While the décor was rough around the edges, the place was a million times better than the “posh” resorts on the Black Sea—those unbearably shabby shacks, featuring useless plumbing, stinking carpet, dirty sheets, and the worst examples of cheap furniture Russian factories could disgorge.
Yet here? The linens were clean, the air fragrant, towels plentiful. The soap was even wrapped; it wasn’t decorated with body hairs from prior guests. No vermin prowled the floors.
And in the middle of the room was a television set! He flicked it on.
He opened his attaché case, removed the guns and cleaned them, eyes shifting from the screen to weapon and back.
A handsome newscaster was speaking into the camera.
“President Kennedy will arrive at Love Field in Dallas around noon tomorrow to attend a sold-out luncheon at the Dallas Trade Mart. More than two hundred thousand people are expected to greet the President as his motorcade makes its way through the city. Governor and Mrs. John Connelly will accompany the President and the lovely first lady, Jacqueline.”
She is indeed lovely, Kaverin reflected, noting a film clip of her waving to people outside the White House.
He put the weapons away and perused the menu card on the bedside table. He lifted the beige receiver of the phone, reflecting how curious it was to make a call—even one as innocuous as this—and not worry about being listened to.
He smiled as he tried to understand the cheerful but heavily accented voice of the woman who took his order. He chose a large T-bone steak, a “Texas-sized” baked potato and a double helping of green beans. To drink, a large glass of milk.
It was decadent, yes, but Mikhail Kaverin had learned that as a spy—in the field or even at home—you could never be sure if any given meal was your last.
FRIDAY
At 6 A.M. Special Agent Anthony Barter pulled his Galaxie into the far end of the Dallas Rose’s parking lot.
More or less refreshed after three hours’ sleep, he climbed out of the car and walked casually toward the sedan containing the FBI surveillance team. Crouching, he asked the agent on the passenger side, “Anything?”
“Nup,” drawled the man. “Nobody came or went.”
“Any outside calls, in or out?”
That too was negative. Nor had the spy used the pay phone in the lobby. He hadn’t left his room since his return from Piggly Wiggly.
Barter found his hands making fists, then relaxing. He looked over at the Bel Air.
“What do we do, Tony?”
“We wait till he exits, then follow him to see who he’s rendezvousing with.”
Barter’s hope was that the spy was working with employees of LTO Inc. or one of the other big defense contractors here, whose engineers were designing sophisticated weaponry for the army and air force. He was hoping to bring down a whole cell of traitors spying for the Soviets.
He returned to his Galaxie, blinking as he noted a black sedan speed toward him and skid to a stop nearby. Barter was irritated; the Russian wouldn’t have a view of this spot from his window but the squealing stop might have put him on his guard.
The driver leapt out and sprinted through traffic.
“The hell’re you—?” Barter got no further than that. The young agent from his office was thrusting a telex into his hand.
TOP SECRET
Urgent.
Russian who entered country illegally two days ago identified as Mikhail Kaverin, GRU agent. Specialty reported to be close-in assassination of double agents and other enemies.
Hell! He’s not a spy. He’s a killer!
And Barter suddenly understood why Kaverin had come to town—not to steal secrets, but to assist in an assassination attempt. It was too much of a coincidence that a trained GRU killer was here just prior to the President. True, the Soviets would never risk an international incident by being directly involved in an assassination. But one of their agents could easily have come here to protect someone else whose mission was to kill Kennedy, someone private, without a direct connection to Russia, most likely a U.S. citizen.
Oh, Jesus Christ…
He explained his thinking: “Kaverin’s here to back up an assassin. Maybe he’s providing guns or acting as a bodyguard for the trigger man, or helping him with escape routes. I don’t care if we break every bone in his body but we’re going to find out who he’s helping. Move now!”
With guns drawn, the agents ran to the door of Kaverin’s room and kicked their way in.
Somehow, in his heart, Barter wasn’t very surprised to find that the room’s sole occupant was a bag of untouched groceries from Piggly Wiggly.
Nor was it any shock that the back window was unlocked.
* * *
—
Kaverin looked out the window of his room in the Skyline Motel, in north Dallas.
The parking lot and road were clear. The agents who’d been on his trail were, of course, still at the first motel he’d checked into, the Dallas Rose in Grand Prairie.
He’d become aware of a possible tail yesterday as he’d driven through the neighborhood of Old East Dallas, assessing risks, looking for anyone who might be unusually interested in him. He’d noted a Ford Galaxie—red body and white top. The car had been driving the opposite direction when he’d first seen it, but moments later it reappeared, following him.
Kaverin had left that area immediately and driven along commercial roads until he found the Piggly Wiggly and pulled in. The Galaxie followed. It too parked and the driver sat there alone, not smoking, not reading. All he was doing was ostentatiously not looking toward the Bel Air.
Clearly, this was suspicious: A man alone in a grocery store parking lot, who was not waiting for his wife?
