"There are two governments in the U.S. today.
One is visible, the other invisible.”
—David Wise and T.B. Ross, 1964
"Like presents?"
"Like 'em? I love ‘em."
"Open the glove compartment and see what's inside."
Lee did as George commanded, as always. At this moment he occupied the passenger seat of a black Sedan, George behind the wheel, driving them away from Camp Pendleton, CA. Lee had been reassigned there on January 18, 1957, a year before that heady conversation between Trujillo and Batista would take place on the former's balcony. Lee began serving as a member of A Company, 1st Battalion, the 2nd Infantry training regiment, five weeks previous to this rendezvous with George. On February 27, L.H.O. left the base on an official two-week leave.
This was rare for a marine who had recently arrived and barely begun mastering the skills of Radar operation. None of the others in his company could come up with any logical reason why Oswald, or 'Ozzie' as they referred to the rabbit-like Lee, had been singled out for such sought-after special treatment. In truth, the leave had been arranged by George, he sending the word to the base's commander-in-chief, an officer who well knew that when a request arrived from some heavyweight player in the CIA, that was that. No questions asked.
"I will pick you up at the entrance to Pendleton at one p.m." George had told Lee in a furtive phone call three days previous. "You’ve been granted a two week leave. Officially, you will be going home to visit your ill mother."
As always, Lee replied affirmatively. The following morning he continued with his daily duties, pretending to be happily surprised when word reached him from headquarters about his upcoming leave. Now, George headed east along the highway.
"A book," Lee said, reaching inside the glove compartment.
"To fill your traveling hours. Recognize the author?"
Lee considered the cover: Profiles in Courage by John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Lee admitted to George that most of what he understood about the senator from Massachusetts was but common knowledge. JFK was reputed to have been a great war hero in the South Pacific. He saved his men after their PT boat was sunk by an enemy submarine, swimming in front of the survivors, doing so with one hand as he dragged along a seaman too badly wounded too continue. In the early fifties, Kennedy entered politics, basing his campaign in Boston where his prestigious family held court.
JFK married a debutante, Jacqueline Lee Bouvier, who had recently delivered him a daughter, the newspapers were full of this event owing to the attractive movie-star quality of each parent. Other than that, all Lee knew was that Kennedy had gone after the Democratic party's vice-presidential nomination, in hopes of running with Adlai Stevenson in the upcoming election. On August 17, 1956, this distinct honor had been denied him.
"A temporary set-back," George chuckled. "Believe me. This guy is going all the way to the White House.”
"Seriously? But if his own party wouldn’t let him—“
"Jack's father, Joseph, has a saying: 'When the going gets tough, the tough get going.'"
"I’ve heard that. And this book—"
"Ghost-written by a coterie of Ivy League brain-trust intellectuals who view JFK as their Great White Hope. Adlai losing to Ike again they considered a foregone conclusion. Kennedy's clique figures after another four years, the Dems will be ready to accept their boy with open arms. Meanwhile, Jack's at work building his coming campaign machine with a team of experts. Step by step, they're creating a myth around the man: macho in combat, intelligent in repose, gorgeous to look at, particularly when accompanied by his wife. She, by the way, is part of that master-plan, though I doubt the lady realizes it yet. She will! Jack's a womanizer, she his elegant cover-wife."
"If the Kennedys are so powerful, why was that necessary?"
"Now, you're being naive. The Kennedys, understand, are nouveaux riche. Their Irish working-class origins, along with their Catholicity, will cause dumb bigots to pause. The final thing Jack needs for the Total Image is a sense of belonging to an American aristocracy. That can only be achieved by marriage into such a circle. Jackie adds the necessary touch of class."
"But if Kennedy didn't really write this, why bother—”
"Profiles in Courage will provide the cornerstone of the emergent Kennedy legend. My outfit is eventually going to have to deal with that as well as him, the person.”
"As one of your operatives, I will, too."
"Now you got it. However remote he may seem at the moment, Lee, believe me: in time, John Fitzgerald Kennedy will become the most important person in your life."
