Simchenko, whose throat had gone dry, did not hesitate to reach for the phone, dialing his immediate superior. Momentarily that executive called the KGB. Lee grinned from ear to ear.
That night, October 18-—Lee’s birthday—the two beauties celebrated with him in his room. Rima brought Lee a copy of her favorite Dostoevski novel, The Idiot, as a present. They drank champagne and toasted what they hoped would be his welcome to the Soviet Union. While speaking so, Lee had become ‘sexy.’
*
Lee spent most of the next several days in his room, at times reading The Idiot, occasionally growing so frustrated with the extended wait for a phone call that he couldn’t concentrate. Every afternoon after lunch at the hotel’s restaurant, Lee would exercise by taking a walk. Exiting the lobby he turned right and continued on for five blocks, turning right again, following this pattern to create a perfect square. Twenty-five minutes later he arrived at the spot where he began.
On the first day Lee was approached by a tall man with a severely rounded face and big hound-dog eyes. The stranger wore an expensive black fur overcoat and, atop his head, a ragged peasant’s cap, presenting an incongruous image. He stopped Lee and asked if he were an American. Lee said he was, but hated his country. The other fellow roared good-naturedly, explaining he achieved Soviet citizenship five years earlier. As he strolled this area daily, they would chat again. The two shook hands.
Lee walked away with a missive from George in his palm, passed along by his assigned CIA contact. Likewise, the other fellow now had in hand a piece of paper in which Lee reported back to George. No sooner had this secret agent returned to his apartment than he drew out his concealed high-tech radio and sent a coded message to America, waiting for a reply.
“What am I to do?” Lee asked George on his contact’s radio set several nights later, supposedly arriving to share a cup of tea. Earlier, he had been informed by Rima that his request was denied. A police officer had arrived, insisting Lee pack and leave the country immediately. Rima felt deeply for the American and couldn’t grasp why his potential had been rejected.
She could not know that those in power were eager to have Oswald remain. However, they’d agreed on the likeliness that he might be a CIA plant. So they must take every precaution. And so the chess game continued. Refusing Lee constituted a feint, a decision arrived at to discover what he would do next and, based on that, allow them to consider this man’s dubious sincerity.
“Stay, stay, stay,” George insisted, his voice barely audible. “Whatever it takes, whatever you have to do: Stay!”
Lee returned to his hotel room and sat on the bed, trying to determine his course of action. Clearly, George was not going to move Lee, his pawn; he had to play the game himself. Only an extreme gesture would serve this purpose. That had to be suicide.
I’ve considered it so often. Now, it’s natural ...
The Soviets must be made to believe he earnestly would prefer to be dead than not Red. Lee would slit his wrists, allow his blood to trickle into the bathtub. But he must be careful so as not to actually end everything. Rima was scheduled to arrive in the lobby for a sad farewell at eight. If he were not there, she would sense something wrong and alert the manager.
First, Lee scrawled on a note pad:
October 21, 1959; 7:00 P.M.
My fondest dreams are shattered ... I decided to end it. Soak wrist in cold water to numb the pain. Then slash my left wrist. Then plunge into bathtub of hot water ... somewhere a violin plays as I watch my life whirl away ...
The final line, Lee borrowed from an old movie. When he heard the orchestra playing down below in the tea room, that sequence came to mind. He appropriated it, giddy at experiencing a transcendence between a classic Hollywood scene and real life.
Lee applied all the skills he had learned in the service so as to prick himself slightly, drawing blood, careful not to come near the vein. He did this at 7:45. That way, he should survive, if only Rima followed her usual pattern of promptness.
At ten after eight, having borrowed the master key, Rima entered and saw Lee. He played his role as if going for an Oscar, twisting up his body into a pretzel-like shape, gasping incongruous words. Rima screamed for help.
An ambulance arrived minutes later, speeding Lee off to Botkin Hospital. The doctors took one look at the cut, three centimeters in length, and laughed at the idea that anyone might seriously take this as a suicide attempt. They packed Lee off to the insane ward. Rima remained with him that night, stroking his hair, attempting to comfort this sad man-child.
