Treason

Treason

All the Truth About Kennedy and His Assassination

Contents:

•     Prologue
•     Chapter 1: Reality.Everything disappears. Disappears without leaving a trace. That is the true essence of reality. (Anelina de Piola, Argentinian writer).
• 1 – 1. Mary and Vadim
• 1 – 2. Vadim and Gleb
• 3. Walk
• 4. Vadim and Viktor
• 5. The Beach
•  6. The Meeting
• 7. The Beach (continued)

Prologue 1. The Ocean

The Oasis was bound for La Habana, two days out of Colon, when the storm began. Few of the passengers got on the deck to watch the tumultuous sea. But George, who’d paid all his savings for the cruise, wanted Nadia to understand he was a man with courage.

Yes, he’d told her this morning while they stood near the lifeboats and watched the waves, I wouldn’t miss it. And when Nadia had pointed out that the storm would be too dangerous to stay on the deck, he’d added smoothly that it wasn’t quite the same to peer through the window…

She had hinted she’d like to join him. Nadia had been beautiful in the starlight, and George’s heart had pumped ferociously, bringing back memories of his thirties… a time of passion and romance…

The ocean had grown rough. The wind was picking up. George stood by the door sipping hot coffee and wondering what was keeping Nadia.

The steward approached George, holding a bottle of red wine and a glass. He strolled casually over. George became aware suddenly the steward had asked a question. “I’m sorry,” George said. “My mind was elsewhere”.

“Wonderful thing, nature, sir,” said the steward. “Very nice”. And he left, living the bottle and the glass.

Nadia was now half an hour late. But she had a seven-year-old daughter to take care of, so there was a degree of unpredictability in any rendezvous.

…One hour or so later, the storm ended. Nadia didn’t show up, and the Oasis ploughed through a sea that remained unsettled and grey. Wandering the decks, George saw Nadia and her daughter at a dining table with several others. She was deep in an animated conversation with a rather young man. George lingered for a moment, but Nadia never looked up, her eyes focused on the partner. It was as if a stranded bullet flew across the ocean and touched the heart.

George clumsily climbed the railing, stood for half a minute just trying to remember something, didn’t succeed and stepped forward. He had the time to wonder if the water was too cold… Then he died.

Secret Life. Photo by Elena.

Prologue 2. Acquaintance.

He had always been afraid of his own memories before he met Mary. Not because life with her was peaceful, tender and without problems. No, of course not.

But it is with Mary that he learned to enjoy life and be in awe of its wonders. And now, looking at Mary sleeping, at her dark brown hair, with grey hair touchingly covered with layers of hair dye, he realized just how much of his own existence depended on this woman.

She was the only witness of his presence in the world, the only proof that he really was born, and after his birth continued living; that he continued living despite feeling that he was a small, dry, taken a bite of and mouldy piece of bread in a dump of leftovers and stumps covering the planet; a dump that no one cares about.

Without her, he felt he was just a lining easily covered by primer, a cold and meaningless stain. Mary was his only source of warmth. And he knew that if Mary were to disappear, he would stop his existence as a sentient being and a person, and become a working robot, a machine, a mechanical part. Losing Mary meant losing his soul and any feelings he had whatsoever.

Even now, realizing the necessity to involve Mary in a frightening scheme, he could not unravel the reasons for his tenderness. As he went deeper into self-analysis, attempting to understand said reasons, he tried (and feared) to see that the real reason was his own selfishness - the desire to possess an ideal woman, for example. However, he had to be honest with himself that his heart carried no other reason than a tremendously strong desire to protect Mary from all the unfortunate events of this world.

To cheat on Mary or to betray her - was physically impossible. And he did not mean extramarital affairs - such games he did not take seriously. But to harm Mary, to cheat her, to commit betrayal… That was impossible, it went beyond understanding. That’s why he had to find a way out, without giving up and deciding against surrendering.

And he understood, that Mary shared his feelings: Mary could not betray him either. She likewise was unable to even think that he may betray her.

1 – 1. Mary and Vadim

Portugal, South shore. March 7, 2004.

One o’clock in the morning. Our charter flight arrived late. It’s chilly, dark, uncomfortable.

A small line for customs goes by fast, the Portuguese care a lot about tourists.

A young man holding a sign is our guide. We head towards him.

The young man spends half an hour looking for spring vacationers, who no longer think straight after waiting two hours for the flight to leave Moscow and another four hours spent in flight. Average class, average age, average prices, average hassles…

We stand in the silence of the night, smoking. Cigarette twinkling, striking street lamps, stars.

The bus finally leaves, first struggling to leave the airport and then picking up speed.

We disembark in Falesia, where a three-star hotel, Alfamar, has been booked – a big hotel with a central building, dozens of bungalows and a three-storey building nearby – for the poor.

