The weather broke and, as they descended, he could look down and see flat sandy earth for miles and miles, grass bleached by the season, occasional groves of trees. Cattle, lots of cattle.
The aircraft landed uneventfully and the passengers disembarked.
He took his attaché case, containing his guns and ammunition, from the plane’s overhead bin and walked down the stairs onto the tarmac.
Pausing and inhaling the petrol- and exhaust-laced air, Mikhail Sergeyevich Kaverin found himself content. Here he was in a country very different from that portrayed by the great propaganda mill of the Soviet empire. The people were friendly and courteous, the food and cigarettes plentiful and cheap, the workers content and comfortable, not the least oppressed by greedy capitalist robber barons. And the weather was far nicer than in Russia this time of year. And nearly everyone owned an automobile!
Kaverin strode into the lobby of Love Field in Dallas, Texas. He glanced at the front page of today’s morning newspaper, Thursday. November 21, 1963.
KENNEDY TO VISIT DALLAS TOMORROW
President and First Lady Join Governor
for Fund-Raiser at Dallas Trade Mart
Feeling the weight of the guns and ammunition in his case, Kaverin now felt an unabashed sense of pride to think that he alone had been selected for this critical mission of helping the USSR extend its reach throughout the world and further the glorious goals of communism.
* * *
—
As he waited for his bus, at a weedy stop in Dallas, Lee Harvey Oswald was troubled.
People had been following him. He knew this for a fact.
People who wanted to do him harm.
The skinny, dark-haired man, in his mid-twenties, looked around him again. Was there someone watching him? Yes!
But no. It was just a shadow. Still, he wished he had brought his pistol with him.
He awakened early in his boardinghouse on Beckley Avenue in Oak Cliff and taken a bus to a stop near the Dobbs House Restaurant for breakfast. The food had been bad and he’d complained. He wondered why he kept going back there. Maybe I’m a creature of habit, he reflected. He’d heard the phrase on a TV show.
Was it Ozzie and Harriet? He’d wondered. He liked that show, partly because it echoed his nickname in the Marines. Ozzie Rabbit.
When he thought this, he remembered his days in the service and recalled the fight he’d gotten into with a sergeant and that made him angry once more.
As angry as he’d been with the waitress over the food.
Why do I keep going back there? he thought again. Looked around once more. He didn’t see any overt threats but he still had to be careful. Considering what he had planned for tomorrow. And considering that he knew people were after him, smart people. Ruthless ones.
The bus arrived and Oswald boarded it and rode to the place he worked, the Texas Book Depository on Elm Street and North Houston, across from Dealey Plaza. He climbed off the bus, and gazed about him once more, expecting to see one of the sullen faces of the men who he was sure were following him.
FBI maybe. Those bastards had been harassing Marina and their friends again.
Oh, he’d made some enemies in his day.
But in morning glare—it was a beautiful autumn day—he saw only housewives with perambulators and a few salesmen, a retired couple or two. Ranchers. Some Hispanic men…
Killers?
It was possible. Oswald grew alarmed and leapt into the shadows of the depository building to study them. But they showed no interest in him and strolled slowly to a landscaping truck, pulled out rakes and headed into the park across the street.
Despite the bristling of nerves up and down his back, Oswald noted that no one seemed to have much interest in him. He shivered again, though this was from the chill. He was wearing only a light jacket over his T-shirt, and he had a slight frame with little natural insulation.
Inside the depository he greeted fellow workers, nodding and smiling to some of them. And he got to work. It was while he was filling out paperwork for a book order that he happened to look down at a scar on his wrist. He was thinking of his attempt to become a Soviet citizen several years before. He was about to be deported but had intentionally cut himself to prolong his stay after his visa expired, and convince the Russians to accept him.
Which they had and they welcomed him as a comrade. But there was a lot of important work to do in this hemisphere and, with his Russian wife, he’d returned to the United States, where he’d resumed his procommunist and anti-American activities. But now, he wanted to return to Russia, for good, with Marina and their two baby girls.
There’d been a setback, though. An incident had occurred that had put his plans—and his life—at risk. After he finished his task tomorrow he wanted to go to Cuba for a while and then back to Russia. Just last month he’d gone to the Cuban consulate in Mexico City to get a visa to allow him to travel to Havana, but the bastards had given him the runaround. The officials had looked over his records and said he wasn’t welcome in Cuba. Go away. None of them understood what an important man he was, more important than his five-foot-nine, 135-pound frame suggested. None of them understood his great plans.
The rejection in Mexico City had sparked his terrible temper, and he’d said and done some things he shouldn’t have. The Cuban security force had been called and he’d fled the capital and eventually made his way back home.
Stupid, he told himself, making a scene like that. Like fighting with the waitress at the diner. He’d lost control and made a spectacle of himself.
“Stupid,” he raged aloud.
He shivered once more, this time from pure fury, not fear or from the chill. And gazed out the window of the depository, looking for people spying on him.
Fucking Cubans!
