well as mine. If they’re listening in to her phone calls, they might be able to trace my whereabouts; plus, they might decide she’d be a good bargaining chip to use to get at me.
I will just tell you this: I am somewhere in Mexico. The only person who knows how to find me is my friend, Rabbi Alberto Salinas. If you want to know where I am, contact him. When you finally meet him and learn where I am hiding, look in the margin. It will be a red-letter day, though I could not imagine eating locusts.
Now, destroy this manifesto immediately. Hopefully someday we will be reunited, and we’ll be able to convince whoever it is who needs convincing of what really happened to John F. Kennedy.
The End
Chapter 31
As I was putting Benny’s journal into my carry-on, I noticed the passanger next to me had stopped snoring. I’d become so absorbed in my reading that I had no idea when he’d awakened or whether he’d been looking over my shoulder as I read. I became instantly suspicio
us, thinking that he’d been given the seat next to mine to keep an eye on me. Maybe the word was out that I’d received a package at O’Hare from my uncle.
Or perhaps Benny’s paranoia was contagious. Clearly he was capable of a lot of crazy notions—especially that stuff about eating locusts! I mean, just when I started thinking he really was sane and possibly onto something historically significant, he would throw in a line that made me think he was completely bonkers.
But still, could it be merely a coincidence that Conrad was the name of the person Kostay was dealing with while someone calling himself Tristan Conrad was directing my current excursion to the Soviet Union? Like I said, I am not a big believer in coincidences.
And another thought struck me. Benny said that a Houston oil cartel was behind the Oswald setup. Well, didn’t Conrad tell me he was based in Houston? And wasn’t that where Sandra said she’d transferred from prior to her gig in Chicago? Could she be in on this too? Benny described the people who sought him out at Lincoln Hall as a tall man and a blond woman. Conrad and Sandra fit that description to a T. And then there was the Oliver! playbill I’d noticed in the wastebasket at the Argonne lab.
So what could all this mean? Was I being set up in some way? I mulled over all of the possible implications of what Benny had written. For one thing, the name Conrad wasn’t terribly uncommon. And even if he was “my” Conrad, it didn’t necessarily mean I was in danger. Sandra had said he was the CIA’s Soviet specialist. So he would be an appropriate person to track down Whidden once it was known that he might be in the Soviet Union. Even if Conrad had some involvement in the Kennedy assassination, it didn’t necessarily mean his role in the current investigation was bogus.
Plus I found it hard to believe that Benny had stumbled onto the answer to the everlasting question of who really killed Kennedy. Ivan Brodsky could’ve made up the whole story about impersonating Oswald, especially since he admitted to having once been a criminal.
Soon the Aeroflot plane was nearing Moscow; it was barely five in the morning local time. Since I was still extremely concerned that the passenger next to me was a plant, I decided to test him—to see if I could trick him into giving himself away.
“Traveling on business?” I asked him, even though I wasn’t sure he spoke any English.
“Actually, no,” he responded in a thick Southern drawl. “I signed up to get me a Russian mail-order bride. Have a look at this picture.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a Texas-sized wallet crammed with hundred dollar bills and pulled out a snapshot of a stunning woman made up to look like a movie star.
“Wow,” I said. “She’s gorgeous.”
“She’s supposed to meet me when we land,” he said proudly. “Check her out when you see me with her and give me a thumbs-up if you think she looks as good as the picture. Sometimes they can try to fool you with these pictures, but I’ve been told the agency I’m dealing with is first rate.”
This chat convinced me that my imagination was working overtime with regard to this guy. No way was he assigned his seat to spy on me. Maybe Benny’s manifesto had seriously clouded my judgment, and I needed to push it to the back of my mind.
When we deplaned, we faced scores of people waiting behind an area that was cordoned off by what looked like a series of waist-high metal bike racks. I scanned the crowd, looking for an Intourist sign with my name on it. It was then that I noticed my seatmate embracing a Russian woman who in person looked even better than her photo. When he finally came up for air, he looked around and saw me staring in his direction. I immediately gave him a two thumbs-up, for which he looked very grateful.
A few minutes later, after the crowd had thinned somewhat, I spotted an older woman standing behind the barrier with her Intourist sign held high above her head. She was so petite that even in that position the sign was mostly obscured by the people standing in front of her. I went over to her and introduced myself.
“It is nice to meet you, Mr. Miller,” the woman said in very good English. “Let me help you first with customs, and then I’ll get you to the right gate for your flight to Omsk. But it will be a long wait, I’m afraid, since the departure time is about twelve hours from now.”