– Tired?

– Somewhat. You’re tired too, yes?

I try to show tenderness. And I know that it will not work. I just don’t know how to show tenderness. But Mary will not complain about my coldness. Never. Does it hurt her to think that I’m indifferent to her tiredness, worries and unnecessary pursuits? I don’t know. Mary is infinitely patient.

As usual, I feel uneasy when being cared for. And as per usual, I fail at showing her that she alone is important to me in this life.

Sakura in spring. Photo by Elena.

***

Registration at the hotel. On the line “number of guests” I write in myself and put a plus – “and spouse”. I get the keys. The concierge explains, mostly through hand gestures, how to get to the building nearby – the one for the poor.

I carry both bags. No carriers here. Tiny Mary minces next to me. We both keep silent. Some three minutes later we come to a three-storey house and enter the lobby.

Nobody. Silence. In the center of the building there is a wide empty space reaching the glass roof. The atrium. The room doors are all around the walls and exit onto balconies. At the entrance – if you raise your head – you can see all the doors, entering and exiting patrons.

We go up to the third floor…

A stove, a fridge, two single beds. A table, a couple of chairs. Plates, forks, spoons, knives. I get out on the balcony and find another table and plastic chairs.

While Mary sets up her womanly belongings in the bathroom, I smoke a cigarette.

– Are you going to use the bathroom? Because I want to take a shower, if that’s ok with you…

Mary never orders, never insists. Her questions are always soft-spoken: “do you need to take a bath?” “would you like to have lunch?”… Sometimes followed by a brief explanation “because I want to take a shower” or “because lunch is getting cold, it will not taste as good”.

No requests. Ever. Only soft-spoken clarifications. That’s why I always give into her desires. To do what she wants makes me happy. And has made me happy for many years.

Sometimes Mary jokes: The best quality in a woman is submission to her husband! At times it seems to me that she actually really believes that.

– Yes, in a moment. I’ll just finish my cigarette and occupy the bathroom for three minutes at most.

***

… In twelve years we had three arguments. We didn’t really fight, but were hostile to each other. More precisely, I was hostile, without any reason, and Mary cried as a response. Then, I felt horrible, feeling a lump of sadness in my throat and asked for forgiveness. A half an hour later the argument was forgotten. Without reminders, without remembering the past, without reproach.

– So quiet here, right?

Mary nods silently, looking into the darkness. Perhaps she is trying to see the landscape. But the moon is invisible behind the clouds. We are on the third floor, but we don’t feel the height. Precisely, because it is pitch black outside.

– Are you unhappy about anything? Is something wrong?

– No-no. I’m just tired. You know, I’m very happy that we made it here…

I want to hold her close, hug her, kiss her straight and long hair. But I never did that and so such tenderness would look strange. Mary knows I’m a hardened person. I don’t like to show my feelings, I don’t like sweet words, I don’t like affection. To Mary, my dryness is almost my only flaw – at least that’s what she says. But she made peace with that flaw a long time ago. She also thinks that I’m too skinny, she likes the big boned type, but there’s nothing I can do about that, while I’m on the job I cannot let myself go.

– And if you explain our plans for the weeks to come, it would be wonderful!

And once again, there is no question, simply the expression of a desire: If you decide to explain what we’re going to do – good. If not, it’s no big deal. But an explanation would be appreciated, if possible.

– We’ll spend three days here, like I told you… Maybe, five days…

– Yes, I remember, and then?

– If we get bored, we’ll go to Faro, it is a real town after all… If we like it here, we’ll spend another week here. Do you agree?

– And after that?

– We’ll relax, tan, take walks in the town consume green wine and local cheeses… Fortunately, even in March it’s warm and sunny here…

– And if we get bored?

I shrug:

– If we get bored, we’ll go to Lisbon. There, we will not get bored.

– Really? Is Lisbon such an interesting city?

I shrug again.

– You’ll see. Don’t worry, the vacation will be a success.

– Ok. Since you are so sure. And me, I’m going to take a bath. I’ll soak for about half an hour. Go to sleep, don’t wait up. There is coffee, cream and sugar for tomorrow’s morning. After that we could go eat somewhere…

– There’s a store nearby, it opens early, maybe I’ll run over there and buy you some yogourt while you sleep?

– Are you sure the store is open?

– Yes, of course.

– I didn’t notice any store.

– It wasn’t on our way. I saw it on a map, in the lobby of the hotel.

– I see. Ok, I’m going for my bath. I swear I’m very happy. A week on the beach and then two weeks in Lisbon, what could be better.

She smiles, a tired yet sincere smile. And then she goes to the bathtub, she locks the door. Mary has a harmless habit – to consistently lock all the lockable doors.