*
Lee first met George on November 22, 1957, six years to the day (and for that matter hour) previous to the assassination in Dallas of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Still quartered at the San Diego base if already in the process of readying himself for his transfer, Lee received a phone call while in the PX. He was alone there other than a girl on duty behind the counter.
"This is Lee Oswald. Who's this?"
"George."
For a moment the name didn't register. Lee ran through all the Georges he had ever encountered. Then, it hit him. George! The person that the FBI agent had told him about.
"Oh, yes. George. Of course! Hello."
"Lee, I'd like to meet with you to talk a bit.”
"I'd be delighted." Lee was careful not to say too much while in hearing distance of the girl. However unlikely, she could be a Soviet spy. Lee knew that such things happened. After all, he'd watched each and every episode of I Led Three Lives.
"Jot down this address,” George said. ”Meet me tonight—"
"I'll have to see about a pass."
"Already arranged. Waiting for you at H.Q."
Lee yanked a napkin from a nearby container, then picked up a pencil stub lying on the counter. "Okay, ready."
Just as I guessed, the waitress mused. That marine's a queer. Heading off now to meet the man he arranged with for a late-night tryst. As always I can spot faggots a mile away!
*
As no direct bus line yet existed between the San Diego Marine Corps base and San Ysidro Port of Entry at the city's southernmost tip, Lee, in civvies, had to change three times. At the main bus depot he disembarked and hopped aboard the San Diego Trolley, which delivered him to the post. There, the guards awaited those wishing to cross over from the United States to Mexico’s Northern-most city, Tijuana. Lee presented his identification to an uninformed Mexican who signaled him on.
That was easy!
Lee joined the gathered mass, sweating as he always did when forced to be part of a crowd. Among those also trickling into the foot walk from one country to the other was a mixed batch of Anglos and Latinos. Once in downtown Tijuana, Lee hailed a cab to drive him over to Rosarito Beach, a separate nearby community known for its red-hot row of clubs and bars.
Eventually they pulled up to the address. Lee recognized the name "Villa's Hideaway" above the door from George’s call. Inside, the lighting proved dim but colorful, the walls crowded with Mexican kitsch including paintings of the country's own film and music-biz celebrities, Pedro Armanderiz, decked out in a Pancho Villa costume he’d worn in films on the folk-hero, prominent among them.
Lee pushed his way past low-hanging papier-mache renderings of blue bulls and bone-white models of the human skeleton, past scattered customers at the bar and tables, all the way to the back end. In an adjoining small room, set back in the furthest corner, sat an American in a beige suit with nondescript tie.
'George?' Lee mouthed the name without emitting a sound. A nod let him know that here was his coordinate. Lee stepped up to the table where the American signaled for him to sit.
"Hello," Lee now ventured to softly say.
"Lee Harvey Oswald, I presume?" George inquired, extending a hand for shaking. Lee responded in kind. "Everything you told the FBI man, I already know. I'd like to learn more about you. Any further details, please share with me now."
After a pretty Latina served Lee a beer, he rambled on. He could now accurately fire a rifle, if need be, in the line of service. Following his embarrassing moment on the range with that snarling sergeant, Lee practiced alone whenever he could until he became accurate enough to win the prized Sharpshooter distinction. Now, he rated as a marine; a man!
Lee had begun, in addition to leaving communist reading matter on his bunk, to openly spout phrases concerning "the disparagement of the common worker under a corrupt capitalist system" and the "obvious American imperialism taking place in the Third World." Most marines stepped away; a few threatened his life. On more than one occasion Lee was beaten by unknown assailants. All of this finally paid off: he had been invited to attend a meeting of San Diego's secretive communist cell.
Though people in attendance had only referred to each other by nicknames, leaving Lee unable to share with George their identities, he had taken close note of their appearances. Lee could relate these in detail to George if that might be of any value. Lee had arrived here to help his country, in any way he could, by creating an alternative Lee Oswald: a pinko facade that covered his real patriotism completely. When Lee finished, he knew from George's eyes that the CIA man had been impressed.
