Saving Kennedy

PART ONE

Tuesday Night,

November 19, 1963

CHAPTER ONE

Your Cover's Blown!

ROSA—ROSA! Phone for you.

Thanks, Miguel; I'll take it in my room.

Remember, you're on duty. Hermano doesn't like personal calls on duty. Make it quick.

Si, No problema.

The woman Miguel knew as Rosa was dusting crystal animals in the middle of the hall when he had stepped to the top of the stairs and called out her name. She pivoted on her black high heels and walked quickly down the hall away from him, entering a room to her left. She glanced at her wristwatch and noted that it was 9:15 p.m.

Miguel's eyes lingered on her and gleamed with admiration as she strode down the hall. Quite a hermosura, that one, he thought carnally. I like the way she swings it when she walks. Then, he slowly spun around and walked back down the wide and carpeted stairway.

Inside the room, Rosa picked up a phone. Rosa here. She spoke in a hushed tone and her large black eyes narrowed with anticipation of hearing something important. Only one person knows I can be reached at this number, she thought to herself, and he should not be calling.

Rosa? The speaker seemed to be breathing with great difficulty. It was a male voice but it came across the line so listlessly it sounded almost feminine. But then the next words were blurted out with a surge of strength: Your cover’s blown; GET OUT—GET OUT NOW!

Then the voice softened again, as if that last gush had exhausted its strength. Someone has exposed us. Runnnn! The final word was more gasped than spoken.

Thump! Rosa interpreted the concluding noise to mean the phone had been dropped to the floor. The connection was still open, but she sensed she would not be hearing anymore words. Rosa was pretty confident she knew from whence the call had originated. It had to have been from a small wooden house very unlike the carpeted brick mansion in which she was standing. His place had uncarpeted floors and cracking wallpaper. While where she was, even in a servant's room, Rosa’s tiny feet were sinking into an opulent carpet. She cut off the connection with her right index finger and quietly placed the receiver back on the apparatus.

The young woman had been facing a mirror as she'd listened to this baleful warning, but only now did she pay attention to the image the glass reflected. The woman called Rosa was dressed in a black maid's uniform with a stereotypical white apron tied around her slender waist. If she had been paying any attention to the mirror when she’d answered the call, she would have realized that her normally tan skin texture had visibly lightened a bit while she'd heard the brief warning. The woman hesitated a second, took a deep breath, twirled a hundred and eighty degrees around and then strode purposefully over to a tightly made up single bed and dropped down to her knees.

The tense female pulled a beat up looking old suitcase out from under the bed, opened it, and tossed some clothes from it up on top of the bed. She ripped away at the inside bottom of the case and pulled out a pistol in one hand and something round and cylindrical in the other. The something else turned out to be a silencer. It was large, and as she screwed it into the barrel of the pistol it extended the length of the weapon out to more than a foot long. Her mind buzzed with contradictory thoughts.

Get out, Carlos said, but I can't run now; they're here. If I'd already been exposed than Miguel would have grabbed me rather than announcing a phone call. I may not have much time but I seem to have some, and I should use it to try and accomplish my mission.

Rosa stepped the few steps needed to cross the small room and approach a wooden dresser. She opened the second drawer from the top, fumbled with some lingerie and came out with a seven-inch long stiletto shaped knife. She pulled up her skirt and slipped the knife under a garter she was wearing around her right leg about four inches above her kneecap.

She dropped the skirt, turned toward the mirror, raised her left hand and fluffed her shiny black hair. It was set high in the front and then ran down along her back almost all the way to her waist. Of course, that was not all that far, for Rosa just barely topped five feet in height. She looked at the pistol in her right hand, clearly wondering where to stash it temporarily. She finally decided to just lay it along the side of her right thigh, slightly behind the skirt of her uniform.

Rosa cautiously opened the door to the room an inch or two and peered outside, glancing to the left and right. Good, no one, she thought, and then stepped outside quickly. She walked briskly down the hall, not nearly as provocatively this time, stopping mid-hall at a narrow wooden door. She opened it and scanned the shelves of linens, sheets and towels inside. She pulled out a stack of six towels and balanced them on her left hand. She then placed the pistol a third of the way down in the stack.

