“Are you serious? Is this for real?” Theresa asked.
“You know me. I always air on the side of caution and cynicism. But if this is a hoax, it’s one elaborate one. Just get an expert to compare it with official television footage. It shouldn’t be hard to prove or disprove.”
“But we have no idea that the man in the culvert actually fired his weapon.”
“I’m not concerned with whether he fired his weapon or not. I want to know who he is.”
“Do you have any idea of who he might be?”
“Strangely enough—yes. But it’s going to take some time to verify who he is.”
“Got any friends left at the CIA who can help out?”
“I’ve still got a few friends there, but this is not something I want to transmit to them and put into their database as coming from me. Just give me some time. I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“Take all the time you need. You know this might be bigger than Watergate.”
“Maybe. Depends on who was really behind it all—the only question that needs to be answered at this point.”
“Just keep me posted, OK?”
Flynn bid his editor a good afternoon before hanging up and turning his full attention back to the road. But it didn’t stay there for long before his mind began to drift. How could this be possible? It doesn’t make sense.
A half hour later, Flynn arrived at Mr. Moore’s residence. He remained in the car for a moment to ponder what might be next as he stared at the manicured yard in the center of this upper-middle-class neighborhood. The week’s events sent Flynn’s mind spinning as he worked through the evidence to find the shred of truth that would unravel the lie sold to the American public. Could Mr. Moore’s documents shed more light on the JFK assassination conspiracy or simply lead to more questions? Flynn hoped his victorious battle against Dallas’ afternoon traffic would yield a positive result for the case. He hated more questions in a conspiracy this old.
Flynn knocked on the black door of the brick ranch house and waited. The door creaked open, revealing a gentleman who appeared to be somewhere around eighty years old. The thin splotches of white hair dotting his otherwise bald head and his slightly hunched back alerted Flynn that his host had a few stories to tell. Yet there was only one that interested him.
Mr. Moore welcomed Flynn and showed him to the den where the two settled into plush chairs. They made small talk for a few minutes before addressing the main reason for their meeting.
“So, Mr. Moore, what documents did your brother give you that were so important you had to give them to me in person?” Flynn asked.
Mr. Moore chuckled, which quickly turned into a gravely cough. Upon regaining his composure, Mr. Moore answered him.
“I’m a big fan and I wanted to meet you in person,” Mr. Moore said.
“Seriously?” Flynn asked, starting to seethe beneath his breath.
“Absolutely. But that’s not the only reason I wanted to see you in person. It has to do with the nature of these documents, documents that my brother said were for your eyes only.”
Flynn sighed.
“Look, if I don’t have your permission to share these with the public when I go to write a story—if these documents are even newsworthy—then this is just a waste of time for both of us.”
Flynn abruptly stood up to leave.
“Now, now, Mr. Flynn. I didn’t say you couldn’t share the information. Only the documents can’t be broadcast or shown to anyone. However, he was a big fan of yours too and made a short video for you to watch. He never said anything about not showing it to anyone.”
With that last sentence, Mr. Moore gave Flynn a wink and turned on the television with the video apparently already cued up.
The video started with an introduction by Mr. Moore’s brother, who surprisingly was only ten days away from dying. He was rather lucid and appeared in good spirits as he began talking.
Hi, Mr. Flynn. My name is James Moore, but you likely know me as J. Walton Moore, a CIA agent based here in Dallas in the 1960s. As I near death, I think it’s important that the world know the truth about cover stories I told when deposed by the Warren Commission and the House Select Committee on Assassinations.
I first met George de Mohrenschildt at a charity event in Dallas in early 1962. At the time, he believed it was a chance meeting, but it was nothing of the sort. I had been tasked by the Deputy Director of Plans, Mr. Richard Helms, to make contact with Mr. de Mohrenschildt and deploy him as an asset for Central Intelligence. I was unsure the extent of Mr. Helm’s plans for our new asset. However, I was instructed to introduce him to Lee Harvey Oswald when he and his wife first moved to Dallas in the spring of 1963.
