The Day John Fitzgerald Kennedy Past. Welby Thomas Cox, Jr.
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In just six point nine seconds of the heat and light from three shots from an ancient weapon (call a meeting to analyze the blur) or devote Agency lives to understanding the moment, separating the elements of each crowded second and in the sequence the frame by frame photo of the lives of those in Dilley Plaza on that fateful day.
The team will build theories that gleam like stainless steel from the overpass on Elm, intriguing systems of assumptions. They will follow the bullet trajectories backwards to the lives that occupy the shadows, actual people who moan in their dreams. Elm Street, a woman is crying and wondering why she is sitting on the grass with brains and blood-spray on her new blouse. Tenth Street, a witness leaves her shoes on the hood of a bleeding police officer's car. Strangeness, Welch believes, that is solemn cry of the day.
There is much here that is divine, an aberration in the midst of reality...let us get a hold on this moment in history...Welch knows that his Merwin will make him look good.
He enters a date on his computer, one the agency has provided for the sake of convenience and security and the ease of tracking. The names appear at once with all pertinent detail.
The skies are endless, and the sun provides shade along the street of stately homes caressed by giant oaks. Welch knows that his bonus provided by the company’s primary benefactor, known only by his code name "Skipper" will serve him well in early retirement.
Chapter III
FOUR CAR GARAGE
This one has a pool and Mother-In-Law suite, where a man named Michael Flynt sat pondering, Mick as he was called, lost to the morning noises descending upon him, a stir of the all familiar...the quilt work of every happy home. The morning paper, with local news folded by newsboys who wrapped the paper with a rubber band and pitched it on the porch.
Mick stirred the coffee and pursed his lips to blow across the top of his china cup, sending the steam toward his Golden Retriever (Finn) who sat on his haunches eager for some command (go capture a platoon, Finn). Mick stirred again, and the large pet wagged his big tail and gazed lovingly at his master, a kind man who loved dogs and little people, and from all appearances he was gentle and tentative...but looks are deceiving.
Today Mick has secrets on his mind and he was wondering why people were consumed by secrets...and what do they mean?
He did not notice as his wife petted Finn and slipped him a doggie biscuit, Mick had something on his mind...so did his wife. Mick did not notice that she had not dressed for breakfast he had to get to his office; the secret he pondered was still there at lunch.
When Mick came home he sat alone outside in his garden continuing to think of the secret. He believed it was the law of nature for men with secrets to be drawn to each other, not because they have a need to gossip, but because they need company of others with secrets... the fellow afflicted. A respite from the other life...and its contrast in living among the ordinary people who do not keep secrets as a profession or duty or a business fixed to one's existence.
Mick knew about the need to draw together, "the code of the west” to seek mutual solace over the guilt and the depression. That is why he liked it here in the garden, he had time to think...time to become an old man but he did not have time to notice the sounds coming from the master bedroom.
It was not unusual for men in the intelligence service to retire early. A pension plan had been approved by some committee with a statement that this appropriation was necessary because of the dangerous lives led by these dedicated and fearless government employees and the transient nature of the assignments.
But Mick's retirement wasn't exactly voluntary; there was that business in Coral Gables, causing visits to the polygraph machine. And from three levels of specialist he heard the term, "Stress Fatigue." Two were CIA staff psychiatrists, the other a cleared contractor in from the outside world...the place Mick Flynn found to be strange and ordinary.
They called it semi-retirement a semantic kindness. They set him up in a teaching post and paid him a retainer to recruit likely students as Junior Officer Trainees. In a college for women, this was a comic thrust even Mick could appreciate in a bitter and self-punishing way...as if he were still on their side...watching himself from a distance.
IS THIS THE WAY OLD SPIES GO AWAY? Do we just begin to spy on ourselves? Battered and beaten into submission at the mercy of our own personal bereavement.
Chapter IV
STRIPPED OF PASSION
Louis Wagner...Sat there...his wife could not help but notice the framework of his former self...all of the attributes and physical appeal which had attracted her to him so many years ago. His certainty, driving with conviction toward any goal delivered to him, a man with a purpose who would not be denied.
She was saddened that this spark was fading now that the company was no longer asking him to lead the research teams or the task forces and most of all the camps where men are honed into fighting machines...she knew that when you take away this juice... and the man is reduced to passion and principle that he would turn into an angry old white guy. He taps out the messages of the past, on technology requiring only the tip of the finger...telegraphing that was no longer valid for a mind in another era.
The two men sat in Mick Flynn's new office now under serious renovation, located in the basement of The Sign of the Bull and Bear a restaurant on Main Street.
The fluorescent lights flickered as George Waters stood momentarily.
"You must have a weapon on you?" Mick asked. "Hell, I have to go hild...that is policy."
"I know but the electrician is trying to rewire for new lights."
"And you think my piece is preventing that process?" Waters said.
"I Didn't have the problem before you arrived." "Don't be so edgy George; we have a lot to do."
Mick was all business, pleased with the high level of energy over the new assignment providing the opportunity to once again communicate with old spies.
Mick's presence was felt; he was tall and had the demeanor of an officer. He carried himself in a way that demanded respect. He knew his strengths. He had been in Guatemala in 1954 and they had all been together for the Bay of Pigs.
"So they put you in a Women's college?"
"Yeh, I'm teaching world politics...DDP thought that since I was old enough to have actually been there it would be good cover to check out the students who might be influenced to develop an interest in the CIA and world politics."
"I see, foreign princesses...the CIA makes them while they are still young and innocent."
"Good Lord...why so scenically?"
Just a reality check Mick...I know on which side my bread is buttered and we in the spy industry develop certain jaundice."
"Listen George, why don't you just say it as you truly feel...that is, that anyone who is not in the company is a liar and a total piece of shit?"
"Well, yes."
"But Mick you must be in awe of your place in the new structure...why you are the inspired narrator...remember what Ms. Jean Brodie said..."Give me a child at an impressionable age and she will be mine forever."
"Will that give me another tax deduction?" They laughed.
"Actually this has saved me, and I whisper the name (CIA) when I pray the rosary...who knows perhaps the descendant of the Immaculate Conception, a princess from a developing country...may become its next leader. How cheap would that be from a developmental standpoint?"
He sat there approving...He and Wagner had belonged to a strategy group of military analysts and intelligence men. The group was one element in a four stage committee established to confront Castro. There were several different levels with experts coming and going.
"Well it could have been more traumatic, at least you are here and still in the game."
"Truly,