About the store with yogourts I might have made a mistake. I just wanted to somehow show Mary that I care about her. Even in a small detail such as buying the compulsory morning yogourt. Even after twelve years of living together.

But I made a mistake saying that. Mary was surprised how I knew about the store. And I still cannot explain that it’s not my first time here. And that the hotel, the building, the floor, I chose not randomly, but after careful analysis. And that she, Mary – is my only weakness, the only reason I make mistakes now and then. Few mistakes, unimportant ones – like this one with the store, but still, mistakes.

Tomorrow I’ll try to explain to Mary that all our vacation plans are lies. And that we won’t get any rest. Because in no later than three days I will be murdered.

Old Truths. Photo by Elena.

 1 - 2. Vadim and Gleb

Moscow. December 12, 1991.

– Why me, comrade colonel?

– Let’s refrain from stupid questions.

– It is not a stupid question. I need to know which criteria were used to choose precisely me.

– Languages. Interest in politics. Indifference to luxury. Diligence. Disregard of others.

– In that order?

– No. In oder of recall. I may be forgetting something.

– “Disregard of others”? What are you talking about? I never noticed anything like that about myself.

– What does it have to do with you? What’s important is that some intelligent people noticed…

He’s joking. The no-nonsense part of conversation is over? No, apparently, it has not even begun.

– Don’t rush major. Precisely “do not rush”. In a year you’ll finish the file – that’s ok. I don’t think it will be needed before that. All good things in moderation. Beginning with a scheme of bugs in the embassy, then minimization of the intelligence network, and then they’ll get even there.

– It takes a day to transmit the schemes of the bugs, and the intelligence network can me minimized simultaneously. And the brass will want to shine sooner rather than later.

– Yes, of course but they won’t need this asset for about a year. No complications in sight, at the contrary. Even after, in the next three years they will be getting and stealing from “material help”, divide assets, creating connections. But later, when they realize that they have to be proud of something, they’ll need to cover their backends and they understand that it can’t be achieved with slogans. Then, they’ll need the file.

– Comrade colonel, I understand that the Russian public could not care less. And I also understand that the Americans would be interested in getting the file. But, then what? They’ll applaud in the hallways of the Senate, publish a couple of articles in history journals. You can’t create a lobby with that.

Silence. A long silence. Gleb lights a cigarette. He is looking above my head. He rubs his chin.

– Lobby… You don’t understand… And I don’t understand. You’ll get it once you start working. The preparation of the papers for transmission – is the main and official part of the deed. But there is something there. And that’s what I don’t understand. And I will never understand. I don’t need that. I don’t want to. It is your concern. Now it is yours.

– The transmission will be obstructed? That’s what you mean?

– You’re not a child. First, patriotic guardians will start a fuss, in the sense, that why transmit archives, how then you bring Russia to its knees. It’s the same thing with bugs in the embassy, no one needs them, the Americans are well aware of all that, but the outcry over the betrayal of Bakatin has started and is getting louder. The outcry is based either on plain stupidity or taking advantage of patriotism. Second, someone will definitely think that we’re selling ourselves short. Third, someone will be upset that nothing was shared with them.

– You’re explaining me this as if I were a child.

– Don’t take it personal. In the last couple of months, I got used to the fact that I have to spoon-feed to everyone what democracy is and how to work now.

– So what kind of obstacles, aside from the traditional ones, should I expect?

Gleb is smoking. Silence again. A look on the sprinkling rain outside. A light rain, drizzling. It will be over soon.

– I repeat. There’s something there. Something which I do not understand. Something really strange. I don’t want to get to the bottom of this. You’ll find the answer yourself. If you want to. I am positive that no one from the brass understands the risks. To them, it is a usual situation: To strengthen the mutually advantageous relationship with the United States of America – Russia transmits Soviet archives in regards of Kennedy’s assassination in 1963.

Gleb puts out his cigarette. And lights another one right away. I don’t yet know that his daughter smokes as much as him. I’m still unacquainted with her.

– But, Vadim, it’s been three months since I started digging up archives: political party ones, ours, TASS, the KGB, it’s ok since they’re still shaken by the government overthrow; they have other things to do than forbidding, they’re glad they’re still alive. There’s something in the affair… I’m not talking about the conclusions from the investigation on how many assassins there were and where they shot from. At first, I thought that digging up archives would be enough, to file correctly, to sort them out, to make them look heavier, make them look good, add a dozen exclamation marks and send them to Washington, hoping for the best. But it took me three weeks to understand the most important part – there are oddities.

Vadim, I don’t know what this is about, nor what it all means. But the Americans are hiding something. Perhaps Castro is indeed involved in the assassination of Kennedy. Perhaps behind the curtains was Khrushchev. Perhaps we hypnotized the assassin and made him do it. Perhaps, De Gaulle organized it on the advice of Mao Zedong. I repeat, I don’t understand what really happened. But the Americans are hiding what they so well know. You were born an analyst, Vadim. I didn’t cite this quality answering your question “Why me?”. But that’s the main reason.