The honesty of her concern never in doubt, Lee resented that Rimma repeatedly uttered the word svaie. That indicated, from the little Russian he’d learned, a baby brother—hardly how he wanted to be perceived by this beautiful blonde.
Though Lee appreciated Rimma’s arranging for him to shortly be transferred to, in Lee’s own words, “an ordinary ward,” he asked if she could send Rosa around to visit him next time.
*
Upon his dismissal days later, Lee transferred to the Hotel Metropole, Room 233. His suite at Hotel Berlin had been assigned to an arriving tourist the morning after his ‘suicide attempt.’ Even more spacious, the rooms were full of antique furniture, apparently left over from before the Revolution; remnants of an age known for luxury for the elite, poverty for all others.
Lee spent much of his time waiting to discover the impact his supposed little theatrical piece would have on those who made decisions. He devoured The Idiot, heading off to purchase other books by Dostoevsky. Crime and Punishment turned out to be one of those rare volumes that change a person’s life.
The notion of a murder committed by a man who sees himself as ‘above the law’ spoke directly to Lee. He had after all been licensed to kill. The author’s questioning of moral issues in a modern, amoral world proved impactful on Lee, who realized great literature could speak to him even as a Sinatra film once had.
Then a missive from George was passed to him on the street. His contact, aware of Lee’s change of residence, had altered his daily walk-route to pass by the Metropole. They nodded, shook hands, and Lee walked away with a note from George.
Shortly after noon on October 31 Lee caught a taxi, rode to the American Embassy, entered, and told the receptionist that he demanded to speak with the Consul, Richard Snyder.
“Mr. Snyder? There’s a man here who needs to talk with you at once on a most pressing matter.” Lee was ushered into an old-fashioned American style office adorned with Oak furniture.
“I am a Marxist,” Lee, standing, announced as he raised a finger in the air, considering the ‘decadence’ surrounding him.
“You’ll be a lonely man as a Marxist,” Snyder cynically replied, remaining seated. He then explained that the values of Karl Marx, so altruistic, had precious little to do with the harsh realities of life in Khrushchev’s current corrupt state.
“Don’t try and talk me out of it. I know what I’m doing.”
Officially, as Snyder’s office mate John McVickar noted, the Consul continued to attempt to reason with Lee. From time to time their visitor, refusing a seat, grinning maniacally, interrupted with such pat phrases as “I hate America.”
Exhausted, the Counsul rose, came around, shook Lee’s hand, wished him well, then led this acerbic young man to the door. As Lee left, Snyder agreed to initiate the arduous process.
“Thank you, Consul. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
All of this had been carefully scripted by George. McVicar was not in on the scripted if unrehearsed little piece of life as theatre. Snyder had a double identity of his own, he also the top CIA man in Moscow. His position as Consul had been arranged so that while seeming to serve in an acceptable capacity Snyder could secretly oversee all plans to undermine Russian security.
“As I said, Mr. Oswald, this will take time.”
As for Snyder and Lee, each had been instructed to say precisely what they did owing to George’s concern the office had been t
apped, the KGB listening in. If this were true, what the operatives heard would help convince the Russians that Lee was what he claimed to be. It certainly couldn’t hurt.
“The sooner the better. I hate America!”
When they shook hands, each passed a note to the other.
*
As for the KGB, they were not convinced the suicide attempt had been for real. Still, there remained the possibility that Oswald was what he claimed to be. So what to do?
For a stop-gap measure, they extended his Visa indefinitely and put Lee up, at governmental expense, at his hotel. During the following two months, KGB agents checked with every possible source, relying heavily on statements from communist agents in California and Japan who had been in contact with Lee. Missives came back commending his passionate speech but some questioned his supposed “wide reading” of communist theory.
Lee would express himself in brief phrases—“All power to the people!”; “Death to capitalism!”—that sounded borrowed, trite, and tired. Lee, clearly a bright enough fellow, would have had more command of the political theories than that if, as he claimed, he truly did study book after book.