*
Three weeks later, an hour and twelve minutes after picking Lee up at the camp's entrance, George turned onto the well-traveled highway, abandoning it for a primitive road, clearly a forgotten relic of the 1930s. More surprising still, they later turned onto a rough dirt pathway from back in frontier days.
"My guess is that you'll finish the book by the time you arrive at your destination."
"Which means I'll be traveling for several hours?"
"Longer than that. You'll arrive tomorrow morning."
"Am I flying?" George nodded affirmatively. "Is there some secret CIA airport out here in the middle of nowhere?"
George glanced over, smiled, then returned his eyes to the path. "Assume whatever you like, Lee. No, there is no airport. I think you'd have to go a long way to even find some old deserted prospector's shack in this stretch of desert."
"It's like, if there's an edge to the world where people might drop off and disappear into a void, this is it."
"You got that one right." With that, George pulled over onto a long, flat stretch. In the moonlight, a few misshapen cacti located on the far side of a cleared-out square stretched toward the cream-colored moon, like the ghosts of some ancient Spaniards. Lee knew enough to step out without being told.
George, maneuvering around to the sedan’s head lights, motioned for Lee to join him. A bit nervous, Lee did. "Lee, have you ever heard the term 'twinning'?"
Lee mulled that over. "I don't believe so."
"While we're waiting, let me explain. Twinning is the most extreme form of plastic surgery. ‘Plastics’, as medical people refer to it. Designed to restore a person's face to a normal appearance in the event a birth defect or accident.”
"Sure."
"Well, twinning takes that premise a giant leap further. Eight plastic surgeons in the world, tops, are accomplished enough to perform this technique, though the concept is simple to explain. ‘Twinning’ means the making-over of one person's face in the precise likeness of another's."
"Wow. But how does this have anything to do with me?"
"In terms of the services you have volunteered for—and, Lee, let me remind you again, they are essential to the well-being of the U.S.—the Company requires that you have a double."
Lee took that in, stunned. "Someone who looks just like me? God, I wouldn't wish that on anyone."
George laughed. "Be that as it may, this is a necessity. Now, I must tell you too that you do not have to go through with it. If you wish, you may drop out of the program now.”
Lee pulled himself up as straight and tall as he could. "I volunteered, didn't I?" George nodded. "I'm committed. Fully!”
"Glad to hear that," George sighed, relaxing. More than Lee could guess. Despite George's magnanimous offer of a moment ago, the CIA operative's orders were to, if Lee expressed hesitation, draw his .45 automatic from its shoulder holster right beneath George's jacket and execute Lee Harvey Oswald at once.
"I am interested to know, though: Why do I need one?"
"It has to do with your eventual planned defection to Moscow that I mentioned last time we met. At times, you might be needed back in the states. Whenever that occurs, your double will secretively enter the Soviet Union, assuming your place until you are able to return.”
"Incredible," Lee responded, grinning with anticipation.
*
"So," George said in Villa's Hideaway in the late-evening of November 22, the first of three meetings there. "Now I know the life and times of Lee Harvey Oswald."
"If you want a dedicated American willing to go down in history as a traitor if need be, so long as he serves his country and serves it well, that's me."
One of the best at what he did, George had thoroughly researched Lee Harvey Oswald before this first meeting. Reports from sources as far-flung as Bethlehem in Louisiana to the Youth House in New York provided telling hints as to the personality of this over-anxious volunteer. George’s job had been to take such jagged pieces and fit them into a revealing jigsaw puzzle.
One of the comments from Dr. Renatus Hartogs had far more meaning to the CIA agent than the good doctor likely intended. Lee "dislikes intensely talking about himself and his feelings." That ranked high among those traits any experienced CIA agent hoped to find in an inexperienced would-be operative. To Frank Sturgis, it was imperative that a potential operative be not only able to keep his mouth shut but be strongly inclined to privacy. Always there would be enemy agents feigning friendship to get a still-green operative to open up and spill his guts.
The word "feelings" struck George as the most important; stoicism was essential. The lack of such a trait made a man vulnerable, in particular to the beautiful women invariably recruited by the KGB to open up a naive man, he blurting out everything he knew once she tapped into his emotions.