Well, start being smart now. He decided it wouldn’t be safe to go back to the boardinghouse. Usually he spent weekdays at the boardinghouse. Tonight he’d return to the Paines in Irving, stay the night. Considering what he was about to do tomorrow, he couldn’t afford any complications at the moment.
His serenity returned—thanks largely to a memory of his time in the Marines in 1954, specifically the day his firearms instructor had looked over his score on the rifle range and given him a nod (the man never smiled). “You did good, Ozzie. Those scores? You just earned yourself the rank of sharpshooter.”
* * *
—
Anthony Barter swung his slim frame out of the car.
He stretched.
The thirty-one-year-old was tempted to light a Winston, needed one bad, but his employer wouldn’t approve. It wasn’t like drinking—that was wholly forbidden—but even taking a fast drag could get you in hot water.
So he refrained.
An old Martin 4-0-4 roared overhead and skewed its way onto the runway at Love Field.
He straightened his narrow tie and his dark gray felt fedora, from which he’d long ago removed the green feather—very bad form, that.
Barter looked around, oriented himself and went to the Eastern Airlines luggage claim area. His long hands formed into fists, relaxed and contracted once more.
He found a supervisor, a heavyset, balding man, sweating despite the pleasantly cool temperature. He displayed his identification.
The man drawled, “Oh. Well. FBI.”
Barter was from New England: he’d been assigned to Texas, though, for ten years and recognized an accent from much further south, probably El Paso.
He explained he needed to find out about a passenger who’d arrived that morning from Miami. The supervisor almost seemed amused at the idea that luggage handlers could recognize a passenger, but he went off to gather his employees.
The Bureau’s New York field office had informed their colleagues in Dallas-Fort Worth that a man believed to be a Russian military intell
igence agent had arrived in the country yesterday or today and continued on to Dallas. There’d been debate in New York and Washington about the purpose of the agent’s trip, if he was indeed an agent.
There was, of course, the question of Presidential security. Kennedy was coming to town tomorrow, and lately the threats against him had been numerous—thanks largely to the U.S.’s aiding Cuban rebels at the Bay of Pigs invasion, as well as Kennedy’s and his brother’s support for civil rights. (He’d kicked some Soviet ass last year, too, of course, with the missile blockade, but no one in national security believed that the Russkies were stupid enough to attempt to assassinate the President.)
No, more likely the spy’s mission was pure espionage. The GRU was the intelligence organ specializing in stealing technology secrets—specifically those dealing with nuclear weapons and rocket systems—and Texas was home to a number of defense contractors. Barter’s boss, the special agent in charge of the office here, immediately assigned him to the case.
The only lead was a photograph of the purported spy, entering the country as a Polish businessman. All individuals coming in from Warsaw Pact countries were surreptitiously photographed at Customs at Idlewild Airport. The image was crude but functional. It depicted a sullen man, blond and large, wearing a fedora not unlike Barter’s. The man was about forty years of age.
After viewing the picture of the Russian, however, the baggage handlers reported that they hadn’t noticed anyone resembling him.
Barter thanked them and stepped outside into the low November morning sun. Speaking to the cabbies was more productive. It took him only a half hour of canvassing to find the Prompt Ride taxi driver who recognized the man in the photo. He’d taken him to a boardinghouse off Mockingbird. The man remembered the number.
Barter climbed back into his red and white Ford Galaxie. He headed in the direction of the place and parked up the block. He approached cautiously but noted it was abandoned. Barter found a neighbor, a retiree, it seemed, who was washing his car. He showed his ID and asked about the house.
After the typical blink of surprise at the credentials, the man said, “Yessir, been closed up for months now. Bankruptcy. Foreclosed on. Damn banks. All respect.”
Barter stifled a frown of frustration, fists clenching and relaxing. “Well, I’m trying to find someone who might’ve been here several hours ago.” He displayed the picture.
“Yup. Saw him. Got outa a taxi cab. I was impressed. Them cost money. Taxis. Anyway, that fella picked up a car from the garage and drove off.”
“Car?” Barter’s heart beat a little faster.
But the man had only heard the engine, not seen the make or model.
They walked to the small detached structure. Barter opened the unlocked door. The place was empty.
“Sorry I can’t be more help.”
Barter sniffed the air and bent down to examine the floor of the garage.
“You’ve been plenty helpful, sir.”
“So was I right? Bank robber? He looked plum like one.”
“You have a good day, sir.”
* * *
—
Mikhail Kaverin had checked into the Dallas Rose Motel, left his luggage and was enjoying piloting the Chevrolet Bel Air through the spacious streets of Dallas.
What a wonderful car this was!
A Bel Air! How Kaverin loved cars. He’d always wanted one, though in truth not a Russian make. For one thing, you waited forever and then you had to take whatever the government had on hand to sell you—for an exorbitant price (where was communism when you needed it?). And the best you could hope for was a temperamental, boxy AZLK or the slightly more stylish and popular GAZ Volga (whose manufacturer’s hopes for a handsome income stream by sales to the West never materialized—since the vehicle’s sole decoration was a big red Soviet star).