“So,” Shelepin asked one after another of his co-workers, “what are we to do in the case of Lee Harvey Oswald?”
Many an hour was spent discussing ‘The Oswald Situation.’ As top KGB man, Alexander N. Shelepin would have to make the call. He favored sending Lee home, less owing to any concern Oswald constituted a serious security risk than to maintain his position. If Shelepin were to stamp Oswald’s file as a ‘non-threat,’ and Lee turned out to be a plant, not only would Shelepin lose his prestigious position but likely end up in Siberia.
On the other hand Yuri Nosenko, specifically assigned to monitor Oswald’s file, leaned in the opposite direction. There was so much potential here to acquire information that any possible risk should be considered a minor issue.
As the American waited at Hotel Metropole, the hefty head of KGB and his thin assistant pondered Oswald’s file.
“Whatever we decide, our careers might be ruined.”
“True. Then again, our reputations might be enhanced.”
Unknown to them, a similar file had been established in Washington, D.C. at the offices of the FBI. As competition between that venerable information gathering service and the newer, more aggressive CIA intensified, each became ever more interested in its own survival than in its assigned security goals. Each arm of America’s source of national protection set out to keep its competitor from knowing what it might actually be up to. The immediate effect? A decrease in the effectiveness of both as to national interests.
Not only had George and his superiors made no attempt to share Lee’s status as a spy with J. Edgar Hoover; rather, the CIA attempted to cover up all traces of his mission. The FBI, understandably blindsided, could only consider this defection a serious threat as news reports of Oswald’s activities trickled in. At George’s request, Snyder had filed an obligatory report to the U.S. naval attaché in Moscow. This man had in turn passed the report on to the Commander of Naval Operations in D.C.
“Lee Harvey Oswald,” this official record stated, “has offered (the) Soviets information he possessed on US radar.”
Later that day, this report reached Hoover. He decided this might offer an opportunity for his Bureau to reassert its authority.
Assigned to study the materials, Col. Thomas Fox, chief of Clandestine Services for the Defense Intelligence Agency, summed it all up: “The possibility that Oswald had been recruited or had prior contact with Soviet intelligence while in Japan would have to be fully explored. A net damage assessment, indicating the possible access (that) Oswald had to classified information” would commence immediately.
Confusing matters further, several FBI agents reported to Hoover that Oswald had been simultaneously spotted in various locations in the U.S. This caused Hoover to wonder if the ex-marine might be here, someone else meanwhile posing as Oswald.
File 301 was established at FBI headquarters, agents sent out to interview fellow marines, old friends and family members. John W. Fain, special agent assigned to speak with Marguerite and Robert, arrived in Fort Worth in late October. Marguerite, upon hearing the agent’s polite but concerned questions, threw herself onto the nearest couch and wept. Robert, working a milk route to cover their expenses, showed up a later in his white suit. Balding, Robert appeared considerably less impressive than he had several years earlier in full marine dress garb.
“Yes, sir. Actually, I expected to hear from the FBI much sooner. I’ll be glad to cooperate in any manner that I can.”
Calmly, Robert explained things to Fain. The moment Lee’s defection hit the airwaves Robert sent a telegram to his brother by way of the American Embassy: “through any possible means, keep your nose clean!” Not only had Lee failed to respond but, as Robert learned through Western Union, when a secretary at the Embassy contacted Lee, asking him to stop by and pick up the message, Lee refused. The FBI man thanked Robert for his cooperation and took his leave.
*
As per George’s orders, Lee turned down most interview requests from American reporters in Moscow, each hoping to nail a scoop. A key exception: Priscilla Post Johnson, ostensibly in Moscow to cover the Russian news-front for the North American Newspaper Alliance. Like Embassy boss Snyder she served as a CIA plant. Previous to this assignment, Johnson worked for Senator John Fitzgerald Kennedy, he even then readying his presidential bid. Since JFK favored the CIA over the FBI, Johnson—ever loyal to JFK—made herself known to Allen Dulles, who introduced the young woman to George. He had taken care of her arrangements with the newspaper syndicate to place Johnson in this position.