Chapter 32
May 10, 1989
It took me several hours to make my way through customs, reclaim my baggage, and then check in for the Aeroflot flight to Omsk. The guide from Intourist stayed with me for the entire time until I boarded the plane. She was pleasant and didn’t ask a lot of questions. Before we parted, she wished me well and advised me that the next Intourist agent would have a car available that would take me to my hotel that evening and pick me up in the morning for my meeting at Spacebo.
The reference to the meeting caused my heart to race. Was I really only one day away from seeing Lena…after twenty-three years? And with my mind and body in such a state of nerves, would it be possible for me to successfully masquerade as a customs law expert, there merely to assist Spacebo? I knew that I simply had to.
The flight to Omsk took about three hours. It was close to dusk when the plane made the final approach. The landscape surrounding the airport was barren and desolate. While a three-hour flight over the United States would cover most of the country, the Soviet Union is so vast that my trip—seen on a map—only covered a relatively short distance.
Once inside the terminal building, I noticed there were far fewer people waiting for passengers than there’d been in Moscow. So I was immediately able to spot the person holding an Intourist sign with my name on it. This time, my guide was a grizzled-looking elderly man, puffing away on a cigarette. His face was so wrinkled that this nasty habit must have robbed his skin of every last drop of moisture. But he looked solidly built and carried himself with an air of supreme confidence. Maybe in a city like Omsk—in southwestern Siberia—having a job with Intourist was like winning the lottery.
When I introduced myself to him, he greeted me in impeccable English.
“Mr. Miller, I am glad to meet you,” he said warmly. “I am happy you arrived here safely. Welcome to Omsk. Welcome to Siberia. Welcome to the Soviet Union.”
“Thank you,” I responded. “I’m happy to finally be here. I feel as if I started this journey in Chicago several days ago.”
“That’s how it always is with travelers to the Soviet Union,” he assured me. “It’s not just the distance—it’s the change in culture. You must feel like you have entered a new world.”
He was right about the change in culture. Although I hadn’t yet stepped foot outside of an airport building since I’d arrived, merely observing the people inside the terminals in Moscow and Omsk was enough to make me feel like I was in a new world. A world where many of the men wore military uniforms and where smiles were in short supply; where women over the age of thirty seemed unconcerned about their appearance. Also, it was a world of uncomfortable silence—where most people seemed consumed by their thoughts. But at least my Intourist guide was talkative.
He led me directly to the baggage claim area. Since I’d already been through customs in Moscow, I didn’t need to repeat the procedure in Omsk.
“Let me take your bags to the car,” he offered, lifting my luggage from the carousel after I pointed it out to him.
“No, really,” I insisted, “I can do it.”
“Please,” he reiterated, “allow me. You just worry about your carry-on bag. You have had a long flight.”
I followed him as he carried my luggage—having far less difficulty with its bulk and weight than I would have—through the doors of the terminal to the road just outside. There was a single car parked at the curb—a Russian Lada—and my guide led me to it. It looked totally unlike an American car: it was anything but flashy, with a very boxy design and a dull metallic exterior. It almost appeared as if the car had been shipped from the factory prematurely, before it was painted.
I stood near the guide as he prepared to put my luggage in the trunk. Once he’d unlocked it and lifted it up, my
eyes happened to stray to the license plate—where they became riveted. What I saw caused a rush of blood to my head. The license plate number was 713111!
At first my instinct was to bolt, but my guide—sensing this—grabbed my wrists with a remarkable degree of strength for a man his age.
“Where do you think you are off to, Mr. Miller? There is no place to run to here.”
There was no use pretending that I hadn’t seen something highly disturbing to me—or that I hadn’t wanted to flee.
“It’s the license plate on your car,” I said angrily, feeling duped. “You’re not with Intourist, are you? You’re with Truce of God.”
“Calm down, Mr. Miller,” he said, relaxing his grip on my wrists. “You are very observant. But no, I am not with Truce of God. And I am not with Intourist either, that is true. But I can assure you, I am your friend. In fact, at this moment, I am perhaps your best friend in the world. Come with me in the car, and I will explain everything to you.”
I just looked at him and said nothing as he opened the door to the backseat for me. After all, what could I do but comply?
Chapter 33
May 10, 1989
As my guide started the engine, which sounded like exploding firecrackers, he started at me through the rear-view mirror.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Alexander. Alexander Kostay.”
“Kostay?” I repeated in shock. That was the name of the former KGB agent mentioned in Benny’s manifesto.
“Why do you sound so surprised?” he asked. “Is it a name that you recognize?”
There was no reason for me to tell him that I’d come across his name and in what context. “I have no idea who you are,” I said, trying for a casual tone.
“Really?” he challenged. “Then I guess my friend was wrong. He was certain you knew, which is why he wanted to have you killed.”
When the Past Came Calling Page 15