The agency helped arrange for Mr. de Mohrenschildt to win a government contract with Haiti, deploying him there with the express purpose of gathering intel on the movements of Francois Duvalier’s relatively new government. Anybody cozying up to Fidel Castro in those days came under intense scrutiny from the agency.
Just before Mr. de Mohrenschildt moved to Haiti in June of 1963, I met with him and Helms in Washington to go over protocol for delivering intelligence. Mr. de Mohrenschildt moved away and never reported much of anything until he returned to the United States in 1967.
Officially, Mr. de Mohrenschildt never met Oswald again. That’s agency speak for “yes they did meet, but I’m not going to tell you about it.” In mid September, Mr. de Mohrenschildt took a trip to Mexico City and just so happened to run into Lee Harvey Oswald. I have no idea what they discussed, but I do know other more well known assassins were rumored to be present at the meeting.
Ultimately, because of Mr. de Mohrenschildt’s detailed knowledge of the events and activities that happened around the President’s assassination, the CIA resurrected Project Artichoke to keep him from talking. Under the influence of a special cocktail of drugs, Mr. de Mohrenschildt took his own life before he could speak with the House Select Committee on Assassinations in 1977.
This is not something I’m proud of, but I couldn’t go to my grave without telling the truth, something Mr. de Mohrenschildt never had the opportunity to do himself.
Thank you for your time.
The screen faded to black, but Flynn, mouth agape, still stared at it. It was easily the most powerful admission he had ever seen or heard. Shocking Flynn was not easy to do. He carried more secrets than he ever had time to divulge, some of which could start wars between nations. But this? This deathbed confession supplanted anything at the top of his list for jaw-dropping moments.
“Has anyone else seen this?” Flynn asked.
“Nope. And I was under specific instructions to show it to you first,” Mr. Moore said. “My brother was hoping that maybe you’d be able to use this during one of your television appearances when you talked about it. He even made a copy for you.”
Mr. Moore shoved a DVD into Flynn’s hands along with a written transcript and some other background information that he felt might come in handy while writing his story.
Flynn thanked Mr. Moore but remained in a daze, his brain whirring over the implications of what he just heard.
“Do you know what this means?” Flynn asked.
“Not much other than the CIA killed a man,” Mr. Moore answered. “You really think that’s a big deal?”
“Well, it’s much more than that. Conspiracy theorists have long since believed that the CIA had a hand in killing JFK. Now we’ve got an agent admitting that the CIA coerced a man to kill himself before he could share any information about JFK’s assassination.”
“I thought everyone believed that, Mr. Flynn,” Mr. Moore replied. “The bigger questions are who else was behind it and why.”
Mr. Moore’s response deflated any excitement Flynn had over the deathbed admission. He still found it significant—a witness testimony confirming that the CIA really was involved in JFK’s assassination plot. Or at the very least, had knowledge that something was happening. Mr. Moore may not have b
een impressed, but Flynn trusted his gut that this story was huge, the biggest he’d ever covered. He trusted his editor would agree with him along with the cable news shows. This had “book deal” written all over it.
Despite his exuberance, Mr. Moore was right. The admission did nothing more than confirm suspicions and raise old questions again. Why would the CIA want JFK dead? Was it over his reluctance to engage in the Vietnam conflict? Were they scared he would divulge important state secrets during one of his trysts with a foreign spy posing as a model? Or was Lyndon B. Johnson pulling the CIA’s strings to find his way to the White House in a more prominent position?
The why was nearly as interesting as the who on a mystery that was now a half century old. Everyone believed the Warren Report was flawed. Now Flynn had proof.
He needed to pull on one more thread, one he hoped would unravel these secrets with the ever-elusive smoking gun.