“Hello, Lee Harvey Oswald. Thanks for agreeing to speak with me.” (Be careful what you say: someone may be listening!)
The moment Lee met Priscilla Post Johnson it was love at first sight. Unfortunately, this turned out to be a one-way attraction. She left two hours later, her joint missions accomplished. As a reporter, she came away with a routine story. As a “mole,” Johnson’s more significant task had been to slip a message to Lee from George and carry one away as she left.
“Thank you, Mr. Oswald. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
God, I hope so. You are so gorgeous ...!
All the while the KGB officials pondered, argued, stalled, agreed, disagreed, decided, re-evaluated. Lee remained free to come and go as he wished. Rima had offered to spend New Year’s Eve with him but, convinced the relationship would not lead to the romance Lee longed for, he asked if Rosa might be his date.
They attended the ballet, dined on caviar, retired to his room. He could not guess, much less know, that what he thought to be his own decisions had been orchestrated by the KGB, Rosa one of their top agents.
“Oh, Rosa. I’m so crazy about you. Please—”
“Relax, Lee. Let me get to know your better as a person. Tell me ‘the Lee Harvey Oswald story.’ Who are you, what—”
On New Year’s Day, however, Rosa could only relate to her superiors what they already knew: This man seemed sincere; an almost ethereal element of innocence surrounded his presence.
Then again, this might mask a brilliant, devious mind.
*
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Lee told George in a frantic phone call from Moscow to Miami on January 4, 1960. This took place from the apartment of Priscilla Post Johnson, which she daily scoured for traces of listening devices in her rooms or a wiretap on her private radio-phone.
“Hit me with the good news first.”
“My Visa will be extended for at least a year.”
“Terrific. And the bad?”
“They’re sending me to Minsk! That’s off in Byelorussia.”
“I know where Minsk is, Lee.”
“That’s like one of theirs hoping to mole himself into Washington and learning he’ll be sent to Dubuque Iowa instead.”
“Will you calm down? This has to be a Sheleti
n decision, and I believe I understan how the man arrives at his decisions. You are being allowed to stay on because they assume you probably are what you claim to be. But they aren’t certain. By sending you to a far-off city, they’re placing you in a virtual test-tube. Agents will be watching from every angle, pretending to be ordinary citizens. They’ll report every move you make. In time, Sheletin will make his decision. If they come to disbelieve your ‘legend’ they’ll oust you. If they buy it, you’ll be back in Moscow. Then you’ll truly be our key mole there.”
“If I’m sent home ... I won‘t be ‘dumped’?”
“Jesus, Lee. When will you relax and realize you’re ‘in’? Now, here’s what I want you to do. Go with the flow but insist that you want to be assigned to some sort of radio job when you arrive, based on your marine expertise. This will put you in a position to learn about technology outside of Moscow, which we know precious little about. Everything may work out for the best.”
George read Sheletin correctly; this double-decision did constitute a temporary holding pattern. Lee took heart at the realization that his ongoing status as a secret agent would continue in some form or another. He received the substantial sum of 5,000 rubles, supposedly from the Red Cross, as well as the government’s promise that they would pay him an additional subsidy of $700 a month while in Minsk.
A four day train trip brought him there. Lee was greeted as an arriving hero at the station by Mayor Sharapov. He offered a fine rent-free apartment for this American who had dared speak out, condemning his country’s imperialism. Two local Red Cross nurses accompanied Lee to the city’s leading hotel, more upscale than he had expected.
“Hello, Mr. Oswald. Welcome!”
I never thought Minsk would be so full of pretty girls.
As Lee checked in, young females crowded around outside, peering in windows, for a peek at the young American they’d heard about. Lee basked in the realization that these teenagers saw him as a sexy celebrity.
Patsy! : The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald Page 30