Adding to this were the observations of a Youth House social worker, Evelyn Strickman, who had tagged Lee as "a rather pleasant" young man with an "appealing quality" despite his being "emotionally starved" and, as a result, an "affectionless youngster." The lady had not only reasserted Dr. Hartogs's statement about Lee's relationship to his own emotions, going a giant step further, implying he might actually be incapable of feelings. That, at least in the proper context, Lee could come off as "pleasant" and "appealing" was important if he were going to win over members of the KGB in an intricate plan that Sturgis and Company head-honcho Allen Dulles were developing.
Despite all these dark aspects, Lee had struck George from day one as naively innocent. An intriguing aspect of the mix!
One element troubled him, though: the fact that while attending school in the New York area, Lee flatly refused to salute the U.S. flag. This had provided incentive for several brutes to beat him in the playground during recess though that did not deter Lee from his decision.
"You tell me you are a patriot," George had asked Lee point blank, "and yet ..." He quoted the report verbatim.
"Show me the stars and stripes whenever you like," Lee responded. "I'll jump up and salute. See, that was at the time when my master-plan first began to take shape. I had to plant the thought in others’ minds as early as I could that I was turning anti-American. At school, jobs, even the marines; always I had to do something to make people suspect I’m a Commie."
"So that they would contact you, then you’d contact us?"
Lee grinned, nodded, and told his inquisitor all about his experiences in Beauregard Junior High after Marguerite made the decision to abandon New York as a bad idea and return them both to New Orleans. For once, Lee actually found a friend. Fellow teenager Edward Voebel shared Lee's interest in aviation. They joined the Civil Air Patrol, a boy's club. Lee made sure his fellow fifteen-year-old saw copies of The Communist Manifesto whenever Ed visited. If Voebel were in the future questioned by any government official, he would verify that Lee harbored Red leanings way back then. Another friend, Palmer E. McBride, like Lee appreciated classical music, the only kind Lee listened to other than Sinatra. After Lee shared copies of the Socialist Call, a magazine Lee subscribed to, McBride's father said that Lee could never come to their house again. That was alright; Lee was establishing a false front which, as such incidents accumulated, would eventually bring party members around to meet him.
"Usually," George admitted, "we have to do a great deal of legwork in setting up a 'legend.' You appear to have covered most of the bases on your own."
"Legend?"
"Our term for the alternative you. The Lee Harvey Oswald of public perception as compared to the one who actually exists."
"I see."
Do you, Lee? I hope so. If you do, this could prove more important than you, or even I, can imagine at this moment. If not—if you ever make the ultimate mistake of confusing the one with the other—all hell could someday break loose!
*
"Lee, this is where I must leave you for now."
George, aka Frank Sturgis, stepped around the car and proceeded to slip back into the driver's seat, preparing to head off.
"You're going?" Lee asked in a panic. He glanced around. The desert now appeared as something out of a nightmare about the southwest: a vast, empty expanse in the darkness, where life consisted only of snakes, spiders, other unthinkable monsters dating back to pre-history. The land itself might swallow him up, so formidable was the white sand below, the black sky above.
“Yes. I must.”
“But—” Lee gulped, panicky.
"No buts." Without another word, George smiled cryptically, waving his left hand in a circular gesture of farewell. Then he backed up the sleek Sedan, turning it around, heading back down the barely visible path. In a moment, man and machine were gone as completely as if neither had ever existed.
Now, Lee could make out sounds, somewhere in the far distance, moving his way: animal sounds, small feet whirring at rapid speed; something else leglessly swirling toward him in a serpentine fashion. Uncontrollably, he began to shiver and shake.
Maybe all that had gone before was only some carefully planned ruse to eliminate Lee Harvey Oswald from the face of the earth. Yes, that was it! First the FBI agent, then this CIA operative, decided Lee was crazy. Someone in need of elimination.
