Prologue (45 page)

“
Non
, Señor,” was the constant reply.

Until this morning.
Friday, September 27, 1963
.
Hotel
del
Comercio
.
Another third-rater just four blocks from the bus station.

“Si, Señor,” the desk clerk had answered.

“Oh, good,” Ginter had said, nonchalantly. “Oh, no need to leave a message. I will meet him later.”

He hoped that the
del
Comercio’s
desk clerk would not mention the call to the American guest. Oswald didn’t speak Spanish, at least not yet, so the odds were good.

Ginter rose from the bed and checked his new Timex.
Eleven twenty-three a.m.
He dressed quickly and, as always, quietly. Despite the humidity, he slipped a sport coat over his starched white shirt. It clung a little in the damp, but was cut full enough to hide the .45.

The walk to the Cuban Embassy took only a few minutes and Ginter arrived shortly after
noon
. He passed the embassy on the opposite side of the street without glancing over. At the corner he turned and strolled past a row of apartment houses.

He surveyed the Cuban Embassy every day. The stone facade building, located in a generally residential neighborhood, was difficult to keep under surveillance. There were no good places to read a newspaper while standing, and no public park in which to innocently loiter. All surveillance had to be moving, and eventually someone might notice anyone who kept circling the neighborhood.

But surveying was not really necessary for the plan. Ginter knew what Oswald would do, and what the Embassy would do. He had two days to change it.

On Saturday, Lewis Ginter spotted Oswald leaving the Cuban Embassy from across the street. The 23 year-old had stormed out the front door, scowling. Ginter turned sideways as his target turned left and trudged back toward the
del
Comercio
.

Ginter folded his newspaper, stuck it in his pocket, and followed at a discreet distance. Oswald passed directly under the neon sign with the orange “
Hotel
” and green “
del
Commercial
” that hung off the side of the brick building. Ginter waited three minutes before drawing a deep breath and entering the lobby.

“It’s now or never,” he muttered, as he approached the main desk.

“Señor Lee Oswald?” he asked the mustached desk clerk.

“Room 46, fourth floor,” the desk clerk answered after checking the ledger.

Seeing no elevator, Ginter headed to the narrow carpeted stairway. He stepped past the worn marks on the landing and followed the frayed line that ran down the middle of the fourth floor carpet. The hallway light outside of Room 46 was burned out. Ginter did not pause. He had rehearsed this countless times.

He knocked twice, firm and authoritatively. He heard the chain rattle and the door opened six inches. Even from the dim hallway Ginter recognized the gaunt face. He looked older than his 23 years. Ginter estimated his height at about 5 feet 8 inches, some four inches less than that reported in the official biographies.

“Ya’?”

“Señor Oswald? I am Carlos Enrique.” Ginter paused. He hoped his feigned broken English wasn’t too obvious. “From the Cuban Embassy,” he added. “May I come in?”

Oswald gave Ginter a quick look up and down, and then slammed the door. Ginter heard the chain unlatch before the door swung open wide. Oswald stepped back.

Ah, the naiveté of 1963, Ginter thought as he entered. He closed the door behind him. The room was even smaller than Ginter’s at the
Hotel
d’Estes,
and other than the bed there was only a small desk and one chair. Oswald sat on the bed and Ginter took the chair. Don’t let him talk.

“Your cable to
Moscow
from the Soviet Embassy was redirected to
Havana
where it came to the attention of my supervisor.” Ginter paused. “Let me be perfectly frank, Señor Oswald. We have checked your background and believe that you may be of enormous value to the people’s revolutionary movement in
Cuba
, and elsewhere.”

“So, I can get my visa?” Oswald asked.
“Right away?”

“Señor Oswald.” Ginter cleared his throat. “I don’t think that you understand. Although I am attached to the Cuban Embassy I am not exactly . . . how you say . . . a diplomat.” Ginter smiled blandly and turned both palms upwards.

“You’re with Cuban Intelligence,” Oswald said.

Ginter cleared his throat again. “Let’s just say that my supervisor was very, very impressed with you. In the short time since your arrival in
Mexico City
we have done quite a bit of investigation into your past. We are all very impressed.