Rosa trooped over to the stairway and down the first flight. On that floor, the second of this huge mansion, she turned to her left and approached the first room on the left side. She stood momentarily at the door and listened, taking in three big gulps of air like a basketball player between free throws.

Music was audible, but it was not clear to her whether it was coming from the room she was poised to enter or the one right next door. Her ears actually moved slightly forward as she listened intently. Yes, she concluded, the music was originating in the next room. Probably all three are over there, she figured. However, she decided to knock anyway before entering this room and did so—lightly. She did not wish the knock to be heard by those next door.

Rosa heard a response from inside, but it was not clear exactly what the male voice said. These Corsicans have strange accents, she recalled. I noticed that when they first arrived. The sound of footsteps moving toward the door reached her ears and she felt her stomach muscles tighten. The heavy wooden door swung open.

Ah, little Rosa, is it not?

Si, Rosa. I heard you say you were going to take showers, so I thought you might need some fresh towels for after the bath.

Rosa's eyes dropped from the man's face to the towel stack. She found it unpleasant looking into his eyes, partly because of what she had in mind, and even more so because his eyes struck her as hypnotically evil. She did not want her gaze to betray her intent.

How thoughtful, the way the man spoke the words it sounded more as if he said Ow-autful to Rosa's ears. He was a tall thin man, and as he spoke he stepped aside and bent at the waist with mock gallantry as he motioned for her to enter the room.

The maid stepped inside and closed the door behind her with her right hand. The man moved back a couple of steps in order to make room for her, but then he squared up and stood firm, blocking her path around him and into the bathroom.

You're a very pretty girl, Rosa. I'm alone and tired from a long journey. Perhaps you would like to share a drink or maybe even a few other things. This time the Corsican spoke much more slowly and articulately, and Rosa understood every word perfectly. She understood his lewd glances as well—no trouble interpreting them.

You're very kind, but I have work to do right now. She glanced around the room and was not at all startled by what she saw, although she realized many people would have been. There were guns everywhere. Mostly pistols but a couple of rifles as well, all laid out in various shapes of break down. Rosa smelled gun oil and saw several of those small white rags used in the cleaning of weapons lying around in various states from clean and fresh to folded and oily. There were two guns on the bed and one on a bedside table with some gun parts even lying on the floor.

The degenerate looking man's eyes followed Rosa's. We're collectors, he said as if he thought an explanation was needed. That's what brought us to Dallas. Don't be afraid; they're all unloaded.

That's good, Rosa replied. She smiled seductively, placed her right hand inside the towel stack, withdrew the pistol and fired it point blank into his chest. His eyes went from startled to blank in less than a second. The blast, although muffled into a woofing sound, drove the man back from her as if she had suddenly and viciously shoved him. His feet banged up against the bed, and that caused him to tumble backwards on top of the mattress and the partially stripped Italian rifle that lay on top of it.

Viva la Revolucion. Rosa murmured under her breath. She took three quick steps forward, lifted his dangling legs off the floor and tossed them up and to her left so that they rested upon the bed with the rest of his body. She felt his throat with her left hand and detected a faint but noticeable pulse. Finish the job, the maid thought. She also noticed that her hand was shaking. Relax, girl, she said several times. Nerves can kill.

Rosa finished him off methodically and efficiently. She withdrew the knife from its nest on her leg and slit his throat, just below the Adam's Apple. As she sliced, her left hand clamped down over his mouth. When finished, Rosa picked the towels and pistol up off the bed where she had temporarily laid them. Systematically, she rearranged the gun back inside the stack of towels, glanced around the room to make sure she'd left nothing incriminating, and strode calmly, at least outwardly so, to the door.

Again, she opened the door as silently and slightly as possible, peering cautiously out into the hallway in search of human movement. The music played on, loud but foreign, almost Middle Eastern sounding. Rosa decided from the sounds that it must not be a radio. Probably one of those Corsican Musketeers brought a record player along with him, she concluded. These men obviously travel more luxuriously on their assignments than I do. Guess that's the difference between us Cubans and the capitalists.