How could I have been such a fool? My God, I’m their patsy. Why wasn't it obvious from the beginning that—
At that moment, Lee heard something above, a loud, churning noise. Perhaps it was one of those flying saucers everyone was talking about, the CIA in league with Men from Mars to destroy poor little ... as the clouds moved on and moonlight again rendered his surroundings visible, Lee spotted a helicopter as it descended onto that flat stretch of land. Once it was down, a young man in casual clothing waved to Lee from behind the control panel inside his thick glass and steel bubble. Relaxing at least a little, Lee stepped up to the whirlybird.
"Lee Oswald?" the pilot asked. Lee warily nodded. “Hi, I’m Bill. I'll be taking you the next stretch of your trip."
"To the hospital?"
"No," Bill laughed. "That's way too far for my copter. I'll drop you off at a small Company airport. There, you'll board a private jet, then be on your way to—"
Whirlybird? Secret airport? Private jet? Lee calmed down, thrilling to the cloak-and-dagger goings-on. He'd made it! For the first time, Lee Harvey Oswald knew what it was like to be one of the boys. And, beyond that, a Very Important Person.
*
On February 28, 1957, Dr. Angelo Martinelli, recently turned fifty but feeling ages older, rose as he did every morning at six o'clock. Leaning over in the darkness he gently kissed the cheek of his sleeping wife. Sara did not stir. Angelo rose from the bed, went through the process of washing, shaving, dressing, afterwards peeking on each of his sons, both asleep in their rooms. Not a worry in the world passed through those happy childish heads. Angelo attempted to recall a time when he had known such wondrous oblivion. An image began to take form in his memory of himself as a boy, fishing at a clean, clear lake, his dog barking nearby. Before that picture, real or imagined, could reach full fruition it disintegrated, falling away from Angelo's conscious mind, lost somewhere in time, space and imagination.
“See you all soon,” he softly whispered.
Yawning, Angelo descended the stairwell of the handsome, tasteful, upscale penthouse suite he and his family owned in upper Manhattan. In the kitchen, Angelo brewed himself a pot of coffee, sipping a cup while reading the morning paper. Leafing through its pages, Angelo did not appreciate most of what he confronted. One bright spot: in Rome, representatives from the democracies were moving close to approving a treaty that would establish a European Common Market. This would further unify America's allies, which Angelo, a patriot, found promising.
Otherwise? Bleak! Down in Little Rock, AK a spokesman for the school board insisted that the following autumn their stand on segregation of the races would remain in place. Surely, Pres. Eisenhower must move to break that stranglehold, employing military force. Good for him, and about time. Still, that could only weaken an already strained sense of solidarity in the U.S. at a crucial juncture when we needed just that more than ever.
The race for nuclear supremacy between our country and the U.S.S.R. continued as America and Russia announced plans to shortly test new, high-power ICBMS in the ongoing vicious contest for supremacy in our post-atomic-world.
Last, but hardly least, the military dictatorship of Gen. Marcos Pérez Jiménez in Venezuela had been sorely tested during the past week by open rebellion. The people, undernourished and now aware from independent news sources that well over fifty per cent of that nation's huge oil profits poured directly into the pockets of those at the top, were no longer willing to quietly accept their miserable lot in life. Who could blame them?
The problem, as Angelo saw it, involved a free and constant flow of Venezuelan oil into the U.S. If a revolution were to succeed and if it took on a communist attitude, favoring Russia over the U.S., the very sort of chaos ready to explode in at least a half-dozen other Latin American countries, this might limit the U.S.’s ability to buy all the oil it needed cheaply. That could put the U.S. at a huge disadvantage to the Soviets, perhaps turning the tide of world domination in their favor.
By five of seven, the doctor had retrieved his new Cadillac from an adjacent garage and sat behind the wheel, driving away from uptown New York to the George Washington Bridge, crossing over into New Jersey. This was highly irregular. On most days, Martinelli parked at one of three Manhattan hospitals where his skills were in high demand. Not today. He’d been informed by his Mob contact, Johnny Rosselli, that he would be required at their establishment, hidden deep in an all but unknown and virtually unapproachable stretch of Appalachia.