CHAPTER 12
FLYNN SAT IN HIS CAR outside Mr. Moore’s house for a few minutes. He needed to calm down and think. Up until now, every new shred of evidence Flynn collected came from private citizens divulging some family secret. The web of lies proved the CIA’s culture of deceit still thrived. But the conscience of a few people weighed heavily upon them, so much so that they had to get the truth out there.
The fact that it took a half a century for these confessions and pieces of evidence to start coming out led Flynn to believe that the job of providing information and misinformation by the CIA was intentional. They wanted the media and the public to believe that almost anyone associated with JFK had motive to forcibly remove him from office. Over the years, Flynn met scores of people with a variety of theories. The mob did it. J. Edgar Hoover did it. LBJ did it. Russia did it. Cuba did it. Some people even suspected shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis did it. The last one was Flynn’s personal favorite, even though it was outlandish. The rumor was Kennedy was about to enact a crippling tax to the foreign import industry in the U.S., which would all but ruin Onassis. Yet Flynn liked it because if it were true, Onassis not only offed Kennedy but married his widow Jacqueline as well. The ultimate “up yours.” But the people who believed that conspiracy were a special kind of crazy, the kind Flynn avoided at all costs.
Ultimately, the plan of leaked information and misinformation achieved the CIA’s desired result. While some people still suspect the agency’s role in JFK’s assassination plot, there were far more plausible—and titillating—theories that abounded.
Flynn liked the direction of his investigation thus far, particularly since it centered around de Mohrenschildt. Easily Flynn’s favorite suspect, de Mohrenschildt led a colorful life that bordered on the unbelievable if not fanciful. Born into a wealthy shipping family in Russia in 1911, de Mohrenschildt found his silver-spoon life turned upside down when his father was imprisoned during the Bolshevik Revolution. But in 1921, his father managed to escape a prison camp in Siberia, leading his family to freedom in Poland. As a young man, he spent time all over Europe, even claiming to become involved in a Nazi plot to assassinate Joseph Stalin.
In 1938, de Mohrenschildt came to the U.S., seeking his fame and fortune—at least, that’s what he told everyone. From the moment he stepped on U.S. soil, the FBI began compiling a detailed dossier of his movements and liaisons. Long suspected as a Nazi spy, then later, KGB, de Mohrenschildt lived his life under the watchful auspices of American spies. Yet it didn’t deter him from growing his network of questionable contacts in the U.S. and abroad. In the meantime, de Mohrenschildt—ever the opportunist—built a sizeable wealth by preying on wealthy widows. It wasn’t until he married his fourth wife that he actually found a woman he deemed worth keeping, albeit a rocky marriage that even included a secret divorce while the couple continued living together.
Flynn loved the delicious irony over a Russian national and suspected Nazi spy being turned and deployed as an asset by the CIA. Yet he scratched his head over how anyone could conceive that de Mohrenschildt could be trustworthy. Weren’t his self-serving actions as obvious to the agency then when it approached de Mohrenschildt about becoming an asset as they were now, fifty years later? It befuddled Flynn how they could miss such glaring problems.
Of all Flynn’s personal conspiracy theories regarding the JFK assassination, the idea that George de Mohrenschildt was pulling the strings was among the most intriguing, and quite plausible. The CIA even arranged a meeting between him and Lee Harvey Oswald when the Oswalds moved to Dallas. And the iconic picture of Oswald holding a rifle? It was de Mohrenschildt behind the camera that day. Could this guy have played the CIA? Or was this the CIA’s plan all along? What was once a far-fetched idea seemed entirely plausible in light of J. Walton Moore’s deathbed confession. But without de Mohrenschildt to confirm or deny anything, it was still just a theory, one that still needed more legs to stand on. It was just like the CIA wanted it.