“But to tell you the truth your arrival in
Mexico City
was not the first time we had heard of you.”

Oswald looked quizzical.

“Your work in creating the Fair Play for Cuba Committee in
New Orleans
brought you to our attention some time ago.”

Oswald reacted, and Ginter could tell that he was about to speak. He held up his hand, palm outward.

“Oh yes,” Ginter continued. “We know all about you. But your arrival here surprised us. My supervisor included.
Another example of your unpredictability and”-Ginter feigned hunting for the right word-“spontaneity.
That’s important for someone who could play a pivotal role in the coming revolutionary period.”

Oswald sat back on the bed and leaned against the plastered wall. Ginter surmised that Oswald realized that this was not a courtesy visit to hand him a visa.

“A person with your talent, your American Marine Corps training, your knowledge of the Russian Language, your willingness and ability to infiltrate the American right wing, your willingness to attack the reactionaries with military force as demonstrated by your cleverness and courage in surveying General Walker’s home and your bravery in attempting to shoot him-”

Oswald shot bolt upright and opened his mouth. Ginter held up his hand again.

“Oh yes, we know all about that. And as I say, we are
very
impressed.”

Oswald closed his mouth and sat up straighter. Ginter saw a prideful smirk growing on the gaunt man’s face. Could he really be this dumb?

Ginter leaned forward. It was time for the kill. “A person of your talent is of immeasurable value to the revolution. We need heroic men like Lee Harvey Oswald.
But not in
Cuba
.
Now, we need you in the
United States
.”

Ginter knew it was working.

“If you are interested in doing important work for us, I would like you to come to the Embassy tomorrow morning. I know it is Sunday, but it is important.”

Ginter smiled again. He had to cement his legitimacy.

“If you decide to do work for us we would want you to join your wife in
Dallas
.

“Yes, yes we know where she is,” Ginter continued when he saw the surprised look. “We will pay your expenses. We could give you money tomorrow and field agents will coordinate your actions.”

Ginter stood up suddenly. “Do not decide now. Think it over.”

Ginter looked at his watch. He wanted to avoid any discussion. “If you decide to help us, meet me in the Embassy at
11:00 a.m.
sharp.” Ginter turned to go. He put one hand on the doorknob before turning back to his host.

“Make sure you are not followed tomorrow.
Especially within the last block.
Just make sure.”

Ginter dressed early Sunday morning. He was nervous, which he took as a good sign. If things didn’t go well, there was another option, he thought, as he strapped on his shoulder holster.

Ginter arrived outside the Cuban Embassy at
10:45 a.m.
He had timed and re-timed the approach from the street corner to the front door. At a casual stroll it would take approximately one minute, fifteen seconds. Each stop to casually look over his shoulder added an extra five to seven seconds. If the individual lingered at the corner before heading up the boulevard, well, even better.

It was
10:52 a.m.
when Oswald appeared at the far corner. Ginter watched him stop and look back. “I knew he’d be early,” Ginter muttered before turning and walking through the wrought iron fence and along the walkway that led to the main doors.

It was Ginter’s first time inside. He would have preferred to have surveyed the inside of the building, but had not wanted to draw attention to himself.

He crossed the wide tile floor and approached the reception desk. To his dismay it was unattended. Even on Sunday the embassy was open and the desk should have been staffed.

Perhaps she’s in the ladies’ room, he thought as he read the plastic nameplate propped on the desk: Sylvia Duran.

He resisted the temptation to either check his watch or turn back for Oswald. He reformulated his plan. He strolled past the desk and started down the narrow hallway. He had gone only twenty-five feet when a short, balding Cuban stepped from one of the side offices and blocked his path.

“May I help you?” the man asked in Spanish.

Ginter looked over the man’s shoulder. The man’s eyes never left Ginter’s face and he remained, feet apart, blocking the hallway.

“I am looking for Consular Azcue,” Ginter said in Spanish.

“He is not in today, may I help you?” The man’s eyes remained riveted.

“Do you speak English?” Ginter asked.

“No, I am sorry, I do not,” the Cuban responded.