As a poor boy decades earlier, Angelo Martinelli, his desire to become a doctor and heal those in pain hardly a secret, had been approached by a representative of the Made Men: We'll take care of you if afterwards you take care of us. Your university and medical school bills will all be covered by a secret benefactor. When you graduate, most of your time will be your own. Here’s the catch: you must earn a degree in the advanced study of plastics. At rare times, you will be called upon to perform operations for us; twinnings, as we refer to them.
Martinelli had requested several days to think it over. That was fine; if he chose not to take the offer, no problem. If he did opt to do so, he was 'in'. Forever. Two days later Angelo returned to the meeting place, a Jersey shore bar, presenting his own variation on 'the deal.' Yes, he would do that, so long as he was absolutely guaranteed of one thing: Never, under any circumstances, could he be used to create such a double if this 'twin' were to be employed for violent purposes of any sort.
That never even occurred to us, Angelo was assured. Look, it's simple: Sometimes guys get in deeper than is good for us or them and need to disappear, go off and for the rest of their lives enjoy the suburbs. Maybe head to Europe, even back home to Sicily. The hard part is getting out of the country, or in the U.S. remaining unidentifiable to any enemies. So we have specialists, called in on such occasions, to alter his identity.
Nothin’ more, nothin’ less. So! Do we have a deal?
That, Martinelli sighed, wishing there were another way to become a doctor, knowing there wasn’t, I can handle it. He only hoped the Made Men meant what they now said, praying that they would not at some time in the future decide ... that was then, this is now—things change—all the old deals are without warning null.
Forty-two minutes after leaving home, Martinelli turned off the main highway, driving down a rock-formation road so outdated most Garden State residents were not aware of its existence. This led to a more primitive path still, circling around through a thick forest, nearly a jungle; similar to what Joseph Conrad, in Angelo’s favorite novel, had tagged the heart of darkness. All at once, he was out in the open again, driving across a field of what appeared an isolated, innocuous farm.
*
"What's up, Doc?"
Judging from the look in the gaunt plastic surgeon's eyes, Lee guessed he had just committed a faux pax by trying to appear lighthearted as to this upcoming twinning process. The doctor, who had initially eyeballed Lee, turned away, glancing down at the floor, clearly not at all pleased.
"Hello yourself," he muttered.
Turning serious in tone, hoping this might possibly solve everything, Lee stretched forward his hand for shaking. "I'm—"
"No, please. I don't want to know your name. Nor should you be familiar with mine. The more hush-hush this remains, the better all around, for everybody. Particularly you.”
They stood together in a pleasant waiting room, to which Lee had been summoned by a slick, handsomely oily fellow in a form-fitting sharkskin suit. The man known to Lee throughout his stay at the hospital only as 'Johnny.' He’d met Lee at 3:35 A.M. when the bumpy, late-arriving flight landed at this hospital, designed to appear from any angle including the air as a farm.
Johnny brought Lee to his whitewashed cabin, attractive and comfortable. Johnny returned to wake Lee at six-thirty with a knock at the screen door, apologizing for the early hour. Lee laughed, explaining that this was a gift. In the Corps, everyone had to rise and shine at five. Johnny seemed amiable though Lee sensed this ruggedly built Sicilian was not someone to underestimate.
Johnny accompanied Lee from the pleasant cabin to breakfast in a large, agreeable dining room. Several other people seated at white plastic tables on matching seats. An attentive waiter quickly arrived.
"Are they all here for 'twinnings'?" Lee dared inquire.
"No, no," his host laughed. "Only you, this time around. Everyone else, other than the regular doctors who work here, have arrived owing to ... well, you know ..."
"No. I don't know anything."
"Gunshot wounds. That sort of stuff."
"Oh, sure. Suffered in the line of duty. But ... why not simply take them the nearest hospital?”
Johnny considered Lee curiously. "Well, there are reasons sometimes why these things have to be kept quiet, Lee.”
Lee didn't press the issue any further. The bacon and eggs proved perfect, an extreme contrast to what passed for breakfast on the base. God, almighty! Was that only three days earlier? It seemed an eternity, as if he'd passed into an alternate galaxy.