He’d decided to find out the identity of his pursuer. So Kaverin left his jacket, containing the Dallas Rose room key, on the backseat and had gone into the grocery store and he’d slipped out the back, circling around to the parking lot. Yes, there was the man who’d been tailing him, wearing a suit—an official-looking one. He’d sidled up to the Bel Air and, looking around casually, too casually, eased the door open and went through the interior.
Kaverin himself had hurried to the man’s Ford Galaxie—and found the registration. Anthony Barter. He found nothing of the man’s affiliation but he’d hurried back to the Piggly Wiggly and used one of the store’s pay phones, which—unlike in Russia—actually worked. He had had to make only three calls—to the Dallas Police, to the Texas Rangers, and to the FBI, asking for an Anthony Barter. The secretary at the last of the three had started to put him through to Special Agent Barter’s office. He’d hung up, bought a sack’s worth of random groceries and returned to his Bel Air.
The agent had left by then but when Kaverin had returned to the Dallas Rose he saw that, yes, the Galaxie was parked across the street. Kaverin had taken the groceries, gone inside, put on the TV and then quickly gathered his belongings and climbed out the back window. He’d made his way through a field to a bus stop and had ridden a mile then gotten off near a car dealership. He’d bought a four-year-old DeSoto Firedome coupe, huge and with impressive rear fins, with some of the thousand dollars Spesky had given him in Miami. He’d driven north until he found another motel, the Skyline. It was here that he’d spent the night, watching television, cleaning his weapons again and enjoying the sumptuous steak dinner.
Now, it was time to complete his mission. According to Rasnakov, Luis Suarez and Carlos Barquín would be arriving at the boardinghouse soon, to prepare for the killing of Comrade 35. Kaverin left the hotel and was at the boardinghouse in twenty minutes. He parked the DeSoto across the street, slipped the smaller of the guns—the Colt .22—into his waistband. He got out and opened the trunk, set the jack and tire iron on the grass beside the car and rested the spare tire against the bumper.
And he waited.
Fifteen minutes later a yellow Chrysler pulled slowly down the street, two men in the front seat. Men with mustaches and observant eyes.
Yes, they were his targets.
Kaverin’s hand eased into his jacket, gripped the handle of his pistol. It didn’t make much noise, just a pop, like a bigger gun with a silencer, but it was much more accurate.
He was breathing steadily, focusing on finding that unique place within you where you had to tuck your soul away when you took a human life. He murdered for his country, for the cause of what was just, for communism, for his own self-preservation. He was efficient at this dark task, even if he didn’t enjoy it.
He knew he was ready. And flicked the safety catch off the gun as he crouched down, watching the Chrysler in the reflection of his car’s chrome bumper.
It was then that a voice from behind startled Kaverin.
“Need some help there, sir?”
Still facing the Chrysler, he looked back to see a Dallas police officer standing on the sidewalk. Hands on his hips.
“I’m sorry?” the spy asked evenly.
“Have a flat? Need some help?”
“No, I’m doing fine, thank you, Officer.” Kaverin was speaking over his shoulder, with his back to the officer. His jacket was open and the pistol obvious.
“Don’t mind helping, really,” the man drawled.
Kaverin casually fixed buttons, but as he did he looked across the street and saw his two targets staring his way. Perhaps they thought the police and he were working together, looking for them. Or maybe the officer’s voice had simply caught their attention and they’d seen the pistol. In any event, the driver—it was Luis Suarez—aborted the parking maneuver, put the car in forward and eased into the street. He didn’t speed away—not just yet. But once the Chrysler turned the corner, Kaverin heard the big engine accelerate fast.
He turned back to the policeman and gave an appreciative smile. “I’ve gotten everything taken care of, Officer. Thank you, though.”
“Any time,” the man said and returned to his beat.
* * *
—
At around 8:30 A.M., Lee Harvey Oswald was being driven to work at the Texas Book Depository by a friend. He often did this, bummed rides. He didn’t have a license and, in fact, didn’t enjoy driving.
He had mixed feelings about his decision to spend the night at the Paines’ house in Irving. It was smart because it provided a good hiding place from those bastards who wanted to kill him. He’d looked forward to seeing Marina and their two daughters, one of whom was only a month old; they were staying permanently with the Paines. But that turned out to be a disappointment. He’d hoped to reconcile with Marina after a recent fight but it hadn’t happened. The bickering resumed, the night had turned to shit and he was upset.
“Whatcha got back there?” his friend asked as they nosed through morning traffic. He was nodding toward the long, paperwrapped bundle in the backseat.
“Just some curtain rods.”
“Ah.”
Oswald continued to be cautious, shifting his gaze around the surrounding streets and sidewalks. Yes, some people seemed to be watching him, wary, suspicious, as if they knew exactly what he was going to do today. He reflected that he had told too many people about his contempt for Kennedy. And, hell, he’d just written an angry letter to the FBI, warning them to leave his family alone…That wasn’t too bright.
And curtain rods?
Jesus. No, it’s a 6.5-mm Carcano model 91/38 rifle. That’s what was wrapped up in the paper. How could anybody believe the bulky package was curtain rods? You need to think better. Be smarter.
And be cautious. He had a sense that his enemies were getting closer and closer.