She twisted the inside handle so that the door would lock behind her and stepped out into the hall. There, she paused, took those three practiced deep breaths and walked over to the door to the room next door from whence came the music came. In front of the door, Rosa paused again, renewing her internal debate about whether to knock or use the loud music to cover the sound and slip inside, perhaps catching them off guard and gaining an edge. She expected two men this time, and she might need an advantage.

Rosa cautiously tried the doorknob, but just as her hand wrapped around it, she heard a shout!

CHAPTER TWO

ALAN WEAVER

Alan, old buddy, when did you get back in town?

Yesterday, about ten last night, as a matter of fact; how you doing, Jim? You look great. Still dating Ginger?

Nope, she’s ancient history. You've been gone a long time. It's nice to see you looking like yourself again. Last time I saw you, you were wearing that bus driver's uniform. Still in, aren't you?

Yep, I just wanted to see if my old cowboy garb still fit. I hadn't worn boots for more than eighteen months.

You've been overseas, right? But I can't remember where.

Turkey. In a place you've never ever heard of, I bet, Karamursel. When I first heard I was going there I could only find it on Biblical maps. Actually though, it's a hell of a pretty spot, located right on a beautiful bay with great weather.

What the hell did you do there?

Protected you guys back here from the evil communist threat; aren't you grateful?

Yeah, although we overpay you—back for good now?

Nope, I'm on my way to Alabama for some schooling—sort of an Air Force post graduate school. I've got almost a month's leave before I report in, but even then I'll just be killing time for awhile since the school doesn't actually start until August. Called Donnie this morning, and he told me about this engagement party. I should be able to see all the old gang at the same time What are you doing now?

Selling stocks. Got any insider poop for me—things the Air Force is about to invest in or something? How does Turkey look investment-wise?

I'm a little too far down the totem pole to possess insider info. Captains don’t make very high-level decisions. Oh, look—there's my old Big Brother, Mike Garber. I'm gonna grab another beer and say hello to him. You want one?

Mine's still half full. Great to see you, cowboy. God, we had some great times together in college, didn't we? You look like you've maintained your youthful figure better than those of us who've stayed in Dallas, but then you always were pretty slim.

The Air Force demands it. I play a lot of handball, and in Turkey I had to get up at four in the morning just to get to work on time. That long a workday burns up a lot of calories. See ya later, let's get together while I'm home.

Sure, here's my card. Call me, maybe we can get together for lunch. Where you staying?

At my Dad's place.

The ranch, eh? How's your brother?

Brian's doing great. He's a Vet, making lots of money and still doing what he’s done most of his life. He works almost exclusively on farm animals.

The two young men shook hands, shouted a bit to be heard over the growing din in the large and well-furnished home and parted. Alan strolled over to a dining room table that was chock full of snacks along with several ice chests. He picked out a Lone Star bottle, popped off the cap and began to drink, looking around to see where his old frat big brother Mike had wandered off to. Ah, there he is.

Alan Weaver glanced at his watch as he ambled over to greet Mike. He was tired. The long flight that had shuttled him from Europe to Charleston and then on to Dallas the day before had taken its toll. It was only 9:45 in the evening, but Alan felt as if it was way past his bedtime. Apparently his body was still on European time: some six-seven hours later. He was also hot, in spite of the air conditioning that cooled this lovely suburban home in ritzy Highland Park regardless of the time of year.

BANG, BLATT, BANG!!

Alan's body involuntarily twitched and the noise level inside the room from the chatter and laughter ended abruptly, if momentarily. More than thirty-five people were crowded into the house, but the explosive noises had been heard by and startled almost all. People looked around nervously; some even had the presence of mind to quickly feign wounds, and most broke into a delayed laugh after the unanticipated interruption to their friendly banter. Almost all, however, quickly returned to their conversations after murmuring comments like: Probably only back fires or firecrackers. After all, this is Highland Park.

Alan moved on over to the side of Mike Garber. When Mike spotted him, the two opened their arms and bear hugged one another.

You're back, little brother; what a nice surprise. Damn, you look good. This is just like seven years ago. Remember those great after the game blasts we all survived?