When Lee finished, Johnny gave him the look-over once more, than accompanied Lee to the meeting place. Crossing over a turf so green it resembled a plush golf course, Lee spotted a fellow of about his size firing an automatic rifle at targets.
As it happened, the shooter took a brief break in his practice as Lee and Johnny passed near to him. Smiling, he stared at Lee for a moment, then waved: “Hey, guy. What d’ ya know?”
"That's him," Johnny offered, guessing Lee’s thoughts.
"The man who's going to look like me?"
"Right. You've got the easy part. He’s in for an ordeal.”
"Why am I needed for two weeks, then?"
They’d reached the main building, the one that appeared an immense barn but which, on entering, Lee saw for what it was: a hospital facility as advanced as anyone could ask for. "It's a slow, painstaking process. The Doc will need to photograph and re-photograph you. He may not like the original mold and need to create another. When you do leave, the procedures on the other guy will be complete. He'll of course remain here, bandaged and under 24-7 medical surveillance, for another three weeks.”
Lee followed Johnny up a circular staircase to the second floor. "Then I won't be able to see the results—"
"Nah. You wouldn't wanna anyway. It's kind of eerie, y’ know, looking at your own twin."
They reached the top of the stairs and entered the waiting room. An exquisite silver pitcher contained rich coffee. Servants had neatly surrounded this with saucers and cups that struck Lee as the sort that might be used for High Tea in some English manor.
If they could see me now! All of them, any of them ... the kids in New Orleans and Fort Worth ... the boys in the orphanage and later Youth House, the grown-ups running those places ... the marines back at base, others I trained with ... they'd never believe it ... me, Lee Oswald ... here! ... in a place catering to the special, the elite, the chosen few ... a place they'll never see, other than in the movies ... I'm here, now ... as if I've entered into a Hollywood film ... all my life, I've anticipated this moment ...
*
"What am I expected to do in my off hours?" Lee asked.
"Relax," Johnny told him. "Enjoy yourself. The dining room's always open. There's a game room if you enjoy pool, table tennis, that sort of thing."
"I like to read a lot."
"Fine. You can do that by the pool or in the privacy of your cabin, whichever you prefer."
Why had I worried that this might be an ordeal? Everything here sounds like a free vacation at a resort. The only thing confusing is the ornateness of it all. From what George has said during our meetings, I had the impression that under Allen Dulles, the CIA was not in the habit of throwing a lot of money around on luxuries for its agents. How do they justify this?
Lee's fascination with the place continued to mount during the following weeks. Initially, he read in his own room, feeling insecure about taking advantage of those amenities. On the third day, having finished Profiles in Courage, he moved on to The Trial by Franz Kafka, more in line with Lee’s preferences in literature. Lee slipped into the pair of swimming trunks in his brightly painted room. Carrying a towel along Lee strolled over to the pool. On arrival he was stunned to see several of the most beautiful women he had ever observed other than in the movies stretched out on lounges. Each wore a bikini so brief they would have put the new French starlet, Brigitte Bardot, known for her daringly skimpy swimsuits, to shame.
One blonde, lying face down, raised her head, strands of hair whirling all over, signaling to Lee to come on over and take a nearby lounge next to her. Gulping, Lee did as indicated. He also fell madly in love with her at first sight.
"Hi, I'm Honey."
"I’ll say you are! I’m Lee."
"Perfect timing, Lee. Would you please undo my top and rub some oil on my back? I don't want to burn."
"Sure," he managed to reply. Moving on to her lounge, his legs rubbing up against hers, Lee did as requested, snapping the plastic pieces apart, allowing the strings of her top to fall gracefully, one to either side. Lee reached for her container of lotion and squirted some on Honey’s back. The blonde then shivered slightly and giggled. Lee rubbed it in, over, across, around ... every contour of her already tan and perfectly proportioned backside, augmented by the white material.
“Ooooh, Lee-eee,” she whispered provocatively.