He had the chance to make an indelible mark on history. He’d be famous forever. He had to make absolutely sure nothing would prevent that.
He looked around the streets of central Dallas, partially deserted now. There’d be crowds later, that was for sure, right there along Elm Street. Thousands of people. He knew this because the local newspaper had conveniently reported the exact route the President’s motorcade would take. The vehicles would come west on Main, then north briefly on Houston, then turn west again on Elm, passing right under the windows of the Texas Book Depository where he would be waiting in a sixth-floor window.
“You okay there, Lee?” his friend asked as he eased to a stop at a light.
“What’s that?”
“You didn’t hear me, I guess. I just asked if you’d be needing a ride back to the Paines’ tonight?”
Oswald didn’t answer for a minute. “No. I’ll probably just take the bus.”
* * *
—
“There. That’s a good place to shoot,” Luis Suarez said.
Carlos Barquín was examining the intersection where his partner was pointing—the sidewalk in front of the side door to the Texas Book Depository. “Looks like the only place to shoot. Good or bad, we don’t have any choice. Where else could we do it?” He seemed impatient.
Suarez nodded, though he didn’t much care for the man’s attitude. “Not very private, though.”
“Well, we don’t have the luxury of private. Not with a paranoid asshole like him.”
They had parked their Chrysler on North Record Street in downtown Dallas and were looking over the sidewalk in front of the Texas Book Depository. The morning was chill but they kept their jackets buttoned up because of the guns in their waistbands.
“I think it’ll work. All the buildings, they’ll cover the sounds of the shots.”
“Cover them?” Barquín asked.
“I mean the sounds’ll bounce around. Nobody will know where they came from.”
“Oh.”
“Nobody’ll know it was us. We’ll shoot him, drop the guns, and walk back to the car. Walk slowly.” The pistols were wrapped in a special tape that didn’t hold fingerprints.
Barquín said defiantly, “I know what to do. I’ve done this before.”
Suarez didn’t say anything. He and Barquín shared both a certain ideology and a love of liquor. They’d even shared the same woman once or twice. He really didn’t like the man, however.
As they continued through the cool morning, Barquín asked, “That man, back there at the boardinghouse? In the suit, talking to the cop. He was police too, you think?”
“I don’t know.” Suarez had pondered who he’d been. He’d been armed and had been talking to that patrolman but it would have been odd for a cop to be there changing the tire of his own unmarked car—and an old DeSoto? No, the man was trouble but he couldn’t figure out how he fit into the picture.
They had some effects back at the boardinghouse, which they’d stashed there last week, but they’d have to abandon them now. Not that it mattered; they could pick up whatever they needed on the road as the Underground spirited them out of the country and back to Havana.
As they walked up Houston toward Elm, they passed a dim alley. A car was parked there, rear end facing them, the engine running and the trunk open. What was familiar about it?
“That car, haven’t we—?”
And Suarez realized it was the same DeSoto parked in front of the boardinghouse earlier when they’d seen that man changing the tire. The big, blond man. It was his car! Which meant—
He turned quickly, Barquín too. And both instinctively reached for their weapons, but the man was approaching fast from across Houston Street, already aiming his own gun at them.
The two Cubans froze.
Without a hesitation, without a blink, without breaking stride, the hulking blond man fired twice, hitting Barquín in the forehead.
Pop, pop.
He dropped to the ground like a discarded doll.
Suarez decided there was no choice. He continued to draw his gun, and hoped he could get a round off
in time.
The weapon wasn’t even out of his waistband when he saw a tiny flash, then felt a tap between his eyes, a burning.
Which lasted less than a second.
* * *
—
Kaverin got the bodies into the trunk of the DeSoto quickly.
This was effortless. They were slight, weighing half what he did.
He fired up the DeSoto—he liked the Bel Air better—and pulled into Houston Street and then made his way out of downtown.
The search to find the men had been tense, though he’d known in general where they would be going—the most likely place to shoot down Comrade 35. Once there, central Dallas, he’d cruised the streets, looking for a yellow Chrysler. Finally he’d spotted it, near North Record Street. Suarez and Barquín were just getting out and walking south.
There were too many people to kill them there but Kaverin had noted the route they were taking and he’d pulled into an alley several blocks ahead of them. Once again he’d opened the trunk, then slipped into a doorway across Houston Street and waited. The men strode up the avenue and when their attention turned to the DeSoto he’d stepped across the street, drawing his gun.
Pop, pop…
Kaverin now drove out of the downtown area, parked, and walked up the street to the Western Union office he’d located earlier.
There the spy spent some moments with a cipher pad writing a telegram reporting his success. He sent it to a safe house in Washington, D.C., where someone with the Russian consulate was waiting.
In fifteen minutes the response came back. It referred to shipments of wheat and truck allotments. But after deciphering:
Have submitted to the Special Council of the Presidium the report regarding your successful elimination of the threat to Comrade 35. Please proceed to any locations where the two counterrevolutionaries had contact in Dallas and secure any helpful information.
The Big Book of Espionage Page 145
