“So . . . what are you thinking happened?”
Kaiser lays the letter on the table and folds his arms in front of him. “I think Frank Knox was following Oswald the day before the assassination. As Sonny told us, he wanted to get some idea of who the primary shooter was. He was supposed to kill him the next day, remember? I think that sometime late that day or night, Frank saw Lee drop this letter in a public mailbox. At that point he had to decide whether to keep following Oswald or try to get hold of the letter, and I think Frank chose the second option. He had to, didn’t he? In one day, he and Oswald were going to be part of a team that was going to kill the president. Oswald didn’t know about him, of course, but that was the reality. Frank was only the backup shooter, so his actions depended on Oswald’s. He had to know whether Lee had any other plans or surprises in store.”
The idea that Frank Knox somehow obtained an artifact no one ever knew about has triggered a strange apprehension in me. “What does the letter say?”
Kaiser looks as though he’d like to tease me, to pay me back for my skepticism in the hotel, but in the end—probably because of Caitlin—he lays it flat where I can see it. The moment I do, my hand and face go cold. The paper is covered with Cyrillic letters.
“Is that Russian?” I ask.
Kaiser’s grin is filled with triumph. “Yes, it is. And it’s a known fact that whenever Lee wrote his wife, he wrote in Russian. Marina was a native Russian, after all.”
All I can think of is Caitlin’s final message. “What the hell would Frank Knox have made of that?” I ask, my mind still on Caitlin’s unfulfilled quest.
“God only knows. He probably worried that Oswald was telling Marina to tell the Soviets what he was about to do, or maybe even Castro. Who knows? But Frank didn’t waste time in getting it translated.”
Kaiser lays the second sheet of paper over the first. This one is covered with blocks of Courier text, which were obviously hand-typed on an old machine.
“Walt found this translation in the same Ziploc bag that held the original. These are both photocopies, of course. Would you like to read it?”
In my present state, I don’t think I could even reach out for the paper. “How about you read it to me?”
Kaiser nods and begins reading in a low voice.
Marina, I am writing because I cannot tell you what I am about to do. I wanted to tell you earlier tonight, because I thought it might convince you to give me one more chance. But for once I can afford to be patient. If all goes as planned, by the time you read these words, I will be on my way to Havana. I can’t write how I have arranged this, finally, but by the time you read this, you will know. Tomorrow, everyone who doubted my commitment will finally see how wrong they were. I mean to bring you and the girls to Cuba as soon as this can be arranged, so prepare yourself. No snow this time! Only sand and sun.
I have only one reservation. I don’t completely trust the man who is making this possible for us. I knew him long ago, when I was a boy. I never told you about him. He and I no longer share the same politics or motivations, but we do want the same end, at least in this matter. But in spite of my reservations, this opportunity is so historic that I could not in good conscience refuse it. Fate has chosen me to alter the history of the world. Tomorrow you will see how I was placed in a position to change the future, and no man of conscience could refuse such a call.
After you finish this letter, burn it and flush the ashes down the toilet, so that Hosty and the other agents will have no evidence against you to prevent you from leaving the country. (I’m mailing this because I did not want you to find it too soon, and we can’t be sure that the FBI doesn’t enter the house at times, even with the cleaning woman there.) If anything bad should happen, know that I gave my life to change things for the better, for us and for the world. When the girls are old enough, tell them what I did.
Lee
By the time Kaiser falls silent and looks up from the page, the table before us is wet with my tears.
“My God, man,” he says. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s not the letter. It’s Caitlin. She found out about the letter on her own, through something of Henry’s, I guess. She actually knew it was in Russian. That’s really what she went back to the Bone Tree for. She left a final message on her phone, and one thing she said was to pass that on to you. I’m sorry I forgot. But . . . you found it anyway, so . . .”
Kaiser is blinking in disbelief. “Henry knew about this?”
“Christ, man . . . She died for something that wasn’t even out there. Do you think it was ever out there?”
Kaiser shrugs and says, “Who knows, with those old guys? It might have been, and for a long time. We’ll probably never know, until a Double Eagle tells us about it. I’m sorry, Penn. But at least we’ve got it now.”
“Do you believe that letter is real?” I ask.
“I already checked the Russian handwriting against known samples of Oswald’s other letters. It’s real, Penn. No doubt.”
I sit in silence, trying to process the implications. “The way that’s written certainly implies a conspiracy.”
Kaiser nods. “He’s talking about Ferrie, Penn.”
“He doesn’t mention a name.”
“No. But I got independent confirmation of a tie between Ferrie and Oswald late last night.”
“From who?”
“Fidel Castro.”
“What?”
Kaiser’s eyes light up again. “Jordan asked him about it. And that wasn’t all. Castro told her about a French Corsican who made an attempt on his life. I think it was the man in the fishing boat with your father and Brody Royal. Under torture, he told Castro that an American instructor at one of the Cuban training camps killed JFK for Marcello. He said the man was a former Klansman.”