Several years before, Flynn wrote a story about de Mohrenschildt for The National . It looked at his life and his role in some of the most significant moments in world history as a supposed innocent bystander. Yet Flynn contended that was far from the truth. He painted de Mohrenschildt as a slimy mercenary on the open espionage market, ready to flip for whoever was willing to pay for it. He remembered de Mohrenschildt’s daughter, Alexei, wasn’t very happy about it. Fortunately, she was a drunk and likely didn’t remember the piece. In hindsight, Flynn realized he didn’t have to be so harsh in the stance he took against his favorite alleged conspirator. Hopefully, Alexei had forgiven him—or was too drunk to remember who he was.
He needed to pay her a visit.
***
FLYNN WOKE UP THURSDAY MORNING in his hotel room with one surprising thing on his mind: Natalie. He couldn’t wait to escape Dallas and get back to Washington to see her. While in the gaudy Texas metropolis, Flynn had seen enough bleached blonde hair to last him another five years or so. And if he saw another obnoxious car commercial with a guy wearing a big white hat and shouting at him at the top of his lungs, he just might take a flying leap out of his hotel room. The fact that his room was on the first floor of the Hilton downtown meant it would only be a symbolic gesture. Just hang in there for a few more hours and you’ll get to see Natalie soon enough. That thought alone gave Flynn the desire to endure what might be a disastrous morning meeting.
And while Flynn may have dreaded staying there any longer and possibly facing the wrath of a sober Alexei de Mohrenschildt, it was an important meeting with tremendous potential.
When Flynn called Alexei the night before, she gave him a different address than the one he had in his contact list. She had recently moved to a much larger home. Flynn found that odd since Alexei was a widowed woman in her mid-60s. Why would she need a bigger home? Then Flynn dismissed the thought, concurring that everything really is bigger in Texas . The two-story brick home sat inside a gated community. More pristine manicured yards. For the few driveways that held cars, it looked like a luxury used car lot—with Mercedes, BMW, and Lexus well represented. She’s moving up in the world. Not bad for a drunk.
Flynn pressed the doorbell and waited for Alexei to answer. She never took her husband’s last name, proud of her past and her father—no matter what people thought about him. When Flynn saw her, he was taken aback by her appearance. Instead of unkempt hair and a bathrobe, Alexei wore a tight-fitting black leather skirt and a white blouse. Her brown hair looked much healthier, cropped tightly around her shoulders. It was almost as if she were a different person.
She welcomed him into her home and led him to a solarium just off the main entryway inside the house.
“It’s good to see you, Ms. de Mohrenschildt,” Flynn said. “Thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”
“My pleasure,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I came here today to ask you a few questions and to show you something.”
“What do you want to show me?”
“I have a DVD of a CIA operative admit
ting on his deathbed that the government used a cocktail of drugs to coerce your father to shoot himself.”
Flynn eyed her cautiously, unsure of how she might react. Surprisingly, she remained cold.
“I’ll save us both some time and pass on watching it, Mr. Flynn. I knew that a long time ago.”
“Really?”
“Well, I figured the U.S. government didn’t give our family large sums of money each month just because my dad was a good person. What did you think? That I bought this house on my good looks?” She paused briefly before speaking again. “Don’t answer that last question.”
Flynn smiled. He enjoyed the sober Alexei. Her wit was sharp, something absent in their last meeting. Maybe this time she could remember something of value.
“So what did you want to ask me?” she said.
“Do you remember going on any trips with your father and him meeting any suspicious people?”
“Everyone who met with my father was suspicious. When you work with spies and thieves, nobody shows up wearing a frock, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, it’s come to light that the CIA used your father to help orchestrate JFK’s assassination. But based on some other information I’ve found, I have a theory that he used the CIA as a cover and worked with some other organizations first. Would you be able to help me with any information here?”
Alexei tilted her head and pursed her lips before finally speaking.
“Trying to single one out is next to impossible. My father would’ve sold his soul to both Jesus and the Devil if he could’ve figured out a way to swindle both of them into buying it at the same time.”
“Do you remember where the people were from?”
The Warren Omissions Page 6