Guided by the map, and instructions from a helpful service station attendant, Kaverin found the Old East Dallas portion of town. The neighborhood was filled with private residences close together, many with front porches dotted with rockers and from whose roofs hung swings. He noted too inexpensive shops and a few small companies. He parked in front of the boardinghouse where Luis Suarez and Carlos Barquín would arrive tomorrow on their mission to track down and kill Comrade 35. It was a one-story, nondescript place, just a notch above shabby. He carefully studied doors and windows and sidewalks. And which neighbors seemed to be home now, during the day—potential witnesses.
He planned out the shootings. He would be waiting here in front of the house when they pulled up, with the trunk of the Bel Air open, pretending to be changing a tire. When they climbed out of their own car, he would shoot them and throw the bodies and their luggage in the trunk.
He drove slowly up and down the street, scanning, scanning. A spy’s primary weapon is the power of observation. His first handler at the GRU, a man who later became a nonperson under Stalin, had insisted that Kaverin and he take long walks through the streets of Moscow. After they returned to headquarters the mentor would interrogate the younger agent about what he’d noted. The initial trips yielded a half dozen vague observations. The later ones, hundreds of impressions, all rendered in acute detail.
Sergei had been pleased. Kaverin pictured the man’s unsmiling yet kind face and could almost feel the affectionate arm on his young shoulders. Then he tucked the hard thought away.
The peculiar circumstances of this assignment made Kaverin particularly cautious. He drove through the neighborhood again, looking for anyone who might be a threat. After fifteen minutes, he was satisfied he had a good sense of the place and of the risks he might face. He piloted the expansive Chevy out of this part of town and onto a main road. In ten minutes he pulled into the parking lot of a large grocery store. As he climbed out and walked toward the front door he thought: This place has the most ridiculous name I’ve ever heard of in a retail establishment.
* * *
—
The Russian spy was shopping in a Piggly Wiggly.
FBI Special Agent Anthony Barter sat in his Galaxie, which was parked in the far end of the lot, and watched the spy walk toward the store.
Picking up the spy’s trail had been less daunting than he’d expected. He’d deduced by smell and an examination of the significant oil slick on the garage’s floor that the spy was driving a car that leaked and burnt oil. So Barter had driven to the nearest gas station, a Conoco, and flashed a picture of the man. Sure enough, the attendant said that the man, who spoke English fine, but with an accent, had come in driving a bright turquoise Chevy Bel Air, bought a couple quarts of Pennzoil.
The Russian had also picked up a map of the area. He’d asked about the best way to get to Old East Dallas, then motored off in that direction in his oil-guzzler.
Barter had headed over to that neighborhood himself and cruised the streets until he found the Bel Air, which was paused at a stoplight. It was hard to tell for certain, but he believed the driver was the man in the surveillance photograph.
The FBI man almost smiled as he watched the spy stop in his tracks at the entrance of the grocery store—probably astonished by the multitude of plenty spreading out in the aisles. When he disappeared inside, Barter climbed out of his car and, hoping that the Russian would spend some time browsing the aisles, hurried to the Bel Air.
The vehicle was registered to a company in Plano, which Barter suspected would be phony. The Russian’s jacket and hat were sitting in the back seat. In the pocket of the sport coat he found a key to room 103 of the Dallas Rose Motel, on East Main Street in Grand Prairie, about ten miles away.
Barter returned quickly to his Galaxie and pulled out of the lot before the Russian left the store. He knew this was a gamble but he was worried about continuing to follow his subject. J. Edgar Hoover had required all the agents in the bureau to study communist spies. The message was that the GRU operatives were
the best of the best. Barter was afraid he’d be spotted. So he left and drove to the parking lot of a gas station across the street from the Dallas Rose Motel.
He waited nervously. What if the spy had checked out of the motel, and simply forgotten to return the key? What if it wasn’t even his jacket? Had Barter lost his only lead?
If he ever needed a cigarette, it was now.
But he managed to refrain, nervously clenching and unclenching his sweaty hands.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Ah, thank you…
The brashly colored Bel Air rocked into the driveway and pulled up in front of room 103.
Barter’s car was parked facing away from the motel and he was hunkered down, observing through his rearview mirror.
The Russian climbed out, looked around suspiciously but not Barter’s way. He lifted a large grocery sack from the floor of the passenger seat. He disappeared through the door of his room.
Barter went to a pay phone and called his office. He asked a fellow agent about the company to which the Bel Air was registered. The man called back five minutes later. Yes, it was fake. Barter then ordered a surveillance team put together.
In twenty minutes, four FBI agents arrived, in two cars—personal ones, as Barter instructed. One vehicle pulled in front and one in the rear of the motel.
Whatever the Russian’s game might be, it was now doomed to failure.
* * *
—
Kaverin was truly enjoying his time in the motel, which was a word that he had never heard before. It was, charmingly, a hybrid of “motor” and “hotel.” How very clever.
The Big Book of Espionage Page 144
