“That’s why the capitalists will fail,” Oswald sneered. “The right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing. Too much bureaucracy.”
“The fellow who met this Russian, did he say what he looked like?” Ginter asked before remembering that he had already asked the same question. Keep it together, Lewis.
“No, just said it was a Russian who had arrived within the last few months.”
I’ll bet he arrived within the last few months, Ginter thought. He toyed with the idea of approaching the classmate, but rejected it as too risky.
“If he mentions this Russian fellow again let me know. And if you see him ask him what this Russian looks like. Is he tall, short, bald, heavyset or whatever? I know a lot of Russians and I just might know who he is. And keep on Marina about Hosty. I want to know what he’s after.”
The game in the field broke up and the players trudged out of the gate past the pair. The boy who had fumbled walked past with his head down.
“Don’t worry about it, boy,” Ginter said encouragingly, “baseball’s a better game anyway.”
Lewis Ginter sat alone in his two-room motel unit and studied the drawings spread across the kitchen table. It was Tuesday, November 12, 1963 and everything was on track. Oswald was working at the Book Depository. Ginter’s shopping trip to a local gun shop had been successful. Being black had not been a problem. The color the proprietor was most interested in was inside his wallet.
With everything now in place, Ginter had taken a job at the same warehouse as Oswald.
Ginter still hadn’t told Oswald the plan, even when pressed to do so at their meeting the day before. Ginter by-passed Oswald’s angry questions and pressed for new information about the Russian who thought Oswald already in Cuba.
“I didn’t see the student this weekend,” had been Oswald’s unconcerned reply.
Ginter pushed the diagrams away and emptied his pockets onto the kitchen table. He had been weighing this option since learning of the Russian. Now, with his plan just ten days away, he had to act. He scooped up the pile of change, grabbed a light jacket, and headed out the door.
Paul deVere lunged across the hotel bed and grabbed the receiver before the telephone had completed its second ring. It had been almost two weeks since he had last heard from Lewis, and he knew no one else would be calling him at this hour.
“Hello,” he said eagerly as he lay sprawled across the bed.
There was a pause before the voice at the other end began with a drawl.
“Dr. deVere? This is Senator Strom Thurmond.”
It took a moment for the name to register.
“Yes, Senator,” deVere said cautiously.
The Senator cleared his throat. “Dr. deVere, I’ll get right to the point. I called my White House contact, and asked when I could get two very important constituents who teach at MIT”—Thurmond let out a chuckle—“to meet with the President. I said you had information and some very good advice on national security matters that the President should hear.”
There was a pause and deVere detected a sigh.
Thurmond continued, “I was spectacularly unsuccessful. You must understand, Dr. deVere, getting in to see the President is not easy. There are many, many people who want to see him. A United States Senator is powerful, but sir, we are not as powerful as you may think. Getting past even his outer circle of bureaucratic protection is difficult.”
The Senator paused again, and when he resumed he lowered his voice and spoke slower.
“Dr. deVere, I know what you and Dr. Hutch intend to do now that I can’t get you in to see the President. But believe me, sir, I did try. I want you to know that personally, and it wasn’t just one call that I made.”
Paul deVere paused. “I understand, Senator, thank you for trying. I’ll talk to Dr. Hutch. We don’t want to cause problems. We are trying to make a better world and we were hoping that you could help.”
After Paul hung up he stared down at the telephone. He would have to call Amanda. As he reached for the phone, it rang again. Thinking that it was the Senator calling back, he answered with an almost annoyed tone. This time the accent was different.
“Dr. deVere? This is Harrison Salisbury.”
When deVere didn’t respond Salisbury continued.
“I have been thinking a lot about our meeting in Syracuse. I hope you and Dr. Hutch”—Salisbury pronounced her name slowly—“do not think that I was too rude. I know you feel strongly about what you told me.”
DeVere had the impression that Salisbury was hunting for the right words.
Salisbury changed his tact. “I’m not calling too early, am I?” he asked.
The abrupt question brought deVere back to the present. “No, certainly not. This is important to us.”
“Well, Dr. deVere, you may want to know that Pierre Salinger will be giving a talk here in New York next Monday. He’ll be at the Reuben House talking to journalists on contemporary journalism and politics. There will be some academics there as well as a few prominent New York politicians. I can leave your name at the door so that you and Dr. Hutch can get in. You could approach him. That is, if you are interested,” he added quickly.
DeVere was uncertain how to respond. He didn’t want to sound stupid. Finally, however, the pause became embarrassing.
“Mr. Salisbury, who is Pierre Salinger?”
DeVere heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end and he continued on hurriedly. “Please understand, I’m a physicist. Dr. Hutch is the history professor. I really don’t know very much political history,” he added lamely.
“Pierre Salinger is the President’s press secretary. He has the President’s ear and if anyone can get you in to see him it would be Salinger. He also has a reputation of being somewhat, eh, avant-garde,” Salisbury added in what Paul deVere perceived as a diplomatic tone.
“I see,” deVere said, reaching for a pen. “What time is his talk?”
“Seven o’clock,” Salisbury added with more confidence. “I’ll leave your names at the door.”
There was another pause and deVere thought that Salisbury was groping for a way to ask something.
“Dr. deVere, I was wondering. How did you know that the Dodgers would sweep the World Series?”
With all the attention they had given their letter writing campaign, the World Series had slipped past deVere’s attention. He vaguely remembered it from the newspapers, but to him it was old news. He let the question hang.
When there was no response Salisbury continued, “I know that a Dodgers-Yankees World Series was kind of obvious when we spoke but I was wondering how you knew it was going to be a sweep? And, more importantly, how did you know Sandy Koufax would be the World Series MVP?”
“I think we’ve already discussed this,” deVere said evenly, “and I am not going to try to convince you about what Dr. Hutch and I were saying. The facts speak for themselves.”
“I quite agree,” Salisbury said hurriedly. “In any event, don’t forget this Monday at the Reuben House and,” he added with a chuckle, “I’ll certainly be watching for those ‘69 Mets. Might even make a friendly wager or two.”
Chapter 25
Lewis Ginter stepped out of the front door of Cazzie’s Motel, turned right and strode quickly along the crumbling sidewalk. Across the street Pamela Rhodes huddled in the doorway of a closed delicatessen and waited until Ginter had gone 200 feet without turning back before she stepped from her shelter and began tailing him.
Pamela had been keeping Ginter’s motel under intermittent surveillance for the last three weeks. So far, she had learned little. She had no car and no identification with which to rent one. On three occasions she saw Ginter get into his Corvette, now sporting Texas license plates, and drive off. Each time Ginter had returned within 90 minutes. Other times, she followed him as he walked two blocks to a telephone booth outside a bowling alley. She had even phoned Cazzie’s herself to ask for Lewis Ginter, only to confirm that guest rooms didn’t have telephones. Lewis’ use of a public pay telephone was more than a precaution.