Yeah, barely survived that is. Great to see ya, Mike. Thanks for the Christmas cards. Where's Laurie?

My better half stayed home with a sick daughter. She insisted I come and give our best to Steve. Now I'm really glad I did. When did you get back in town?

"Just yesterday. Are you as hot in here as I am?

Hey, Man—you're back in Texas. You must have lost your Texan insulation while overseas.

Not where I was. We have a base over there in Turkey where it's so hot in the summer they have to close the swimming pool for health's sake. Why don't we step outside for a bit?

"Sure, your beer fresh?

Alan nodded and the two friends wound their way through the crowd to the front door and the outside. As they stepped through the door, they heard the sound of approaching sirens.

Responding to those gun shots, you think? Mike asked Alan.

Could be. If they were gunshots they must have been fired awfully nearby for us to hear them over the din in there.

Six other people were already standing out in the spacious and well-manicured yard. Four males and two females were congregated into two groups.

You guys out here when those big bangs went off? Alan asked of no one in particular.

I think we all came out because of them, a girl answered. I thought sure we’d see some excitement, but actually we haven’t seen a thing."

A male who was standing next to the girl added. But it sounds like someone else must have heard them and called the cops. Indeed, the sirens were obviously drawing near, but as it turned out they petered out before any of the party crowd saw any police cars, fire trucks, or ambulances.

Mike and Alan visited, bringing each other up to date on the latest in their lives. They had been good friends in their college days, frequent double-daters, and even more often had buddied around together. They’d played handball weekly, and Alan had frequently sought Mike's advice on course selections, stereo purchases, etc. However, they had drifted apart after Alan had entered the USAF. What had started out as a regular correspondence had slowly deteriorated into exchanges of Christmas greetings only.

They talked enthusiastically on for several minutes and then, as usual in their rather infrequent meetings of the last several years, the conversation lagged. They now lived in two different worlds. Alan's horizons had been stretched way beyond those of most of his old college chums who had mostly remained in Dallas or somewhere in Texas. Most of them were married, still got excited about things like SMU-Texas University athletic encounters, and were wrapped up in making money and/or local politics.

On the other hand, Alan’s interests had broadened to the national and international level. His decision to become a career USAF officer suggested that he was not at all interested in amassing wealth or continuing his youthful fascination with Southwest Conference sports or Texas politics.

CHAPTER THREE

ROSA'S SECRET

FREEZE! DON'T MOVE!

Three men had appeared at the top of the stairs and one of them had frozen Rosa in her tracks with those words. When she glanced in the direction of their voices, she was stunned. Damn! She cursed under her breath, her right hand still on the doorknob. For Rosa’s eyes could not have missed the three deadly weapons aimed at her, and the eyes of the gun holders suggested that they might not be at all reluctant to use them.

The man in the middle, Hidalgo, allegedly her master's chauffeur, had both hands extended forward and wrapped tightly about a revolver aimed directly at her face. The other two men alarmed her even more. They were aiming grease guns at her—weapons that could fire a burst of bullets in a split second. Rosa had trained with those inexpensive and highly effective fire power masters down in Cuba, and she knew exactly how easy it was to hit someone at close range with them. They had been effectively used by American GIs in the Korean War.

Rosa made an instant decision not to resist but to stall, play dumb and cooperative while biding her time an awaiting an opportunity to escape. She'd been faced with similar bleak fates twice before at the hands of Batista's secret service, but had managed to stay calm and trick her way free each time. It was worth a gamble again.

Drop those towels to the floor and place your hands over your head! Don't try anything. We know who you are, Major Reyes. Hidalgo was the speaker, and Rosa was not at all pleased by the words she heard. Clearly, her cover had been blown. She willed an innocent expression onto her face and fought to maintain her composure. She dropped the towels, bending her knees to get closer to the floor in hopes that they might therefore fall to the floor flat and thus enable the pistol to remain secretly nestled between them. It seemed to work. She moved her hands up over her head, and in a feigned, but not totally so, nervous voice she responded.