I understand what Gleb Sergeyivich is talking about. A good analyst, – is a person who without leaving the office, studying available, almost unavailable and unavailable sources (but after thoroughly studying them) will reach conclusions, which would otherwise take incomparably more time, and sometimes a great deal of effort and resources.

Raising Sun. Photo by Elena.

***

Inside the hotel’s foyer two tough gangsters hid behind the sagging door. Each in his own shadowy corner, they pressed against the crumbling whitewashed walls, keeping an eye to the cracks.

It figures he would show up now, said the first one. I was just going to take a break.

The other snorted: A break? What do you need a break for? We’ve just been standing here all morning long.

I need to go to the bathroom, the first gangster said.

Well, you should have planned ahead, his partner answered. This is the most important part of the plan, where we make the switch. Now be quiet. He’s getting out of the cab.

When Smith remained unconvinced about the suitability of the hotel, bolo finally said’ “Well, if you don’t like it, you can always go and complain to the management. Maybe they’ll clean the place up a bit”.

“In fact, I will talk to the management”, Smith said. “I don’t like to complain, since this was a free trip, but I’m sure Maria, the contest administrator, would like to know about this.”

Smith stuffed his paperback into the pocket of his sport coat and climbed out of the taxi. He fumbled for money to pay the driver, but Bolo just waved and puttered on down the alley. “My congratulations on winning the contest,” he called. “No charge.”

Smith gripped his black suitcase and trudged up the sidewalk, but the hotel didn’t look and better when he got closer. As he watched, one of the terra-cota roof tiles, apparently dislodged by an extremely large tarantula, tumbled down the side of the building to smash on the street.

“They ought to be ashamed of themselves.” Smith frowned, craning his neck to look up at the windows of the other rooms. He set the suitcase down at his feet.

Knocking at the front door but hearing no answer, Smith pushed open the creaking door. He walked in, blinking to adjust his focus in the sudden interior shadows. He glanced around, but could see nothing but a narrow landing and coat hooks nailed to old wooden paneling. Bright smudges of sunlight splashed through the windows in a steep stairwell in front of him. All the rooms seemed to be upstairs.

“Hello?” he said. His voice echoed back at him. Anxious to get on with his prize vacation, he marched up the groaning stairs, making no attempt to be quiet. “Anybody here?” He heard skittering bugs, but no other sound.

Behind him, on tiptoe, the two hoods emerged from their respective hiding places and stalked after him. They adjusted sturdy ropes looped around clips at their waists; in each hand they carried strips of rags, convenient for gags or blindfolds. The fist man walked in a strange scissorlike fashion, trying to keep his legs crossed and his full bladder under control. The second man hovered close to him, hiding in his partner’s shadow.

“Is this the Hotel Grande?” Smith shouted again. “Where’s the lobby?” He stopped at a landing next to a grime-streaked window. The view looked out onto an alley piled with rusted automobiles stripped of parts – nothing scenic at all.

As Smith stood at a loss, one hood crept up behind him and looped his ragged strip of cloth around Smith’s face in an attempt to jam it into his mouth.

Smith grabbed the cloth and yanked it out of the hood’s hand. Hey. In a brief struggle, the first hood scrabbled to snatch the cloth back.

Smith’s naval commando training – honed and refined by living and working for years in the mugger-rich suburbs of New York – suddenly came into play.

He expertly grasped the hood’s wrist, hunched and elbowed him in the stomach. A sudden dark wet spot blossomed at the man’s crotch. Smith turned backward, spun around and hurled him through the window.

The second thug charged up the steps to join the fray. As he sailed through the shattering glass, the first hood’s heels struck the second thug in the chin and knocked him back down the stairs. The second hood thumped and rolled and bounced down from landing to landing picking up speed.

Smith watched him arms crossed over his chest. He sniffed in annoyance. I could tell this wasn’t a first-class hotel.

Guild Park. Photo by Elena.

Keane, Atlantic

Lyrics:

I hope all my days

Will be lit by your face

I hope all the years

Will hold tight our promises

I don't wanna be old and sleep alone

An empty house is not a home

I don't wanna be old and feel afraid

I don't wanna be old and sleep alone

An empty house is not a home

I don't wanna be old and feel afraid

And if I need anything at all

I need a place

That's hidden in the deep

Where lonely angels sing you to your sleep

Though all the world is broken

I need a place

Where I can make my bed

A lover's lap where I can lay my head

Cos now the room is spinning

The day's beginning

© 2001 Georges Babas and Megan Jorgensen