Ginter visited Oswald frequently at the Y, and advised him carefully on how to act. He told Oswald not to stay long in any one place. From the YMCA, Oswald had moved to a boarding house in the Oak Cliff section of Dallas, at 621 Marsalis Street. He warned Oswald to avoid political talk with anyone, including his wife.
“You are just trying to find a job to support your family,” Ginter said to him in his feigned Spanish accent as he loaded his coffee with two creams and a sugar.
“I don’t need the money,” Oswald snarled. “And I am ready to act now. The Directorate should know that.”
“I know you’re good, Lee,” Ginter said in a kinder tone, “but it is important to maintain the cover.”
Ginter glanced casually around the diner before leaning closer. “Take that job at the depository. Havana says it is imperative.”
Oswald looked insulted. “I’m ready now to help the cause. That’s just a crap job.”
“You ready to order?” The waitress had returned.
“Just coffee, thank you,” Ginter said. The waitress threw him a disgusted look and stomped away. Ginter pretended not to notice.
“You must have patience,” Ginter continued in a low, flat voice. “We need you working in Dealey Plaza all next month.”
Oswald grunted. “Why? I could kill Walker now. Next week he’s having another one of his rallies. There could be three thousand people there.”
“Forget Walker!” Ginter hissed. “The Directorate has bigger things in mind.”
Ginter lowered his voice even further. “There are those in the American Government who are sympathetic to our cause, and ready to act. They are arranging a certain event. We need you and your sharpshooter skills there,” he added with a knowing nod.
“Walker?” Oswald asked.
“This is bigger. Much bigger than Walker. You will be the hero of the century.”
Oswald accepted the accolade without reaction.
“If I’m going to shoot someone,” he said, “I’ll need a better rifle than the Mannlicher. Maybe a Mauser.”
Ginter shook his head forcefully. “No, no. The Mannlicher is perfect. Six point five millimeter? Perfect.”
“But with a Mauser…”
“Forget the Mauser. The Directorate wants you to use the Mannlicher.”
Oswald hesitated. “Sometimes I miss with the Mannlicher,” he pouted. “It’s not my fault. The sight is off and it’s not accurate over one hundred yards.”
“Believe me, we’ve got it all figured out. The Mannlicher will be perfect for our purposes.”
“So you want me to accept the job at the Texas School Depository?”
Ginter nodded and sipped his coffee.
On Monday morning, November 4, 1963 Lewis Ginter walked down North Beckley Street in Dallas’ Oak Cliff neighborhood. As he passed the boarding house at 1026 he noticed that a second floor window, third from the doorway, had been left open and a book placed on the windowsill. Oswald needed to speak with him. But when Ginter joined him early that evening for a walk, he was unprepared for the latter’s agitation.
“The FBI has been around?” Ginter repeated. He thrust his hands deep into his pants and trudged on.
“Agent Hosty,” Oswald said. “He was out at the house asking Marina a bunch of questions last Friday. She told me when I got there.”
Ginter nodded absently. Despite Ginter’s protest, Oswald had insisted on returning to Marina on weekends. Ginter was uncomfortable with the arrangement. It meant he had no contact with Oswald for three days and he feared that Oswald would talk.
But now he was more than uncomfortable. He had no idea who Hosty was, or even if there were an FBI agent by that name. Since deterring Oswald from the Mexico City defection he was operating in virgin history.
“How’d he communicate with Marina?” Ginter finally asked. “Did this Hosty speak Russian?”
Oswald shook his head. “No, Ruth Paine translated.”
“The Russian language student?” Ginter asked. “Is Marina still living with her and her husband?”
Oswald nodded.
“What did this Hosty want, did he say?” Ginter asked.
“Harassment.” Oswald curled his lip and spat on the roadway.
“Harassment about what?” Ginter asked blandly.
“The usual. He wanted to know about my attempt to defect to Cuba.”
Ginter stopped and turned to his companion. Oswald also paused and the two men stared at each other.
“How’d he know about Cuba?” Ginter asked, keeping his voice even.
Oswald shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Ginter turned and resumed walking at what he hoped was a nonchalant pace.
“No one else knows about Mexico City, do they?” Ginter asked casually.
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“It may be nothing,” Ginter said with voiced confidence. “The CIA must have our Embassy in Mexico City under surveillance. Your visit was reported back to Washington. Perhaps the FBI is doing a routine check. I’ll have to report this breach of security to my superiors.”
“If they know about me they probably know about you,” Oswald said.
Ginter nodded and swallowed. “It’s possible,” he said.
The pair walked on in silence. Ginter’s stomach was churning. If the CIA had also picked up Ginter at the Embassy they might approach Oswald or his wife with questions. What would happen then?
“Did Hosty come back?” Ginter asked.
Oswald shook his head. “Not over the weekend.”
“Call your wife every night,” Ginter advised quietly. “Ask her every night if Hosty returns. Would she tell you if he did?”
Oswald nodded.
“Tell her to find out what he wants,” Ginter said. “He may be trying to compromise me. Someone may approach you and try to give you disinformation about me. If they do, don’t be fooled. They may have bugs planted in our Embassy.”
“If they do they’re wasting them,” Oswald sneered.
The pair had come to a worn city park covered in weeds. In the gathering dust a group of boys were playing football. Ginter estimated their average age at about ten.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Some CIA agent posing as a Russian émigré was asking about me in Ruth’s class.”
Ginter was confused. “Russian émigré? What do you mean?”
“This weekend when I was visiting Marina some guy from one of Ruth’s classes told me there was a newly arrived Russian asking about other Russians in the Dallas area. Did he know of any other Russians who were political? Wanted to meet them.”
“So?” Ginter asked, unconcerned as he watched a kid take a pitch-out and promptly fumble it to the other team.
“Ah c’mon, Billy,” his teammates heckled as the fumbler slowly picked himself up.
“Well, the guy said that this new Russian was told about Marina and said, ‘Oh, her. Yes, I know all about her. Her husband’s in Cuba.”
Ginter didn’t take his eyes off the football field. The boys picked themselves up and resumed playing. The other team began marching down the field with a succession of running plays. As Ginter kept his eyes riveted on them, he found that his hands had tightened on the top bar of the chain link fence in front of him. He could feel the extended strand of chain link digging into his palms.
“This new Russian,” Ginter said evenly, “did anyone say what he looked like?”
Oswald snorted. “He probably wasn’t even a Russian. He was probably FBI following me. The thing about meeting other Russians was just a way to get to Marina.”
“Could be,” Ginter answered. “But why would anyone think you were in Cuba? Wouldn’t the FBI know you hadn’t gone to Cuba? Isn’t that why Hosty is snooping around?”