"Por favor, Hidalgo, there must be some mistake. I was just bringing towels to the guests. They'd said they were going to take showers. I meant no harm."

The men advanced toward her, although Hidalgo motioned for the man on his right to lag behind and keep her covered from a distance. Rosa recognized him as one of several bodyguards of the wealthy Cuban who was her employer. Roberto, Hidalgo bellowed, Seize the bitch!

From Hidalgo's left, the man named Roberto slung the strap on his small assault weapon over his shoulder and stepped forward. He backhanded Rosa across the face with his right hand. The blow not only stung but catapulted the petite woman off her feet. She crashed to the carpeted floor and her head banged against the hallway wall. Rosa had to fight to retain consciousness.

Roberto next grabbed her by her hair and pulled her back to her feet, painfully and ruthlessly. He stepped behind her and locked her arms behind her back with both of his ham-like hands. Rosa felt blood dripping down onto her lips, but she was unsure where the wound had occurred. Her entire face stung.

What's going on here? Those unexpected words and sounds off to the side of their focus suddenly distracted the four active participants in this rough encounter. The door that Rosa had almost entered had now abruptly swung open, and two men stood in the doorway. One of them had growled out that inquiry in a deep and chilling voice. He was the shorter of two thin, sharply featured men of dark complexion and dissipated appearance.

Hidalgo turned toward them, at first pointing his gun at the men but then quickly lowered it when he recognized them. I'm sorry, Gentlemen. We did not mean to disturb your rest. It seems this maid is not a maid after all but a Castroite spy sent here to...well, perhaps even to kill you.

Really, I thought this was supposed to be a highly secretive venture. The man who spoke stood slightly in front of his partner. He glanced at Rosa as if she were a piece of unattractive meat in front of a not very hungry man. This little thing is an alleged assassin? No wonder you Cubans have to hire professionals for your important missions. Was she armed?

We were just starting to search her, Hidalgo responded. Mig, he nodded at one of his henchmen to proceed.

The other grease gun toting henchman slung his weapon and stepped forward. He was the stockiest of the team of thugs, short and wide. Rosa had labeled him Mr. Five by Five the first time she'd seen him about the house. Other domestic employees had pointed him out to her as a man to avoid.

Roberto tightened his grip on Rosa's arms, pinioning them behind her back painfully. She wanted to kick out at the advancing man but fought off the instinct. That gun in Hidalgo's hand was aimed at her again. Mean Mig quickly and gruffly located the knife tucked under her skirt. His body search extended to feeling up inside her crotch, and he lingered extra long along her breasts.

Rosa wanted to kill the son-of-a-bitch as he fondled her, but she was determined not to reveal any emotion at all.

Well—well, what have we here? Mig asked, a gloating expression on his face after he discovered the blade. The muscular searcher tucked the knife in his sport coat pocket, and then drove his right fist into Rosa's mid-section.

Oufffffff! Rosa had been taken completely off guard. The blow hurt so much she thought he'd killed her, but she steeled herself and stifled the additional groans and moans that struggled to follow her first instinctive reaction. Her task was made easier by the fact she was also fighting to restore her air supply.

Here's her weapon. Mig stepped back over to his leader and withdrew her knife from his pocket, showing it first to Hidalgo and then to the two men in the doorway.

Oh my goodness, they didn't tell me it was so dangerous here in America. I think maybe we better go home, Melor. The speaker smirked and then produced a forced cackle. We're supposed to be afraid of a little girl with an even smaller knife? Thank goodness your big strong Cubans were here to protect us."

The arrogant Corsican, the only one who had spoken so far, then bent over and rummaged through the towels on the floor in front of the doorstop. Were these in her possession? I think perhaps...yes, here's her real weapon—silencer and all. Don't you people even know how to search an alleged assassin?

We would have looked there next. Hidalgo responded defensively. He then turned his attention to the captured woman.

"So, a mistake is it, Major? You're really just Rosa the maid. But do little maids carry big guns with silencers and knives hidden under their dresses? Come on, take her downstairs. I assure you, gentlemen, you have nothing to fear from Mr. Castro's simple-minded minions. This one will be persuasively asked a