That pleasurable task accomplished, Honey smiled again and thanked Lee. Swallowing hard, he settled down on his own lounge and attempted to concentrate on Kafka. Suddenly, though, that surrealist's dark vision, one which ordinarily would click with his ever-depressed mind, struck him as ridiculously out of place in this wondrous playground for ... the CIA?
Johnny strolled up, wearing another slick suit, equally impressive to yesterday's if a slightly different shade of gray.
"Hello, Honey. Hey, Lee. What're you up to?"
Lee admitted he was trying to read but could not get into his book. Johnny retrieved a paperback from his inner pocket and tossed it over. "Try this. Just finished it."
Lee thanked Johnny and glanced at the cover. On it, the title was emblazoned in bright red lettering across the top: Casino Royale. The author's name, Ian Fleming, appeared at the bottom. The picture featured a rugged looking fellow with cold, hard, merciless eyes. A pair of beautiful, nearly naked women, one blonde, the other brunette, stood behind him on either side, nestled against the man's back shoulder-blades.
Lee considered the image; his dream vision of the way he, like any man, wished his life would be. Of course, this was only some paperback fantasy, concocted in the creative imagination of the author. Yet, Lee guessed, there had to be at least an iota of truth to it. Somewhere, somebody lived like this.
Why not me? Hey, I’m doing that right now! From the slums of New Orleans to ... this? My God! I’m halfway there.
"Agent James Bond, 007," Lee read from the prologue. "Licensed to kill."
"Great stuff," Johnny assured him. They made plans to shoot pool in mid-afternoon. How about that? This super-cool Sicilian, treating me as his guest of honor. Johnny asked if there might be anything Lee would like. Honey piped in that she could use a martini. Lee, wanting to be a part of everything, echoed that he'd very much enjoy one, too.
Johnny nodded, then left as quickly as he had come. A while later a brunette, also sporting a skimpy bikini, hers blue, marched up carrying a small tray. With a smile as sweet as Honey's she served the drinks, promising to be back briefly to see if there might be anything else they should desire.
A half an hour later, Honey requested Lee redo her back-strap so that she could head over to her cabin. That task accomplished, Honey rose, allowing Lee an ever better angle of vision on her remarkable body. Before stepping away, Honey mentioned that she'd be busy for the remainder of the day but, if Lee liked, she could stop by his cabin at midnight.
In a suddenly hoarse voice, Lee answered that he would be delighted. Brushing her long-flowing blonde mane against Lee's face, she winked provocatively and strutted away.
*
After the game of pool with Johnny, Lee had to report to the doctor for more photographs and the fitting of yet another mold. With Dr. Martinelli stood another surgeon, Dr. Joe Battle, considerably younger, also Sicilian, introduced as Martinelli’s assistant. Following that, Johnny accompanied Lee to dinner. More beauties dined with middle-aged men in sharkskin suits.
“I tell ya, Johnny. Never in a million years would I guess that those guys are CIA agents. They just don’t look the part.”
“They’re not. GoodFellas. Get my drift?”
Lee didn’t, but he was too busy anticipating whether Honey would actually show to think much about it. Later, Lee retired to his cabin, passing the hours by trying to concentrate on Casino Royale. At the stroke of midnight there came a rapping from out front. Wearing the luxurious, plush white robe he had discovered in the closet, Lee opened the door. Honey, as good as her word, now wearing a golden wrap that fit her body like a tightly twisted piece of cellophane, entered without a word. The blonde slipped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him hard.
When Lee awoke the following morning, Honey was gone. With her lipstick she’d left a note on his bathroom mirror:
see you later by the pool?
—XXX! Honey
Feeling like a million bucks, whistling a happy tune, Lee shaved and shampooed. Somewhere between showering and brushing his teeth, Lee's ultra-logical mind, always sharpest in the early morning hours, returned to a topic that had been forcing its way into his consciousness: This hospital is not owned and operated by the CIA. The grounds here belong to the Mob!
Ipso facto, if that’s the case, then the Combination is in bed with The Company. Which means I’m working not only for the U.S. government but also organized crime.
Jesus H. Christ! This is so freakin’ cool ... .