"Patsy!": The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald (18 page)

"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?